Motherhood Is Murder

by Carolyn Hart

  Renie gulped. “I…don’t…know…what…to…say.”

  “We’ll also feature you in an upcoming edition of Good Family,” Edgar continued. “And of course we’ll run the letter in which your children nominated you for the award. There’s a copy of that letter in the envelope. Congratulations. Your daughter and your sons must love you very much. Their testimonials were extremely glowing. You and Mr. Jones must have raised them right.”

  “But…” Renie’s voice was choked with tears. She hugged and kissed Bill first, then embraced each of their children, as well as their new spouses. There was scarcely a dry eye in the house, except for Oscar, who remained impassive on the sofa.

  “I don’t get it,” Renie finally said to Edgar when she’d gotten her emotions under control. “Why were you lurking around the last few days?”

  Edgar smiled, revealing perfect white teeth. “I was taking pictures,” Edgar replied, again reaching into his jacket. “With this.” He showed Renie a tiny camera the size of a small cigarette lighter. “The editor wanted some candids of you, your family, your house, anything that might be usable in the article.”

  Renie stared at Bill. “You knew it was Mr. Alfonseca when he came up on the back porch?” She saw Bill nod. “And Judith and Joe? They knew?”

  “Of course,” Anne said. “But Pop and the Flynns were the only ones we let in on the secret. Odo and Heather and Cathleen didn’t know until this morning.”

  “I’m sorry I arrived so early,” Edgar apologized. “Mr. Jones told me to wait on that railroad station bench on the front porch.”

  “Goodness.” Renie was still at a loss for words.

  “Dig in,” Tom urged the visitor. “Mom’s a terrific cook. Or did we mention that in our letter?” He winked at his brother and sister.

  Edgar didn’t need to be persuaded. Renie stood in the kitchen doorway, observing the newcomer and her expanded family merrily stuffing their faces.

  “When I was hungry, you gave me to eat.”

  Well, Renie thought with a smile, she’d gotten that part right.

  Bill, carrying his empty plate, edged past his wife. “By the way,” he said, “Happy Mother’s Day.”

  Mothers Must Do

  Carolyn Hart

  Laurel Darling Roethke embraced serendipity. And synchronicity. And, of course, Fate. Why else would she have been standing at the gate in front of Cypress Cottage at precisely the right moment on a sunny morning in May?

  Scoffers (and it grieved her to suspect that her dear daughter-in-law Annie might be included in this number) would insist Laurel’s arrival was fortuitous. Laurel knew better. It was meant to be. Of course, she understood that Fate often needed a helping hand. Sometimes, in fact, it required a hard shove. Even a kick in the derrière. Laurel understood and accepted her charge.

  In any event, she was there, and there was the body. And there was Mimi Andrews, her wiry faded orange-red hair frizzing around a pale, distraught face. Mimi was one of Laurel’s closest friends on the island. Last spring they’d traveled to Peru to visit ancient Inca sites. Laurel knew Mimi was a friend to be counted upon. In fact, it was Mimi’s coolheaded heroics that had saved Laurel’s life when she’d slipped from a mountain trail.

  There was no coolness now. To see Mimi’s green eyes glazed with panic was shocking. Mimi tugged on the trousered leg, ineffectually trying to budge the heavy weight toward the porch steps.

  “Don’t you think,” Laurel inquired gently, “that he’s rather too large to move?”

  Mimi flung a look of loathing at the corpse, dropped the leg, and burst into tears.

  “My dear.” There was a world of kindness and generosity overlain by just the faintest hint of inquiry in Laurel’s husky voice. Laurel flowed up the steps and onto the porch, gracefully avoiding an outflung hand of the dead man. She scanned the scene as she slipped her arm around Mimi’s quivering shoulders, murmuring, “There, there.”

  Laurel felt a moment of pride at her forensic expertise. She knew the terminology, of course. This was a crime scene. Annie would expect no less of her motherin-law, who over the years had always been willing to go the extra mile to prove her support of and enthusiasm for Death on Demand, the finest mystery bookstore east of Atlanta. Laurel immediately became a staunch mystery reader when her son chose the bookstore proprietor Annie Laurance to be his bride. Those were halcyon days as Laurel undertook the joyous responsibility of aiding in the planning of one of the world’s great weddings right on this lovely sea island. It was truly serendipitous (but that came as no surprise) that the Wedding had coincided with Harmonic Convergence, a concept now rather fuzzy in Laurel’s mind but at the time it had allowed her to envision worldwide ramifications for the union of Max and Annie. In fact, it was her privilege to orchestrate the Wedding as a Cosmic Statement on Love. She remembered with pleasure red wedding dresses and exotic nuptial customs. The exuberant Irish drench the fruitcake with brandy. Bermudians plant a sapling atop the wedding cake. She considered the pleasures of weddings. It was too bad all her children were now married. But that simply enlarged the circle of love. And dear Max. Laurel was emphatic that she had no favorites among her children and their spouses. She enjoyed them all, dear dramatic Deirdre and retiring Ed, unpredictable Gail and athletic Kenneth, sweetly fey Jen and ebullient Harry. But Max and she shared so much, their eyes the same dark blue, their hair shining golden blond, and, dare she admit, both had a similar gift for tranquillity whatever the circumstances. However, as an expert at divining auras, Laurel knew full well that Annie, lovely, serious, intense, hardworking, practical Annie, seemed quite unnerved at the possibility that Max was a chip off the old block. Old block…now that was an interesting image. Woodworking, of course. So Laurel was tactful enough never to stress the similarities to her son, but she knew and Max knew…

  However, she had no favorites, and indeed, her presence at Cypress Cottage was testament to her evenhanded love for all her children and their spouses. She was, in fact, here to pick up a very special Mother’s Day gift for Annie. Not that Annie was a mother. Those wonderful days of maternal joy were yet to come for Annie and Max. However, Laurel held a rather unusual view of Mother’s Day: she saw the holiday as an opportunity for a mother to be thankful for her status, and how better to demonstrate thankfulness than a special, perfect, one-of-a-kind gift for each child, and by extension, to each spouse. That her approach might befuddle the world at large mattered not a whit to Laurel.

  Her thoughts were burbling, a common and enjoyable occurrence which, however, often discouraged Max. He would say forcefully, “Ma, focus.” And yes, perhaps she should. The body.

  Dead bodies—especially those deceased through blunt force—required investigation. Laurel knew the drill. Minute observation was followed by careful, thorough inquiry. This was the everyday, matter-of-fact, routine application of police powers. That was all very well and good, appropriate for ordinary mortals and plodding authorities. However, Laurel was a firm believer in heeding inner promptings, a process which had worked well for her in the Case of Ingrid’s Disappearance, the mystery which derailed Annie and Max’s honeymoon. But that was then and this was now.

  Mimi shuddered. Her voice wavered, her narrative broken by sobs. “…got to get him out of here…ruin her life…nothing but trouble…they’ll take the baby…heard the shot…”

  Shot. Ah yes, the body.

  Laurel recognized the victim. Jay Hammond owned a local antique store. He was quite knowledgeable about American furniture and paintings. Hammond was well known at the country club, a handsome man if you didn’t take his aura into account. When she’d last observed Jay—dancing with the young wife of old General (Retired) McAnally—she’d seen the thick dark curls, perhaps a little too thick and curly, broad forehead, straight nose, bold chin, sensuous lips, and impressive build. She was never one to ignore well-built men. They added so much pleasure to the world. Oh, the joys of baseball, manly men in tight pants. As if hearing the shouted call of a bu
rly umpire, the admonition “focus” stirred in her mind. Focus. Oh yes, indeed.

  She recalled her appraisal of Jay that evening at the country club. She’d taken pleasure simply as an observer in his charms, but she’d also noted his aura. Swirls of steel blue, tinged with purple. The message was clear. To her. Beneath the surface charm and rather extraordinary good looks was a brooding, dangerous, and utterly self-centered man. Self-centered, yes, the words said it all. To Jay Hammond, his own comfort, pleasure, and desires were paramount. Not at all an attractive aura.

  There was no aura now, simply a lifeless man lying on his back, his once ruddy suntan blanched, the fine cotton mesh polo shirt bloodied near the heart. There had been little bleeding. Likely a small-caliber gun had been used. Despite the discoloring stain, Laurel discerned a bullet hole. If there were an exit wound, there would be blood on the porch. That would be a shame. Already, she was beginning to heed that inner stirring, creative possibilities clamoring for response.

  Mimi swiped her hands hard against her face. “Laurel, go home. Please. I’ll get the package to you later. Please, go…”

  Laurel glanced around the porch. No gun. The front door of Cypress Cottage was open. She pattered to the door, opened the screen, looked within. The decor was an interesting mixture of business and hominess, a counter to the left, beyond it a desk, several computers, file cabinets. The rest of the living room was tan and beige and peach, the warm colors of sun and earth that so well suited a cottage on a South Carolina sea island. Rattan furniture with biscuit and honey colored cushions, a clear glass coffee table adorned with a conch shell, and along the back wall a window seat and a view of the dunes. The only hint of the room’s commercial purpose was an easel with a portrait in place. There were even a palette and brushes, although Laurel understood the actual work was all digital. In any event, photographs were transformed within a computer and the resultant printout on actual canvas yielded a portrait that any observer would believe to have been painted, rather than resulting from computer-enhanced wizardry. A hallway led to the private areas of the residence.

  Laurel’s glance was sweeping. No gun. Of course, it could be hidden in the window seat or in another room or in the shrubbery near the porch. Further search should, of course, be made. She closed the screen and turned back to face Mimi.

  “Ooh.” Laurel’s commiserating coo was immediate. Poor dear Mimi was a mess. Mascara ran in two dark rivulets down cheeks turned muddy gray by shock. Her body trembled like a tall pine in a wind-storm. Once again she clasped that heavy leg and pulled. Breathing heavily, straining with all her might, she got the body to move perhaps an inch.

  “I suggest…” Laurel began tactfully.

  Defiant, Mimi flung up her head, glared. “I don’t care what you say. I’ve got to get him out of here.” She struggled for breath.

  “A moment. Please.” Laurel spoke easily. She might have been calling for a quorum, quieting a restive horse, urging meditation. “Acquaint me with the problem.”

  Mimi blinked. “He’s dead.”

  Laurel placed her fingertips against her cheeks. “True. I suggest we summon the police and let them take charge. That is the customary solution.” A soothing smile.

  “Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?” Mimi’s voice quivered. She dropped the leg, then jumped at the dull thud of the shoe on the wood. She took a deep breath, stepped toward Laurel. “We can’t call the police. Even if they understand that Ginger had nothing to do with this, the whole thing will get in the papers, Jay being killed here and the ugly things he said last night. Everyone will find out about him and Ginger, and then the fat’s in the fire—”

  Somewhere in the back of the cottage, a door slammed.

  Mimi jerked toward the screen door, stared at it with huge, terror-filled eyes. One hand clutched at her throat.

  Laurel watched Mimi and she watched the doorway.

  Rapid steps clipped through the living room. The door swung open. Ginger McIntosh, owner of Cypress Cottage and Cypress Pinxit Portraits, rushed outside, talking fast. “I’ll pick up Teddy and—”

  Laurel held two pictures in her mind, the instant Ginger came through the door, her eager freckled face relaxed and cheerful, and the instant she saw the dead man. Her expressive face registered bewilderment, shock, comprehension, and, as she looked toward Mimi, a terrible fear. “Mother…” She scarcely gasped the word.

  “Oh no. No.” Mimi spread out her hands. “I was in the kitchen and I heard a shot. I ran out here and found him.”

  Ginger was already moving. She knelt by the body, picked up a limp hand, held the wrist. “He’s dead.” Her voice was dull with shock and disbelief. Slowly she stood. She turned toward Laurel, her eyes dark with questions and uncertainty.

  Laurel understood. “Oh my dear. Not I. And how unusual for me. To be a murder suspect. Though there was one time when…” But this was not the moment to talk of the dreadful days when Howard’s wife was killed and Laurel had indeed been a suspect. It had been quite worrisome for Annie and Max, though Laurel had worried more for Howard Cahill than for herself. Dear Howard, such a good and kindly man—and so fond of her. As were so many dear men. How nice men were. She glanced down at Jay Hammond, amended her thought. Most men.

  “Focus.” How lovely. It was almost as though dear Max stood at her shoulder, pointing her ever in the right direction. All seemed clear to her. And there were the auras, of course. Not that others would understand, but a soft peach glow enveloped Mimi, a sure indication of kindness and caring and warmth. Ginger’s aura was simply lovely, orange for gaiety, pink for love, and—Laurel raised an eyebrow—mauve for passion. Oh yes, mauve definitely indicated passion. It was one of Laurel’s favorite colors. One cannot see one’s own aura, but Laurel was quietly confident she moved in a moonglow of mauve. Dear Ginger. What was her situation? A widow. But there would be love in her future.

  “Murder…” Ginger’s voice wobbled. “Oh Mother, what are we going to do?” She brushed back a tangle of bright red hair.

  Laurel looked toward Mimi.

  The older woman faced Laurel. “We can’t call the police. Because of Teddy. Please…”

  Laurel had a quick memory of a carrot-topped, chubby toddler cheerfully lining up his toy cars while she and Ginger discussed the transformation of an old photograph of Annie’s mother into a brightly painted canvas portrait. Annie’s mother had died while Annie was in college. Laurel knew Annie would cherish a portrait of Judy when she was young and the future was bright.

  “…just go away. We have to get rid of the body. If you’ll leave, pretend you never saw any of this…” There was desperation and hope and a piercing plea.

  “You were telling me…” Laurel looked at Mimi, waited expectantly.

  They both spoke, mother and daughter, their voices so similar, one buoyant with youth, the other weighted by experience.

  “…It’s the McIntoshes. They don’t think I’m a fit mother…”

  “…Selfish rich spoiled people trying to get Teddy…”

  “…I’ll take him now and run away…”

  “…But the police will think…”

  Laurel held up both hands, moved them like a swallow winging to the horizon. “Peace.”

  Suddenly there was quiet.

  “As I understand it,” Laurel’s husky voice was calm, reassuring, “you fear a public investigation of these premises would result in Ginger losing custody of Teddy—”

  Ginger’s face crumpled.

  “—to your husband’s parents?”

  Ginger nodded. “They’ve never accepted me. Never. They didn’t recognize our marriage. I wasn’t good enough, you see. I was working in a bar when I met Preston. It didn’t matter that I was working my way through school. And Preston, oh—there’s too much to tell. I was such a fool. But there was no way I could know he had so many problems. Anyway,” she flung out her hands as if pushing away the past and memories and bad times, “we got married, and I knew soon enough that
he was in trouble. Drugs. He couldn’t hold a job. But then there was Teddy, and I wanted him to have a father. And Preston…the car went into the lagoon. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he drove right off the road. There were no skid marks. His folks didn’t come to the funeral. The next week they wrote—a letter from their lawyer—and they said they wanted custody of Theodore, that my prior behavior—and I don’t know what they’re talking about, maybe they just mean because I’m poor—anyway, they said obviously I was unfit to be a mother. They call him Theodore—” and here she gave a half sob “—in all the letters. Theodore. Like he’s a little man. But he’s just a baby, and he doesn’t even know them, and he gets scared at night, and I’m the only one who can hold him…”

  “Of course you will keep Teddy.” Laurel spoke with authority. “Though I can’t see why a police investigation should concern you.” Ginger and Mimi’s initial responses—each exhibiting an immediate frightful fear of the other’s possible guilt—proved their innocence. And their auras were definitive. “Clearly neither of you committed the crime. So,” Laurel clapped her hands together, beamed, “I suggest we call the police and let them investigate.”

  Their silence was as determined as a shout.

  “No?” Laurel looked from one to the other.

  Ginger clasped her hands, twisted them tightly. “I didn’t know Jay was married. His wife lives in Atlanta and they’re separated, but they aren’t divorced. When I found out about Diane, he told me neither of them wanted a divorce.”

  “Ginger didn’t know. He lied to her.” Mimi glared at the body. “But if it got out that Ginger was involved with him—a married man—the McIntoshes could use that against her.”

  “And last night—” Ginger flushed, “—I shouted at him. Right in front of everybody. I screamed that I wished he was dead. And now he is, and that’s what the police will find out. Oh, I shouldn’t have agreed to meet him there, but he’d insisted. I told him I never wanted to see him again and he smirked at me and said he knew I’d change my mind and he’d see me in the morning and morning was just a lovely time for making love. That’s when I yelled. I was so mad I could have killed him.” Her eyes widened. “But I didn’t. This morning I told Mother I’d hoe the garden—” she held up dirt-grimed hands “—and she was to send him away.”