Maid of Murder aihm-1

by Amanda Flower

  “Uh, yes, I was about to call you back,” I lied.

  “I see. I’d like to meet with you about Olivia’s case.”

  “Okay,” I mumbled, still waking up. “When?”

  “How about right now?”

  “Now?”

  “I’m in your driveway.”

  I jumped. Templeton remained as prostrate as a slug. I rushed over to the peephole in my front door and peered out. Mains, leaning against a dark American-made sedan, waved at me. I involuntarily gasped.

  Mains ignored the exclamation. “I promise I’ll only take a few minutes.”

  I scanned the apartment for anything remotely embarrassing—stray underwear, trashy romance novels, regurgitated feline hairballs. As a woman living alone, any one of these was apt to be strewn in the oddest places. I stumbled down my abbreviated hallway and slammed my bedroom and studio doors. I glanced in the hall mirror. Dear God, I was a mess. The skirt and blouse I had worn to work were wrinkled beyond recognition, my hair was matted to my head like a flattened toy poodle. By the front door, I found a stray rubber band that Templeton would likely try to eat later. I threw my hair up in a haphazard knot.

  As calmly as possible, I said, “I suppose I could meet with you now.” I hung up the phone and opened the door.

  My apartment consisted of the left half of a duplex facing the street. I chose it because of its low rent and its nearness to campus, imagining that I would walk to work. I could count on my left hand the number of times I had walked to the library. The resident of the right half of the duplex was my landlady, Ina Carroll, a self-professed bachelorette, never married because she hated to cook and claimed she didn’t want some man to make her learn. In the late eighties, Ina received a letter from a former United States senator reminding her to remember her Irish heritage. Since that fateful day, painted stone and ceramic leprechauns had peppered every recess of her property. Lately, Ina had diversified and bought a couple pots of gold for the wee lads. I had made the mistake of telling Ina that a large portion of my family tree was Irish, as well. Ever since, she’s forced corned beef and cabbage on me, despite my vegetarian protests.

  Ina sat on one of the white resin chairs on her small stoop, watching Mains with raptor-like interest. Ina was four-feet-ten and never left the house without wearing lipstick. She had soft blue-white grandma curls and snappy green eyes. Her appearance deceived people into believing that she baked cookies and cooed over babies. Nothing could be further from the truth. Mains smiled at her. That was his first mistake.

  Before we could slip inside, Ina’s high, baby robin voice called, “India, dear, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?” She leaned over the wrought iron fence that divided the stoop into hers and mine.

  Mains looked at me expectantly with a hint of a grin.

  Successfully trapped, I made introductions. “Ina, this is Richmond Mains,” I said, purposely omitting detective. Not sure what to call Mains, I turned to him. “And this is my neighbor, Ina Carroll.”

  Ina reached over the railing. “Nice to meet you, young man. It’s been such a long time since India’s had a nice-looking male friend over. Of course, that Bobby is always here, but no need to worry. They’re just friends, you see.”

  Mains produced a full-fledged smirk.

  I think my heart stopped. “Well, I’ll see you later, Ina,” I said.

  “Oh, I see.” She gave me a dramatic wink. To Mains, she added, “Have India show you her studio. She’s a real talent.”

  Safely inside, I leaned against the door. I fake laughed. “Ina’s a character.”

  “I like the leprechauns. Yours?”

  “Ina’s.” My face was still unbearably hot. “Please have a seat,” I said, motioning to the couch.

  Templeton was MIA. Mains turned from me and moved toward the couch but stopped dead when he saw my living room. As he gawked, I tried to look at it with new eyes. The living room was small, equivalent to the size of the master bath in the Blocken home. A half-wall separated the cubby kitchen from the room, and the back wall was a single sliding glass door. But I guessed that Mains was more intrigued by the decor than the dimensions. Nearly every inch of wall space and furniture was splashed with vibrant and combating colors. Batiks, textiles, paintings, prints, and photographs crowded each other for precious space. They all represented different artistic periods and different artists and crafters, some professional, most amateur, and a few of my own.

  Mains stared to the point of embarrassment. More gruffly than I intended, I again asked him to sit. He settled on the couch. I perched on an ancient rocking chair that I’d recently refinished. The new cushion was a bright orange and red paisley print and matched nothing else in the room.

  Mains didn’t comment about my decorating prowess, but instead pulled a small notebook out of his jacket pocket. “This afternoon, I spoke with Dr. and Mrs. Blocken at the hospital.”

  Even with the floor fan aimed at him, he looked unpleasantly warm in his summer jacket.

  “Oh,” I replied, hoping to hide the true state of my frayed nerves.

  “You failed to mention that your brother arranged to meet Olivia Blocken at Martin College this morning, just prior to her attack.”

  “Her attack? I thought it was an accident.”

  “She was pushed. A nurse discovered two hand-sized bruises on her upper back.”

  “Pushed?”

  He nodded. “And with a lot of force. It takes a lot of strength or anger to cause that kind of injury.”

  I shook my head. “That’s impossible. Olivia hasn’t lived in Stripling in years. No one here would have any reason to hurt her.”

  “Not even your brother?” Mains watched my reaction with hazel-green eyes. Earlier at the fountain, I hadn’t noticed his eye color as he’d worn sunglasses.

  My flush undoubtedly morphed from red embarrassment to fuchsia anger. “Mark would never hurt Olivia. Ever. I can’t believe that you’re even suggesting it.”

  “But he did ask Olivia to meet him in his office,” Mains said in quiet tones likely meant to pacify wife beaters and psychotics. It didn’t work on me.

  I began rocking. “Yes, he asked her to meet him. But he would never hurt her.”

  “So it is understood that Olivia was on campus to visit Mark. That’s what her parents believe.”

  I folded my arm across my chest, waiting for the rest.

  He didn’t disappoint. “According to Mrs. Blocken, Olivia is kindhearted and wanted to smooth things over between Mark and her before the wedding.”

  With an unladylike snort, I held up my right hand to stop him. “Let me finish for you, Detective Mains. Mrs. Blocken is convinced that when Olivia arrived on campus, she tried to reason with Mark who waited until her back was turned and pushed her into the fountain. Am I close?”

  “That was her estimation.”

  I stood up, sending the rocking chair reeling on its rails. “In that case, I think we’re done here. I’m sorry that you wasted a trip.”

  Mains stood as well. “Miss Hayes, the easiest way to end this is to prove whether or not your brother is responsible for the assault on Olivia Blocken. You’re making it difficult for me to do that.”

  “I’m sorry, and if you wish to speak with my brother any further, I suggest you do so in the company of his attorney.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “Lewis Clive.”

  “Have you thought of Olivia? Don’t you care what happened to your friend?”

  I mentally staggered. “Of course I care about Olivia.” I held my voice level. “But Mark had nothing to do with her attack.”

  I stomped to the door and opened it.

  Mains placed his notebook back into his jacket pocket. “Thank you for your time.”

  He smiled and stepped through the door. Black fur clung to his khaki-clad backside.

  Ina waited on the edge of her chair. “Did India show you the studio?”

  Mains glanced at me. “Not toda
y.”

  Or ever, I thought.

  “Your leprechauns are really sharp,” Mains told Ina.

  Ina preened. “Thank you. You wouldn’t be Irish, would you?” She pushed herself up to lean on the wrought iron railing.

  “I’m afraid not. I’m more English than anything else.”

  Ina jumped back as if she’d been stung by a yellow jacket. “Bloody English.”

  Oh, geez, I thought. Before Ina could leap into a full-blown tirade, I ushered Mains down the step. “I think you’d better go.”

  “Okay,” he said, eyeing Ina, whose face blazed molten purple. “I didn’t mean any harm.”

  I wasn’t sure if he referred to his accusation of Mark or offending Ina.

  After Mains’s sedan disappeared around the corner, I asked Ina if she was all right.

  After spurting for a few minutes, she managed, “You’re dating an Englishman. Don’t you know what the English did to our people? The suffering. He didn’t give you any potatoes, did he?”

  “I’m not dating Richmond Mains. He’s a police officer. He asked me some questions about a case.”

  “A police officer to boot. The English are always looking for ways to bully,” Ina said.

  I rubbed my throbbing shoulder and felt the sharp fingertips of a migraine tickle my brain.

  “Why would a police officer speak with you? Have you done something wrong?”

  “No, I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m not feeling too well. I think I’ll go lie down.”

  As I opened the door, Ina leaned further over the railing so that her feet no longer touched the stoop. “I prefer Bobby McNally. Now, he’s a fine-looking Irish lad.”

  “Aye, that he is,” I remarked in a mock brogue.

  Once inside, I looked longingly toward my shut bedroom door. All I wanted to do was go to bed and pretend the day had never happened, but I knew if I didn’t show up at the obligatory Hayes Fifth of July shindig, there’d be heck to pay later. For a brief minute, I contemplated skipping the whole thing, but if I didn’t appear, my mother would come looking for me or send Carmen to do the job. I headed toward my bedroom, not for a well-deserved rest, but to get ready for the inquisition at my parents’ house. I made a mental note to wear running shoes instead of my standard flip-flops, just in case I needed to make a quick exit.

  Chapter Ten

  My parents’ house was only five minutes from my duplex, the long way, and I found myself there much sooner than I liked. Once in my parents’ driveway, I sat for a few moments admiring my mother’s cosmos and snapdragons and gathering my strength.

  The front door to the ranch sprang open, and my father flew down the ramp in his titanium wheelchair. “India, stop moping in that heap of metal and greet your poor old dad.”

  I slipped out of the car. “Happy Belated Fourth, Dad.” I leaned down to kiss his cheek. “Are Carmen and Chip here already?”

  “That they are, my girl. Don’t tell her I told you so, but your sister is as big as a triple-wide trailer.”

  I laughed. “No promises.”

  He made a three-point turn and sailed up the ramp with little effort. Before the accident, my father was an active man, an avid jogger and recreational athlete. His thin runner’s body was long gone, now replaced by the thick chest and broad shoulders of a wheelchair racer.

  I trudged up the ramp, dreading with each step my mother’s unavoidable questions about Olivia. Her first concern would be how all this affected Mark. She would look to me for answers. I couldn’t blame her because I knew we were all wondering the same thing. “Will Mark have a relapse?”

  After Olivia’s ill-fated graduation party and her subsequent departure for points south, Mark had fallen into a state of severe depression that had lasted months. My mother had been convinced that he would do something to himself. She’d sent him to counseling and had found a doctor to prescribe antidepressants. In the end, it wasn’t the hours of counseling, or the drugs, that had pulled Mark out of his self-made pit, but mathematics. During much of that time he’d retreated to his apartment to write new theorems, which was his idea of self-comfort. When he’d finally created a new one, he’d been so excited that he’d showed one of his math professors, who had helped him get it published in a prestigious math journal. While hiding away in his apartment with math books and his calculator, Mark had missed the first quarter of his junior year of college, but since he was such a genius, most of his professors had let him make up the missed classes with extra assignments. The following fall semester one of his professors had talked him into applying to graduate school. Since then, Mark had thrown himself into the study of math and little else.

  The front door led directly into the family room. Atop the hardwood floors, the furnishings were tasteful, but inexpensive, and the only embellishment to the minimalist style was a wall of crosses that my mother had collected in every size, color, and medium, along with a few choice paintings by their favorite local artist.

  As I stepped inside, a high-pitched voice exclaimed, “Dia!” and my four-year-old nephew Nicholas catapulted himself into my arms. My nephew was a miniature replica of his father, with dark hair and eyes, and tan, southern Italian skin. Nicholas rambled on about attending kindergarten in the fall and the other kids in his playgroup. Apparently, a little tyke named James was a real pill. When Nicholas first began to talk, he learned quickly in our family that you had to speak loud and fast or risk interruption.

  “Okay, Nicky, let Aunt India sit.” My sister’s calm voice preceded her into the room.

  Nicholas continued to talk and cling to my neck.

  “It’s fine, Carmen,” I said.

  I sat down on the couch, Nicholas on my lap. Carmen frowned at me. She hated it when anyone undermined her authority in any venue, especially in Nicholas’s case.

  There was no mistaking Carmen as my sister. We both had fair skin and changeable gray eyes, gifts from our father. Although my dark hair was long and wild, Carmen had hers in a no-nonsense mom cut. My mother had been known to mix up our baby pictures.

  As I sat, I noted that my sister was, as my father adeptly described, as big as a triple-wide trailer. Carmen was pregnant with twins, in accordance with her life plan. Nothing screwed up Carmen’s life plan: At thirty-one, she’d have three kids, a house, a guinea pig, and a loving husband. After graduating high school, she had attended one of the half-dozen Presbyterian colleges that cluster in western Pennsylvania, a choice that had thrilled my mother, a Presbyterian minister, to no end. As intended, Carmen had met her future husband, Chip Tuchelli, while there, and they’d married right after graduation. They had moved back to Stripling and established their careers as teachers: Carmen, high school, and Chip, elementary. They’d borne Nicholas, and now my blessed sister was pregnant with twin girls. It was all very disgusting.

  Before Carmen could remind me that Nicholas was her son, my mother entered the living room. She wore a long patchwork skirt and a lime green T-shirt. Her gray hair was pulled back into a high ponytail.

  “Oh, good, you’re finally here,” my mother said. “How’s Olivia?”

  “She’s in surgery, or she was. She might be out by now.”

  Carmen sat down beside me on the couch. “Mom told us what happened. Mark really pulled Olivia out of the fountain?”

  I nodded.

  Carmen shook her head. “I just read about her upcoming wedding in last week’s paper. The announcement was the entire front page.”

  My mother gave me a beady stare. “Yes, the paper was the first that I had heard of the upcoming wedding. Why do you think that is, India?”

  I hid my expression behind Nicholas’s head, which was a challenge as it wove back and forth. “You don’t use the Internet.”

  “What’s that, India? I didn’t hear.”

  I peered around Nicholas. “Maybe you need a better news source.”

  “Like my daughter, perhaps?” Glowering, she adopted the same tone she used with church parishioners to encourage
them to cough up something extra for the offering plate.

  Carmen changed the subject. “How are the Blockens holding up? Mom said that you went to the hospital after you dropped off Mark. Will Olivia be all right?”

  “Of course, she’ll be all right.” I looked around. “Where’s Mark anyway?”

  “Outside with your father,” Mom said. “You should have come directly from the hospital. Mark hasn’t said three words since you left. Maybe you can get him to talk.”

  “What do you want me to do? Beat what happened out of him?” The all-too-familiar knife of guilt twisted in my chest.

  “I don’t like your tone, Miss. You can’t let him bottle it all up inside again. Like last time. If you had been here then . . .”

  Carmen watched us from the corner of the room as if preparing herself to break up another fight. Nicholas looked bored with the pointless adult chatter, jumped from my lap, and ran outside. “I’m gonna help Grampa and Pa cook.”

  “Pa?” I asked my sister, happy for the change of subject.

  “I’m sure it’s only a phase. He’s fascinated with the wild west,” she answered me.

  I laughed. Carmen frowned. Our reactions summed up our relationship. I followed my mother and sister to the backyard where my brother-in-law and father scorched veggie burgers and tofu hot dogs on the grill.

  Chip waved at me with his spatula and continued a debate with my father about the best way to skewer tofu. I sat at the picnic table, set and ready for the meal, and shaded my eyes. The afternoon temperature and humidity rose in tandem.

  Mark sat in a lawn chair not far from the grill, staring into space. I waved at him, but he looked through me.

  I shook off the foreboding feeling creeping up my spine. “Can’t we eat inside with the central air?”

  My mother huffed. “Do you want to be dependent on a conditioned environment for the rest of your life, India, like an unfortunate lab rat?” She stalked to the barbecue to instruct my father and brother-in-law in the obvious method to skewer tofu.

  I took that as a no.

  My sister lowered herself slowly to the bench seat.