“Gee,” Rick said with a smile in his voice, “I don’t think we’ll have the manpower available to get to that until at least eight-thirty tomorrow. You have a good night now, ma’am, and tell Joey I said hey.” He disconnected, and I went to take my shower in a much happier frame of mind. Then I turned the bedroom phone ringer off and went to sleep.
By 7:45 the next morning, my caller ID indicated that Prestige Property Management had called twice more. Joey and I stood in the driveway, giggling conspiratorially as the tractor’s diesel engine warmed up. Mary came out in her bathrobe to see what was going on, and her eyes gleamed with satisfaction as I recounted the events of the previous evening. Joey gave me a hug, climbed up into the driver’s seat and released the tractor’s brakes. Slowly, he eased the big truck into the street and up-shifted noisily several times en route to The Birches’ entrance. I had begged him to lean on the air horn just once, but he wouldn’t do it. Roger Peterson, my other neighbor, stood at his front door, sipping a mug of tea and looking interested but not a whit upset. In contrast, Edna Philpott had passed upset and gone directly to apoplectic. Clad in a chenille bathrobe, she stood rigidly on her front porch and watched in disbelief as Joey escaped into the morning, ticketless.
Mary and I high-fived in my driveway. “Mom and trucker, one, condo police, zero,” I grinned. We waved to Edna and returned to our respective units to prepare for whatever the day might bring.
Seven
Although Girouard’s body had been autopsied, it had not been released pending receipt of the toxicology findings. Nevertheless, his family had decided, with the full support of his partners, to proceed posthaste with a memorial service open to all who wished to attend. They might not be able to get Girouard into the ground just yet, but they could dispense with the other rituals required following the death of a prominent local attorney.
Since Girouard was a lapsed Roman Catholic, and his status absolution-wise was more than a little iffy, it was thought best to avoid religious trappings for this occasion. Harold Karp and his staff worked feverishly to pull everything together on such short notice. They booked the spacious Connecticut Room on the second floor of the Hilton Hotel diagonally across Trumbull Street from the Metro Building. They requested a string quartet from the University of Hartford’s Hartt School of Music, and the players scrambled to prepare a few suitably somber pieces. They released announcements of the date and time to the press and ordered a dignified luncheon buffet to follow the service. Finally, they put the firm’s most talented associates to work writing the eulogies that both Bellanfonte and Bolasevich were obligated to deliver, deciding it was just too risky to invite attendees to offer spontaneous remembrances.
By Sunday morning the area in front of the Connecticut Room’s stage was banked with a nose-numbing assortment of floral tributes. Harold Karp, as befitted the president of BGB’s Horticultural Society, had personally prepared a dazzling arrangement for the foot of the speaker podium. Although the service wasn’t slated to begin until 10:00, a line of limos and town cars formed at the hotel’s entrance soon after 9:00 and never dwindled as everyone who was anyone arrived early to deliver their prepared platitudes to the assembled press. Politicians and legal colleagues joined family members, clients, and every single BGB staffer who could crawl or walk there for the best show in town.
Margo, Strutter and I clustered around Ingrid on a bench in the little park on the I-84 overpass across Church Street. Wearing drab dresses, sunglasses and hats, we were as unremarkable as we could make ourselves. Our view of the Hilton’s entrance was unobstructed. Peering discreetly through a pair of diminutive opera glasses, Strutter and Margo murmured the names of the people they recognized and offered general descriptions of those they didn’t. I wrote it all down in a little notebook that fit into my black leather clutch purse.
At a few minutes past 10:00 we joined the last group of stragglers entering the hotel and rode behind them on the escalator to the second floor auditorium. The doors remained open, which was a good thing, since the aroma of funeral flowers was overpowering. Quietly, we slipped into the crowded room and found seats in the back row just as the service began. As the usual eulogies and tributes were spouted by half a dozen of Girouard’s partners and business colleagues, I wondered at the absence of family speakers and turned to ask Ingrid, who sat beside me, about his relatives. I was unaware of any kin except his wife.
When I saw Ingrid’s face, I decided to save my questions for later. In contrast to the public figures who sat in the front of the room, dabbing ostentatiously and unnecessarily at their eyes with tissues, Ingrid was sincerely grieving, and why not? So absorbed had I been in the murder of a man with whom I was barely acquainted that I had failed to appreciate Ingrid’s feelings. Of course she grieved. She had been involved with Alain Girouard on a daily basis for years. They had shared triumphs and failures and gossip and jokes. They knew each other’s preferences and dislikes. She knew how he liked his coffee, whose calls he preferred not to take, and his taste in aftershave cologne.
Yet here she was, about to be ostracized by the firm to which she had devoted her loyalty and energies. She was suspected of the murder of the very man to whom she had catered for six long years. However that relationship had deteriorated recently, it had at one time been good. I patted her hand.
Looking around as discreetly as possible, I wondered how many other women in the crowd were genuinely grieving. Strutter had come up with the names of five women the other evening, and many of them were likely in attendance today. I wouldn’t recognize them, but Strutter and Margo would. I would ask them later. It seemed to me that most women would opt to stay away from the very public memorial service of a married man with whom they had once had a fling, but maybe not. A woman who still had strong feelings for Girouard, whether of affection or anger, might well make an appearance. In fact, when taken to the extreme, those feelings could be considered motives for murder.
As the speakers droned predictably on, my attention wandered to the front of the room where Vera Girouard sat in the front row on the aisle, as I did in my row. By leaning out just a bit, I had a fairly unobstructed view and took advantage of the opportunity to size up the only person who appeared at this point to have more motivation than Ingrid to murder Alain Girouard. A sleek, well-dressed fifty-something, Vera looked sad but completely composed, and I congratulated her silently for refraining from what would have had to be a hypocritical display of bereavement. She sat calmly, hands in her lap, as Bolasevich replaced Bellanfonte at the podium. The professional accolades, meticulously researched and prepared by the best writers among BGB’s latest crop of first years, continued to pour forth. If even half of what Girouard’s partners said were true, he had been an exceptional litigator.
Craning my neck as unobtrusively as possible, I peered at the occupants of the chairs next to Vera, but I could see very little of their faces, and family resemblances eluded me. The woman seated to Vera’s right was of an appropriate age to be a sister, but I saw no young people who might qualify as offspring. A very elderly man and woman, who appeared to be a couple, seemed to complete the family row.
My attention had seriously wandered, and I was startled by a smattering of nervous titters among the audience members. Bolasevich had apparently attempted to lighten the somber proceedings with what he thought was an amusing anecdote. I glanced at Vera to gauge her reaction, but her only acknowledgment of Bolasevich’s gaffe was a sidelong glance at her seatmate, who smiled briefly and rolled her eyes.
At last Bolasevich abandoned the podium, and Karp took his place to inform those in attendance that Alain’s family very much appreciated their sharing this time with them and would be pleased if they would join them for coffee and a light lunch in the Nutmeg Room immediately following the service. The Hartt School musicians moved smoothly into a Bach recessional. Bellanfonte and Bolasevich escorted Vera Girouard and her companion down the long aisle. Karp escorted the female half of the elderly couple, an
d the old gentleman followed. The rest of the rows emptied from front to rear at a decorous pace befitting the occasion. By the time we were able to make our exit, the lines at both the men’s and women’s rooms were discouraging.
As usual, practical Margo had the solution. “I don’t know about y’all, but I have no intention of standin’ in this line for half an hour waitin’ to pee when BGB’s restrooms are empty right across the street.”
“Great idea,” agreed Strutter, and they led the way back down the escalator and out the hotel’s front doors. The noontime heat was oppressive, and we hurried across Trumbull Street and half a block down Church Street to the Metro Building’s side entrance, which was the only one used on weekends. It wasn’t until we were in the air-conditioned lobby that it occurred to me to check who was on the security desk, and my stomach flip-flopped uncomfortably.
“Don’t worry, you’re off the hook for the moment,” Strutter announced, reading my mind. “Charles isn’t on again until the third shift.”
“Okay,” I said meekly, knowing I had it coming. At the earliest opportunity, I promised myself, I would present myself to Strutter’s nephew and eat my portion of crow. For the moment, I produced my official building pass and dutifully recorded its number in the sign-in book. Strutter, Margo and Ingrid did the same, and we proceeded to the nearest express elevator, which delivered us to the thirty-eighth floor with terrifying swiftness. The easiest access to BGB during weekend hours was through the reception area, which was staffed until 2:30.
“Hey, Quen,” I greeted the receptionist, an attractive young woman who, like Charles, was a college student during her off hours. “Having a nice quiet day to study?”
“Not at the moment,” she replied. “I guess that memorial service must be over, because you’re the second bunch of people to come through here in the last five minutes.”
“Bathroom shortage at the Hilton, hon,” Margo informed her. “Who else is here, so we’ll know who not to get caught talkin’ about?”
Quen consulted her list, an informal version of the sign-in log in the lobby. “Well, Karp was leading the pack. He had Mrs. Girouard in tow, some woman friend of hers named Grace, and Girouard’s parents, who look about a hundred years old. I was a little nervous about them going down the stairs. I made a note that a party of four non-employees came in, but since Karp was escorting them, I didn’t pay that much attention, frankly. All I know is they went down to thirty-seven.”
“We’re about to do the same,” said Margo, hopping from foot to foot, “after we use the facilities on this floor, that is.”
“No can do,” said Quen. “Somebody jammed up one of the toilets, and I’m waiting for maintenance to come and clear it up. The whole place is flooded.”
Margo groaned and made a beeline for the stairs. The rest of us followed. The door at thirty-seven was stuck, as usual. Margo wrenched it open, and she and Strutter headed directly across the aisle to the women’s room. Ingrid and I, having abstained from coffee before the service and therefore not quite so pressed, took a detour to her desk so that she could check her telephone messages from Friday afternoon.
The service had left us somber, and the thick carpeting in the aisles silenced our footsteps, so the two women standing just outside the taped-off door to Girouard’s office didn’t hear us coming. As we got closer I saw that it was Vera, locked in a close embrace with her friend Grace, whose back was to us. Instinctively, I put out a hand to halt Ingrid behind me, and we both stopped and stared, unable to believe what we were seeing. This was no hug between friends. This was the full-bodied, hair-stroking intimacy of an established love.
Ingrid and I froze, trapped between our unwillingness to witness such a private moment and our inability to withdraw without making ourselves known. With Grace still murmuring in her ear, Vera opened her eyes and saw us. Before any of us could say anything, we heard Karp’s voice as he came down the aisle from the men’s room with Girouard’s father. Vera and Grace stepped away from each other, and Vera smoothed her hair before greeting her father-in-law serenely.
“All set, gentlemen?” she inquired. “I was just about to check on Martha.” She gestured in our direction. “Hello, Ingrid. I’d like you to meet my longtime friend, Grace Eckersley. Grace, this is Alain’s assistant, Ingrid Torvaldson. I’m afraid I don’t know your companion.”
With a visible effort, Ingrid pulled herself together. “Kate. Kate Lawrence, Donatello Bellanfonte’s assistant. Kate, this is Vera Girouard.”
I met Vera’s extended hand with my own. Her fingers were as cool as her demeanor.
“I’m so very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Girouard,”
I said. “I didn’t know your husband well, but I know he will be missed.” I noticed that her lipstick was smeared slightly and wondered if I should point it out. Probably not.
“Thank you, Ms. Lawrence. Harold, I wonder if you would finish the introductions while Grace and I find the women’s room. I’m getting a little concerned about Martha finding her way back.”
Vera led the way down the aisle, and Karp introduced Ingrid and me to Girouard’s father, who was understandably bemused and distracted. Karp seemed a little perplexed about our presence at BGB until we explained about the long lines and Ingrid’s wish to check on her telephone messages, since we had left the office early on Friday.
“I appreciate your conscientiousness, Ms. Torvaldson,” he oozed insincerely, “but I’m sure that under the circumstances, any callers will understand a delayed response. I suggest that you let it go until Monday. We should all be getting back across the street now.” As he spoke, he relocated himself between Ingrid and her desk and discreetly but firmly ushered our little flock back toward the elevators.
Margo and Strutter were standing outside the women’s room door, making awkward conversation with Vera, Grace and Alain’s mother. They were clearly relieved to see us, but Karp looked just as annoyed to see them as he had been to see Ingrid and me.
Karp used his personal passkey to allow us to enter the elevator lobby on thirty-seven, instead of trooping back up the stairs to exit through reception, and in moments, we were back on the first floor. He held the door open for the Girouard party, nodded curtly to us, and set a brisk pace back to the Hilton. He was probably worried that the crowd would eat up the firm’s profits for the month while waiting for the receiving line to form.
We hung back a little, then walked slowly down Church Street as Ingrid and I filled in the other two on what we had witnessed between Vera and Grace. It wasn’t easy to do, since Strutter kept clapping her hands to her head and saying things like, “No way!” and “Get out!”
Margo remained uncharacteristically silent until we reached Trumbull Street, and then she got a fit of the giggles, drawing censorious stares from the nicotine addicts among the mourners, who stood outside the Hilton’s main entrance, sucking furiously on their cigarettes.
“Do you mean to tell me that all this time the great lover’s wife was cheatin’ on him with a woman? Whooeee, talk about psychological castration.” She exploded into more giggles and started to cough.
Ingrid slapped her on the back with more vigor than was absolutely necessary but made no comment.
“I don’t understand,” Strutter said with genuine perplexity. “Why not just divorce quietly and go their separate ways? It wouldn’t be the first time a woman discovered a same-sex preference rather late in the game.”
“Maybe Vera liked the respectability of being married to a prominent lawyer,” Ingrid offered. “She attended every social function with him and entertained beautifully, I’m told, although I was never invited to their home. She seemed to love decorating their house, and she certainly enjoyed wearing beautiful clothes. That much I knew from the bills Alain would ask me to pay from time to time.”
“Unless I miss my guess,” I chimed in, “our Vera wasn’t into playing the field. I think she and Grace have been an item for quite some time. What’s more, I think Alain knew it a
nd didn’t care. All in all, it was a perfect arrangement. He had a lovely and capable wife to show off publicly, and he got to indulge his taste for a variety of bedmates—sorry, Ingrid—without risking any serious entanglements, since all of his partners knew up front that he was thoroughly and publicly married. Vera enjoyed the money and public position of being his wife while sharing an intimate relationship with the woman of her choice. She and Grace probably enjoyed the fact that Vera was perceived to be the betrayed little woman, when the fact is, it was a toss-up as to who was betraying whom.”
“Of course, we’re just surmisin’ that all this is so,” Margo reminded us. “It might be true, and it might not. Maybe Vera did Alain in so she could get all the money and run away with her lover. Or maybe Grace got sick and tired of Vera bein’ in the closet and disposed of the filthy man to force her into comin’ out into the open with their relationship. Let’s just keep our eyes and our minds open.”
We entered the hotel lobby and trudged toward the Nutmeg Room to pay our respects formally and, more importantly, to be seen doing it. Strutter and Margo had the additional assignment of determining which of Girouard’s previous paramours were present and which were missing. It was barely noon, and we had already made some pretty interesting discoveries. Who knew what else the day might bring? We agreed to regroup in the main lobby of the hotel in an hour and dispersed to see what we could see.
After exchanging pleasantries about the service with a few of the other secretaries, Ingrid and I collected glasses of iced tea and positioned ourselves against a handy wall. Having already expressed sympathy to the widow, we didn’t feel obligated to go through the receiving line. However, we had a clear view of all those who did, and we watched Vera and Grace intently over the rims of our glasses for additional clues to their relationship. There were none to be seen, however. The two women presented calm faces to those who approached to offer a word of condolence. Vera introduced Grace as an old school friend. After half an hour or so, Grace suggested that the elder Girouards be seated and ushered them to nearby wing chairs into which they sank with obvious relief.
Waiting for Armando (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) Page 8