“Right.”
So it was the women in the family who kept it together, financially. I could understand why they’d had it up to here with those two layabouts.
“When did all this happen, Ms. Moretti?” I asked. “When did your mom give your dad and your brother the boot?”
“About...” Evie gave it some thought. “Actually, I can tell you exactly when it happened. It was the day before Halloween.”
“What precipitated it?” I asked.
“That’s not important. Just a stupid argument.”
I remained silent, waiting.
Finally she said, “Okay, if you must know, the whole thing started with a disagreement over trick-or-treat candy.”
I let my skeptical expression say it all.
Evie raised her hand in a scout’s-honor gesture. “Dad wanted to buy the good stuff, the stuff every kid hopes to get in their trick-or-treat sack. You know.”
In unison we intoned, “Chocolate.” My mouth watered as I imagined tearing into a giant Kit Kat bar. I’d have to swing by the 7-Eleven convenience store on my way home.
“Jane, the thing you have to realize about my mom,” Evie said, “is that she was cheap. Oh, not where her own needs and desires were concerned. She never denied herself anything as far as I could tell. But, well, I never knew her to make a charitable donation or lend anyone money, and she was always stingy with dad and Sean and me, always questioning any purchase, demanding to know where every nickel went.”
“So the trick-or-treaters would get what?” I asked. “Candy corn?”
“Candy corn would’ve been a huge step up,” she said. “Try Licorice. Taffy. Raisins.”
“Yeesh. Well, I suppose there are some kids who like that stuff. Just tell me she didn’t hand out...” I could tell from Evie’s expression she was way ahead of me. I shook my head and groaned, “No. Oh no...”
She offered a grim nod. “Some years it was all they got. Those damn circus peanuts. She said it was because they’re sort of peach-colored.”
I shuddered. How had such an unfeeling monster earned her jolly nickname?
The idea that a fight over trick-or-treat candy caused the breakup of Evie’s family was as tough to swallow as a handful of marshmallowy circus peanuts, but it was clear I could expect nothing more from her on the subject.
“Okay. Question,” I said, as if I hadn’t asked a ton of them already. “Did you live with your mom too? I mean, you know, in the recent past.”
Evie was already shaking her head. “I haven’t lived at home since the summer before my freshman year of college. I knew that once I got out, I’d never move back in with her again. I always made sure to line up summer jobs on campus so I wouldn’t have to.”
“What do you do for a living, Ms. Moretti?” I asked.
“I’m a sales rep for Conti-Meeker Pharmaceuticals.”
So Evie was one of those drug-company salespeople you sometimes see in doctors’ offices. I wouldn’t have thought she had the personality for sales, but what did I know? She could be a whole different individual when she was chatting up physicians about how her company’s hemorrhoid medication is so much better than the competition.
“That sounds interesting,” I lied. “Any cool new wonder drugs I should hit up the doctor for at my next physical?”
I expected that lame gag to die the ignoble death it deserved, but Evie sat up a little straighter and locked gazes with me. “Well, I don’t know if you suffer from anxiety or nerves, Jane, but if so, you should know about Zenaproche.”
“What?” I said. “No, that’s okay, I really don’t need—”
“It’s a brand-new sedative just coming onto the market,” she continued, “with fewer of the side effects associated with alprazolam, diazepam, and lorazepam. Zenaproche is well tolerated at doses of—”
“You know what, Ms. Moretti? I’m good on the, uh, sedative front.” I’d take a shot of fine, aged tequila over a pill any day, but I refrained from mentioning that. “So getting back to the matter at hand, let’s jump ahead about a month from when Carter and Sean moved out of your mom’s house. When’s the last time anyone saw Peaches?”
“I can only speak for myself,” she said. “I never saw her, or heard from her, after Thanksgiving.”
“Did she host it at her house?” I asked.
Evie shook her head. “She wasn’t much for family holidays. Oh, she loved to entertain, but on her terms, with her friends. Anyway, we always went to Grandma Audrey’s for Thanksgiving.”
“Was it just the immediate family? I mean, you know, you and your parents, your brother, and your grandma?”
“No, there were a bunch of aunts, uncles, and cousins,” Evie said. “Seventeen of us in all. She pushed together some folding tables and snaked them from the dining room into the living room. That’s the way it is every year. Easter and Christmas too.”
Good grief. As if poor Grandma Audrey didn’t have enough on her hands supporting her freeloading menfolk.
“When did you realize your mom wasn’t around?” I asked.
“About a week and a half after Thanksgiving,” Evie said. “She hadn’t been answering my calls or texts, which in itself wasn’t unusual, so I wasn’t worried at first. Then her cleaning lady called to ask if Mom had gone on vacation without telling her. I asked my dad if he’d heard from her, and he said no. So we called a few of her friends, and none of them knew where she was. That’s when I called her editor.”
“Her editor?”
“At You Know It, the magazine that published her advice column every month,” Evie said. “His name is Gordon something. He said she was behind schedule and he’d been trying to get in touch with her. That’s when I really got worried, because Mom never missed a deadline.”
“I assume you checked her house,” I said.
“Sure,” she added. “Mom had so many clothes and pieces of designer luggage, there was no way to tell if she’d packed for a trip. I took the precaution of removing a few things from her house for safekeeping. Her jewelry and mink coat, accumulated mail, and any important paperwork I could find. I mean, there was no telling when she’d be back, and I couldn’t keep an eye on the place twenty-four seven.”
“That sounds sensible,” I said.
“I wish I’d thought to take the peach collection, too,” Evie said. “Mom’s car was still in the garage. My dad used to drive her to the airport before they split up. We figured if she flew somewhere, she took an Uber or something.”
If Peaches’s car had been left in the Historical Society’s parking lot overnight, someone would have called the cops, and her body would have been discovered shortly after the murder. I wondered if she accepted a ride there from her killer. Of course, it was always possible she drove herself and that the killer returned Peaches’s car to her garage after the murder.
“When did you report her missing?” I asked.
“That same day,” she said. “She’d been gone for a while at that point, so they got right on it. Not that it did any good. No one had seen her, and there was no record of her traveling or using her credit cards.”
And all that time, Peaches had been quietly undergoing natural mummification in the overheated attic of the Crystal Harbor Historical Society. Mommy was becoming a mummy.
“Anyway,” Evie said, “Sean moved back into Mom’s house the very next day.”
“He didn’t waste any time,” I said.
“No kidding. He did it while I was at work and couldn’t stop him. By the time I found out about it, he’d already changed the locks.”
Pretty enterprising for someone she’d described as a slacker druggie. Living in Grandma’s basement had clearly lost its appeal.
“So who owns the house now?” I asked. “I mean, I’m assuming your mom left a will.”
Evie shook her head. “No will. She was one of those geniuses who figure if they don’t leave a will or buy life insurance, they’ll never die.”
“Well, I’m no lawyer,
” I said, “but I believe that in the absence of a will, you and your brother are supposed to inherit equally. Which means, as far as the house goes, that you two should be able to sell it and split the proceeds.”
“Sean has trashed the place so badly,” Evie said, “it’s probably lost half its value. It’s a shame. It’s a fine old house and used to be a real showcase. Mom inherited it four years ago after her dad died, but we’d been living there with him since before I was born. Grandpa owned the house outright, but he could no longer afford the utilities and real estate taxes, so Mom had been paying those.”
“Sounds like it worked out for everyone.” I withdrew a small notebook and pen from my jacket pocket. “What’s the address?”
“Fifty-thirteen Rayburn.”
I knew the neighborhood. Wide streets lined with mature shade trees and big, stately, well-preserved homes, most of which had been built in the early part of the twentieth century.
“I have to ask,” I said, “if Peaches inherited anything else besides the house.”
“You mean like cash?” she asked.
I nodded. “Maybe your grandfather left her investments or other valuables?”
“I don’t think so. By the time he died, he didn’t have much to his name besides the property on Rayburn and its contents. Why?”
I chose my words carefully. “Well, your mom’s standard of living was apparently quite comfortable, if not extravagant. She provided for a family of four for many years, traveled extensively, entertained, and was able to maintain a large house in a nice section of Crystal Harbor. Obviously the advice column wasn’t her only source of income. Are you aware of any others?”
“I don’t see what all of this has to do with—”
“Background,” I reminded her. “It could be relevant.”
Evie avoided my gaze while she formulated an answer. I already knew she was a private person, but the question needed answering. My gut told me the apparent discrepancy between income and lifestyle could indeed be relevant. Not to the search for her mom’s peach collection, necessarily, but to the favor I was doing for Cheyenne. No need to mention that, though, right?
Finally she said, “Well, I know my mother worked before she had me and my brother.”
“What kind of work did she do?” I asked.
She’d started fussing with the hem of her suit jacket. Now she caught herself at it and smoothed the material. “She did some modeling, I believe. Mom was very attractive when she was young. Tall and slim, with beautiful long, dark hair.”
“You believe she did some modeling?” I asked. “You’re not sure?”
“No, I’m sure. It’s just that I’m, um, trying to remember what kind of modeling exactly. She didn’t talk too much about it. Magazine ads, catalogs, that sort of thing.”
“Fashion shows?” I asked. “You know, like runway work?”
Evie said, “You know, I think she did do some of that. Commercials, too.”
“Did she start modeling right after high school?” I asked.
“Mom dropped out at sixteen. She was smart, but she couldn’t stand school. Used to cut class and party any chance she got. Big shock, she failed every subject. All her friends told her that with her looks, she could be a supermodel, so she decided to quit school and take the plunge.”
“Wow. Sounds like your mom was...” Foolhardy. Shortsighted. Delusional. “Focused. She knew what she wanted and she went after it.”
“And that kind of work pays real well,” Evie said, “so I guess she was able to save up enough to live on later.”
“She must’ve gotten very good investment advice,” I said.
“I’m sure she did.” She folded her hands in her lap and looked directly at me. Her body language said, Move on.
I don’t take my orders from body language. “In that case,” I said, “you and Sean will get to split more than the value of the house and its contents. There should be some cash lying around.”
She looked confused for a moment, as if the thought of inheriting her mom’s modeling money never occurred to her. “Oh. Right. Well, I don’t know how much there is left, but yeah, I guess so.”
“All right, what do you say we move on,” I said, sweetly. “Have you been inside your mother’s house since your brother moved back in?”
“Just once.” Her expression darkened. “Sean won’t let me in, but it turns out Grandma Audrey has a key, so after he was arrested this morning, I went in during my lunch break to check up on the place.”
“Is that when you noticed the peach collection is missing?” I asked.
She nodded. “You wouldn’t believe the condition of the house, Jane. Garbage everywhere, filthy laundry and takeout containers all over the place. And trust me, you don’t even want to know the condition of the bathrooms. I don’t think he’s opened a window since he’s been there. And did I mention the cats? The whole place smells like a litter box.”
“I assume you asked your dad if he took the peaches?”
“They don’t belong to him,” she snapped. “Mom told me the entire collection would be mine someday.”
“Fair enough,” I said, “but isn’t it possible Carter moved it somewhere to, you know, keep it safe?”
“I asked. He says he didn’t.” Her tight features told me it was a sore subject.
“You mentioned your brother’s girlfriend,” I said. “We’re talking about Cheyenne O’Rourke, right?”
Evie looked surprised. “That’s right. I thought you didn’t know Sean.”
“I don’t,” I said, “but I know Cheyenne.”
“My condolences.”
“So when you say it wouldn’t be difficult for someone to walk off with the peaches,” I said, “you’re referring to your brother’s, um, lack of diligence?”
“If that’s a polite way of saying ‘drugged-out stupor,’ then yes.” Oddly, this stiff young woman seemed less embarrassed by her brother’s drug habit than her single mother’s love life. She added, “Any one of his lowlife buddies could have swiped my mom’s peach collection and Sean probably wouldn’t even be aware of it.”
I tapped the folder containing the photographs of the collection. “A few of these look like they might be worth something.”
She nodded. “Most of them are just silly gewgaws, but she had a few really valuable pieces mixed in with them. Did you see the netsuke?”
“Umm...”
Evie commandeered the folder and flipped through the photos until she found the one she was looking for and handed it to me. This figurine appeared to have been carved from jade and depicted a grasshopper perched on a peach. The carving was exquisitely detailed and really quite lovely and graceful.
“This piece isn’t even an inch and a half long,” Evie said. “Netsuke is a Japanese art form dating from the seventeenth century. The designs are limitless and they actually had a practical purpose. They were used to help attach little pouches or baskets to men’s kimono sashes so they could carry stuff around.”
“I’m guessing the kimonos didn’t have pockets,” I said.
“I guess not,” she said. “Anyway, netsukes are incredibly collectible. Mom got this one on a trip to Japan about twenty years ago. A few years later it was appraised at seven thousand dollars. I doubt its value has declined since then. If anything, it’s probably increased.”
“Seven grand for this tiny thing?” I said. No wonder Evie was eager to get her hands on Peaches’s peaches.
“This antique netsuke is probably the most valuable piece in the collection, but there are a few others that are worth quite a lot, as well.” She located another photo, this one showing a sleek, almost abstract peach figurine. “A famous ceramic artist created this. He’s pretty old, and when he dies, I expect this thing to soar in value, maybe even surpassing the netsuke.”
“Did your mom insure the collection?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “I mean, there’s the usual homeowner’s insurance, of course, but she never added a rid
er for the peaches. At least she photographed them. I guess I should be grateful for that.”
“Obviously your mom had been collecting peaches for a long time.”
“Since she was a child,” Evie said.
“The whole collection could probably fit in a small duffel bag,” I said. “So someone could indeed have made off with them while your brother was, um, napping or something. But you also suggested he might have given them away or tossed them out. Why on earth would he do that if the collection is worth so much? Not to mention the sentimental value.”
“Sean doesn’t make the most rational decisions even when he’s sober. And I’ll be frank with you, Jane. I know I can speak for my brother when I say that this collection has zero sentimental value for either of us. My mother was not the kind of person to inspire that kind of gooey emotion. The last thing I want is to look at those peaches every day and be reminded of the cold, narcissistic woman who raised me. As soon as I get my hands on that collection, if I ever do, it goes right to an auction house.”
I wondered how much therapy that pretty little netsuke could buy. Probably not enough to make a dent in this young woman’s mommy issues.
I asked, “How has Sean been supporting himself since he moved out of your grandma’s house?”
Evie shook her head in disgust. “She takes him hot food every day, can you believe it?”
“Kind of like a reverse Meals on Wheels, huh?” I said. Someone should teach Grandma Audrey the meaning of the word enabler.
“She spoils Sean just like she’s always spoiled my dad,” Evie said. “She buys in to all my brother’s BS about how life is unfair and nothing is ever his fault. He’s been working on her to pay his water and electric bills so they don’t turn off service.”
“Can your grandma afford that?” I asked.
A wave of anger scalded Evie’s pale complexion. “No, of course she can’t afford it. She’s talking about getting a part-time job so she can help him out. The woman is seventy-three, for crying out loud. She’s worked her whole life and now she has to deal with this? She won’t listen to me, so I’m just trying not to get involved. He knows better than to ask me for money.”
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