“You gotta be kidding me,” Fletcher said.
“Kidding?” I asked. “Kidding about what?”
“Philip got religion?”
I could hear the derision in his voice, and I felt defensive for June’s sake. “Well, that’s what his mother said. And she would know. She is his mother.”
Fletcher snorted.
“Hey, why so cynical?” I asked. “Why don’t you believe it?”
“His mommy said so?” After a bark of laughter, Fletcher sighed. “Sorry, Mrs. C., but you wouldn’t believe how many people’s mothers cover for them. And how many people claim religious conversion. Or lie to get something. Now, granted, he probably didn’t have anything to gain from this, so it’s possible. But. . .”
“I’m sorry, too,” I said.
“Sorry for what?”
“I’m sorry that you’re so cynical. Really, Corporal Fletcher. What a horrible way to live.”
He laughed again, and this time it sounded genuine. “That’s what I like about you. You tell me exactly what you’re thinking.” He sighed again. “You’re right. About the cynicism. It’s my job that does it. I see the bad side of people all the time. You wouldn’t believe the stupid stuff people lie about.”
“I can imagine.” And I really could understand, given my brief foray into crime. Especially since I’d lied one time, too.
“I’ll tell you what.” He chuckled. “Since Philip is so tragically dead, I’ll believe his mommy and give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“That’s just slightly insensitive,” I said primly. “I think it must be a form of cop humor. A lot of people wouldn’t find that very funny, you know. Still, I’m glad you can make an exception to the way you usually think and believe a dead man, but don’t strain yourself.”
That just made him laugh harder, and I joined him. “You, Mrs. C., are exactly what I needed at the moment. And while we’re at it—how about you call me Nick? Seeing as how we’re working together and are going to be related by friendship.”
I felt warm inside. “That is probably one of the nicest things you’ve ever said to me. And I’d be honored. You can call me Trish.”
“I can try, but I think Mrs. C. suits you better.”
I heard his car radio in the background. “Listen, gotta go. And the other things you told me today? Good stuff. Keep me posted, okay? Anything you hear. It might not seem like much, but you never know.”
“You got it,” I said and clicked my phone off.
How true a statement was that? Sometimes it was the smallest detail, the quirkiest turn of events that led to a killer.
Shortly after, bookplate in hand, I showed up at Eunice Matthews’ doublewide.
She must have been waiting for me, because she opened the door before I could knock.
“Trish Cunningham?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Eunice. You made it here quickly. Please come in.” The tiny birdlike woman stepped back for me to walk by. Her dark hair was tightly permed and curled close to her scalp. I could see a very faint resemblance to her son in her nose and mouth, but they both looked a lot better on him than they did on her. And she didn’t look sick to me, but what did I know?
Inside, I was immediately overwhelmed by the smell of floral air freshener. She pointed to a small living area just next to the foyer. I looked around and felt like I had stepped into a peach-orchard explosion. The couch was a floral peach pattern, the carpet a darker shade of the color. Even the flowers in the large print hanging above the sofa were peach. The only relief came in the little bits of brown and green accent colors and the wood of the other furniture, including a glass case standing in a prominent corner of the room. That was filled with a collection of angels, mostly fat little winged babies—with peach-tinted skin.
I dropped onto the sofa and took the bookplate from my purse. As Eunice passed me and headed for a peach-colored lounge chair, I handed it to her with Abbie’s regards.
She took it from my hand and sat with a smile.
“Oh my,” she said. “How exciting! This is very thoughtful. Clark told me that he’d asked you for it. He’s such a good boy. Always thinking of his mama.”
So Clark had told her it was his idea? I eyed my hostess. Her blue cotton pants had a knife-edge crease in them, and the sleeves on her matching blue-checked shirt had the same. She wore white socks and black loafers. Everything about her screamed “neat and tidy.”
“He went to that book signing to get me an autographed copy of the book, but he said there was a line and then he had to leave because someone he knew needed help changing a tire.” She smiled. “He’s such a thoughtful boy. He bought me all this when he was working in New York, you know.” She lifted her hand and pointed at everything in the room.
I wondered which of them was the interior designer. Still, I had to admit the decor somehow suited her.
“Well now, look at me. Look at my manners. Let me get you some coffee.” She stood and walked to the tidy kitchen where the peach decor was continued in the accents and wall color.
My mind had gone totally blank. I wondered if it was shock, perhaps as a result of the color detonation surrounding me.
“Clark loves my coffee. He thinks it’s better than anything, including the coffee at Doris’s Doughnuts, and you know everyone loves hers, me included.”
I remembered how Clark had complimented my mother’s coffee, and I wondered if Eunice knew that I was Doris’s daughter. I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t ask.
She asked me how I wanted my coffee, fixed it for me, and brought it to me. The peach-colored mug said Tomorrow Is Another Day on the side.
“Clark gave me these mugs.”
I made the appropriate complimentary noises and took a sip of the coffee. It was bad. Like dishwater.
“Good, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Mmm,” I said so I wouldn’t have to lie outright. “So I understand that Clark only recently moved here?”
A smile lit her face. “Yes. I was never so glad in my life. I wanted him to get away from the city. Now he’s here to be near me.”
She seemed fine to me.
“So Clark lived in New York City, then?”
“Oh yes.” She took a deep breath and clasped her hands together. “I suppose you’ve heard what he was doing there.”
“You mean. . .modeling work?” I wasn’t sure exactly how to say what I’d heard his job was.
“Yes.” She beamed. “He was a successful model. Always sending me money.”
“Did you, um, see his work?”
She waved a hand. “I’ve seen some pictures in his portfolio. He said those were the best.”
I thought about what Angelica had said a few days ago. Something about how long it takes mothers to see the truth about their children.
“He’s settling in nicely,” Eunice said. “Making nice friends. Better than some of the people he knew in the city.” Her mouth pursed in disapproval. “I know he always adopts people and tries to take care of them. He’d bring them with him to visit me, but I didn’t like them.”
I murmured something sympathetic to encourage her to talk. Not that she needed much encouragement.
She hopped up from her chair, once again reminding me of a little bird. She snatched a framed picture from a shelf in the corner and held it out to me. Somehow I must have missed it in the peach overload.
“That’s one of his best shots.”
“Very nice.” At last, I was telling the truth, because Clark did look good. Classic movie-star kind of looks. In the image of Cary Grant and Clark Gable. I handed the picture to her, and she put it back on the shelf. Then she perched on the edge of her chair again.
“I was so glad he moved here to get away from the city and be near me.”
I put my cup on the end table after several brave attempts to drink the coffee. “Well, I’m happy for you that he’s living here.”
“Yes, but I’m worried about him. He’s having problems with compl
aints at work.”
“Complaints? What kind of complaints?”
Her chin wiggled in indignation. “He told me about how that nasty woman at the pet store called his boss and complained that he was breaking open bags of cat litter. She probably did it and just blamed him, but he got in trouble.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. I thought about how charming Clark had been to Jaylene. It had all been an act.
She shook her head. “I’m sure it couldn’t have been as bad as she said, although I did pick cat litter out of the carpet in his bedroom for five minutes.”
Cat litter. Again.
Eunice clasped her hands together. “Clark is getting involved quickly in the community. He’s taking some classes at the junior college to improve himself. He’s gone out hunting with some of the men he met on the job. He’s also involved with some activities at the YMCA now. Helping underprivileged youth.”
That surprised me. He hadn’t hit me as a philanthropic kind of guy. But the thing I was most interested in was the hunting. “Does he have his own guns?”
“Oh my, well, they’re his father’s. He and his father used to go hunting, so this is like a return to his childhood.”
Clark just moved up on my suspect list.
“He also has a very nice girlfriend,” his mother said.
I stared at her. “He does?” I waited for what I knew was coming.
“Yes. Very pretty and successful. Her name is Linda.”
Chapter Thirteen
On Friday morning, I was at loose ends after updating my clue notebook with a few notations about Clark.
Like the fact that he hunted and was taking classes. I also noted that he was an actor. Saying whatever the person he was talking to wanted to hear. That wasn’t really a clue. Most people do that to a degree, but people with an agenda are manipulative. So are criminals.
Sherry called me between classes. “Hey,” I said.
“Dad isn’t telling me very much.” She sounded so down that I wished she were with me so I could hug her.
“There’s not a lot to tell, but things are progressing.” I tried to sound cheery.
After a moment of silence, she sighed. “You don’t have to fib to make me feel better.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I wish I had more to tell you.”
“Can we go over your clues one more time?” she asked.
I obliged her.
“Mrs. C., I know you’re trying hard, but this wedding has to happen. My dad hasn’t been this happy in a long time. And neither have I. We both need Abbie.” Her voice broke.
I felt tears in my eyes along with the weight of my failure so far.
I agreed. We both hung up feeling worse than we had when we started. I looked at my suspect list again. I had to find out more about Hayley and Leighton. I picked up the cell phone and did something I rarely do. I called my mother-in-law.
“Patricia.” I could tell by the tone of her voice that she was as surprised to hear from me as I was that I actually called her. “Is something wrong?”
Guilt slapped me. If I needed another indication that she wasn’t the only problem in our relationship, that was it.
“Yes, everyone is fine. I have a couple of questions for you.”
“Questions?” she asked quickly. “What about?”
“I’m just curious. What do you know about Leighton and Hayley?”
She paused before she answered. “Enough. Hayley is a good friend of mine.”
“Well, how long have you known them?”
“For nine months. Since they moved here.”
“So you know nothing about them before that?”
“Well, certainly I do. Hayley and I are friends. Patricia, what is this about?”
“I was just wondering.”
She didn’t say anything, and I knew the wheels in her head were turning. But before I could figure out a good way to distract her, I heard her quick intake of breath. “You’re trying to solve the mystery of who killed Philip Grenville, aren’t you? Because your friend was arrested.”
I had to hand it to her. My mother-in-law might be a snob, but she’s a smart one. She is, after all, the mother of the smartest man I know.
“You can’t think that Hayley or Leighton had anything to do with this,” she said. “They don’t even know Abbie.”
“Yes, well, I saw Leighton with someone who does know Abbie. And Philip. I have to follow up on all the leads.”
“Well, I’m sure you’re wrong. You’re wasting your time.” The frost in Angelica’s voice would have discouraged most anyone else, but not me. I had to find out more information. I felt a little prick of conscience and made an impulsive decision.
“Would you like to go with me and Sammie to look at her kitten? Maybe tomorrow, if Hayley is available?”
In the silence after my question, I realized I’d surprised her. That’s when I knew I needed to make some changes. It was time to be an adult and try to cross the bridge of hostility and reach out to my mother-in-law. Then it would be her choice to accept me or not.
My offer distracted her from my questions about Leighton. We agreed on a time, and she said she’d check with Hayley and let me know if it wouldn’t work. After I hung up, I went to the kitchen and dropped into a chair. My overly stuffed purse sat on the table. I needed a distraction, and a good one was sitting right in front of me.
I dumped the contents on the table, pulled the trash can next to me, and began sorting. Pens from coins. Important receipts from old grocery lists. I was about to drop what looked like an old list into the trash when I realized it wasn’t my writing. And I didn’t recognize the torn paper.
I laid it on the table in front of me and smoothed it out. The scrawl was strong and looked masculine. And it was only partial: . . .to meet with you. We have to talk. It’s important. Can you meet me Sunday afternoon at the store?
It was the signature that made my heart flip over.
Philip Grenville.
Sunday afternoon. When Philip got his black eye. Where had this come from? I banged my fist softly against my forehead. Not from Sammie. She never added her collections to my purse, just kept them in her pockets. Store? Then I remembered how Chris had knocked my purse over in Adler’s Pet Emporium. Jaylene had scooped up stuff off the floor at her feet. After Henry had rifled through the drawer under the cash register. I’d seen some of the papers from that drawer fall to the floor. Could this note have come from the Adlers’ store?
I didn’t have time to think about it because my cell phone rang. I actually remembered to check the caller ID and wished I hadn’t because suddenly I wanted to throw up.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Cunningham, this is Detective Reid.”
“Yes?” I asked.
“I wonder if you could come talk to me at the state police barracks, say, in an hour?”
“All right,” I said, dread tightening my stomach. She explained where the barracks were.
I pushed the End button on the phone and picked up the scrap of paper I’d found in my purse. I knew a responsible citizen would give this to Detective Reid. But I didn’t like her; therefore, I didn’t want to help her. I punched Nick Fletcher’s number into my phone.
“Hey, Mrs. C.,” he said as a greeting. “I’m in the middle of something. Is this important?”
“Yes.” In a rush, I told him about the scrap of paper and going to see the detective.
“Give it to her,” he said without hesitation. “It could help Abbie.”
His words were like a slap. I was so busy not liking Detective Reid that I’d failed to think of the bigger picture. “Okay. I’ll do that.”
“Listen, anything could help right now.” He took a deep breath. “I gotta tell ya, Mrs. C., things aren’t lookin’ so good for Abbie right now.”
I dropped Chris off at Gladys’s house. Corporal Fletcher’s last words kept rolling through my mind as I pulled up to the state police barracks. I felt a tremor o
f nerves as I approached the door.
Inside, I was immediately escorted to a plain white interview room. Unlike the sheriff ’s office, this room had seen much better days. I was surprised that Detective Reid didn’t keep me waiting long. She bustled in, carrying a folder, a pen, and a bottle of water.
“Can I get you anything before we begin?” she asked. “Like some water or a cup of coffee?”
“No, thanks. I just had lunch. But before we begin, I have something to give you.” I pulled the scrap of paper from a pocket in my purse and handed it to her.
She glanced at it, her eyes widening as she read it. Then she looked back at me. “Where did you get this?”
I explained everything while she watched me with emotionless eyes.
When I was finished, I said, “I’d just found it when you called me.”
“Mmm.” She sounded like she didn’t believe me, but it was hard to tell, since she always sounded like that. “I’d just like to cover a few additional points today.”
“Okay.” I sat back to wait for the conversational hail to begin.
She opened the file, slipped the scrap of paper I’d given her inside, and turned to another page. Then she looked up at me.
She tapped a stubby-nailed finger on her notes. “Your mother was overheard to have said something about shooting Philip.”
Of all the things I thought Detective Reid would say, that wasn’t one of them. My surprise must have been evident on my face. Her eyes narrowed. I wanted to kick myself. One point for her. Zero for me.
“When was that?” I asked, even though I remembered very clearly because it had bothered me at the time.
She glanced at her notes again and back at me. “The day before Philip was shot.”
“My mother says a lot of things, including that one day I’m going to kill her. You can’t take what she says seriously.”
“Does your father own a rifle?” Another zinger. And she got me again.
“Doesn’t everyone around here?” I volleyed.
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