Murder Among Friends (The Kate Austen Mystery Series)

by Jonnie Jacobs

  And that’s when I remembered why Eve’s name had seemed familiar.

  Hers had been the paper I’d seen by Mona’s phone, the one about a woman haunted by memories of her child. The one, I recalled contritely, I’d thought so melodramatic and overwritten. It’s funny how knowing a bit of background will change your perspective. I wished now I’d read more of the story, could remember more of what little I had read. I’d probably still find it too sappy for my tastes, but now that I knew something of Eve, her loss touched me in spite of her words.

  Had she been writing metaphorically about her now grown children? Or had she actually lost a child? I thought of the empty house, the callous husband. I could imagine the loveless void at the center of Eve’s life, and I mentally crossed my fingers, hoping she’d chosen the library over her husband’s shirts.

  It wasn’t until I was almost to Anna’s school that I thought to wonder why Mona had set that particular paper aside. Certainly not because of its fine style or perceptive insights. But probably not because it was so appallingly bad either. Had she singled it out because of her dispute with Eve’s husband? But why? Had she maybe pulled the paper out to show it to her visitor Saturday evening? And again, why?

  Stopping the car at the first pay phone I found, I called Eve and left a message.

  Chapter 15

  “How was school today?” I asked Anna, later that afternoon.

  “Fine.” She licked a thick smear of raspberry jam from her finger. Bagel with jam was what I’d offered her; jam with bagel was what she’d concocted for herself.

  “Was that strange man there again?”

  She ignored me.

  “You know the one I mean, the one who looks like a... fairy.”

  Anna gave me the kind of withering look I thought only teenagers knew. “Why,” she asked airily, “are you making such a big deal out of this?”

  Because, I thought, everywhere I look these days I run across another account of a kidnapping or attempted abduction. Just that morning the paper had run a story, “String of Attempted Abductions Worries S.F. Parents.” True, that was San Francisco, but it wasn’t all that far away, and each of the girls had been stopped near school. And only last week an Oakland boy had barely managed to escape from a man who tried to lure him into a car with cookies and candy. I had reason to be worried. On the other hand, I’d warned Anna many times about talking to strangers. I didn’t want her to live in constant fear, to grow up to be someone like Claire, who worried incessantly and often without reason. It was a fine line and maybe in this instance I’d crossed it. I decided to pull back.

  “Just curious,” I told her.

  Anna washed down her snack with a glass of orange juice, then wandered off in the direction of the television. I fed Max the jamless piece of bagel left on her plate, wiped the table, and took a couple of Advil. What had started earlier in the day as a dull, almost imperceptible heaviness at the back of my head, had grown into a throbbing pain. I pulled out a magazine and tried to read, but found myself instead fretting about Mona’s death, Libby’s happiness, Anna’s safety, and my abysmal failure with Dr. Caulder that afternoon. The worst part was, I couldn’t come up with a solution for any of it.

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  Libby rolled in just as I was setting the table for dinner and wondering whether to lay out two places or three. Actually, stormed in is more like it. She slammed the door, threw her jacket onto a chair with such force it scattered the napkins, yanked open the refrigerator and tossed in the six-pack of Coke she’d acquired since motoring off with Brandon after the service.

  Anna licked the peanut butter from her fingers and watched with wide-eyed interest. Max positioned himself between the peanut butter and the fridge, watching with a different sort of wide-eyed interest.

  “Did you and Brandon have a nice afternoon?” I asked, mostly to provide an alternative to the stomping and slamming.

  “Yeah, terrific.” This in a tone which suggested it had been anything but. Kicking off her shoes, she retrieved one of the soda cans from the fridge and popped the tab. “The guy’s a fucking asshole sometimes.”

  Anna stopped her licking. Her eyes grew wider.

  My own narrowed disapprovingly.

  “A total dick-brain in fact. My mother gets so shit-faced she kills herself and he’s like, whoopee, serves her right The guy’s about as supportive as a flea.”

  In my head, compassion and irritation were staging a major battle. My mouth, however, engaged without waiting for the outcome. “If you’re going to stay in my house,” I said coolly, “even for a short while, I expect you to follow a few basic rules. One of them involves language.”

  Two pair of eyes blinked in my direction. Anna was clearly intrigued. Libby had that vacant come-again? look which seems genetically programed into puberty.

  “I also expect you to let me know where you’re going, with whom, and when you plan on returning. And I hope you will ask rather than announce.”

  “Well, ex-cuse me.”

  The voice dripped with adolescent sarcasm, but I caught something of the little-girl-lost in her expression. For the moment anyway, compassion got the upper hand. My tone softened. “Your whole life has just been turned inside out I understand that and I want to make things as easy for you as I can. But Anna and I have a life, too. You can’t live here and go on as though we don’t exist.”

  Libby shrugged, studied her Coke can, looked over at Anna and then back to the can. “I’m not used to having younger kids around.”

  “It’s not just that.”

  “So you wanna ship me off to live with Mr. High and Mighty and his whor—” She caught herself. “His, uh, fiancée.”

  I shook my head. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Well, I won’t go. Nobody can make me.”

  That was Sharon’s battle not mine. I picked up the scattered napkins and placed them back on the table. “That reminds me,” I said, “he phoned and left a message on the machine. Wanted you to call him when you got in.”

  Gary had left two messages really. One for Libby: You’d better call me, young lady, and you’d better apologize like you mean it. A second for me. The words were a bit different, but the tone was identical. I was no more inclined to return the call than I assumed Libby was.

  She glowered at me for a moment, then picked up her jacket and headed for her room. “If Brandon calls, tell him I’m out.”

  “We’re going to be eating in about ten minutes,” I called after her.

  “I’m not hungry,” she yelled back, then shut her door with a loud thud.

  I swallowed two more Advil and poured myself a glass of wine. In a moment of black humor, I thought I understood what might have driven Mona to suicide.

  Anna and I had an unusually subdued dinner. No silly stories or long, winding chronicles of the latest cartoon episodes. No whys or how comes. And I didn’t push it. But I did read an extra two chapters in Ralph S. Mouse and agree to stay around for part of the Wee Sing tape which was her current favorite. Then I filled the tub with water and prepared to take a long, hot bath.

  I’d got only as far as removing my shoes when the phone rang. I was tempted to ignore it, especially when I considered there was a high probability it might be Gary. But there was also a chance it might be Eve Fisher, and she was someone I did want to talk to.

  Instead, the caller was Brandon. “Libby there?” he mumbled.

  “Um, no. She isn’t.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You tell her I’ll be here for about ten minutes more, then I’m splitting. She wants to come along she’d better give me a call sooner rather than later.” With that, he hung up.

  Ever the diligent hostess, I went to relay the message to Libby, then stopped outside the door. Her sobbing was muffled and barely audible, but so tortured it made my own throat ache. I knocked softly.

  “Go away.”

  “I want to come in.” I entered before she had a chance to
protest again. The room was dark but I could see enough of her face from the hall light to know she’d been crying for hours.

  “Go away,” she said. “Just leave me alone.”

  “Not until I’m sure you’re okay.” I sat on the edge of the bed and ran a hand down her back.

  She rolled from her stomach onto her side, away from me.

  “Brandon called. I told him you weren’t here, but he said he’d be home for a bit longer if you wanted to reach him.”

  “Never.”

  “I take it you two had a fight.”

  “He’s such a jerk. Turns out my mother was right about him all along.”

  “You want to tell me about it?”

  Libby shook her head and made a sound that was somewhere between a choke and a hiccup. Then she rolled over, sat up, and buried her face in her hands as a fresh round of tears overtook her. “I’m such a horrible person,” she sobbed. “I made my mother’s life miserable. It’s no wonder she hated me.”

  I hugged Libby tight and rocked her. This time she didn’t resist.

  “I miss her so much, Kate.”

  “I know you do, honey, but you’ve got it all wrong. You didn’t make your mother’s life miserable at all. She understood what it was like to be your age. She worried about you, of course, but she never stopped loving you, even when she was angry.”

  “No, you don’t understand.” Libby’s whole body shook with the tide of tears. “You don’t know how awful I was sometimes. I’m sure that’s why she killed herself, because I was so awful and mean.”

  Once again, I considered raising the prospect of murder, and once again I decided to hold my tongue. What did we really have anyway? A bottle of scotch, a burglary, and a rescheduled tennis date. It didn’t seem fair to play with Libby’s emotions like that when there was still the chance Mona’s death had truly been suicide.

  Libby continued sobbing and I continued rocking, my own chest tight with the depth of her anguish. Max joined us after awhile, resting his chin in Libby’s lap and whimpering plaintively along with her.

  Eventually, Libby’s tears subsided. I made her a sandwich, which she devoured with record speed while protesting that she wasn’t the least bit hungry. When she finally went off to bed, I let the now-cold water out of the tub, took another two Advil and climbed into bed myself.

  I thought about calling Michael, but the night was young still and I knew he wouldn’t be back in his hotel room for at least another hour. As much as I wanted the comfort of his voice, I wasn’t up to lying awake, waiting, while the demons ran circles in my mind. I’d call in the morning.

  As it turned out, Michael called me. At quarter to seven.

  “You’re up bright and early,” I said, trying hard to disguise the fact that I was not.

  “I’ve got a seven o’clock breakfast meeting.”

  “Mmm.” I rolled over and propped the pillow under my head in anticipation of the sweet nothings Michael does so well.

  There were no honeyed words this morning, however. “Have you seen yesterday’s Sun?" he asked.

  Had I? I tried to remember. The Walnut Hills Sun is published on Tuesday and Friday afternoons. It’s strictly a local paper, focusing on community news, events, and personalities. I usually glance through it when it arrives, then toss it. Sometimes though, it gets lost for weeks in the stack of magazines and catalogues piled in my “must read” corner.

  “I’m not sure,” I said finally.

  “Maybe you should.”

  “Now?”

  “You otherwise engaged?”

  I mumbled something I thought best left unintelligible, then set the receiver down and went to get the paper. I brought it back to bed with me and started scanning as I picked up the phone.

  “You’re not calling about the Mayor’s plan to renovate the duck pond?” That seemed to be the lead story. There was a nice piece about the upcoming school auction too, but I thought that even less likely.

  “Second page,” Michael said. “Top left.”

  I opened the paper. There, right where he’d directed me, was a two column article by Susie Sullivan Lambert. Foul Play Suspected in Recent Death. I read it quickly, with a horrible, sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach. Mona Sterling’s death this past week is being treated by police as a suicide, but her closest friends feel the authorities are overlooking important and obvious evidence to the contrary. It was all there, everything, including my name and the information Michael had told me in confidence. She’d quoted me accurately, except for the part about police incompetence and cover-up, but she’d changed the whole thrust of our discussion.

  For a moment I could think of nothing to say. It was like being whacked between the eyes by a two-by-four and not knowing what had happened. “Michael, I’m sorry,” I said finally. “I did talk to Susie, but I didn’t say anything about the police not doing their job. And I didn’t ‘give her a story’ or whatever it’s called. We were just talking, in the bedding department at Macy’s.”

  “Not real smart, Kate.” His voice was so low and soft I could barely make out the words. It gets that way when he’s angry or upset.

  “No, in retrospect it wasn’t.”

  “Thought you knew to be careful dealing with the press.”

  “But she writes the Around Town column. Promotions, engagements, local celebrities. I wasn’t thinking of her as a reporter when we had our conversation.”

  Michael sighed heavily. “That’s fairly obvious.”

  How could Susie have done this? Not only using what I’d told her without asking, but deliberately distorting my words. I wanted to give her a good swift kick in the rear end, but that was nothing compared to the pounding I wanted to give myself. Short circuit of the mouth-brain synapse, it was a condition I’d never managed to outgrow.

  I dropped the newspaper onto the bed. There was no way I could look at it any longer. I swallowed hard and tried to find my voice. “How did you see this already, down there in San Diego.”

  “The captain faxed me a copy last night.”

  My throat grew tighter. It was worse than I’d imagined. “I take it he wasn’t exactly pleased.”

  “That would be one way to put it. Among other things, he thinks I ought to ‘keep you on a shorter leash.’ His words, not mine.”

  “Great The captain’s going to have a heyday rubbing your nose in this.”

  Michael grunted. “Probably.”

  I shut my eyes and gave myself another round of mental lashings. “I feel so bad about this. I’ve caused such trouble for you…”

  Michael cut me off. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “The flak you’re going to get...” I cringed, imagining the position I’d put him in.

  “I can take care of myself,” he said. “It’s you I’m worried about.”

  “Me?”

  “If Mona Sterling’s death was actually a homicide, you’ve just sent her killer an invitation with your name engraved on it.” His words rolled out slowly. “I want you to be careful, Kate.”

  I was momentarily stunned. Michael was more worried about me than his own neck. I’ve always known that he’s a nice person, deep-down rare and genuine nice, but he still surprises me sometimes. “You’re not mad?”

  “I’m not mad; I’m worried.”

  Had not it been for the overriding message of potential peril, his words would have been, as the saying goes, music to my ears. As it was, they were more like the rumble of thunder. “You really think I might be in danger?”

  “The article implies you know things about Mona’s death, things that suggest murder rather than suicide. Things that just might point to a particular person. Now I’m not saying there’s even a killer out there, but if there is, and if he’s gone to the trouble of disguising Mona’s death as a suicide, he’s not going to like your meddling.”

  I took a moment to digest this, wondering just how a killer’s displeasure might manifest itself. I had no trouble coming up with possibiliti
es.

  “I’m not trying to scare you, Kate. I just want you to be careful.”

  I promised I would.

  “You haven’t crossed anyone in particular over Mona’s death, have you?”

  I had a feeling I wasn’t on Gary’s list of favorite friends, but I hadn’t actually crossed him. “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Good. It might not be a bad idea for you to drop this murder idea altogether.”

  “Now? But there are too many unanswered questions.”

  I could hear the sigh, and the expression on his face was easy to imagine. “Such as?”

  “Well, there was the break-in.”

  “We’ve been over that.”

  “And the three thousand dollars.” I realized I hadn’t told Michael about that. “The day she died, Mona withdrew three thousand dollars from the bank. In cash. And it’s not in her wallet or the cookie jar either.”

  “Interesting.” Michael paused, his tone thoughtful. “But it doesn’t necessarily spell murder. She may have wanted to settle some private obligation before she died. Or to make a bequest outside of her will.”

  “Or she might have intended the money for a bribe, or a payoff of some kind.”

  “You got any theories along those lines you’d like to share with me?”

  “I could probably come up with a couple if you give me some time.”

  He laughed. “I’m sure you could.”

  “There’s also someone who recently threatened Mona.” This was the kind of lead cops like so I took my time, punctuating my news with appropriate pauses. “The husband of one of her students. He created quite a scene with his accusations and stormy temper. It was so bad the department secretary called the police.”

  Michael went back to sighing. “You talking about Ike Fisher?”

  My bubble burst. “You know about him?”

  “He’s on a Caribbean cruise, Kate. Left three days before Mona Sterling died.”

  Damn. I’d really thought there was a connection there, particularly with Eve’s paper being the only one on Mona’s desk. “Did he take his wife with him?”