Pride v. Prejudice

by Joan Hess

I took a crinkled grocery receipt out of my purse and scribbled my telephone number on it, then gave it to Junie. “I do hope you and your husband will agree to talk to me. I’d like to know more details about what you heard that night. I’m not challenging you or implying that you were wrong. I’m just trying to help Sarah.”

  Junie’s mouth sagged. “I feel really bad about having to testify against her, and so does Will. We don’t know what happened in the barn. It could have been an accident or self-defense. I’ll call you this evening.”

  “Thanks so much,” I said automatically, distracted by Peter’s call. I got in my car and drove back toward Farberville, forcing myself not to speed, since a ticket would fall into Wessell’s jurisdiction and I might be hanged. Peter had sounded grim, implying something serious had occurred. On the other hand, he hadn’t told me to meet him at the ER, so I was fairly sure nothing dreadful had happened to Caron. If she’d done something felonious at school, she would have called me, not Peter—if only because they’d made some sort of secret deal involving her behavior and the model of car he was giving her for graduation.

  My stomach twisted as I pictured my perfect house in flames. I decided Peter would have been at the scene shouting encouragement to the firefighters rather than meeting me for lunch. At the faux bistro. When he could get away from the office, he preferred to have a burger. The last time we’d gone to the bistro for lunch was to celebrate his promotion, and that had been at my insistence. He would not suffer quiche to tell me about an assignment in some obscure location. I was more likely to hear about that over a bottle of wine.

  As fate would have it, all the parking places on the square were filled. My bloodless fingers gripped the steering wheel as I abandoned all hope and found a place in the municipal lot behind Town Hall. My hands trembled as I stuffed quarters in the parking meter, and I was feeling light-headed when I finally barged into the bistro and sat down across from my darling husband.

  “What?” I gasped, perhaps unattractively.

  “My mother is coming.”

  3

  “What does that mean?” I said, gaping at him.

  Peter pushed a glass of wine across the table. “It means my mother is coming to visit us. Drink this.”

  My jaw was too slack to drink anything. I covered my mouth with my hand and mumbled, “Is this a joke?”

  “Nope. She called this morning with the news. A friend of hers who has a private jet is flying to Fort Smith on Sunday. My mother looked at a map, realized we’re only an hour’s drive away, and got herself invited. She wants me to pick her up Monday morning and bring her here.”

  “Why?” I realized how utterly inane I sounded but was unable to stop myself.

  “To see me and meet you.”

  “Why does she want to meet me?” I took a gulp of wine. It tasted like vinegar, but it was not the sommelier’s fault. “It’s a long flight, and private jets are unreliable. They’re always crashing into mountains or skittering off runways. Why can’t she just call me? You can send her a picture and she can look at it while we have a civilized conversation about how wonderful you are and how nice the weather is. She doesn’t have to make some grueling, perilous trip across the country.”

  “It’s not as if she’s coming on a wagon train.” Peter was clearly struggling to keep up the Rosen-boy aplomb, but his chin was quivering. “She wants to meet you in person, and I haven’t been up there in three years. She’s my mother, not a serial killer with a penchant for disemboweling booksellers.”

  “You don’t know that,” I said as I took a more dignified sip of wine. With a splash of olive oil, it could dress the salad. “Besides, you once said she was still on friendly terms with your ex-wife. They could have thought up this nefarious scheme together. You didn’t think of that, did you?” I gave him an icy stare. “Your mother already loathes me. She’s coming to retrieve you and take you back to your ex-wife, who’s booked passage on a three-month cruise to the South Pacific. By the time you reach shore, you won’t remember my name, much less my face.”

  “My ex-wife is happily married to a senator and hosts receptions for foreign dignitaries when she’s not competing in tennis tournaments.”

  “I knew it,” I said darkly. “Does she have her own charity that builds hospitals in Mozambique and schools in Angola? Has she been nominated for a Nobel Prize?”

  He nodded. “She’s won the Peace Prize three years in a row, and she’s a tribal chieftain in Nigeria. What’s more, she’s written a bestselling novel and mastered the art of alchemy. She had to cut back on her hours as the chief of neurosurgery at Johns Hopkins in order to take charge of NASA.”

  “A brain surgeon and a rocket scientist. Why am I not surprised?”

  Peter had the audacity to laugh, although he leaned back in his chair to stay out of range should I fling the contents of the wineglass at him. Which was not unthinkable. “Is it possible you’re overreacting, dear? My mother is coming for a couple of days. The two of you may not become best friends, but you’ll find a way to get along, if only for my sake. I’ll drive her back to Fort Smith, and she’ll fly home.”

  “Of course I’m overreacting, Peter. That’s not the point. Anyway, she can’t come on Monday because we’re having people over. Tell her we’re sorry, but it simply won’t work. She wouldn’t know anybody, and she’ll be bored by all the mundane conversation about the drearier aspects of police work.”

  “Jorgeson and his wife are very pleasant. They like opera, as does my mother. Chief Panzer and his wife just returned from a trip to Borneo. Luanne can talk to my mother about antique jewelry. Isn’t her current boyfriend a botany professor? My mother collects rare orchids. No one is going to discuss surveillance techniques and the inadequacies of the state crime lab.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  My husband, who was growing less adorable with every breath, leaned forward and put his hand on mine. “Are you afraid of meeting my mother?”

  “No,” I said firmly, if also mendaciously, “I just don’t want her to have a miserable time. It’s much hotter here than it is in Newport, and Farberville’s not a cultural magnet. She’ll feel as if she’s been airlifted into a primitive society that has yet to discover anything more advanced than indoor plumbing and cable TV. I’m thinking of her, that’s all.”

  “She’s looking forward to meeting you and Caron, not attending a performance by Yo-Yo Ma. All you have to do is be yourself. The two of you will get along just fine.” He picked up a menu and with a nearly inaudible grunt said, “I think I’ll have the onion quiche and a salad. What would you like?”

  “Arsenic, with a side of old lace.”

  * * *

  I had some time to squander before my appointment with Evan Toffle, so I parked in the alley behind Secondhand Rose, Luanne’s vintage clothing store tucked amid the bars along Thurber Street. The sole customer was a woman trying on hats in front of an Art Deco mirror. She asked my opinion, and I assured her that the lavender was perfect. After she’d paid what I thought was an exorbitant price for a felt cap with a molted feather and departed, I sat down and said, “Peter’s mother is coming.”

  “Here?” Luanne glanced at the door.

  “Here as in Farberville, more specifically my house. Monday morning. Three and a half days. I don’t even have time to have the interior repainted and the tile regrouted in the guest bathroom. I haven’t been upstairs in a week. What if Caron decided to redecorate her room in satanic images?”

  “Why would she do that?”

  I stood up. “I don’t know why I expected any sympathy from you. If I hurry, I can go to the mall to buy new towels and be back in time for my meeting with a lawyer. You need to brush up on opera, orchids, yachts, and Yo-Yo Ma.” I froze in midstep and scowled at her. “Don’t you dare so much as smile, Luanne Bradshaw! You may think it’s all a big joke, but I happen to be taking it seriously—okay? Instead of goggling at me, why don’t you find out how I can hire a string quartet for Monday aft
ernoon? It doesn’t matter how much they charge. I have a checkbook!”

  Luanne caught me before I made it out the door. “Sit,” she said, “and put your head between your knees. I think I have pills left over from a prescription for tranquilizers. Let me get you a handful.”

  “I need to buy towels,” I whimpered.

  “You need a stiff drink, but it’s too early. If you swear you won’t leave, I’ll pop next door for lattes. Can I trust you?”

  When I nodded, she grabbed some bills from the cash register and hurried out to the sidewalk. I obediently sat down, but propped my elbows on my knees and cradled my head in my hands. I had no excuse for my irrational panic. I was not a dewy young bride who’d been tormented by tales of a wicked mother-in-law. I was forty years old. Until I’d married Peter, I’d been doing just fine on my own. I’d supported myself and reared a child who, despite her protests to the contrary, had survived without a closet of overpriced jeans and whimsical flights to Rome. The Book Depot was not considered a serious threat by the chain bookstores, nor was Caron in contention for a summer internship at the White House, but we’d managed.

  All I knew about Peter’s mother was that she was a wealthy widow with three sons, a mansion, a chauffer, and a household staff slightly smaller than the cast of a Broadway show. She’d been fond of Peter’s first wife. I bit down on my lip and refused to allow myself to elaborate on their relationship. I was fond of traditional mystery novels, lemon bars, weepy movies, and my perfect house. This did not preclude potential fondness for whatever else was out there. Like orchids and opera.

  When Luanne returned, I accepted the proffered latte and said, “I am not a complete disaster of a human being, you know. I have admirable qualities, like compassion and wit. I have yet to produce an edible soufflé, but my raspberry mousse is divine. Caron complimented me on my ability to retrieve messages on my cell phone. I can type forty words a minute. I have read the complete works of Jane Austen, Mark Twain, Agatha Christie, L. Frank Baum, Charles Dickens, Marcel Proust, and Elizabeth Peters.”

  “You might want to read the works of Sigmund Freud,” she said as she sat down on a stool behind the counter. “Specifically, Studien über Hysterie. Need a translation?”

  “No,” I said grumpily. “Peter sprung this on me an hour ago. If he’d offhandedly mentioned the possibility that she might come for a visit in the next twelve months, I’d have time to assimilate it.”

  “And buy towels.”

  “Towels? How about a new wardrobe? I don’t own a single item of designer clothing. What will she think when she sees me in jeans and a T-shirt? Her scullery maid probably dresses better than I do. The charity stores in Newport are crammed with last year’s hottest fashions. Haute couture in Farberville means all the buttons are sewn on securely.”

  Luanne let out an exasperated noise, as if I were being unreasonable. I shot her an offended look, which she rudely ignored. “I’m not in the mood to hold your hand while you whine like an egotistical teenager. Peter’s mother is not going to stand in the doorway and appraise your clothes, or wince at the lack of rubies and emeralds around your neck when you load the dishwasher. She simply wants to meet you. You married her son. You’re part of her family. She may not clutch you to her bosom and tell you to call her Mom, but she will find a way to like you”—she stopped to point her finger at me—“unless you give her a legitimate reason to dislike you. At the moment, you’re doing just that. Get over it, Claire.”

  I deflated. “I’ve already acknowledged that I’m overreacting. I wish I could shrug off my anxiety, but I can’t. If Peter’s mother does find me less acceptable than the ex-wife, she’ll have to deal with it. There’s nothing short of extraterrestrial interference that can change who I am. I prefer shorts to little black dresses and pearls. I go barefoot in the house. I read mysteries, not fashion magazines. If Coco Chanel showed up on my doorstep tonight, I wouldn’t recognize her.”

  “Nobody would,” Luanne commented wryly. “She was buried more than forty years ago.”

  “Peter’s mother was probably at the funeral, snuffling into a lace hankie.” I finished my latte and stood up. “Thanks for the session, Ms. Freud. I need to go meddle in the affairs of mere mortals. I’ll see you Monday at four.” I strolled out the back door with impeccable assurance, but once I was in my car, I was unable to come up with a coherent thought. I’d never seen a photograph of Peter’s mother, so it was impossible to visualize with any clarity the dreaded confrontation that would occur Monday at high noon.

  I was still sitting there when an employee of the coffee shop came out a back entrance, a cigarette in one hand and a lighter in the other. He gave me a suspicious look, as if I might be planning to dive into the nearest Dumpster. I managed to insert the car key in the ignition, flashed him a smile, and drove past the garbage cans to Thurber Street. I had half an hour before I met with Sarah’s lawyer. It was not enough time to buy towels, redecorate the guest bedroom, and take a class in the art of the soufflé. Or any one of them.

  I hadn’t said anything to Peter about my plot to humiliate Prosecutor Wessell, since he was apt to object in a blustery sort of way. After lunch, he’d mentioned a meeting. It struck me as an opportunity to drop by the PD and see what I could find out about Miss Poppoy’s burglars. If they were at large, they could qualify as suspects. Perhaps, I thought as I headed for the PD, they’d left the shotgun in the barn. Sarah had been so shocked by the discovery of Tuck’s body that she’d mindlessly carried the shotgun inside. It was conceivable. Or they’d taken the shotgun when they went into the house to search for valuables, and were looking in the closet when they realized that Sarah was home. They’d panicked and fled. Neither was much of a theory, but it was the best I could do.

  The desk sergeant informed me that Lieutenant Jorgeson was in his office. I found him in the hall, gazing morosely at the vending machine. Peter had said that Mrs. Jorgeson had dictated a diet that excluded fats, salt, and extraneous carbs, all available for specific combinations of coins. “Ms. Malloy,” he said as he spotted me, “how are you today?”

  “We’re looking forward to having you and your wife out to the house on Monday. Did Peter tell you who else is coming?”

  “I believe he did,” Jorgeson said uncomfortably. “The captain and his wife, Luanne and a guest, and…”

  “Peter says she likes opera.”

  “Mrs. Jorgeson and I truly enjoyed the campus summer production of Pagliacci. The soprano did a superb job. The tenor may need to consider changing majors.”

  “Farber College can’t compete with the Met. I’m hoping you can help me find a little bit of information about an old case. Do you have a few minutes?”

  Jorgeson sighed. “What old case interests you, Ms. Malloy?”

  “A burglary,” I said, aware that he’d heard about my encounter with Wessell and was familiar with my propensity to take an interest in homicides. “A sweet elderly lady lost her family silver. Did the police recover it?”

  “Give me the name and I’ll look it up.” He gestured for me to precede him into his office. He did not sound enthusiastic, but he rarely did. I told him the victim’s name was Poppoy and that she lived beyond the city limits. He toyed with his computer for several minutes, then said, “Patience Poppoy, a year ago last June. She told the deputies that two men forced their way inside, bound and gagged her, and ransacked the house for valuables. They made off with a box of silver, a TV, an antique musket, and a platinum wig. None of it made it to the local pawnshops.”

  “What about the perps?”

  “Both white, average height and weight, wearing ski masks, so there wasn’t much to go on. There was a similar break-in two months later, over in Hasty. The police there hauled in suspects but couldn’t hold them.” Jorgeson looked up from the screen. “Is Miss Poppoy a friend of yours, Ms. Malloy?”

  “In a way,” I said. “Is there anything else in the report?”

  “One of her neighbors reported a suspicious
van in the area. The description was too vague to be useful.”

  “What’s the neighbor’s name?”

  “I don’t think it matters, Ms. Malloy. The van was described as dark green. The witness said he’d noticed it parked alongside the highway a couple of times. He didn’t think anything about it until after the burglary. Nobody else reported seeing it. The deputies wrote it off as teenagers drinking beer or smoking marijuana.”

  “The name, please.” I may have sounded like Oliver Twist asking for a second helping of swill. I hoped Jorgeson was a softer touch than Mr. Bumble.

  “I shouldn’t do this,” he said, gazing at the computer screen. “Deputy Chief Rosen warned me not to encourage you. Wouldn’t it be better if you went home and picked flowers for the guest room?”

  “That’s on the schedule for Monday morning.” I made a mental note to start a list as soon as possible. “I’m just trying to help out an old lady who lost her most treasured possessions.”

  “And her wig.”

  “She’s probably too embarrassed to go to church without it. I cannot bear the idea of her being forced to lead such a lonely, pathetic life. This is no longer a police matter. The case is stone cold. Not even I can interfere in a nonexistent investigation, Jorgeson. All I want to do is find out if this neighbor has remembered anything else about the van or its occupants.”

  “Zachery Barnard is the name. The address is Pinkie Sheer Road. No telephone number.”

  “Thank you, Jorgeson. There’s no reason to mention this to Peter. He must be very busy with the DEA.”

  “Not really. Being bureaucrats, they have to follow official guidelines, one of which is to have periodic briefings with area police departments. Things are quiet, at least for the moment. The good citizens of Farberville are refraining from assaulting or murdering each other. Rush starts next week, so there will be a lot of minor-in-possession violations and DWIs.”

  “Fraternity boys will be boys,” I said as I stood up.

  “We usually have more trouble with the sororities.” Jorgeson came around his desk and opened the door for me. “We’ll see you Monday, Ms. Malloy. Mrs. Jorgeson’s excited about bringing her potato salad. It’s her grandmother’s recipe. She’s dragging me to the farmers’ market in the morning to buy fresh herbs.”