Out on a Limb

by Joan Hess

  “How did you get past the officer outside?” I asked him. “I have a feeling your name’s not on the list.”

  “Hardly. I told the young man that it was an oversight but I was willing to accept an apology. He stammered something and waved me by.”

  I wondered if I could have utilized his approach and saved myself a trip to the fitness center. At least I hadn’t been dragged into an aerobics class or dunked in a hot tub. “I’d like to ask you something, Professor Baybergen,” I began tentatively. “Someone told me that your sister was living in Oakland Heights last year and was injured in the fire. Has she recovered?”

  He stared at me. “Who told you that and why is it any of your concern?”

  I ignored the first half of his question and said, “I’ve always been afraid of fire. As a child, I was unable to toast marshmallows and was expelled from my Girl Scout troop. She must have been terrorized.”

  “Traumatized is a more apt description. She awoke to discover her bedroom was filled with smoke. She had to stumble downstairs in the dark. The front door lock was jammed, so she had to find her way out the back. The smoke was so thick that she collapsed on the patio and had to be transported by ambulance to the emergency room. Damage to her lungs requires her to utilize an oxygen tank most of the time.”

  “Claire!” called Adrienne. “Did you confirm my hair appointment?”

  Although I wanted to continue talking to Baybergen, I opened the door for him. “I’m really sorry about your sister. I hope she does better.”

  “I’m really sorry about Armstrong, but I hope he rots in hell,” he said, mimicking my tone of voice, then went across the porch and down the steps.

  I returned to the kitchen and found Adrienne arranging a plate of fruit and cheese. “I wasn’t aware of the hair appointment,” I said. “Shall I call now?”

  “That would be so sweet, but could you please carry this out to the conservatory first? Oh, and a pitcher of fresh tea and a glass for the minister. Perhaps I ought to offer him something more substantial, like sandwiches. There’s a package of smoked salmon on the bottom shelf in the refrigerator, and cucumbers in one of the drawers. Please cut the sandwiches in quarters and trim the crusts, and be sure to cover them with a damp towel so they won’t be too dry.”

  “Certainly,” I said as she limped out of the room. The minister wasn’t scheduled to appear for an hour, however, and I did not want to be accountable if the sandwiches were the slightest bit stale. I perched on a stool and sipped tea, trying to determine if there was anything more to be learned from Adrienne, Chantilly, or even from the house itself. But first things first, I told myself as I found the leather address book and flipped through it until I chanced upon the caterer. Said gendeman sounded more like Brooklyn than Breton, but he decidedly knew his business and was offended when I dared to mention crab rolls. The hairdresser’s receptionist confirmed the three o’clock appointment. Between the calls, the telephone rang several times with well-wishers asking if there was anything they might do. Two floral arrangements arrived and were carried mutely to the dining room, where a botanical garden was taking shape. A woman came to the front door with a platter of cookies from, as she told me at length, the distressed office staffers. Two minutes later, a third delivery boy from a florist arrived with a four-foot-high banana tree. I wearily pointed at the dining room.

  I peeked at Adrienne, who appeared to be dozing, then glanced at the staircase to the second floor. Chantilly was up there somewhere, drying her hair and applying makeup. Daphne had returned here the night of the murder, but I doubted that she had crept in to snatch a pair of pajamas or a bottle of conditioner. Could whatever she and her mother had told Joey might make them rich be just above my head?

  I decided to find out.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I took the receiver off the hook, then cautiously went upstairs. No step dared to squeak in Anthony Armstrong’s custom-built house, but I had no idea where Chantilly might be. The second problem was that I had no idea what I was looking for or even which of the rooms beyond closed doors might have been Daphne’s before she had been tossed out onto the streets. It did not seem likely that she had squirreled away a chest containing the crown jewels or an Egyptian sarcophagus that would cause hearts to pound wildly at the British Museum. Scrapbooks and bald Barbie dolls seemed more probable.

  The room nearest the top of the stairs was clearly the master bedroom, replete with a king-size bed, puffy satin bedspread, window treatments, inset shelves with small pieces of pottery artfully lighted, an afghan ever so casually draped on an easy chair that no one would be so presumptuous as to sit in, and depictions on the walls of Venetian canals and Tuscan landscapes. Even the silk nightgown on the bed looked as if it had been placed for effect.

  Resisting an admittedly foolish impulse to turn down the bedspread and leave a chocolate on the pillow, I roamed onward. The room across the hall appeared to be Chantilly’s; clothes were heaped on all available surfaces and I could hear a hair dryer in what I supposed was a bathroom. I closed the door and tried the next, which appeared to be an uninspired but serviceable guest room. I was getting uneasy, in that someone could ring the doorbell at any moment. My absence would be conspicuous. Adrienne’s ankle problem had already shifted from left to right more than once, and I knew she would be able to come looking for me. While I was looking for whatever. Wherever.

  The last door on the left opened onto a room that only a teenager could love. Posters of leering rock musicians decorated all four walls, while angelic teddy bears grinned from the canopied bed. A television, VCR, and elaborate stereo system were ensconced in a customized cabinet with shelves for many dozens of CDs and cassettes. A computer and printer were collecting dust on a desk in one corner. The top of the dresser was bereft of anything more than a small lamp and a glass vase with silk flowers that matched the prissy floral print of the wallpaper. I went into the room and looked in a closet filled with pleated skirts, blazers (school uniforms, I cleverly deduced), and modest dresses. Pairs of sensible shoes were aligned on the floor. Another door led to a bathroom with a stall shower. Pastel towels were draped over rods. No makeup or hair paraphernalia sullied the cabinet surface. The bar of soap, no doubt scented, awaited inaugural use.

  Adrienne’s doing, I thought as I idly opened a drawer, definitely not Sheila’s. Sheila would have preferred gaudy beach towels and a futon in the middle of the bedroom, ringed by candles. I continued poking around, but found nothing that might be redeemable at the bank.

  I was in the hallway when the doorbell rang. I scurried downstairs, hoping to beat out Adrienne. I was not surprised to see she was still in the conservatory, both feet on the stool, her head back, arms draped gracefully on throw pillows, eyes closed. A classic vignette of a mourning widow, I thought rather sourly as I opened the front door and eyed an elderly man with a bulbous nose, thin white hair, and an ill-fitting suit.

  “Yes?” I said, trying to catch my breath.

  “I am here to see Mrs. Armstrong,” he said. “We have an appointment.”

  “You must be Reverend Simpleton,” Chantilly chirped from behind me. “Do come in, you darling man. Adrienne’s expecting you.” She nudged me aside and took his arm. “She’s holding up well, considering the circumstances. I just feel blessed to be able to be here to help her. Please let me show you the way. Claire, be a dear and see to the refreshments.”

  I waited until they went past me, then closed the door and reminded myself that I was in the presence of clergy. Acerbic comments would be inappropriate, especially from the help—and in my case, indentured.

  In the kitchen, I replaced the receiver, started the kettle to make fresh tea, and rooted through the refrigerator until I found the smoked salmon et al. Ten minutes later I took the pitcher and a platter of sandwiches to the conservatory and smiled apologetically as the three of them looked up at me as if I’d barged into a top-secret Pentagon briefing. No wonder kitchen maids in crime fiction kept bumping off t
heir employers, I thought as I tiptoed out of the room.

  I decided to stay until the session in the conservatory was concluded, then pass the mantle to Chantilly. A few more visitors showed up over the next hour; all retreated gracefully (or gratefully) when I informed them with undue gravity that Adrienne was in consultation with the minister, whose name I’d already forgotten. Two more floral arrangements were delivered, both potential centerpieces if everyone at the table was seven feet tall.

  During a lull, I crept out of the kitchen and went searching for Anthony’s office. I knew from what Daphne had told me that it was on the first floor. I found it down a hallway past the bottom of the staircase. No officious yellow tape forbade me from entering the room, although I suspected the Farberville CID would be less than pleased that I was violating the sanctity of the crime scene. As I stood in the doorway, I saw a dark stain on the oriental rug in front of the desk. I was almost surprised Adrienne had not instructed me to arrange to have the rug steam-cleaned before the funeral because of some relative’s delicate constitution. Perhaps the decorator was scheduled to show up in the morning with a replacement.

  The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were filled with sets of expensively bound classics chosen more for their complementary hues than their content. On the wall near two leather chairs and an antique globe was a gun case. Behind the glass cabinet doors were a few handguns and hunting rifles. The locks showed no signs of tampering. If Daphne had indeed fired a gun, she had not taken it from the case. She could have taken one from Joey—or stolen it from him, I amended. But she’d claimed to have been upstairs when her father was shot, and I desperately wanted to believe her.

  Even though I knew the police had already searched every centimeter of the room, I went behind the desk and began to ease open drawers. The quantity of paperwork was impressive. Among manila folders dedicated to projects past and future were copies of city ordinances for everything from utilities to storm drains, and, of course, tree preservation. The pens in the middle drawer were not plastic and could not be purchased at a discount office supply store. A half-empty roll of heartburn mints indicated Anthony was not always as self-assured as he’d presented himself to be in front of the camera. At the back of the drawer I found a file of Daphne’s progress reports from the Disciples Academy. I popped a mint in my mouth as I skimmed through them. Said progress had been minimal, if not minuscule, and she’d been close to expulsion at the close of the last spring semester. Which conceivably had been her goal—which she’d achieved by conceiving, inadvertently or otherwise.

  I was pawing through another drawer when I heard the telephone ring in the kitchen. I hastily replaced everything and hurried out of the room, feeling like a game show contestant trying to beat the clock. Alas, I did not. Chantilly was already in the kitchen, receiver to her ear, chattering cheerfully about the comparative virtues of Farberville’s hotels (both of them) and motels (many, mostly squalid). When she spotted me, she asked the caller to wait for a moment, then covered die mouthpiece with her hand and said, “That man is wolfing down sandwiches as if anticipating the advent of Lent in the morning. Will you please make another platter and take it to the conservatory? Oh, and slice the lemon pound cake in the refrigerator and take that, too. There are plates and silverware somewhere. You’ll have to look.”

  She resumed talking while I mutely followed orders, then took the sandwiches and cake to the conservatory, where the minister and Adrienne were regarding each other with mulish expressions. The tension between them would have been harder to slice than the pound cake.

  “Claire,” Adrienne said, managing a smile, “do sit down. We’re having a minor disagreement about the service. As I’m sure you remember, Anthony disliked pomp. He appreciated simple things, like watching a sunset from the patio or doing the crossword puzzle on a lazy Sunday afternoon. He loved to make popcorn and watch John Wayne movies. I had to bully him into attending the symphony series, and he positively fidgeted the entire time. Don’t you agree that he would have preferred only a few of his favorite hymns, a eulogy, and a brief graveside ceremony?”

  Simpleton stuffed a sandwich in his mouth, swallowed, and said, “I do think it’s important for me to share some philosophical observations and insights into the ephemerality of life and the specter of everlasting bliss. Many relatives and close friends find comfort in the spiritual message I offer them.”

  “There’s a fifty percent chance of thunderstorms tomorrow afternoon,” Adrienne said as if she wanted to cram a slice of lemon pound cake up his nose. “Hello? I have eighty people coming after the service.”

  “A sermon offers solace,” he intoned, keeping an eye on her in case she made any sudden moves.

  I backed away for the same reason. “Adrienne, I wish I could stay, but I have obligations. I’ve reconfirmed all of the arrangements, including your hair appointment this afternoon.”

  She sniffled into a tissue. “You have been so wonderful to do all this, Claire. Can you be here by ten tomorrow to supervise everything? I’ll be at the church and then at the cemetery"—she glared at the reverend— “until shortly before noon. Jacque is very, very good, but he’s been known to fly off the handle if so much as a single sprig of parsley is limp. I don’t know what he’ll do should the skies turn cloudy.”

  Her spiritual adviser picked up another sandwich. “Anthony was a parishioner for more than thirty years, Adrienne. Although he did not attend services on a weekly basis, he was in his own way devout, and always generous with our parish projects. We cannot rush through this because of—”

  I left the room and returned to the kitchen to collect my purse. Chantilly was seated on a stool, drinking what appeared to be a Bloody Mary with more vodka than tomato juice. She most likely would have gotten along quite well with Sheila, aka the first Mrs. Anthony Armstrong. It was difficult to judge how well she got along with the second one.

  “Tired?” I said as I sat down beside her.

  “It’s driving me, like, totally crazy. I mean, I feel sorry for Adrienne and all, but she acts like she’s the only one who’s inconvenienced by this. I had to beg to take off the rest of this week. Justine, this python at my office, is probably putting the squeeze on all my regular clients—and she doesn’t have a clue about first-class cabins. She probably thinks a porthole is a wine bucket.”

  “Daphne’s in jail,” I said. “That’s inconvenient, too.”

  “Then she shouldn’t have killed him.”

  “I suppose not.” I waited for a moment as she sucked pensively on a celery stalk. “When you and Adrienne drove up that night, did you see or hear anything that made you wonder if someone else was here? A shadow, for instance, or footsteps moving in a different direction?”

  Chantilly drained the glass. “The back door was open, but Daphne must have left it that way when she came inside.”

  “Then why would she run out the front door?”

  “Because she panicked,” she said as she replenished her drink. “How long are we to have the pleasure of Reverend Simpleton’s company? Anthony’s relatives will be descending like a tribe of baboons this afternoon. I really need to check in with my office before Justine filches all of my big accounts. What’s more, I have nothing to wear tomorrow. I have a pink sundress, but it’s strapless. Do you think I can get away with it if I wrap a dark scarf over my shoulders?”

  I assured her that it would blend in well with customary dress at funerals in Farberville, in that I didn’t care. Adrienne could deal with the aftermath at the country club, fitness center, and Junior League evaluation. I put away the remainder of the salmon and cucumbers, wiped off the cutting board, and after reminding her of Adrienne’s hair appointment, hightailed it to my car.

  Jorgeson stood beside it, shaking his head. “Ms. Malloy,” he said, “once again we meet. Is there no place on this planet of ours where I might be confident of not seeing you?”

  I considered his question. “You could be fairly confident at any football game, hea
vy metal conceit, wrestling match, or proctologist’s office. Other than that, Jorgeson, I don’t know. What are you doing here?”

  “Investigating a murder. And you?”

  “Still no weapon?” I said as I leaned against the hood of my car. “I was thinking about that, Jorgeson. The weapon did not come from the gun case in the office. Where do you think she got it? It’s a stretch to think her mother had one.”

  Jorgeson tugged on his chin. “We don’t know as of yet, Ms. Malloy. Sheila Armstrong doesn’t have a license for a handgun, but she’s not the type to waste time with bureaucratic hurdles. Mr. Armstrong’s weapons are accounted for. He kept a thirty-eight-caliber in a desk drawer. The lab determined that it has not been fired recently. We’re still trying to find the boyfriend.” He gazed over my head at the trees along the top of the hill. “The lieutenant seems to think you might be able to help us there.”

  “Me?” I said indignantly. “Why would / know anything?”

  “He just said something to that effect, Ms. Malloy. I’m not a mind-reader. You, on the other hand, are doing a fine job of anticipating my moves. You could save me some time if you’d tell me what’s on my agenda.”

  “When shall we two meet again? I have no idea, Jorgeson. I came by this morning to offer my condolences to Adrienne Armstrong. She and some minister are in the conservatory, debating the funeral service. He does not appreciate the need for expediency due to the weather forecast. She will be delighted if you interrupt them, and will offer you salmon-and-cucumber sandwiches, as well as iced tea and lemon pound cake. Bloody Marys are available in the kitchen.”

  “When you searched his office, did you discover anything we might have overlooked?”

  I didn’t bother to sputter a denial. “No, but I wasn’t really looking for anything. Anthony was probably sitting at his desk when someone came into the office. He rose and came into the middle of the room. Then, well, the conversation was terminated. Did Chantilly tell you that the back door was open?”