Deadly Anniversaries

by Marcia Muller

  “Fresh prey.”

  * * *

  Harry’s hobby ended that night. So did his passion for meeting new people, hearing the stories they had to tell. He keeps to himself now, avoids strangers as much as possible, spends his evenings on the road and at home by himself, or in the company of a few old acquaintances.

  Slattery’s Oasis was his last dive bar.

  * * *

  CASE OPEN

  BY CAROLYN HART

  Peggy shivered despite her thick cashmere sweater. The temperature chilled after dark in August along the rugged Pacific Northwest coast, the tantalizing warmth of the day forgotten. Fog hid the cliff’s edge and the steep wooden stairs to the narrow rocky beach far below. Surf boomed, crashing against jutting rocks and massive boulders. She looked toward the stairs even though the wooden railing wasn’t visible.

  Time didn’t help. Evelyn had died a year ago next Friday, but Peggy’s feeling of isolation—of suspicion—worsened every day. Damn the sheriff. Of course Evelyn’s fall was an accident. She remembered the sheriff’s cold gray eyes. “Sorry, Ms. Prescott, there’s no way to determine what happened to your sister.” How horrid it had been to read the story in this week’s the Beacon: Sheriff Roger Chavez announced the investigation into the death of Evelyn Marlow remains open. Sheriff Chavez said, “We are unable to determine whether Ms. Marlow died in an accidental fall, committed suicide, or was a homicide victim.”

  When Peggy read the article, fury boiled inside. How dare he do this to her? “Homicide victim.” And anyone who knew Evelyn would scoff at the idea of suicide. Cheerful Evelyn. Happy Evelyn. Evelyn with scads of friends and men who loved her and lots of money from two ex-husbands. Everything fell into Evelyn’s lap without any effort. She flashed that sunny smile and gave a gurgle of bewitching husky laughter and everything came her way. A year ago Friday.

  Peggy listened to the boom as tons of water slammed against the narrow strip of beach at the base of the cliff, swirling over boulders, foaming around jagged pinnacles. Peggy’s jaws ached. She concentrated on relaxing the tight muscles.

  She wasn’t imagining the problem. The latest snub was the worst. She’d chaired the committee for the gala for three years. This year not a word to her. She’d received a letter about a meeting, but she wasn’t in charge. And there were the Smiths last Sunday at the club brunch, shying away from her after a sidelong glance. Some clients had left, as well.

  Well, at least now she’d faced the problem: that people didn’t want to have anything to do with her, and perhaps with others who were here that night. Did the gala committee and the Smiths actually think she pushed her sister over the cliff? Or if not thinking of her as a murderess, they felt uncomfortable, constrained, wondering what happened that night on the terrace, believing there was something unexplained about Evelyn’s fall. Anyone could have an accident, including Evelyn. Evelyn fell. That’s all there was to it.

  No one said anything to her face, but she knew the whispers were out there. Did Evelyn jump? Was she pushed? It was intolerable. Somehow she must dispel suspicion, stop the whispers. She was good at solving problems. That’s why she won the class action suit against the mining company that so many lawyers refused to take, took the case, and won millions and millions of dollars, enough to buy this Spanish mansion atop a cliff with a gorgeous view of the Pacific.

  She would solve this problem.

  Accident, suicide, murder.

  People always thought the worst, of course. Evelyn was graceful. How could she possibly fall? Did something on the stairs make her stumble? I talked to her just the day before and she was so excited about the party. Peggy was tired of having her there. Do you suppose Peggy...

  Peggy’s jaw ached again. It wasn’t fair. Why pick on her? Anyone at the house that night could have pushed Evelyn down the steps. Any one of them. They all had their reasons. Peggy’s eyes narrowed. Any one of them. Maybe that was the way to handle it. Get them all together. It would have to be done carefully, very carefully. But she was good at imagining, good at planning. Once they were here, when they didn’t expect it, she’d tumble out reasons for Evelyn’s murder, dark and twisty, like snakes slithering from an overturned bucket. She’d give the town something to talk about. She felt a surge of satisfaction. All right, if people whispered behind their hands, she’d help them spread malign imaginings. She’d give them suspects: Buddy, Irene, Meredith, Carlson and Jill, Walt. She’d bring everything out into the open. A reunion of those present the night Evelyn fell. What happened on the terrace wouldn’t stay on the terrace. The gossip would be too juicy to contain. When the night was done, the town would know about each and every one of them.

  A sudden caw rasped against her. Only a seabird, but in it was an echo of Evelyn’s scream. So odd that no one had heard, but the surf was always loud, boom, boom, boom. The sheriff said Evelyn died at a quarter after nine. Her watch was smashed in the fall, the time caught and held forever. Peggy wondered where the watch was now. Maybe in an envelope in some kind of file at the sheriff’s office.

  She canceled all appointments for the day. She found a box of lovely cards with a single red rose against a silver background. Though she always thought fast, moved fast, she took her time. She wanted each of them to come. The notes had to be perfect.

  Peggy sat at her desk in the den and remembered that night. They’d had parties almost every Friday during the summer. Evelyn planned them, of course. Peggy was at the office. She’d missed a few working late, but they’d been fun when she attended. It was a usual evening. A fine meal. Games in the den. Wine and whiskey.

  Evelyn loved setting a beautiful table, Limoges china, fine crystal for French wine. It relieved Peggy of the chore and pleased Evelyn. Peggy sat at one end as the official hostess since it was her home. Evelyn was simply there between marriages. With her most recent divorce, she agreed to the home going to her ex-husband, accepting instead a heftier settlement. She told Peggy, “Darling, I’ve had so much fun here with you, I’ll stay a while longer. I know you don’t mind.”

  Evelyn was quite striking that night, ebony dark hair short in a jagged cut, oval face interesting rather than beautiful, mesmerizing gray eyes, pert nose, lips ready to curve into laughter, a perfect pearl necklace at her throat, a swirling gray silk dress.

  Buddy Hayes sat next to Evelyn, often leaned close. Tall, lean Buddy with his narrow uneven face, one eyebrow higher than the other, wide mouth crooked in a teasing smile, light green eyes that reminded Peggy of a cat, intent, unreadable. Buddy had been her friend first. Until Evelyn came. She hadn’t seen him in several months. She’d called twice. It would be nice to see Buddy again.

  Irene Porter, brittle, wary, full of herself. Peggy didn’t like Irene. She was witchlike, too thin, but a witch in expensive clothes, always the latest fashion, and a necklace with little ivory elephants on a heavy gold link chain. She’d taken the necklace off and passed it across to Evelyn. “My dear, just the finest ivory. Of course, it was smuggled but worth the risk. I’ll get one for you if you like.”

  Peggy spoke sharply, told them about elephants and how they could think and talk and how ivory poachers were destroying them. Softhearted Jill looked at her with tears in her eyes. “Oh please, don’t tell us. That’s so awful.” But Walt immediately checked his phone, found out how much smugglers got paid for ivory tusks, said poaching sounded like a pretty good business to him and hey they were just animals.

  Evelyn shook her head, her dark hair quivering. “Walt, you cried when George—” (her elderly basset) “—was hit by a car, so stop pretending to be a tough guy.”

  Meredith, their young bubbly cousin, often visited. That night she was thrilled because she’d started as an assistant social media manager at a big ad agency in Seattle, which had clients—Meredith told them with huge eyes—from Addis Ababa to Qatar to Iceland. She wasn’t making much money and Seattle was so expensive. She was bunking on a hous
eboat and saving up to move to an apartment. She brought a new boyfriend one weekend. On her next visit Evelyn took her aside and said lightly, “Handsome is as handsome does. Watch that one, honey. He’ll be long on promises and short on performance.”

  Then there was Carlson Carleton. Peggy frowned. Last summer she’d felt a spurt of pride—it showed her stature in the community—that a movie star came to her house often. Carlson and his wife, Jill, lived not far away. The actor wandered over on the cliff path some afternoons and challenged Evelyn to Ping-Pong and then professed great exhaustion and demanded a margarita for solace after he lost. Did his dark eyes hold longing when he gazed at Evelyn?

  Jill sometimes bounced in and had a cocktail, too. Was she keeping an eye on her husband? Evelyn and Jill had often spent an afternoon together shopping, seeking out less frequented antiques shops, craft fairs, and flea markets.

  Peggy found Carlson...odd. Almost like a papier-mâché figure. His face reflected emotions. That was it: the emotions seemed manufactured. But he was an actor. He did grave inquiry or roguish charm or affectionate rebuke beautifully. He was incredibly handsome, tawny thick hair, eyes dark as coal tar, rugged features. Jill was plain, little, and plump, with hair in golden ringlets and a sweet smile.

  Peggy had entertained very little since Evelyn’s death. She’d have to change that. Once she took care of this cloud that hung over her, she’d have dinners again. Perhaps Cousin Meredith would like to help. Actually planning meals was a bore. She could always cater. But Meredith was a gourmet cook, her specialty Italian food after a junior year abroad in Florence.

  It wasn’t long after the fireworks on the terrace ended that the group had begun to disperse. It was Jill a few minutes later who’d looked around the den and asked about Evelyn. “I didn’t see her come in.” When it became obvious Evelyn wasn’t in the house, Jill jumped up and rushed out on the terrace, calling for Evelyn. And it was Jill who looked over the parapet, saw a body sprawled on the rocks below, and collapsed in hysteria.

  Buddy, Irene, Meredith, Carlson and Jill, Walt...

  Peggy enjoyed Walt’s bearlike masculinity, his booming voice, his waspish humor, but she didn’t trust him an inch. He was a financial adviser to Evelyn. Peggy wasn’t amused when Walt boasted about the grand he “borrowed” from Evelyn for a Vegas weekend, but then won big and paid her back with interest. Peggy didn’t find jokes about mishandling money funny. Evelyn said Walt made her laugh and in today’s world that was worth an extra grand or so. Peggy was thoughtful. She knew Evelyn slept with him sometimes. Did Buddy know?

  She picked up the first card and began to write.

  * * *

  Buddy Hayes heard the clang of the mailbox on the porch. He clicked off the computer, picked up the spiral notebook with his notes. He carried with him a sense of the oppressiveness and hopelessness in Malinta Tunnel, the heat, the thud of Japanese bombs, the swirls of dust shaken loose from the tunnel walls. How many today remembered Corregidor and the fall of the Philippines in 1942? This was a movie he wanted to make. The script was almost finished. Just a few things to check.

  He opened the door, stepped onto the wooden porch. He loved this cabin, simple and remote, peaceful, a good place to work. He could afford to take a year off from teaching because of the inheritance from Evelyn. Evelyn was always telling one or another, “I’ll remember you in my will and you have to promise to smile when you think of me.” When she sprinkled the idea of largesse in her will on him, he’d grinned, given her a two-fingered salute. “Nice to know I’ll have some extra when I’m pushing eighty.” Evelyn was in her thirties, quite well, with no reason to believe she’d die soon. He imagined she’d make and remake her will a dozen times before death ever came, and he was under no illusion he would be her last love. They suited each other at the time. He liked new experiences and Evelyn was certainly that for him, a modest history professor at a junior college. He’d been surprised on her death to learn she’d added a codicil to her will and now he was, for him, a well-to-do man, money enough to buy a cottage in the hills outside Seattle, write a script he’d always wanted to write after stories his grandmother told him of her days in the tunnel.

  He pulled down the aluminum lever, grabbed the mail. Catalogs. A letter from his sister. Two credit card bills. He frowned when he saw a square envelope, heavy thick paper, his name in Peggy’s distinctive printing, her return address. A quick rip, a glance at the rose against a silver backdrop.

  Dear Buddy,

  I’d looked forward to hosting a wedding on the terrace for you and Evelyn. I wish I could peel back the sad day when that dream ended and when I lost a sister who was always my best friend.

  Although anniversaries are hard, especially anniversaries of heartbreak, I know you will want to lift a glass of champagne in Evelyn’s memory.

  Everyone who was there that evening will be coming at eight to lift a toast to Evelyn. We can focus on what was fine and good for her.

  We also—and I am very sorry to mention a dark reality—may wish to share what has happened to each of us since the sheriff left open the investigation into her death. I’m afraid there are whispers of murder. I hope together we can find a way to stop that kind of gossip.

  Sadly—Peggy

  The back of his neck prickled. The line from Macbeth, “Something wicked this way comes,” hung in his mind. Pine needles rustled. A squirrel chittered. Buddy walked slowly inside.

  * * *

  Irene Porter used a part-time secretarial service, but she sorted her own mail at the gallery. She didn’t want anyone else handling letters, seeing correspondence. That was one of Irene’s rules. She neither sent nor received emails or texts related to what she thought of as special transactions. Letters came from all around the world. She dealt with sophisticated correspondents. Usually there would be a general discussion of a particular artist. Nothing overt. And then a suggested meeting, say at the Pike Place Market or a game at T-Mobile Field. From there, possibly a deal. Or not.

  She flipped rapidly through the envelopes, stopped. A rip.

  Dear Irene,

  Evelyn admired your expertise in art and several times shared with me insights about your amazing ability to offer customers once-in-a-lifetime acquisitions.

  I know you recall her with appreciation. Though saddened by her absence, I know you will want to join us to remember her Friday night on the anniversary of her death. Please come at eight and we will toast her memory.

  We also may wish to address the status of the investigation into her death. The case remains open.

  Until then—Peggy

  Irene didn’t need to check the calendar. Evelyn died a year ago. Just in time, actually. Who would have thought Evelyn, always so frivolous, would question the provenance of a painting—tell her with a smile that they’d likely been swindled, must contact the police?

  A crinkle. Irene looked down. The card was crumpled in her hand, crumpled into a tight hard ball.

  * * *

  Meredith nodded approval at the mirror. Sometimes her brown hair frizzed in the sea-moist air but today her curls were neat as little lambs in a row and glossy as could be. Maybe that new conditioner was the difference. She smoothed one cheek. Yes, she looked nice. Nice and happy. Some days simply burst around her, bright as pink and green flares in the night sky. She felt a tiny twinge. Evelyn loved setting off fireworks from the stairs. She launched them herself, lighting one and then another and another. There hadn’t been any flare evenings since Evelyn died. Meredith had drawn a little heart on her wall calendar to mark the anniversary of her death.

  Meredith still felt like a country mouse when she thought of Evelyn and Peggy. She’d grown up in a modest frame house, one of the tract houses put up after World War II. There was no money in the family until Evelyn became a sought-after model and from there segued into marriage with two rich husbands in a row and Peggy scored her class action triump
h. Evelyn was always generous. She helped Meredith’s mom in her last illness, sent Meredith to college. Meredith felt a pang. Evelyn had been right about Nate. He was only interested in her because he thought she was rich. When Evelyn turned down Meredith’s shy request for a loan for his business plan, he’d dropped her flat.

  Meredith popped up from the tufted bench, hurried to the closet for a linen jacket. She’d go down so Jeremy wouldn’t have to park. They’d have a glorious day at the zoo. She felt alive to the very tips of her toes.

  In the downstairs vestibule, she unlocked her box. She loved living in an apartment house and thanks to Evelyn’s generosity she could afford a nice one-bedroom apartment in a lovely area. She pulled out several envelopes, returned all of them to the box to get later except one, a square envelope from Peggy.

  Sunlight slanted through the vestibule transom, lighted the card.

  Dear Meredith,

  I plan a gathering here in Evelyn’s memory at 8 p.m. Friday and I’ll appreciate your help. We can share memories, offer a toast.

  I know how fond you were of Evelyn and what a difference her legacy has made for you.

  I hope also we can address an unfortunate result of the sheriff’s failure to issue a decree of accidental death. There are insinuations that someone present that evening is responsible for her fall.

  I look forward to your coming to remember Evelyn and to confront suggestions of wrongdoing.

  Until then—Peggy

  * * *

  Laura Frost wore her black hair in a short uneven cut. She was slender and moved with great energy and she loved her job serving as a buffer/go-to/handle-it assistant to Carlson and Jill Carleton. Who would ever have thought a girl from Walla Walla would end up working for a movie star! It just showed that all her odd jobs during college paid off, working for a catering firm, in a nursing home, in a lawyer’s office. She watched and listened and learned and was always willing to do her best. Now she arranged journeys, oversaw the household—including repairs and remodeling—directed the staff from the cook to the chauffeur, dealt with the accountant, made sure Jill’s frail mom was well taken care of. Whatever Carlson and Jill needed done, she would do. Her garage apartment, which was quite lovely with a marvelous ocean view, also contained her office, though she spent much of each day in the house.