Three hours later, Jason was back home again with his mother and sister. His father was with them. When Genia returned to her own cottage, she felt only slightly more hopeful. Kevin and Jason’s attorneys had protected them both fiercely, allowing them to say virtually nothing, and there had been no arrest warrant for either of them. There wasn’t any actual evidence. “Not yet …” they were warned by the police. “If we find out that either of you was down at the docks last night, if we find witnesses who saw you with Eddie, if we find your fingerprints on—”
“They’ll be all over that boat!”
“Shut up, Kevin,” his lawyer snapped at him.
“We’ll have you back in here on a warrant next time,” the police had continued, looking annoyed at the attorney. “And you will answer our questions then.”
“Is he free to go?” the attorney asked. “What about my client?” Jason’s attorney added.
Yes, they were, but only for now was the implication.
As Genia drove away from the gallery, she thought, If the police find out how angry Kevin was at Stanley, and if they get the idea that Eddie may have known that, then Kevin will be in even more danger than his son. Then she had a traitorous thought: How well did she actually know her former nephew-in-law? Was she really as convinced of his innocence as she was of his son’s? It was a terrible thought, and she silently apologized to all the Edens for allowing it to slip into her mind. The problem was that once it had sneaked in, she couldn’t seem to get rid of it. For that reason alone, she turned the car around and returned to Donna’s home, walking in and surprising Kevin and Donna, who were both downstairs in front of one of his pieces of artwork.
“Aunt Genia! Did you forget something?”
“Yes, Donna, I forgot to ask both of you something.”
They gazed quizzically at her, and her heart went out to both worried parents.
“Donna, why did Stanley have you out to lunch two weeks ago?”
With a glance at her ex-husband, Donna said, “I thought I already told you. He wanted to tell me not to send Jason to military school—”
“Good,” Kevin interrupted. “I hate that idea.”
Donna cast him an exasperated glance.
“But,” Genia persisted, “what made Stanley think you would do as he wanted you to do? Did he threaten you in some way?”
That earned her a startled look from both of them.
“He did, didn’t he? What was it, Donna?”
“Aunt Genia, you are the most amazing person,” Donna said, half laughing. “How’d you know that? Okay, I give up. There’s no reason not to tell you, except …” She wouldn’t meet her aunt’s eyes, for some reason, and seemed to be avoiding Kevin’s gaze, too. “The thing is, I have applied to the bank for a mortgage on this place—”
“Donna!” her ex-husband exclaimed, looking shocked.
“Well, we have to get the money for the kids’ colleges somewhere, Kevin! And I didn’t want to pressure you, because I know it’s hard to be an artist and have such big financial obligations, too. I’ve always tried to protect you from that; I’m the businessperson, you’re the artist. So I was just going to get a loan from the bank, and Stanley said that if I didn’t change my mind about the military school, he’d make sure I didn’t get the loan. I couldn’t believe it! Who did he think he was?”
But Kevin was smiling at her rather tenderly. “I think he was your friend. Donna, you can’t mortgage this house. It means so much to you to keep it in the family, we just can’t take the risk of losing it. We’ll find the money.”
“Where?” she demanded. “I don’t have it!”
“Well, I do,” her aunt announced.
Donna looked crestfallen rather than pleased. “Oh, Aunt Genia, that’s just what I wanted to avoid. You’ve always done so much for us. I just can’t let you—”
Genia put up a hand to forestall the argument.
“The children will go to college,” she said firmly. “And if your uncle Lew were alive, he would be so happy to help you. Why don’t we talk about this later, but in the meantime, Kevin’s right. You must not risk this house.” She smiled at her niece. “Lew wouldn’t like it.”
Donna shook her head. “Oh, you two!” she exclaimed. But she was smiling.
“Kevin?” Genia turned to him. “It’s your turn to answer my question, please. Why did Stanley invite you to lunch at the Castle?”
“He invited you to lunch, too?” Donna asked, turning toward Kevin.
A disgusted expression crossed his face. “Oh, yeah. You want to know what he wanted from me? One guess. He wanted me to cooperate with the plans for the art festival. He wanted me to be a good boy and vacate the island nicely when they needed me to, so they could let thousands of tourists tromp through my yard.”
“And if you didn’t do that?” Genia asked.
“He’d kick me off the island.”
“Good for Stanley,” Donna said, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Well, now he’s dead, and I can oppose it if I want to.”
“That’s just selfish,” his ex-wife proclaimed. “After he’s been so generous to you? That’s just plain selfish, Kevin Eden!”
“I thought you were sympathetic to artists,” he said wryly. “How about the pressure of having to leave my work behind while they set up that festival? And how about having to do it every year? How’s that for pressure, Donna?”
“Oh, Kevin. You can use your old studio here.”
That seemed to flummox him; he had no reply.
“Thank you, dears,” Genia said, smiling encouragingly at them.
This time, when she left for home, she felt confident of her family, even its ex-members. If only I felt as optimistic about their fate, she thought, fighting down a feeling of panic for all of their sakes.
21
A RECIPE FOR TROUBLE
What do you think of your quiet little Devon now, Stanley?”
Genia spoke the wry question aloud as she unlocked her back door and entered her house once again. In less than twenty-four hours she had experienced a drunken scene, a fantasy of terror in the night, a scene of accusation and acrimony, a reconciliation between a mother and her son, and interviews in a police station. And on top of that there had been a murder.
When Genia went to lay her wedding rings on the shelf above the kitchen sink in preparation for washing a few dishes, she got another shock to add to the ones already layered on this day. She realized with a growing sense of apprehension that the cookbooks she kept there had been moved from the position she had left them in yesterday.
That’s what has been feeling “off” to me!
Someone has been going through my cookbooks.
It wasn’t blatant. It was only a subtle shift, a lean of one book into another, a space where previously there hadn’t been one. There were a couple of books out of order, and she knew that was so because she had kept them in order for a purpose: general cookbooks to the left, followed by historical cookbooks, then specialty cookbooks—appetizers, desserts, seafood, pasta. She hadn’t brought any with her from the ranch, not knowing she would end up needing any of her favorites. Instead, she had purchased good used ones at “tag” sales in the countryside, and she had even bought one or two new ones. She had intended to give them all to Stanley when she left Devon or contribute them to a local church sale if he didn’t want them. Genia knew exactly how she had lined them up. It was clear to her, as it would have been to no one else, that somebody had moved them.
But why? Were they looking for cash among the pages?
She knew some people did hide money in books, though she never did. Somebody could ransack her entire library and never find a single dollar bill, because she was afraid she’d forget which book she’d put the money in.
She thought back to the noises which had scared her.
Maybe I’m not crazy after all, Stanley.
She could have sworn these cookbooks had all been in order when she turned
out the lights in the kitchen the night before. Could there really have been an intruder in this house?
The possibility gave her such a bad case of the willies that she wanted to run outside that instant and scream for help. Don’t be silly. They’re long gone. But still, she felt as if invisible eyes were staring at her from outside her windows, as if invisible hands might reach out to grab her.
“I’ll call the police,” she said aloud.
But a sense of caution stayed her hand when it reached for the phone. What would she tell them, that her cookbooks were out of order? She doubted they would take that seriously, even if she told them of noises in the night. But it was more than that that kept her from dialing. It was a premonition that the police’s first suspect would be her own nephew, Jason. They’ll accuse him of wanting money for drugs. They’ll say he was in and out of here all the time, and he and Janie had keys of their own.
It wasn’t Jason, she felt sure it wasn’t.
But the police were not his great-aunt who loved him, and they were actively looking for justification to accuse him of things much more terrible than this.
She didn’t want to give them any excuse to think worse of him.
Genia gave up the idea of calling the police for now and made up her mind to do a little detective work of her own.
Genia pulled out from under a pile of books on her bed-stand a long yellow legal pad. “Thinking on paper” was her favorite way to sort things out when she was confused and upset. In other times and places, she had written down imagined scenarios about crimes. The process had helped her then; maybe it would help her now.
Leaving the first page blank, she turned it over. Out of sheer exasperation with the lady in question, she started scribbling on the second page.…
Celeste Hutchinson is a born and bred Rhode Islander. She’s a Swamp Yankee, just as Stanley was. Practically everybody in Devon knows her or recognizes her name from her Realtor signs if nothing else. The problem is, Celeste is an alcoholic, and her drinking seems completely out of control. Almost by definition, that suggests that her life’s out of control, too. So, what used to work for Celeste in the past doesn’t now.
Perhaps the successes that came easily due to her drive, intelligence, and reputation are harder to achieve these days. She’s not a woman who is accustomed to failure, but she’s drinking all day long now. Maybe missing sales appointments. Fluffing important details in contracts. Showing up inebriated to meet buyers and to show homes. It could be that the receptionist at the real estate office no longer directs “cold calls” to Celeste’s extension.
“This is sheer fantasy,” Genia reminded herself sternly.
As a consequence, Celeste’s income has dropped dramatically.
She has an expensive old house to maintain and no husband to support her when she falls on hard times. She has pride in her name and her place in the community, and that pride feels terribly threatened now because she’s facing bankruptcy.
And on top of all that Celeste is lonely and frustrated because the man she wants doesn’t want her.
I’ve made it sound like a pop song, Genia thought wryly, and yet unrequited love … or unrequited desire … can seriously tear a person apart, especially if it’s combined with financial insecurity or other problems. It might sound like a country-western lyric, but this may be a profoundly anxious time for Celeste.
Celeste’s old friend, Stanley Parker, knows of her financial straits because of his position at the bank. When he sees David courting Celeste, he pulls the man aside and says, “A word to the wise, David. Celeste needs a fresh jolt of cash, and a lot of it. She’s bouncing checks and kiting them from one account to another.”
David regards Stanley suspiciously. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Not for your sake,” Stanley retorts, “but for my daughter’s sake, and for my future grandchildren. If you marry Celeste, she’ll run through the money like a fox through the woods. That would hurt my family and the philanthropic causes that Lillian wants you to continue to support, like my arts council.”
“Well, thanks,” David says grudgingly.
“As I said, I’m not doing this for you.”
When David stops calling Celeste, she can think of only one possible reason why: Stanley blabbed. And then Stanley himself confirms it when he has her to lunch at the Castle to read her the riot act: Sober up, he commands her, get yourself to a treatment center, Celeste. She is hurt, furious, terrified of a future that might not hold David’s wealth in it. And she is not about to admit she’s an alcoholic! She just has a little drinking problem now and then, that’s all.
Filled with self-righteous anger, Celeste determines to confront Stanley right before the dinner party at Genia’s house. She knows his habits, how he loves to ride that motorbike of his along the path by the ocean, and so she plants herself right where he is likely to pass by. She will demand that he give her a bank loan to set her financial worries right, and that he tell David Graham there’s nothing to worry about anymore.
“You’re a drunk, Celeste,” the old man tells her.
In a rage she picks up a heavy fallen branch and swings it at his head.…
Genia didn’t want to continue with her narrative from there. Instead, she sat quietly and thought of facts rather than fantasy: Celeste had not appeared to be drunk or upset when she had arrived for the dinner party. Yes, there had been liquor on her breath, but she certainly had not looked like a woman who had just swung a tree limb or a baseball bat and horribly beaten an old friend to death.
Yes, but desperate people resort to desperate means, Genia reminded herself. If Celeste had stolen the brooch, that was itself a disturbing demonstration of the truth of that old saying. If Celeste was desperate enough to steal valuable things, perhaps to sell them, was she also desperate enough to kill? What if Stanley had not yet actually told David of Celeste’s financial problems—assuming she had some, Genia reminded herself—but only planned to do so? What if that’s what he told Celeste the day he had her over for lunch? Genia took up her pen again to put words in Stanley’s mouth:
“I know what a mess your bankbook’s in, Celeste. I want to help you figure out how to save yourself, but you’re going to have to promise me that you won’t try to use David Graham as your financial savior.”
“How dare you, Stanley,” Celeste exclaimed. “And what will you do if I don’t let you run my life?”
“I’ll inform David myself.”
“I’ll see you dead first!”
Genia shivered, remembering the sharp pine needle that had stuck on her white silk blouse and stabbed her hand when she had brushed at it. Now she thought that needle must have come from the woods where Stanley died. Someone who had embraced her at her own front door that night had caught that pine needle on a piece of clothing and carried it into her house from the scene of the murder.
Was it Celeste? Or was it one of her other guests that night, or someone else connected to Stanley? Genia picked up her pen again and started writing, but this time she selected a more obvious suspect, even though he was now a dead one.…
When Stanley hired Ed Hennessey he only meant to help the unfortunate fellow.
When Eddie took the job, he only did it to cheat and steal from the wealthiest man in town.
For Stanley, it was charity.
For Eddie, it was larceny.
“You’ve been stealing from me, Eddie.”
“Yeah? What are you going to do about it, old man?”
“Turn you in.”
“Over your dead body.”
It could be true, Genia mused over her playlet, but that would mean there had been two killers. Eddie, who killed Stanley, and a second, who murdered him. It wasn’t impossible, but wasn’t it improbable? Considering the type of man he was, Eddie’s death could easily have been completely unrelated to Stanley’s murder. Surely Eddie had known dozens of disreputable people, any of whom might have slain him. In the name of mercy, Genia tried to find
within her heart a twinge of pity for the late Ed Hennessey; what she did find there was abstract at best, an understanding that some lives grow so crooked they may never straighten out. Perhaps Eddie’s ill-fated life had been one of those.
She took up her pen again and forced herself to imagine one of the worst of all possible scenarios.…
“Dad, you could try to like Randy!”
“Why should I? Look at the divorce rate, Nikki. In a few years he’ll be gone, and I’d have wasted all that effort on your ex-husband.”
“Oh, Dad!”
Sometimes she hated her own father, though she held her rage inside of her just as she had done all of her life with her overpowering father. She hated him for treating her mother as if nothing Mom wanted was important, and she hated him for how he treated her own husband, and she hated him for controlling her all of her life.
And then came the final blow.
“I’m changing my will, Nikki. For as long as you’re married to that good-for-nothing I’m putting all of your inheritance into an irrevocable trust.”
“Which means—?”
“Which means a bank trustee will manage it for you and distribute money to you when he decides you need it.”
“I’ll have to ask?”
“For every penny. This is for your own good, Nikki, to protect you from spending it all on that so-called man you married.”
“And if I divorce him?”
“It will remain in effect for ten years after that, to allow you time to mature and grow wiser in your selection of mates. And also to allow enough time to get rid of Randy. I want him to have all the time he needs to latch on to some other naive heiress. After ten years, you may have control of your own money.”
She was so inarticulate with rage at the way her father was attempting to run her life that only physical expression was left to her. With hatred in her heart, Nikki grabbed a branch at her feet and swung it at him. She watched his body tumble down the hillside. “You will never control me again, not on this side of the grave, or beyond it.”
The Secret Ingredient Murders: A Eugenia Potter Mystery Page 20