by Joan Hess
I sat back and waited while she attempted to compose herself. I had to agree that I had no right to say it, and it was none of my business, in any case. It would, however, explain her anger toward Edward. My silence finally got to her.
“Okay,” she said, wiping her hands with a napkin before she refilled her glass, “so maybe I’m pregnant and Salvador’s the father. Julius will know he sure as hell isn’t. I had to do something, Claire. Can you imagine what it’s like to stand in front of a classroom and lecture about the French Revolution when you know the boys are staring at your breasts and the girls are daydreaming about their upcoming dates? Some days I’d sit in the teachers’ lounge watching all these gray-haired teachers get older by the minute. They’re obsessed with their lesson plans, tests, grades, and bringing cupcakes for little birthday parties at lunch. I’m twenty-nine. I am not going to still be sitting there when I’m fifty-nine, volunteering to chaperone the prom and supervise the chess club, or take up a collection to buy flowers for the secretary. At least you’ve been married and had a child. That’s something.”
I felt as if she considered me a scrap of flotsam on the beach, to be pitied and then carefully stepped over so as not to soil one’s feet. “Julius was your safety net, I gather.”
Her face flushed as she considered her outburst. “He’s very sweet. Well, he does have a temper at times, but I’ll be able to manage him. I don’t know what to do about this baby, though. It’s going to complicate things no end. Damn that Edward! He probably figured out what was going on and murdered Salvador so he could have everything that was going to be mine.” Her eyes slitted in a most unbecoming fashion. “He’s not the only heir, however. In seven months, he’ll have a half sibling. I wonder just how much the estate is worth ...”
“I have no idea,” I said.
“I ought to look into it,” Fiona continued, now lost in her mental calculations. “I’ll lose my job, that’s for sure. But I won’t need it—or Julius—if I’m wealthy. I can move to another area, buy a house by the ocean, hire a nanny, and find a husband worthy of being my child’s father.”
I had an eerie feeling that she had rehearsed her lines and was presenting them for my benefit. They had flowed from her too easily. We had covered the so-called predictable stages of grief in ten minutes, and she was now on the road to recovery. I wondered if I was missing my cue to squeeze her hand, sympathize with her loss, admire her courage, and assure her that she would be fine, just fine.
“Edward may be able to prove paternity,” she went on, “but I can, too. Amniocentesis is a routine procedure these days.” She began to eat a sandwich. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was. It’s very thoughtful of you to fix me something, Claire. Why don’t we have lunch someday? My treat, of course.”
“Aren’t you overlooking the possibility that Salvador made a will?”
Fiona stopped chewing and stared at me. “Did he?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “People with a lot of money tend to have financial managers, as well as brokers and lawyers.”
She managed to swallow. “And life insurance?”
“I guess you’ll have to wait seven months to find out. I’m not a lawyer, but I doubt those in utero can inherit. Probate will take at least a year. If there is a will leaving his estate to some obscure artists’ colony, then there are bound to be lawsuits that drag out for years. You may not collect anything until your offspring is ready for college.”
“Salvador wouldn’t have made out a will to anybody. He was just forty-one. His paintings may seem morbid, but he wasn’t at all like that. I would have known. We used to lie in bed and talk about sailing around the world, stopping whenever and wherever we wanted. We were going to buy a house in Vail and another one in Bimini. He was full of life.”
“Whatever you say,” I murmured as I put the cups and glasses on a tray. “Good luck explaining the situation to Julius.”
She stood up. “He’ll get over it, dear boy that he is. Maybe his parents will take him on a vacation to Disney World. He can have his picture taken with Mickey Mouse. Thank you for the tea and sandwich. I’d better go home now.”
I walked her downstairs and out to the porch, then watched her as she strolled in the direction of Thurber Street. She seemed rather jaunty, considering the father of her baby had been hacked to death the previous evening. If her story was true. That I did not know, but I couldn’t come up with a reason why she would lie about it. DNA tests would prove—or disprove—paternity, within a zillionth level of probability. Courts bought them.
I turned the opposite way and walked to the corner of the street that ran along the side of my duplex. That which had been Angle’s house was a black hole. No lights reflected from the charred remains. Lights were on inside most of the other houses; Sunday was not a night for sociability. I continued to walk until I was standing in front of it. Drooping yellow tape glinted in the dim light. The corpse had most likely been identified by now as the woman named Rose or Rosalyn. The police would close the case, and the landlord would collect a check from his insurance company. No one would ask why the woman had called Lanya and offered to teach the fairies how to flutter convincingly. Or ask Edward more about his previous meeting in California with a woman calling herself Angie. Or even, I thought, ask the fairies to look at the photo of Rose (as I decided to call her) that was surely in the social worker’s file.
Lieutenant Rosen and Sergeant Jorgeson were much too busy with their more newsworthy case. A minimum-wage worker who died in a house fire would not interest the national news vultures, but a participant in a Renaissance Fair, dressed in garb, who was attacked with a replica of a medieval battle-ax was picturesque, as well as grotesque.
Someone ought to look into it. Someone who would not be privy to whatever was discovered in Salvador’s file cabinets. Someone who would not be given any information about the interviews with the members of ARSE. All I needed to do was go to the DHS and speak to the caseworker. Any tiny detail that could remotely be relevant would be promptly reported to the police, of course. Peter would be grateful that his bride-to-be was not the sort to fly to Paris when the going got tough. Jorgeson might even apologize for his unnecessarily snide remark about my presence in Salvador’s dining room earlier in the afternoon.
I returned to my apartment and forced myself to read until I began to nod off in the vicar’s parlor. Caron and Inez came in and collected food from the refrigerator before coming into the living room.
“I thought you were going to dinner with Peter,” Caron said accusingly.
“He’s tied up with the investigation.”
“Oh,” she said, “then that’s all right, I guess. We’re going to watch movies and paint our toenails.”
I yawned. “What a splendid idea.”
“Did anybody call, besides those reporters? I thought I was Going To Scream.”
Inez nodded solemnly. “Every ten minutes, and nobody wanted to ask us anything. Caron tried a couple of times.”
“Jerks,” Caron said, flaring her nostrils to emphasize her disdain. “They all wanted to talk to you. It was like we weren’t even at the stupid fair. The only student who’ll get his picture in the paper is that guy who found the body. He’s not even taking AP history.”
“He has acne and bad teeth,” added Inez.
“Better luck next time,” I said. “By the way, I want you two to open the store tomorrow at ten. I should be back by noon.”
“This happens to be our summer vacation,” Caron said. “We’re planning to watch movies till dawn, and sleep in. Why can’t you open your own store, Mother?”
“I have something important to do.” I crossed my fingers between the pages of the book. “I’m going to look for a wedding dress at the mall. If you recall, I’m getting married in two months. I can hardly wear shorts and a T-shirt.”
“You’re going shopping?” said Caron. “By yourself, at the mall?”
Inez made a funny little noise, as if swallowing a
giggle. “Really, Ms. Malloy? When’s the last time you went to the mall?”
I would have taken the high road had there been one. “I am going to the mall, okay? I’ll wake you up at nine and expect you to be at the bookstore by no later than ten.” I swept out of the room and to my bedroom. In reality, I was going to have to go to the mall sooner or later. Luanne had promised to accompany me, hold my hand in the parking lot, and blot the perspiration off my brow before we went into trendy little boutiques. She would also stop me from buying the first thing that I found passable, which I would do if left on my own. The mall is a dangerous place, filled with reptilian salesclerks, sniveling children, grim-faced matrons, and gaggles of teenaged girls. Each store blasts its own music. Speakers crackle with orders for various personnel to report hither and yon. Bodies are probably hidden under mounds of clothes in obscure fitting rooms. Whenever one attempts to purchase something, it requires at least two salesclerks and a supervisor.
When I fell asleep, I was tormented with dreams of being locked in a fitting room, hounded by leering salesclerks holding up miniskirts and leather bikinis.
The next morning I sat in the living room and drank coffee while I tried to figure out how best to talk my way into being allowed to see Rose’s file. I rejected schemes involving claims I was a relative. Presumably, Rose’s family history would be in the file. Impersonating a detective would lead to complications. Reporters would not be allowed to see the file, nor would concerned friends from work (as if I knew where she’d been working). I finally came up with an idea, although it required panty hose and a major dose of bravado.
I put on said panty hose, a navy skirt, a white blouse, and sensible pumps, and took Carlton’s old briefcase from a closet. After I’d parked outside the DHS office, I applied lipstick and wished myself luck.
The receptionist glanced up from her computer as I came into the office. “May I help you?”
I gazed down at her. “I’m from the law office of Steel, Robbins, and Ruthless. We represent the landlord of the property on Willoughby Street that burned last week. Our client is having difficulties with the insurance company. I need to speak to the caseworker of the unfortunate woman who was killed.”
“Poor Rosie Neely,” the receptionist said, shaking her head. “A nice woman.”
“Yes, Rosie Neely. Is her caseworker available? I have another appointment this morning, but I’d like to get the preliminary information as soon as possible. The insurance company is claiming that Rosie set the fire herself.”
“She’d never do that. She was doing so well. Her boss was pleased with her, and she was making friends at last.”
I took a notebook out of the briefcase and scribbled a note. “That’s very encouraging. Her caseworker?”
Before the receptionist could reply, the phone rang. She answered it, took a message, and replaced the receiver. “Mrs. Hardy is out of the office for the next three days. She went to a conference in Tucson or Phoenix or someplace like that. I’d turn you over to our director, but she’s at the conference, too. Why don’t you come back on Friday?”
I smiled ruefully. “I wish that would work, but we’re having a pretrial hearing tomorrow morning. If we have no way to document Rosie’s mental stability, I’m afraid the hearing will go badly. Perhaps if I could have a quick look at her file? Just a peek so I can get the name of her psychiatrist.”
“No one’s allowed to read the files without authorization or a court order. I wish I could be more helpful.”
Having cornered my prey, I went in for the kill. “I wish you could, too. I hope whatever family she had won’t be devastated when her death is ruled a suicide. They often feel so terribly guilty that they didn’t do more, even simply making the effort to stay in touch more often. That sort of guilt can tear families apart.” I paused for a moment. “And our client will suffer as well. He and his wife are retired, and use the small profit from their one rental property to pay medical bills. The property was mortgaged. They’re likely to lose their own little home and their life savings.”
“This is dreadful,” the receptionist said, shredding a tissue. “Maybe I can try to reach Mrs. Hartly at the conference. She left the telephone number of the hotel.”
I glanced at my watch. “Yes, please try to call her.”
I tapped my foot as I waited. Any conference worthy of drawing in DHS personnel from across the country would surely be having lectures and meetings by this hour—or at least a breakfast buffet. Mrs. Hartly might be a tad slipshod about her work, having taken two weeks to report Rosie’s absence, but she was there with her supervisor. I watched the traffic, halfway expecting police cars to pull up, when the receptionist replaced the receiver.
“Mrs. Hartly’s not in her room. I left a message, but she may not get it until late in the afternoon,” the receptionist said, shrugging apologetically. “You say this hearing is tomorrow morning?”
“At nine o’clock. We only found out about it late Friday.” I picked up my briefcase and gave the woman a faint smile. “I know you have to abide by departmental regulations. It’s such a shame when other innocent parties are punished by all those faceless bureaucrats in their offices in the state capítol. Nothing we can do, though.”
“You wouldn’t take the file with you, would you?”
“Heavens, no. In fact, I could make photocopies of the most recent pages and be gone in less than five minutes. No one would know that I was even here.”
The receptionist opened a drawer and placed a thick manila folder on her desk. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to visit the little girls’ room. I’ll just be gone a few minutes.” As she left the room, she pushed a button on the photocopy machine, eliciting a blinking green light and a low hum.
I dropped the briefcase on my foot in my haste to open the folder. I took out the top three pages and a small photo paper- clipped to the edge of the cover. Without bothering to glance at the material, I made photocopies, replaced everything, and left the
DHS office. My instinct was to drive to the Book Depot, but I realized that I would have to face Caron and Inez. Sans shopping bag. I continued to Luanne’s shop, Secondhand Rose, and parked in back.
I found her at the counter, reading the newspaper and wolfing down cookies. “How do you get away with a diet like that?” I asked. “It’s not as if you go to a gym every day or run marathons.”
She licked her finger. “Cookies are on my personal food pyramid, along with caffeine, alcohol, and nachos. You look like the secretary of a greasy-haired ambulance chaser. I didn’t realize you were changing careers.”
“Put on some fresh coffee and get comfortable,” I said as I reached for a cookie. “Even if I fast-forward through the dull bits, it’s a long story.”
We’d finished the box of cookies by the time I’d related the tawdry sham at the DHS office. “I haven’t looked at the papers yet,” I added as I took them out of the briefcase.
“Maybe you shouldn’t. If Peter ever finds out how you got them, he won’t applaud your deviousness.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t,” I said, “but I’m going to, anyway.”
Chapter Fourteen
I studied Rosie’s photo, then handed it to Luanne. “An unremarkable woman,” I said, “but pleasant. She must have been on her meds when it was taken.”
Luanne nodded. “I could have been in line with her at the grocery store a dozen times.”
I moved on to the first page. “Rosamunde Emerson Neely, born in some obscure town in the county, would have been forty- four next month, parents deceased, only sibling is a brother in Vermont. Married when she was twenty. One child, a daughter who was born prematurely and died. Divorced two years later, whereabouts of former husband unknown, possibly Alaska. History of mental illness starting when she was in elementary school.” I looked up. “Sad story.”
“And probably more typical than we think,” Luanne said. “Where was she working?”
I scanned the page. “Bud’s Automotive Em
porium, out on the bypass. Her caseworker found the job and persuaded the owner, presumably Bud, to give Rosie a chance. I suppose I’ll try to talk to him.”
“Bear in mind you don’t know a carburetor from a carbuncle.”
“I doubt it will come up,” I said. “If Caron should happen to call, don’t admit I was here. I told her and Inez that I was going to the mall.”
“You? Going to the mall? Why didn’t you tell them you have a skydiving lesson? That’s more plausible.”
“Humph,” I said, then went out to my car. I sat there for a few minutes, considering Rosie’s life history. She had not, according to the file, been in California, and if she’d had any connection to ARSE, she hadn’t admitted it to her caseworker. Perhaps she had mentioned it to her coworkers, I thought as I drove toward the edge of Farberville. That, and her sudden influx of cash to pay the deposit and rent for the little blue house. It was hard to imagine her stumbling onto a vast blackmarket industry involving auto parts. Then again, carburetors and carbuncles. What did I know?
Bud’s Automotive Emporium was housed in a massive metal building with a flat roof and numerous flashing neon signs. Cars and trucks of all species were parked in the gravel lot. A portable sign announced a hot deal on radiais. A handwritten sign in one window proclaimed free popcorn on Fridays. Men, mostly in creased caps, were coming and going, carrying boxes or cumbersome grease- encrusted objects (carburetors, most likely).
I am always leery of men in caps, especially those with cigarettes dangling from their lower lips. They are indeed the salt of the earth, these men who construct houses and farm and raise livestock and repair things for those of us who are inept. Most of them are gentlemen, as chivalrous as any knight. Others of them spit, snarl, and brawl. I can rarely predict which are which.
Therefore, it was with some trepidation that I entered the store. Aisles stretched in both directions. Everybody seemed intent on his personal quest, be it a spark plug or a battery. It was clearly a male mileu. I wandered around, avoiding minor collisions, until I spotted a man in a khaki jumpsuit with an embroidered patch above his pocket. A tightly cinched belt did little to constrain his belly, which hung over his belt like an impending avalanche.