Beads of Doubt

by Barbara Burnett Smith

  Judy was helping arrange a display of Swarovski crystal necklaces and matching earrings when we found her. The crystals shimmered in the morning light, and I regretted not bringing my purse. “How are sales going?” I asked.

  She beamed at me. “Wonderfully. Thank you so much for letting us use the Manse; we’ve been so busy this weekend. By the end of the event we’ll probably have at least a hundred thousand dollars to contribute to the Ovarian Cancer Organization. And tickets for the necklace are still selling!”

  “I’m planning to buy a few more myself,” I said, thinking of Stephen’s comment about what was right for the Manse. My thoughts turned to Tess and Houston’s wife Rebecca, both wonderful women, both struggling with this terrible disease. If helping to find a cure for suffering wasn’t the best possible use for the Manse, what was?

  “I was hoping you could help us out,” I said.

  Judy smiled. “What can I do for you?”

  “Do you have an extra copy of the guest list for the reception Thursday night?”

  Her face clouded. “The police asked for it, too. For their investigation into that young man’s . . .”

  “Yes,” Nate said. “Do you have a spare copy?”

  “I’m sure I have one here somewhere.” She turned and flipped through a couple of binders. “Here it is. I think this is the only printout I’ve got, but it’s saved on the computer, so you can have it.”

  “Thanks, Judy. I’ll get it back to you this afternoon.”

  “Take your time,” she said. “And by the way, I like your hair!”

  I raised my hand to my hair and blushed slightly. “Thank you. It’s not permanent.”

  “Maybe it should be,” Nate murmured as we walked away from the booth.

  “You like it red?”

  “It certainly suits your temperament.”

  I laughed. “I think I’ll stick with blonde. Where shall we go? My office?”

  “We need two chairs. How about the balcony?”

  “Great idea. Let’s get a pitcher of iced tea and head upstairs.”

  Ten minutes later, we settled ourselves in on the wrought-iron love seat, our thighs touching as Nate pulled out the list. Beth hadn’t found anything out yet on the accident but promised to come up and tell us if she did. I took a sip of iced tea and leaned toward Nate. The morning was already hot, but it wasn’t all due to the sun. I swear that man emanated heat.

  “Now, let’s see here. What are we looking for?” Nate said.

  I flipped a notebook open to a blank page and poised my pen as he ran his finger down the list. “Anything familiar,” I said. “Or odd.”

  “Okay. I guess we can cross off Andrew.”

  Despite the heat, I shivered a bit. “We know Houston and Rebecca,” I said. “And Bruce and Delphine. They were outside the night Andrew died.” I blushed, remembering what they had broken up. “And the Yancys.”

  “Just the two of them?”

  “Louise and Earl. Stephen was there, and Lauren, of course.”

  He turned to look at me. “Do you think Lauren could have done it?”

  “I don’t know. She’s been so helpful, and she just doesn’t seem like the type.”

  “They say Ted Bundy didn’t, either,” Nate said.

  I sighed. “I know, I know.” Suddenly a thought occurred to me. “Wait. Is there someone named Sandy on there?” I didn’t think I would have missed Cat’s Eyes at the party, but I couldn’t be sure.

  “Who’s Sandy?”

  “Someone I met at the poker tournament last night.” I took a sip of tea and scanned the page with him.

  “Let’s find out,” he said.

  We were moving through the second page when my eyes skidded to a stop. “Wait a moment.”

  “What?”

  “That name. Linder. Marian and John Linder.”

  “What about it?”

  “I’ve seen it somewhere before. I just can’t place it.” I thought for a moment. Where had I seen it? It was on a folder somewhere, in a desk . . . “Hang on. I remember it now. That was the name on the client file I found in Houston’s office.”

  “Do you think it’s connected?”

  “I don’t know. I guess it’s possible.” As we turned to the third page, the door to the house squeaked, and I looked up to see Beth.

  “Am I interrupting something?”

  Well, yes, but I didn’t mind. “No, no,” I said. “We were just going over the guest list from Friday night. What did you find out?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid. Andrew was driving, it seems, and he was the only one to make it out without major injuries. I found an old newspaper article. According to the papers, Donovan and the other boy weren’t wearing seat belts.”

  I sucked in my breath. “God, what a tragedy.”

  “Anyway,” she said, “I found out the other boy’s name. The one who ended up in the wheelchair.”

  “And?”

  “His name was Keith Linder.”

  Twenty-one

  “Keith Linder?” I said. “Are you sure?”

  him?” Beth’s brow creased. “Why? Do you know him?”

  “No,” Nate said, “but I’m guessing his parents were at the reception Thursday night.”

  Her eyes widened. “Do you think . . .”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “The file I saw said they lived in Pflugerville. Unless they have an unlisted number, their address should be in the phone book. Anyone up for a short drive?”

  “I’d love to,” Beth said. “But I have to get back to my booth. Delta said she’d cover it for an hour, and I’ve only got ten minutes left.”

  I turned to Nate. “Are you up for it?”

  His face split into a broad grin. “I’m always up for another adventure with my favorite redhead.”

  Beth rolled her eyes. “I think I’m glad I’m not coming. I hate feeling like a third wheel.”

  An hour later, we turned onto Cuthbert Cove, a cul-de-sac in a housing development that, based on the size of the trees, had been built within the last few years. Although I was excited to uncover another lead, I didn’t want the ride to end; Nate was fabulous company, and we’d sung to the Beatles and laughed the whole way. “Paperback Writer” was still streaming from the speakers as Nate’s SUV slowed to a stop in front of 2305, a brick one-story ranch with two small crape myrtles and a For Sale sign in the front yard.

  “Well, this is it,” he said. “What do we say when we knock on the door?”

  “That Andrew was Houston’s partner, and we’re hoping they can give us some information that will shed light on what happened.”

  Nate grinned. “And that they’re suspects?”

  “I think we’d probably be better off keeping that under our hats for now. I wonder why they’re selling the house.”

  “Let’s go find out.”

  As we headed up the front walk, I noticed a ramp next to the steps. Did Keith still live with his parents? Then Nate’s hand brushed mine, and I stopped thinking about everything. Well, not quite everything . . .

  “Ready?” He squeezed my hand, sending an electric current through my body.

  “Here goes nothing.” I reached out and pushed the doorbell.

  The woman who answered the door must have been twenty years younger than Mrs. Yancy, but she looked old beyond her years. Streaks of white peppered her springy black hair, and both her face and frame looked worn, as if she’d carried some heavy burden.

  “Can I help you?” she asked in a thin voice. “If you’re interested in the house, I guess you can take a look.”

  I realized she thought Nate and I were a couple out house hunting on a Sunday afternoon, and I felt my face heat up. “Oh, no,” I said. “We’re not looking for a house. Are you Mrs. Linder?”

  She nodded.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met, but you were at my house the other night, for the Bead Tea reception.” I proffered my hand. “I’m Kitzi Camden, and this is my friend, Nate Wright.”


  Nate dipped his head, and if he’d had a hat, he would have doffed it. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Linder.”

  Mrs. Linder looked confused. “But . . . your hair . . .”

  My hand rose to my head, which I now remembered was orange, and I smiled. “I guess I needed a change. We were wondering if we could ask you a few questions about Thursday night.”

  “Of course. Do come in.” Nate and I followed her into her small, dark living room. The house smelled faintly of boiled cabbage, and the surfaces were crowded with porcelain and crystal animals, the kind you see on the Shopping Channel. The shades were down, and despite the newness of the house, the sagging couches and fifties side tables mirrored Mrs. Linder’s weariness. She was a meticulous housekeeper, though; there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere.

  “What lovely figurines,” I said.

  “Thank you.” Her lips twitched into a sweet smile that lifted years from her face. “The agent told me I should clear them up while the house was on the market, but I couldn’t do it.” She caressed a crystal dolphin’s back. “They make me feel at home.” She looked up and realized Nate and I were still standing by the front hall. “Please, sit down. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Oh, no thanks,” I said, sitting down on a worn blue-plaid couch. I was disappointed when Nate sat down at the other end.

  “You have a lovely house,” Nate said when Mrs. Linder had settled herself on the love seat opposite us. “May I ask why you’re moving?”

  Her face sagged again. “We had some investments we thought were doing really well, and we were going to move into a bigger place. But now . . .”

  I leaned forward. “Were you working with Andrew Lynch?”

  Her thin eyebrows rose in surprise. “How did you know?”

  “Several people were,” I said. “He was my cousin’s business partner. I understand things weren’t going as well as they could with some of his investment strategies.”

  She sighed. “We thought they were, but then Earl and Louise called and told me things weren’t going so well. John and I talked with Andrew last week, and we couldn’t get a straight answer.” She slumped into the couch. “And now, with Andrew gone, I don’t know what to do about it. We put everything we had into it, everything we’d been building since Keith finished his therapy . . .”

  “Is Keith your son?”

  She nodded. “Our only child. We wanted another one, but it wasn’t in God’s plan, I suppose. Keith was in an accident many years ago—with Andrew, and with another young man, named Donovan. The Yancys’ grandson.” She twisted her thin lips. “It was awful. Poor Donovan didn’t make it, and Keith was paralyzed from the waist down. He had years of therapy. Eventually, the insurance money ran out, and we put every penny we had into making him well again.” She shrugged in sadness and resignation. “He’s better, but he’ll never be quite the same.”

  It was sad, I thought, how one split second can shatter a life. If Andrew and his friends had decided to see a movie instead of hitting Sixth Street, or if someone else had driven, or if they’d left just five minutes later, maybe the Yancys would still have their grandson and Keith Linder would be able to walk. I gazed at Marian Linder’s tired frame. She and her son had suffered because of Andrew’s poor judgment in the past. Had the loss of their money been enough to make her snap? “It sounds like you did everything you could to help him through it,” I said. “He’s a lucky young man. Does he live here with you?”

  Her eyes flickered to the line of photos on the mantel. Framed snapshots of young, dark-haired man. Smiling. “He works part-time at the local bank. We keep encouraging him to do more, but after the accident, he never quite got his confidence back.”

  I ran my eyes over the photos, realizing that none of them included a wheelchair. It appeared that Keith wasn’t the only one who hadn’t come to terms with his handicap. “How did you meet Andrew?” I asked.

  “We knew him before the accident; he and Keith were friends at UT. The three of them were coming back from Sixth Street when it happened. They never made it.”

  Nate and I sat silent as she relived a moment long past. I could only imagine what it would be like to have the police arrive at your door, to tell you that your son was paralyzed, or worse . . .

  Finally, she continued. “Then we lost touch with him for years, until he called us up about six months ago and said he’d discovered an investment plan with huge returns. A sure bet. We were still scrambling to catch up on savings, and the Yancys said they were having great results, so we decided to give it a shot.”

  “Did the Yancys tell you about the Bead Tea?”

  “No, it was your cousin, Houston.” She shook her head. “It’s a shame about his wife’s cancer—she’s so lovely, and friendly, too. The last time we were in the office, he asked us to come and support the cause. I knew the Yancys would be there, and I’ve always wanted to see the Manse . . .” She flushed slightly.

  “Any time you want a personal tour, you let me know.”

  Her face lit up. “Really?”

  I smiled and fished a card from my purse. “Just give me a call, and we’ll set up a time.”

  She smiled. “Oh, that would be wonderful! Maybe Keith could come, too. He really enjoyed the reception on Thursday—he spent a lot of time touring the house.” I didn’t remember seeing a wheelchair, but there were so many people there, I might have missed it. “He always wanted to be an architect, you know,” she added.

  “Maybe he still could be. Has he taken any classes?”

  She shook her head. “Like I said, since the accident . . .”

  “He’s still young,” I said. “Lots of people make career changes. Even Nate here has changed course a couple of times.”

  “Really?” she said.

  “Yup. And your son’s got plenty of time,” he said. “One thing confuses me, though; if Keith was there, why wasn’t his name on the guest list?

  “Oh, he wasn’t supposed to be, but Ellie Lawler and her husband couldn’t go, so she gave us the extra tickets. I was kind of surprised Keith was interested; I guess he wanted to see the inside of the Manse.”

  “Did you run into Andrew while you were there?” Nate asked.

  “We tried to, but every time we spotted him, he disappeared before we could get to him. We did talk with your cousin Houston for a while. A charming man. And his wife . . .” She shook her head. “Life can be so unfair sometimes, can’t it?”

  My heart twinged. The Yancys had lost their grandson, and Mrs. Linder’s only child had been paralyzed by an accident. And then there was Rebecca—even though she was in remission, ovarian cancer could be tricky. And Tess, lying in her hospital bed, next to that awful woman. I sighed. Life was unfair. And there wasn’t much we could do about it. Maybe Nate could help me smuggle Rafferty into the hospital this afternoon.

  “Is there anything else I can help you with?” Mrs. Linder’s voice pulled me back to the living room.

  I blinked. “I don’t think so. Except for one thing—if you don’t mind me asking, what was Andrew investing your money in?”

  “A yacht called the High Jinx.”

  I suppressed a grimace. “That’s what I thought.” I stood up. “Thank you so much for your time, Mrs. Linder. I hope your investments work out better than you hoped. And any time you and your son want to see the Manse, just give me a call.”

  As we stood to go, the front door opened. “That must be Keith,” Mrs. Linder said. A moment later, a dark-haired man in a wheelchair rolled into the living room. His eyes widened when he saw me, and the chair wheeled to an abrupt halt.

  Mrs. Linder smiled. “Sweetheart, this is Kitzi Camden and her friend Nate. Remember Kitzi? She’s the lady who owns the Manse.” Something about her tone reminded me of Katie reprimanding Gabrielle. Mrs. Linder sounded like she was addressing a three-year-old, not a man in his thirties.

  “Oh, where the Bead Tea reception was.” I studied Keith’s face. His cheeks were drawn, and much of the
vigor I could see in the photos on the mantel had faded, but his brown eyes stared at me with intensity. They looked familiar somehow, but I couldn’t place them. “Nice house,” he said.

  “I’m glad you liked it. I was just telling your mother that you’re welcome to a private tour whenever you’d like.”

  “Great. Thanks. I’ve got to go get ready for work.” He wheeled past us. “Nice to meet you.”

  As her son disappeared down a dark hallway, Mrs. Linder turned to Nate and me. “Thank you so much for visiting. I’m afraid I wasn’t much help, though.”

  Nate smiled at her. “You’ve been a big help. Can we get in touch with you if we have any more questions?”

  Her eyes brightened as Nate touched her shoulder, and I shook my head in wonder. No woman was immune to the man’s animal magnetism. “Of course,” she said, her voice suddenly chipper. “Let me get you my number.” She hurried to the kitchen and returned with a scrap of paper, beaming at Nate. “Call me anytime.”

  “And if you want a tour, just let me know. I’d love to spend more time visiting with Keith.”

  Her brightness faded a little at the mention of her son. “Of course. That would be lovely.”

  “So, do you think we can put Mrs. Linder on the suspect list?” Nate asked as he bit into a turkey sandwich. On the way back to the Manse, we had stopped at Schlotzky’s, an Austin-based chain that makes—in my opinion, anyway—the best turkey sandwiches in town. We sat across from each other at a small table by the window, our knees almost touching.

  I swallowed a bite of cheese and turkey bliss, complete with olives—I had opted for the high-calorie Turkey Original—and took a sip of Diet Coke. At least the drink was low-cal. “I don’t know. She doesn’t seem the type, but I could be wrong. Her son sure did look surprised to see us, though, didn’t he?”

  “Maybe they don’t get many visitors.”

  “Maybe it was my orange hair,” I joked. “But I wonder what bank he works at. None of the ones I know about are open Sunday afternoons.”

  Nate nodded. “Keith was at the party Thursday night. Maybe he killed Andrew over his parents’ investments.”