I still didn’t buy into the murder theory, at least not completely. The way I figured it, there had to be any number of perfectly plausible reasons a gin-drinking woman might suddenly switch to scotch. Trouble was, I couldn’t come up with a single one that satisfied me.
I was still gnawing at the possibilities when I picked Anna up from school. Mrs. Craig, her teacher, waved as Anna climbed into the car. “Look forward to seeing you tomorrow,” she called out, which I thought was a nice, teacherly gesture until I realized she was talking to me rather than Anna. I’d forgotten that tomorrow was my day to volunteer in the classroom.
One of the attractions of living in Walnut Hills is the schools, which are supposedly among the best in the state. I have a hunch this has more to do with the students themselves (largely well-fed, happy kids from literate families) than any innovative teaching. Nonetheless, the schools make a big deal about the individualized instruction that sets them apart from neighboring urban schools. Parent volunteers, (moms, in other words) are what makes this possible. Generally I don’t mind, unless I’m stuck with some mindless task like cutting construction paper strips. But this was one time I wasn’t in the mood.
Anna buckled her seat belt, then started talking with great excitement about the class’s upcoming trip to the planetarium and the dramatic production which would follow.
“We’re going to be studying space,” she said, practically bouncing in her seat “We’re going to learn all about the sun and the moon, and planets and stars, and the meat-eaters too. I get to be a meat-eater in the play.”
“Meat-eaters?” I looked at Anna to make sure I’d understood her correctly. “Meat-eaters is a word we use with dinosaurs, honey, you must be confused.”
She looked at me and sniffed. “I know they’re dinosaurs. But there are meat-eaters in the sky, too.”
Was this what the highly rated Walnut Hills’ schools passed off as science? “I don’t think so, Anna.”
“There are! Mrs. Craig said so. You can see them sometimes at night They look like long streaks of light.”
I laughed. “Meteor. You mean meteors, not meat-eaters. They’re like falling stars.”
Anna’s face had that same crestfallen look it had when the boy down the street set her straight about Santa Claus. “You mean there aren’t any meat-eaters in the sky?”
I shook my head. “But meteors are pretty exciting all on their own.”
“Jodi’s a meat... whatever, too. I don’t even like Jodi. I only agreed to be her partner since we got to be meat- eaters.”
“How can you not like Jodi? She’s a perfectly sweet child.” Though in truth, I had to admit she showed a surprising lack of enthusiasm for anything. Jodi went beyond timid; she was almost listless. But I figured she was probably nice, too. At least she wasn’t one of the kids who got her name on the blackboard for being a pest or talking out when the teacher wanted it quiet.
“She’s a dweeb,” Anna said, jutting out her chin.
“Anna Austen, I will not have you talk like that about your classmates.”
“Well, she is,” Anna said, then turned and spent the remainder of the ride looking out the window.
Later, when Anna had finished her snack and gone off to watch her allotment of afternoon cartoons, I sat down at the phone and tried every McNevitt in the book. None of them knew a Laurie. I tried a few neighboring communities, with the same result, then gave up. I felt bad for the poor woman, but I figured she was bound to hear about Mona eventually, even without my help.
Then I called Michael at work. As usual, I got transferred and put on hold several times before I reached him.
“I need to see you,” I announced.
“Ah,” he said, “music to my ears. You do care about me after all.”
“Of course I care about you, but that’s not why I need to see you.” I took a deep breath. “I want to talk to you about Mona Sterling’s death.”
“Oh.” Michael sounded a little the way Anna had when she’d learned there were no meat-eaters in the sky. “Maybe we could kind of combine the two things. You know, you’re happy to see me because I’m such a terrific guy, and then, while I’m basking in your affection I can listen to what you have to say.”
“I suppose you want food, too.”
He laughed. “Kate, I love everything about you but your cooking. I’ll bring dinner. Seven o’clock okay?”
“Perfect.”
Michael arrived promptly at seven with a large bag of Chinese food, one of the few meals Anna finds acceptable. Even so, she’s picky, demonstrating a strong preference for pot stickers and fried won ton over anything that’s been contaminated with vegetables. He used to put together scrumptious meals like lemon-herb chicken or stuffed sole, but he got tired of watching Anna pretend to gag. So now when we dine a trois instead of a deux, he sticks to simpler fare.
I got a quick kiss at the door and a longer one when we were alone in the kitchen. A much longer one.
“Wouldn’t it be nice if I came home to you like this every evening?” Michael whispered in my ear.
“If it was every evening, then it wouldn’t be like this.”
He grinned. “Want to make a bet?”
Michael and I had started out hot and heavy the prior spring, after Andy moved out for the first time. Then, when Andy moved back in, we substituted long but strictly platonic lunches for the heavy stuff. The hot we couldn’t do much about. Now that Andy’s moved out for good, Michael is ready to move in. He has trouble understanding my hesitancy, and even more trouble believing it has nothing to do with my feelings about him.
I ignored the grin and peered into the sack. “Oh goody, you got spring rolls.”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“You’re right,” I told him, blowing a kiss.
“You can’t keep doing that forever, you know.”
“Blowing kisses?”
“Changing the subject. We need to talk about it.”
I touched his arm. “I know, but not right now. Okay?”
His face turned serious. “Soon though?”
“Soon.”
While I got out bowls and chopsticks, Michael opened a bottle of wine and filled our glasses. Anna made her standard five-minute appearance at the table, ate all but one of the pot stickers, half the order of fried won ton and a little broccoli chicken, sans broccoli.
“So what’s this about Mona Sterling?” Michael asked when we were alone.
I explained Sharon’s murder theory and the reasons behind it. Michael listened without interrupting, but he wasn’t persuaded.
“Everything points to suicide,” he said. “There’s no sign of a struggle, no forced entry to the premises, nothing.”
“Except the scotch.”
“Maybe she ran out of gin.”
“No, I saw a bottle in the fridge.”
He raised an eyebrow. “She kept her gin in the refrigerator?”
“The freezer. She liked it iced.”
“Who knows, then. Maybe she was a closet scotch drinker. I can’t go to the captain based on that.”
“What did the coroner’s report say?”
“We only have the preliminary results, but it’s pretty much what you’d expect. Looks like cardiac arrest probably brought on by an overdose of barbiturates and alcohol. And it’s unlikely someone held a gun to her head and made her swallow them.”
“Maybe she was drugged.”
“It was her prescription, Kate. She had it filled just last week.”
I tried a different approach. “Sharon’s not one to blow things all out of proportion. She knew Mona. If Sharon thinks it doesn’t feel right, that means something.”
Michael poked at his rice. “You know I’d help if I could, but I can’t open an investigation just because a friend of the deceased says it doesn’t feel right. I need something to go on. Something besides an absence of make-up or an abundance of toilet paper.”
“Or a bottle of scotch.”
<
br /> He nodded. “Even that. Look, I’m not even officially involved in this. The uniforms responded to the call. Unless they see something suspicious, or unless I’ve got some solid reason to intervene, their report stands.” He didn’t need to add that this was particularly true when the uniformed cop was Jerry Watkins, petulant nephew to the captain.
Like most small communities, Walnut Hills has only a handful of detectives. Usually they work in close cooperation with the patrol officers and nobody gets too upset about territorial rights. If you go strictly by the book though, there are clear directives about who does what, and when. Jerry was a by-the-book guy, at least on those occasions when it suited him.
“If it makes you feel any better,” Michael said, “the responding officers seem to have done all the right things. Jerry hasn’t been able to reach her sister, but he checked with the neighbors, people who might have seen her last—nothing unusual turned up. He contacted her doctor too, and verified the prescription. In fact, it’s the second time she’s had it filled in less than six months. Gave him some story about misplacing the first bottle. Could be she was storing them up for just this purpose.”
I tapped my chopsticks against my plate. On one level, I knew Michael was right. And I knew that if he had any real reason to believe Mona’s death was something other than a suicide, he’d investigate—in spite of Jerry and the rules and the fact the detective division was currently shorthanded. But at the same time, I couldn’t help feeling uneasy about the whole thing.
Michael leaned across the table and covered my hand with his. “I’m sorry. I know how hard this must be on both you and Sharon. I wish I could make it easier.”
I nodded, trying to shake off the feeling that I was somehow letting Sharon down. Then I turned my hand over and folded my fingers through his. “So tell me,” I said after a moment, “without a dicey new homicide to investigate, how did you spend your day?”
“Tearing my hair out, mostly. Sometimes I don’t know which gets to me most, the snotty kids or the parents who lie to protect them.”
Michael moved from the San Francisco force a couple of years ago, partly in a failed attempt to save his marriage, and partly because he wanted to feel he was making a difference—something it’s hard to do in a budget-strapped urban department where the number of cases grow geometrically. He once likened it to battling a forest fire with a garden hose. Walnut Hills is different, sometimes so different it drives him nuts. He’s discovered the suburbs have their own variant of the forest fire.
“Juvenile detail again?”
He nodded. “In the last week we’ve had three carjackings, a couple of armed assaults, and now an arson. In all cases, we suspect the culprits are under eighteen.”
“With parents who wouldn’t bother to tell you even if they found a machine gun under the mattress.”
Michael laughed. “That about sums it up.” He stood and began clearing the table. “I spent most of my time today on this arson business. There was a fire last night at the school district office. It didn’t do a whole lot of structural damage but it made a real mess of the interior. The worst part is that it may have destroyed some records.”
“And you think it was arson?”
“It wasn’t natural, but it’s hard to tell whether someone actually intended to set the place on fire or was simply careless. An amateur job if I’ve ever seen one.” He looked up. “You want to save these leftovers?”
I got out a plastic bowl and filled it with tomorrow’s lunch.
“Probably a teen-age prank that got out of hand. They’re damned lucky no one was hurt.” Michael dumped the empty cartons in the garbage, then began loading the dishwasher.
I can never look at Michael without feeling some small part of what I felt that first time I saw him. It had to have been strictly physical then—something about the smile that barely raises the comers of his mouth, the easy, slow way he moves, the magnetic quality of his eyes. But I feel that same quick flush now in a way that goes much deeper. I slid up behind him and wrapped my arms around his middle.
“You tired of shop talk and ready to move on to something more interesting?” he asked.
I grinned. “Like what?”
He turned me around and slipped his arms around my shoulders. “Well, I can think of one or two things. How about you?”
I could think of a couple, too.
Chapter 7
We were out of Cheerios so I fixed French toast for Anna’s breakfast. Plain toast she won’t eat, even with jam, but French toast ranks right up there with pancakes as an all-time favorite. It’s the syrup factor that makes the difference. She’d probably eat cardboard if I let her put syrup on it.
While Anna ate, I downed a quick cup of coffee, made her lunch, then got myself dressed. I let Max out to sniff the roses, which he considers a poor substitute for our usual morning run. He gave me a long, hard look before he ambled disdainfully out the back door. I could sympathize, but the timing was tight enough as it was.
By the time I’d finished wiping the syrup from Anna’s hands and face, and from the table, chair, and floor, I barely had a chance to dust a little color on my cheeks and eyelids. As make-up jobs go, mine is pretty haphazard, but the difference is enough to convince me I’ve reached the age where going without is no longer an option.
We made it to school just as the first bell sounded. While Anna raced off to join her friends, I made my way to the classroom, where Mrs. Craig greeted me with her usual good-natured smile, and a handful of rulers.
“We’re going to be measuring today,” she said, using the same hearty enthusiasm she uses when addressing her students. “We’ll work together as a class, but I’ll need you to wander around the room and help the kids who get stuck.”
Mrs. Craig has been teaching kindergarten for close to thirty years, but she approaches each day as if she were embarking on some long anticipated adventure. She’s short, probably not much over five feet, with a crown of gray curls and a face full of laugh lines. I’ve heard she can be a bear when crossed, but so far I’ve been spared that experience.
“If you’ll put a ruler and one of these sheets of paper at each place,” she continued, “I’ll go gather the children. We have a birthday today, so they’ll probably be a bit more spirited than usual.”
They were certainly flying high, but then they always seemed that way to me. Kyle fell out of his chair twice, which sent the class into fits of laughter, another boy managed to drop his ruler so often I lost count, and Mary Nell’s daughter, Nicole, had to be reminded more than once that talking with her friends during class was not allowed. Because of my presence, Anna was on her best behavior, but she still got a stern look from Mrs. Craig for calling Jodi a dumbbell.
Nonetheless, by the end of the lesson every child in the room had completed the assignment sheet correctly. It amazes me to see how much gets accomplished in the midst of such chaos. Mrs. Craig tells me that’s because I think like an adult. She says it as though it’s something I ought to be embarrassed about.
While I collected the rulers and papers, Mrs. Craig read aloud to the class, and then we moved the chairs into a circle for the birthday activities. Jodi, the birthday girl, sat in front of the large wall map and helped the teacher stick a big yellow thumbtack near Boston, her birthplace. Most of the tacks were clustered around northern California, but there were enough others scattered around the U.S. (including Hawaii) that the class was learning something about geography.
Jodi is a thin, ungainly child with unruly curls the color of burnished copper. Her manner is so consistently devoid of animation, she sometimes reminds me of a Dickens’ street urchin. She was staring at her feet, mumbling something about never having been back to Boston, when Claire walked in with a tray of cupcakes. Interest in geography quickly fell to an all-time low, which is why Mrs. Craig prefers that parents bring treats to the classroom before school. Claire is one of those mothers, though, who’s afraid to let go. She insists on being in the m
idst of Jodi’s activities, even while complaining about the demands of motherhood.
“We are not finished here, boys and girls,” Mrs. Craig said, “and we cannot eat until we are finished.” She sent her eyes around the circle, quieting each child with her glance. “Now then, Jodi, did you bring a favorite toy or book to share with us today?”
Jodi stuck a finger in her mouth and shook her head. “How about Special Person questions then, would you like to do that?”
This was another birthday activity in Mrs. Craig’s class. The children would ask the Special Person questions about favorite food, favorite TV program, best vacation, that sort of thing. Most of the kids loved it, but I could tell the idea had no appeal to Jodi. She twisted her feet around the legs of the chair and her arms around each other. She looked at the floor and again shook her head.
Mrs. Craig put an arm around her shoulder. “Would you like to give us a news report then? Something interesting that’s happened the last couple of days.”
“Our landlady died,” Jodi said softly. “We’ll probably have to move again.”
Mrs. Craig looked up at Claire who nodded and then looked away.
“Mona Sterling,” I explained. “You may have read about it.”
“Oh my,” Mrs. Craig said, giving Jodi’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. “That’s the kind of excitement we can do without.”
Jodi untwisted her arms and returned her little finger to her mouth.
“Well then,” Mrs. Craig said, when it became clear Jodi had nothing further to add, “I think we’re ready for cupcakes.”
Claire and Jodi passed out the cupcakes, then we all sang “Happy Birthday.” The room was quiet for about three minutes as the children ate. Once the food was gone, however, the noise level jumped considerably. Mrs. Craig began a game of Simon Says which got the class through to morning recess.
“Whew,” I said, when Mrs. Craig had left to escort the class to the playground.
“Yeah,” Claire agreed. “Although I think she asks for it with all this birthday stuff she does.”
Murder Among Friends (The Kate Austen Mystery Series) Page 5