“Not so good,” I said. “Tiny’s thirteen-year-old son from his first marriage is living with them because his mother, Tiny’s first wife, is in rehab. She hurt her back at work and then became addicted to prescription pain pills.’” I paused to flex my fingers. “It’s tough on Betty Ann. She and Tiny have only been married two years. In the meantime, they’re trying to be role models for the boy.”
Kevin, who had chugged the bottle of Dr. Pepper, now slammed it on the table. “Rose, don’t use language like that in my house.”
“Language like what?”
“Like role model. Only geeks talk like that.”
“Is that so? Beth, our intern, says I’m a role model.”
“If anyone called me that I’d tell them to bugger off.’”
I pushed his feet off my lap and stood up. “You’re in no danger of that, Kevin Healey.”
He laughed and put his arms around me. “Don’t be mad. Let me take you to breakfast.”
“It’s lunchtime, and I’ve got to go.” I slung my bag over my shoulder. “If I set up a date with Betty Ann and Tiny, can I count on you?”
“How about if I take you and Betty Ann out?”
“No. Tiny’s got to come.”
He yawned, stretching his arms high over his head. “You promise to leave if Tiny starts acting like a junior high principal?”
I raised myself up and kissed his cheek. “I promise.”
There was nothing to be gained by explaining Tiny’s desire to set a good example. Kevin, the boy wonder, wouldn’t understand. He’d no more alter his behavior in order to make a good impression than join the Rotarians. His stubbornness can be annoying, but at least he’s true to himself.
Yvonne, the only one at the office when I arrived, was the first to speak. “Nice of you to drop by, Rose.”
I ignored her sarcasm and headed for my desk. “Did I mention that I have an interview with Spencer Farley?”
That got her attention. “The lawyer? I didn’t know you knew him.”
“I know him.”
She waited for me to elaborate, but I offered nothing more. Ten minutes later she appeared at my desk, a wad of pink tissue pressed to her nose. “Rose?”
I didn’t look up right away. Although I sympathize with Yvonne, who’s in over her head with the murder, I can’t let her take it out on me. Instead, she should take it out on Coral, who’s accustomed to it.
“Yes?”
Yvonne looked exhausted. The bags under her eyes had bags of their own. Her upswept hairdo, secured by dozens of pins, looked like a mudslide collapsing on her shoulders. All in all, I’ve seen better looking bag ladies. “Are you busy Thursday night?” she whispered.
“Why?”
“I thought it would be nice if someone from the paper makes an appearance at Dr. Klinger’s wake. I’d go myself, but it’s the PCA’s night off.”
“PCA?”
“Personal care assistant. She helps get Mother ready for bed. Can you go? I’d ask Coral, but she’s terrified to leave the house at night, what with this maniac loose.”
“Okay, I’ll go.”
She pressed a damp hand on my shoulder and thanked me in a choked voice. I saw no reason to mention I’d been planning to attend Dr. Klinger’s wake anyway. In fact, I wouldn’t miss it for all the calamari in Granite Cove.
Late that afternoon I called Betty Ann at work.
“Green Pastures Activities Department. Betty Ann Zagrobski speaking.”
“It’s me,” I said. “I’m sorry I haven’t called.”
“I was beginning to think you were victim number two. I almost called Cal Devine at the police station.”
“Don’t do that. I’ve been bugging Cal enough as it is.”
“I don’t think Cal minds you bugging him at all. By the way, did you hear he’s separated from Marcie?”
“What? Since when?”
“You are so in the dark, buddy. See what happens when you neglect your friends?”
“I’ll make it up to you. How would you like to go to a wake with me on Thursday night?”
“Best offer I’ve had all week,” she said. “Whose?”
“Dr. Klinger. Yvonne asked me to go and represent the Gazette.”
“I thought Dr. Klinger was Jewish.”
“Her father is, her mother’s Episcopalian.”
“Kiddo, with their money they can call themselves Wampanaug Indians and no one would care. Where’s the wake being held?”
“Frost Funeral Home. Please go. I hate attending those things alone.”
“Okay, I’ll go. I need a break from little Jonah. My life is so depressing that a wake actually sounds good. Pick me up?”
“Around six-thirty. Thanks, Betty Ann.”
I switched my computer to sleep mode, slipped on my heels and approached Yvonne. “I’ve got to leave for my interview with Mr. Farley.” She looked up at me with a smile so big I added, “And I’d like to visit my dad beforehand. He needs a little help now and then.”
She held up a hand. “Say no more. I’m a caregiver. I understand. Now remember, don’t ask Mr. Farley any difficult questions. The poor man’s had a terrible scare, what with his office being right next door to the crime site.”
“I’m just going to grill him on his whereabouts the night of the murder.”
Yvonne’s eyes bulged until she realized I was joking. “You’re such a card, Rose. Now remember, I won’t belabor the point, but keep in mind that Martha Farley advertises with this newspaper. It’s quite a substantial account.”
“You don’t have to remind me. No one can miss her ads.”
“Those ads pay our salaries.”
“In that case, I won’t tell Spencer his wife was called Leather Legs in high school.”
Yvonne pursed her lips. “Certainly not. Martha Farley is a powerful force in this town.”I was halfway out the door when she called, “Remember, Rose, you’ll catch more bees with honey than with vinegar.”
Dad’s TV was so loud, I heard it upon getting off the elevator. Pounding on his door, I got no response. He was either sleeping or he’d turned off his hearing aid. I crouched on the floor and emptied my pocketbook, searching for my key. When I realized I’d left it in the glove compartment, I stood up and turned the doorknob on a whim. The door swung open.
My father was dozing on his recliner. “Dad, it’s a beautiful day. What are you doing inside?” As soon as the words left my mouth, I got a sense of deja vu, remembering years ago, Dad standing in the doorway of my bedroom and asking the same question.
He blinked at me. “Guess I fell asleep. I went out earlier to the community center. They had pea soup today. Not much ham, but it’s only two dollars and fifty cents.”
“I’ve got a little time. Let me take you to Save ‘n Rave Drugs. Get dressed.”
He struggled to his feet. “I am dressed.”
I gave him the once over. His flannel shirt hung out of khaki pants that bagged in the seat. Why is it that old men wear such baggy-ass pants? Though I don’t make a point of checking out their butts, it’s a fact of life. When you reach seventy-five, your ass disappears.
I refrained from mentioning the pea soup stains on his shirt. I didn’t want him getting defensive. When I nag it’s for important issues, like leaving his door unlocked with a murderer loose and for picking his nose in public.
At the drug store, he scurried off with his list while I browsed the vitamins and herbs. I settled on ginkgo biloba and fish oil capsules. The latter nourishes the skin, the former the memory. I need all the help I can get in both departments. While our long winters are rough on the complexion, they are devastating to the spirit, and when it comes to memory, my brain is like a sieve. Lately, whatever I pour in seeps out. No doubt it’s because I’ve got too much on my mind, such as deconstructing a murder.
Once again I considered investing in one of the new hand-held gadgets popular with techies and People of Importance. I could finally organize my life and for the first time become ef
ficient. Not only that, I’d look cool whipping out my Blackberry to schedule appointments. Then I thought how crazy I’d become learning how to use it. I’ve got all the patience in the world for everyone but me.
Dad met me at the front of the store. His shopping basket held three different brands of laxatives including something called Mother Nature’s Potion. Standing in line, I debated mentioning Doc Moss’s warning regarding laxative dependency.
In the end, no pun intended, I chose not to be a spoilsport. My dad enjoys discovering new brands of laxatives the way teenage girls enjoy finding new shades of lip gloss. In the greater scheme of things, being a seventy-five-year-old laxative junky is not the worst thing in the world.
Three
The police car in the parking lot of the Harbour Building was a grim reminder of recent events. Likewise, the white van from Cable 5 Live, a local station. I pulled into the space next to it. Two technicians were loading camera equipment into the back while Miranda Trowt, news reporter and minor celebrity, sat in the front talking on her phone.
My presence must have interrupted a private conversation. She glared at me and rolled up her window. Had she glanced my way I’d have stuck my tongue out.
After locking the car, I approached the building. It was impressive looking. Dark, glossy ivy grew over the rust colored brick front. The black lacquered shutters that bracketed each window gleamed in the late afternoon sun. The place looked like the alumni building of a prestigious college.
Inside the lobby was cordoned off with rope and an attached sign, No Admittance Per Order of State Police. A security guard sat near the entrance, a clipboard balanced on his knee. He asked for my name and destination.
“Rose McNichols to see Attorney Spencer Farley.”
He checked my name off, picked up a phone and punched in a number. After muttering something unintelligible, he hung up. “Mr. Farley’s office is straight down that hall, room one-sixty.” Having said that, he leaned over to release the catch on the rope with a gruff warning to stay in the designated area.
My footsteps echoed as I passed a waterfall in the center of the cavernous lobby. The sound of rushing water cascading over granite boulders was soothing. Lush tropical plants around the perimeter grew tall under skylights above. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised to hear the screech of a macaw in a palm tree.
Before knocking on Spencer’s door, I glanced at the office next to it, semi-obscured by the tangle of yellow police tape and signs warning Absolutely No Admittance. I leaned in to read the small ebony plaque in the center, Vivian F. Klinger, Ph.D.
Just as I lifted my hand to knock, Spencer Farley swung the door open. “Rose, come in, please,” he said, stepping back. He wore a dark pinstripe suit. That and the thick silver hair gave him the appearance of an ambassador from central casting. The lines etching his forehead, however, spoke of recent troubles.
I stepped into a sunny reception area, incongruous considering the nearby crime scene. The decor was genteel, prints of tall ships in gilded frames hanging on pale walls. The furniture was dark wood, solid.
“I apologize for the security. I can’t do much about it,” he said.
“Will they be here very long?”
“I hope not. Thank God the media have cleared out.”
I didn’t remind him that the Granite Cove Gazette is considered the media. Despite our bowling scores and housekeeping hints, we cover the news. “Have many tenants in the building stayed away?”
“A few on this floor. They should be back by tomorrow.”
While we talked, he led me into a spacious adjoining office, the walls of which were covered with framed photos of Spencer schmoozing with various Beacon Hill pols.
“Have a seat,” he said, indicating a velvet wing back chair. As I plunked myself down on the elegant upholstery, he sat behind a desk the size of a dory. Giving me an appraising glance, he said, “You’re looking good, Rose.”
I thanked him, discreetly tugging at my skirt. While I retrieved my notebook, he leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”
“Of course not. I’m grateful you’re seeing me at such a time.”
He shook his head, dismissing my comment. “Your dad and I go way back. All through high school I worked at my father’s marine shop. Frank McNichols was a steady customer.”
“He appreciated your help selling the house after my mother died.”
“In that case it’s mutual admiration,” he said. “Now, about that question. How come a good-looking girl like you isn’t married?”
“I don’t know. Just lucky, I guess.”
It’s my stock answer to a question that’s asked fairly often by men Spencer Farley’s age. Yet hearing him utter the cliché was disappointing. Spencer Farley’s got a reputation for being cool, savvy. He is the proverbial local-boy-makes-good.
A former Granite Cove townie, he now lives at Hemlock Point, straddling two worlds. He hasn’t forgotten his roots. He attends high school football games and has breakfast at Stella’s with the regulars. Likewise, he’s married to the former Martha Muldoon, another local who does everything in her power to conceal the fact.
“Not only are you attractive, you’re bright,” he said, chuckling at my response. “Now, how can I help you?”
I sat up straighter. “As I mentioned earlier on the phone, I’m doing a profile on Dr. Klinger for the paper. While I was gathering information it became obvious to me that her story goes beyond Granite Cove. Not just the tragedy, her life.
“In the end I may submit it to Back Bay Living, the Boston magazine. First I have to interview those who knew her professionally and personally.You had the neighboring office, so I’d appreciate your input.”
He leaned back in his swivel chair. Behind him a floor-to-ceiling bookcase bulged with old leather-bound volumes. It was the kind of backdrop often faked by cheesy photographers aiming to lend their subjects an air of professionalism.
“I really don’t know what I can tell you outside of what I’ve already told the police. You’re aware that lawyers are a tight-lipped breed. Not only that, there’s a murder investigation going on. Chief Alfano hasn’t said anything, but I imagine I’m a suspect, having been the last to see Vivian.”
“I understand, Mr. Farley. You can’t discuss the details of the crime, nor would I want you to. I’m aiming to create a picture of Vivian Klinger, not only the professional person but the woman. She impacted the lives of many people in this town. You are one who knew her not only professionally but as a friend.”
“She was a private person. I doubt you’ll find anyone in Granite Cove who knew her intimately. She never mentioned a steady boyfriend, yet she was always going to exhibits at the Museum of Fine Arts or the Wang. Later you might try contacting her parents, although I got the impression things were strained between Vivian and her dad.”
“I see.”
He lapsed into silence, and the only sound was the measured ticking of a ship captain’s clock in the corner. Then he looked at me. “Just between the two of us, I am devastated by this crime. I keep going over it in my head. If I’d stayed late that night, she might still be alive.” He looked down at his hands. “I guess it’s what psychologists call survivor’s guilt.”
I nodded and waited. Finally, he spoke. “She had the adjoining office for two years. During the past six months, we’d become closer. I was fond of her. I’ll be honest. Vivian was an attractive woman, though ten years my junior.”
Fifteen, I scribbled in my notebook.
“But that’s what it was, a friendship. I imagine the local busybodies were clucking their tongues. People in this town thrive on gossip.” He leaned back again, staring at the ceiling. “You could say I played a mentor’s role in Vivian’s life. She was ambitious, both professionally and socially. When she arrived here five years ago she needed someone who knew the inner workings of Granite Cove. I introduced her to various groups, the Chamber of Commerce, the Women’
s Professional League. I took her to City Hall, introduced her to Ken Froggett and some others. Martha and I sponsored her membership at the country club.”
I interrupted, asking, “Mr. Farley, do you think her ambition was directed toward building a psychotherapy practice?”
“Good question and one I used to wonder about. Her practice was small, which she seemed to prefer. Enough to pay the rent, she used to joke. My opinion? Vivian had her eye on the big picture. She was a bright, capable woman who wanted to make a name for herself, eventually on the national level.”
“How do you know that?”
“Let me give you an example off the record. One afternoon I was in her office when she got a phone call from that TV gal, you know, Oprah.”
I dropped my pen. “Oprah Winfrey called?”
“Not Oprah herself, her people did. At the time Vivian was involved in the violence against women movement.” He pursed his lips. “Ironic, isn’t it? She was working to draft a bill that would protect women facing abuse.”
“I understand Dr. Klinger was also planning a run for state rep.”
“Yes, I heard that,” he said.
“I also heard that Bunny Alfano, the police chief’s brother, is running for that seat.”
“You could be right.”
“Do you know of any animosity between Dr. Klinger and Bunny Alfano?”
He shook his head. “I can’t comment. You see, Bunny’s a former client.”
“Can you tell me off the record why Bunny Alfano needed your services?”
He rolled his eyes. “Rose, you know I can’t do that.”
“And you know I can look it up at the courthouse.”
He smiled. “You’re spunky, like your dad.” He glanced at his watch, my cue.
“Can I ask one more question, Mr. Farley?”
“Only if you call me Spence.”
“Will do. I understand that you and Dr. Klinger had cocktails together after work.”
“What did I say about small towns?” He shrugged. “It was no secret. We got together in her office a couple times a week, schedules permitting. We’d have a drink and discuss whatever happened to be on our minds. I certainly needed the break. As any lawyer will attest, the practice of law is draining.” He gripped the arms of his chair, ready to rise. “Is there anything else, Rose?”
Sharon Love Cook - Granite Cove 01 - A Nose for Hanky Panky Page 4