Pink Balloons and Other Deadly Things (Mystery Series - Book One)

by Nancy Tesler

  “I know. But I felt bad about it because my daughter said you sounded really upset when you called on Saturday.”

  “I was, but it’s over. I guess I’m learning to deal with it.”

  “With what?”

  “That my dad hates me.”

  “Oh, Vickie, he doesn’t hate you. He just wants to control you.” My eyes flashed to the computer, and I noted that her EDR, which was registering internal tension, went from seven to thirty-nine as she talked about her father. “What happened this time?”

  “Same old stuff.” She began twirling the spiral on my desk with her free hand. “He was screaming at me, calling me names. He’d like to keep me locked up in a cage.”

  Much of the work Joe Golden and I had been doing with Vickie had to do with getting her to deal with her feelings of anger toward her father.

  “Did you do what we talked about?”

  “You mean about just walking away?”

  “And the visualization exercise.”

  She giggled. “Yeah. You should’ve seen the expression on his face when I said, ’I’m leaving. I don’t allow anyone to abuse me anymore.’ And then I walked out of the house and got in my car and went over and over the exercise in my head.”

  “Good for you.” I didn’t like Vickie’s father. I’d met him a couple of times when he’d brought her to the office before she had her car. He’s a domineering man who thinks money can buy him anything, including his daughter’s love and respect. I suspected Vickie’s promiscuity was related to her endless search for a father substitute. “I was worried you might’ve been feeling depressed over—-you know, the breakup.”

  “Oh, no. I fixed that too. We’re getting back together.”

  I was tempted to go on about the folly of staying in a bad relationship but caught myself. Instead, once she was completely relaxed and in a meditative state, I gave her positive affirmations about taking charge of her life and making things happen instead of passively letting them happen to her.

  I should follow my own advice, I thought wryly. We mental health professionals are so good at teaching other people how to handle their problems; not always roaring successes in dealing with our own.

  By the end of the hour, Vickie’s muscles registered 0.4 and 0.6 respectively, indicating a completely relaxed physical state, but her excitement at the prospect of being back with her lover was clearly keeping her emotions at a high pitch. I hadn’t been at all successful at lowering her EDR or in raising her peripheral temperature to a balanced ninety-two degrees. Then I remembered what it felt like—-being young and in love, and despite my certainty that this particular relationship was a dead end for Vickie, I couldn’t help feeling just a tiny pang of envy.

  THE LAST PERSON in the world I wanted to see was waiting outside my office building when I came out after work.

  I’d been looking forward to going directly home and soaking in a bathtub filled with stress-reducing crystals, when I saw Brodsky's lanky frame holding up a telephone pole. I kept my eyes lowered, pretending to search through my bag for my keys. Wishing he would vanish, I hurried toward the lot where I’d parked Meg's car. He caught up with me as I got to the gas station on the corner.

  “Sorry about this,” he murmured, falling into step beside me.

  “About what, Detective? I’ve told you everything I know.”

  “Just a few more questions. Thought you’d prefer not to come down to the precinct.”

  I didn’t miss the implication. My knees went weak, and I stumbled.

  He caught my arm and steadied me. “Let’s take a walk.”

  I shook free, shrugged my assent, not slackening my pace. The heat wave had broken, and the temperature had returned to normal, somewhere in the seventies. I headed for the pier and breathed in the clear crisp air.

  He waited until I stopped at the water’s edge. “How long would you estimate you spent watching Ms. Vogel?”

  I hesitated. “Maybe—-maybe twenty minutes to half an hour.”

  “Can you pinpoint the exact time?”

  “Somewhere between three-thirty and four, I should think. Is that important?”

  “Could be. If you can prove it. Depends on when the M.E. fixes the time of death.”

  “Sue Tompkins saw me.”

  “She doesn’t remember exactly what time she walked the dog. Did anyone else call Ms. Vogel beside your husband while you were there?”

  “No.”

  “Their conversation was friendly?”

  I gazed out over the water, focusing on the line of rush-hour cars crawling like an army of ants over the Tappan Zee bridge, willing myself to feel nothing. “Yes.”

  “Did Ms. Vogel leave her chair at any time? Did she go inside at all?”

  “No.”

  He jotted something down in his notebook. “Could you give me an accurate description of the necklace she was wearing?”

  “I thought my husband did that.”

  “Men tend not to notice detail.”

  Involuntarily, my hand crept to my throat as if to finger the familiar links. “It was a gold watch fob chain-—old, maybe late eighteen hundreds. The links were rectangular, about half an inch long each, with little pieces of chain holding them together.”

  His pencil paused mid-page. “You seem to have a rare eye for detail, considering you said you never got close to her.”

  “The necklace had been mine.” I kept my face expressionless. “Rich will be entitled to half my jewelry when we’re divorced. Erica wanted that piece, so he made off with it a little ahead of time.”

  He began writing again. “I wasn’t aware that personal possessions are part of equitable distribution in New Jersey.”

  “Jewelry is. Most men don't take advantage of it.”

  I felt his eyes on me. I kept mine on a sea gull that was shoving a smaller gull off its perch on a stanchion. Nature’s way. Survival of the toughest.

  “Rough seeing something you valued on another woman,” he said. “Especially something so personal.”

  I didn’t miss the implication. I shifted my gaze and looked him straight in the eye. “Hardly worth killing over.”

  He looked back down at his notes. “Anything else you can tell me about the necklace?”

  “The clasp was an addition. I guess Erica thought the original was too plain. Or maybe she found it hard to fasten. Whatever, he replaced it with a cluster of diamonds and rubies. It didn't go with the chain.”

  He studied me for a minute. “How did you happen to know that?”

  “What?”

  “That the clasp had been replaced.”

  I grimaced. “She wore it to Allie’s Sunday school graduation last week. She made sure I saw it.”

  “Did you notice anyone in the area when you drove there on Saturday? Anyone who didn't seem to belong in the neighborhood, anything unusual at all?”

  I thought hard, trying to dredge up something. “There may’ve been,” I said finally, “but I didn’t notice anything.”

  “You know all the neighbors’ cars?”

  “Pretty much. It's not a long street.”

  “Was there an unfamiliar car parked anywhere? Most people park in their own driveways or garages. Was there a car or truck parked on the street?”

  I tried to imagine how the street had looked, but all that came back to me was the indelible image of a half-naked Erica wearing my necklace, lounging on my outdoor furniture. I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I can’t remember.”

  “Too bad.”

  “How about fingerprints?” I asked hopefully. “You must’ve found fingerprints.”

  “We did,” he replied succinctly. “Yours.”

  In my youth I used to break out in a rash whenever I got nervous. At Brodsky’s words I was sure hives were popping out all over. “Mine? Where?”

  “There was a clear thumbprint on a plastic boomerang we found near a willow tree.”

  My fantasy sprang to mind. “What do you think I did? Boomeranged Eric
a to death with a child’s toy?”

  “I didn’t say it was the murder weapon.”

  “I picked it up. I told you I’d been in the yard.”

  “Good you did. Because there was detritus on the floor mats of your car that matched the kind found on the grounds. There was also blood,” he said, as an afterthought.

  I could barely get the word out. “Blood?”

  “Not Ms. Vogel’s. You must’ve cut yourself on the brambles. Probably weren't even aware of it.”

  I recalled the sharp edge of the boomerang. “How could you know...?” And then I remembered. When I had applied to teach a night course at Tenafly high school several years back, I’d had to get fingerprinted at the police station. Routine for any town employee.

  “I hope you’re not planning a vacation. It’d be best if you stuck around. And I hope you took my advice and got in touch with a lawyer.”

  I shook my head, not trusting my voice. How could I explain to this detective that people like me don't know criminal lawyers? We don't even know other people who know criminal lawyers. Do they list them in the yellow pages? I wondered. I could picture the ad; Blank and Blank, experienced trial attorneys—-rapists and murderers, our specialty.

  He snapped his notebook closed. “Up to you. Your car will be returned to you this evening. Need a ride home?”

  High up on my list, a ride in a police car. “I’ve borrowed a car. I think I’ll stay here for a while.”

  He didn’t leave right away, just stood watching me from under hooded lids.

  “I’m not going to jump, if that's what you’re afraid of,” I muttered, unable to stand the scrutiny.

  “Didn’t think you were the type. Take it easy now.” And he sauntered back the way we had come.

  Take it easy?

  I sat on the wooden bench the town provides for tourists and tried to remember what our street had looked like that afternoon. I thought about Sue Tomkins. Nothing ever escapes Sue's notice. Except, of course, I thought wryly, what time she’d decided to walk the dog last Saturday. But if there had been a car or van or truck on our street, Sue would surely remember. I knew Brodsky had questioned her, but maybe she’d been too rattled about the murder and hadn’t been thinking clearly. Making a mental note to call her, I watched the sea gulls as they floated on the wind, wishing I had their wings, wishing I could absorb by osmosis the peace they exuded.

  After a while I walked back to Meg’s car and drove home.

  MATT WAS SUBDUED when I walked in the door, failing to greet me with his usual hug. I kissed him on the top of the head and headed for the kitchen, calling over my shoulder that we were having lamb chops and he should go wash up and set the table. It was important for the kids to believe their lives were going on as usual.

  “Mom, bunch of messages on the machine,” Allie yelled from upstairs.

  “Didja remember mint jelly?” Matt shouted from the bathroom.

  Well, that was normal.

  One of Rich’s legacies to our children: Cranberry sauce goes with chicken, gherkins with brisket, mint jelly with lamb. Shouldn’t take a genius to remember to buy them together, right, sweetheart?

  Luckily, fortune was smiling on me and I found a jar of mint jelly nestled behind a box of Kraft’s macaroni and cheese. I put it on the table in the dining area of our combination kitchen-family room. We practically live in this one sunny room. It’s become a ritual, me cooking, Allie sprawled out on our deep-cushioned chintz couch, reading, while Matt does his homework at the table. It makes for a kind of togetherness and sharing that had eluded us in our more spacious quarters.

  The small dining room serves as a home office for me. No more formal dinner parties, entertaining buyers. I don’t miss giving the parties, and I don’t miss the high-powered money talk. On occasion I admit I do miss my marble-tiled bathroom with the built-in Jacuzzi, but only when it’s been one of those days that make you want to crawl back into the womb. Like today.

  I pressed the playback button on my answering machine and began cutting up vegetables for a salad.

  “Carrie, honey?”

  Meg was back.

  “You still need my car, or have the storm troopers released yours? Give a call. I’m at your disposal day or night.”

  Relief flooded through me at the sound of that comforting voice. I was about to call her when the next message played.

  “Phyllis Lutz, Ms. Carlin. Just wanted you to know I was up all night with a migraine. I don’t think you’re helping me. I’m seeing Dr. Heller again today. I'll call you if I decide not to keep my Friday appointment.”

  I heard the click and waited for the next message. It was Vickie, asking if she could set up another appointment; would I please get back to her. Just before the tape cut off, I was certain I heard her father’s voice, certain I heard him shouting “goddamned tramp.” I resolved to call Vickie back as soon as I’d spoken to Meg.

  The minute I heard Meg’s voice, my suspicions about her and Rich vanished. “Meg?”

  “Carrie, hi. How're you doing?”

  “Meg, I’m going to need a—-a criminal lawyer. You know anyone who knows one?”

  A pause. “They haven’t charged you, have they?”

  Was there an unspoken yet in that pause?

  “No, but Brodsky was asking me more questions. And he keeps advising me to get one. I’m scared. I think I should at least get some advice.”

  “Lemme make some calls. I’ll get back to you.”

  “Okay.” I felt like a child, dumping my mess into a competent adult’s hands. “Meg?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m glad you’re back.” I could feel her warmth through the phone.

  “Keep the faith, Kid.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Tuesday, May 25

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON Brodsky showed up at my office again. He was standing in front of my door when I came out of the elevator. I’d just returned from lunch at Meg's. She’d given me a pep talk and the names of two lawyers she’d obtained from a friend, and I was feeling better. Until I saw him. His shoulders were hunched inside his loose brown jacket, and there was a fine white line around his mouth that didn't look as though a smile could get past it.

  “We seem to have a missing person on our hands,” he said, skipping the preliminaries.

  “Excuse me?”

  He moved aside as I inserted the key into the lock. “Any idea where your husband is?”

  “At his house or his office, I presume.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  Did he know what had transpired between us? “Yesterday.”

  Brodsky's face was impassive. I couldn’t read his expression.

  I cleared my throat. “I thought you’re not a missing person unless you’ve been missing for at least a couple of days.”

  “Under ordinary circumstances that would be true.”

  Was I being accused of kidnapping now? “Maybe he had a rendezvous,” I muttered with an edge to my voice. “Not even snow, nor sleet, nor the murder of his intended will keep our Richard from his appointed bed.”

  He was scowling as he held the door open for me. “This isn’t a joke.”

  “I wasn’t joking.”

  He followed me into my office and sat in my client chair. “Mind if I sit?”

  I wondered why he bothered to ask. I shrugged. “What makes you think Rich is missing?”

  He stretched out his long legs and loosened his tie. “He was supposed to be at the precinct this morning. He never showed. When we checked, it looked as though he hadn’t been home. His car’s still in the lot.”

  That was strange. I began to feel uneasy.

  “No one seems to know where he is.”

  I stayed on my feet. It was a power thing. “Ask Dot Shea. She makes sure he checks in with her twenty times a day.”

  “She didn’t show up for work today either. And she doesn’t answer her phone.”

  I couldn’t see Rich involved with Dot, but I said
it anyway. “Well, there’s your answer. Check the motels.”

  “Timing’s lousy.”

  “We’re talking about a man who left his family on Christmas Eve. He flunked Timing a year and a half ago.”

  “Want to tell me about your meeting?”

  ` I hesitated. “I wanted him to talk to the kids. All this is very frightening to them. So I went to the office, and...”

  “And?” he prompted.

  I could tell he knew about the fight. Gus must’ve given him an earful. “We had a...disagreement.”

  Something faintly related to a smile pushed its way past the white line. “I hear it was the War of the Roses.”

  “I went there because I thought he might come up with something useful. Things got out of control.”

  “Playing detective?”

  He was amused in that damned superior male way. I wanted to punch him.

  “Listen, I’m not stupid. You people think I’m guilty. If I don’t find out who killed Erica, you’ll probably throw me in jail.”

  “Every time I come to this office, it’s not to arrest you, Mrs. Burn--” He glanced at my nameplate. “Which do you prefer? Burnham or Carlin?”

  “Why don’t you just call me Carrie?” I said. “It works with both names.”

  Method to my madness. You can’t call anyone you believe to be a murderer by their given name.

  He shrugged and said awkwardly, “Well—-Carrie, it doesn’t look good, your husband disappearing just now.”

  “Not good for whom?”

  “He was advised to stay put. The fact that he took off...” He let the sentence hang.

  From out of the corner of my eye, I watched him as he absentmindedly spun the spiral I keep on my desk for clients who don’t know what to do with their hands. “He’s probably not thinking clearly. When I saw him, he was pretty upset.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “I wasn’t in love with Erica.”

  The spiral spun around and around. “Did you know about the row in the minister’s study?”

  “Rich had a row with the minister?”

  “With his intended.”

  At least all hadn't been peachy-keen in paradise. “Over what?”

  “He wanted her to sign a prenuptial.”