“Use the firm information pull-down menu and choose the contacts page. It lists all of the partners and senior administrators and gives their home addresses and telephone numbers. The general public can’t do it from BGB’s internet site, but employees can use our passwords to get into the intranet.”
Quickly, I did as she told me and scrolled down to Karp’s name. I read the address that followed with disbelief.
“Well?” Margo called impatiently. “Where does he live?”
I stood up from the computer and came out to lean on the railing of the loft that overlooked the living room. “He lives in Glastonbury,” I said slowly. “You’re not going to believe this, but his address is 630 Hebron Avenue.”
“630 Hebron Avenue,” Margo repeated, not getting it at first. Then, “Ohhh, my.” She rolled her empty beer bottle against her forehead.
“What?” Strutter demanded, her voice echoing from the enclosed bathroom.
“What is it?” Ingrid hissed, wild with impatience.
“That’s where we were tonight,” said Margo. “630 Hebron Avenue is Esme’s address in Glastonbury. According to the BGB directory, Karp lives there.”
Margo chewed thoughtfully on a manicured nail. “We’ll have to go back,” she said. “We need to have a chat with Miss Esme, and we’ll never get an opportunity like this again. Karp will be away for the holiday weekend. I know that, because I was at the reception desk this afternoon, shooting the breeze with Quen, when he came through to tell her how he could be reached at his hotel on Martha’s Vineyard from Friday through Sunday morning.”
“I’ll call the Center first thing tomorrow,” I said. “I’ll be lucky to reach her, since I assume that even psychics make plans on holidays. Strutter, are you coming with us this time?”
Ten
My dreams that night were filled with frustration. I ran through South American jungles of poisonous vegetation, all of which endeavored to trip me or scratch me with their toxic thorns. I ran after someone I didn’t want to catch, someone who frightened me. And always, Armando hovered just out of sight, out of reach.
“Where are you?” I called over and over.
He never answered.
Waking before 6:00 with a headache, I stumbled to the kitchen to feed the cats and make coffee. I swallowed two Advil tablets with my first sip and took the rest of the mug onto the back deck to wait for a decent hour to make my telephone call to request a private audience for Margo, Strutter and me with Esme. I finished my coffee and went inside to shower and shampoo my hair, then dressed in a sleeveless cotton dress. At 8:00 I dialed the Center’s number and was surprised when Esme herself answered the telephone. I apologized if I had awakened her, but she assured me that she was an early riser, and I had not disturbed her at all. When I asked if she could spare us a few minutes later in the morning regarding some personal business, she cheerfully agreed to see us at 10:30.
In the light of day the old house seemed far less eerie than it had the previous evening. Without the moonlight and shadows of a summer evening adding to the mystical aura that had been carefully constructed around the Center for Universal Truth and its members, the house was remarkable more for its luxurious and well-tended gardens than for anything else. Margo led the way up the cement walk, made uneven by the roots of two enormous oak trees that dominated the front of the yard. Strutter followed a few paces behind.
“I can’t help it,” she had said earlier in the car. “This stuff gives me the creeps. Esme, or whatever her name really is, reminds me of the Obeah women when I lived on the island.” To Strutter there was only one island, and that was Jamaica, where she had been born and raised before emigrating to the United States. “Trust me, you do not want to mess with those ladies.”
Margo’s and my description of the channeling charade, as well as Esme’s noncommittal answers to the questions that had followed, had done nothing to alleviate Strutter’s discomfort. She trailed along behind us, looking back over her shoulder as we stepped up to the front porch. The heavy front door, with its layers of peeling white paint and tarnished brass knocker, was shabby, and a Wal-Mart variety mailbox had been nailed to the wooden molding. Several envelopes awaited pick-up by the mailman. The return address sticker on the top one, plainly visible, read, “Esther Schwartz.” I pointed it out to Margo, who covered her mouth with one hand and snickered. Esme, indeed. I lifted the knocker and rapped twice.
The clairvoyant herself answered promptly, opening the door widely and ushering us in. Dressed in simple slacks and a sleeveless blouse instead of the flowing robe of the previous evening, and without benefit of the artfully subdued lighting, she looked more like a nice little Jewish grandma than an intuitive with a personal pipeline to the Prime Creator, but hey, I could be wrong. Actually, I sort of hoped I was wrong.
“Come in, come in,” she invited us warmly, and once again, I stepped into the large, high-ceilinged front parlor. Today, it was comfortably furnished with overstuffed chairs and sofas, occasional tables covered with knickknacks, and large potted plants. The folding chairs of the previous evening had apparently been spirited away.
Esme walked through the room into an equally comfortable sitting room on the right side of the house. Enclosed almost entirely with windows, it would have been insufferable but for the continual shade provided by pine trees that towered above that side of the house. Esme seated herself in a wing chair, and we sat in a row on a facing sofa.
“I’m Kate Lawrence, and these are my friends, Margo Farnsworth and Strut-uh, Charlene Tuttle,” I made the introductions. “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice.”
“I don’t usually accept visitors on a holiday weekend, but you seemed anxious to speak with me, and I must be out later today to attend to a client in need,” said Esme, looking at me with discomfiting directness. “You were at the reading last night. I remember seeing you with Ms. Farnsworth.” She looked closely at Strutter. “But you were not. How may I help you? As I told you on the telephone, I can do a private reading only after I have had a few days in which to meditate and prepare.”
I shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t want to mislead you. We are not here for a private reading or to sign up for classes, although I have always wanted to learn how to meditate,” I added without knowing why.
Esme nodded, unperturbed. “Yes, meditation is one of life’s essential skills. It is a technique embraced by fully two-thirds of the eastern populations, yet westerners have only begun to discover its value to their lives.” She waited calmly for me to continue.
“We’re here because we need some information from you, if you’re willing to give it to us.” As succinctly as possible I outlined the events surrounding Alain’s death and our wish to help the police eliminate our friend as a suspect. I hastened to add that our investigation was entirely unofficial. If the woman really were an intuitive, I didn’t want her to read me as a liar. “Alain Girouard was, uh, romantically involved with many women. We have learned that two of those women are students of yours, so last night, we attending the reading to see what else they might have in common.” I paused before delivering the punch line. “We saw one of those women here last night. We also saw Harold Karp, the operations manager at BGB, come down the stairs in your front hall and go into the kitchen. We wondered why.”
Throughout my recitation, Esme had listened attentively, occasionally looking past me out the windows behind the sofa as she digested what I had to say. Now she turned her attention to Margo.
“What did you think of the reading?” Esme asked her. I hoped Margo would choose her words carefully.
“Frankly, ma’am, it seemed like a sort of performance to me,” she said straight out.
Strutter shrank back into a corner of the sofa, clutching her tote bag like a talisman against the lightning she suspected was about to strike us dead.
“But just about everyone else seemed to take it to heart,” Margo continued quickly. “I guess it’s just a matter of which church you wer
e raised up in, isn’t that right?” She smiled charmingly.
Esme returned Margo’s smile, much to Strutter’s relief. “Yes,” she agreed. “We are all largely products of our upbringings. I do hope you try to keep an open mind?”
“Yes, ma’am, I do,” Margo assured her, and Esme returned her attention to me.
“I am well aware that you share at least some of your friend’s doubts, but it is not my intention to attempt to change either of your minds. For the purposes of this discussion, I believe that your motivations are good and will not be used to harm anyone, so I will answer your questions. Harold Karp grew up in this neighborhood,” she said. “He lived with his mother and father in the second house from the end of this block until he left home to attend Boston University. After earning an MBA from Wharton, he returned to Connecticut and accepted the position of operations manager at BGB, a position he has held ever since.”
Once again Esme paused to look past us out the windows as if consulting with someone. I glanced over my shoulder, too, but whatever she saw eluded me. “While Harold was at school in Boston, his parents were in a terrible automobile accident and passed over. I invited him to occupy the apartment on the third floor here during his summer breaks and while he was attending graduate school, and he has chosen to stay on. It’s quiet and comfortable and quite spacious for one person. Harold never married, you see.”
She stood up and walked to the glass-topped table in the center of the room. It bore a stack of literature, presumably about the Center for Universal Truth, a dish of hard candy, a box of tissues, and a tall vase of cut flowers. “It has been a good arrangement for both of us. We suit each other very well. We are both early risers and retirers. In fact, every single morning that Harold is here, we walk a brisk two miles together for exercise, rain or shine. Also, the comings and goings of my students have never distressed Harold the way they did my own children.” She pinched off a few dead leaves as she waited for my reaction to her revelation about Harold.
I wasn’t sure myself what my reaction was. Margo’s eyebrows had climbed halfway up her forehead, and Strutter’s jaw was unattractively slack. I cleared my throat. “I see. And the other women from BGB who attend your classes?”
Esme looked thoughtful, considering. “From time to time, Harold has invited colleagues from the firm, both men and women, to attend a reading. They most often seem to be members of his gardening club, although there have been others. I channel one evening each month, and anyone is welcome to attend.” Welcome for a fee, I amended silently and was startled when Esme added, “We charge a nominal fee to cover the costs of printing our brochures, maintaining our website and so on. From that introduction I have gained a number of students who study with me in small classes that I hold throughout the week right here in this room.”
Strutter glanced around uncomfortably.
Margo spoke up. “These friends of Harold’s, ma’am. It’s quite a coincidence that two of them were also involved in relationships with Alain Girouard, don’t you think?” She smiled again to soften the sharpness of her question.
Esme remained unrattled. “Coincidence? No. There are no coincidences, you know, just paths human beings are destined to travel that bring them together, if that helps them to learn the lessons they are meant to learn in this lifetime.”
“Ah,” said Margo, “lessons.”
Esme looked amused. “Harold has always been an avid gardener,” she continued. “That’s one of the reasons he enjoys living here. He is the one responsible for my beautiful gardens, and he presides over an active horticultural society at the firm. As I have said, most of the people he brings here share that passion, with the notable exception of Alain Girouard.”
I was startled at the mention of Alain’s name and must have shown it.
“Oh, yes, Alain was one of my students years ago. He and Harold were students at Boston University. It was Alain who was largely responsible for Harold being hired by BGB.”
Esme paused before continuing wryly, “Unfortunately, I soon realized that Alain’s interests lay more in the realm of the physical than the metaphysical.”
“I don’t understand,” I said, shaking my head in confusion. Strutter and Margo looked equally befuddled.
Esme clarified her little joke. “I quickly realized that Alain used my sessions as a place to meet women. Many of them first come to me during a crisis in their lives and are extremely vulnerable to the attentions of an attractive, successful man, even one who is married. When I realized that he was here under false pretenses, I asked him to leave and not return.
“As for the two women you mentioned,” she smiled and shrugged, “Alain has had many lovers. It’s not really so surprising that among all those women, two of them should share other interests, is it?”
I looked at Margo, who lifted a shoulder and let it fall. Strutter turned her hands palm up in an I-don’t-know gesture.
“Well,” I said, “thank you so much for your straightforward answers. I’m sure the information you’ve given us will be very helpful.” I pulled a small notepad and pen from my purse and scribbled my name and cell phone number on a sheet of paper, which I handed to Esme. “If you have any other, uh, thoughts about this situation, I would very much appreciate hearing them. You can reach me at this number almost any time.” I got to my feet, and Margo and Strutter followed my lead. Esme ushered us into the living room.
“Would you care to see the gardens?” she asked. “Harold takes such pride in them, and they really are quite beautiful. I know he would be very disappointed to learn that you were here, and I failed to give you the tour.”
I looked at Margo with alarm. Of course, Esme would tell her tenant that we had been here and what we had asked her. Too late now. We might as well see everything Esme was willing to show us. “If you can spare us a few more minutes, we’d love to see the gardens, thank you,” I managed. We followed Esme through a typical suburban kitchen and out the back door onto an equally typical suburban patio furnished with comfortable-looking chairs and tables.
For perhaps ten minutes Esme ushered us along the perimeter of the gardens that bordered the large back yard. Some were heavily shaded by the same pines that cooled the room in which we had talked, and some enjoyed full sunlight. All were lush with plantings of a dizzying variety. The smaller plants were backed by shrubs of every size, shape and shade of green. Some bloomed with dazzling color. We oohed and aahed spontaneously at the beauty of the combined display until Esme began putting names to the plants we were admiring. Among the usual azaleas, rhododendrons and mountain laurel, she pointed out lily of the valley, jimsonweed, foxglove, oleander, and hemlock. We fell silent.
At the end of the border we hurriedly thanked our guide once again for her time and made our way down the driveway to the front of the house, where we had parked on the street in the welcome shade of one of the old oaks. I hadn’t put up the windows, so the car was relatively comfortable as we climbed in.
“I don’t know why I always have to sit in the back seat,” Strutter grumbled.
“Because riding in the back makes me sick,” Margo retorted. “Well, what do you make of that? We already knew that Karp and Girouard went to school together, but now we know that Karp apparently set Girouard up with a limitless supply of needy, vulnerable women, as well. Well, lord knows there are plenty of them around.” She buckled her seatbelt thoughtfully.
“I don’t know roses from ragweed,” said Strutter, “but weren’t some of those names Esme mentioned also on that toxicology report Diaz read off to you and Ingrid?”
My mind churned through the information Esme had provided. “Not just some of them, all of them. Our Harold has what amounts to a poison factory right there in his own back yard. Now what do you suppose he planned to do with all of those toxic little beauties?”
“You mean, besides distribute them for the beautification of BGB?” Strutter snorted. “It looks like Karp just moved up to the top of our suspect list, but how can
we figure it out without making him more suspicious of us than he probably already is?”
“Karp is away for the weekend. We have to take advantage of this opportunity,” I said.
“An opportunity to do what, Sugar?” asked Margo.
“Search Karp’s office,” I said. “Find out whatever we can to try to make sense of his involvement in Alain’s murder.”
“How do you plan to get into his office?” Margo wanted to know. “He keeps it locked when he’s away.”
“Oh, I know where he keeps his spare keys,” Strutter said cheerfully. “I filled in for his secretary once. He keeps them on a bent paper clip and hangs the clip inside a mug filled with pens and pencils on the top of the file cabinet outside his office. Probably everybody in the office knows where he keeps them. It’s just that nobody ever cared before this.”
That settled, we continued on our way, crossing the Putnam Bridge in silence and proceeding across the Silas Deane Highway to Prospect Street. I stopped at a traffic light, prohibited from turning by a “No Turn on Red” sign. As so often happens, the driver behind me took exception to having to wait and honked his horn. When I didn’t move, he leaned on it angrily.
“Damn, that’s annoying!” Strutter slapped the seatback in exasperation and reached for the door handle. “I think it’s time Mr. Loves-His-Little-Horn and I had a conversation,” and before either Margo or I could react, she was out of the car.
Circling around to the driver’s window, Strutter tapped on the glass, smiling pleasantly at the heavily pierced Neanderthal behind the wheel of a Firebird. “Excuse me, sir,” she said loudly. “Excuse me!”
Too surprised to do otherwise, King Kong lowered his window. Strutter extended her hand and introduced herself.
“I couldn’t help but notice that you were honking repeatedly at my friend,” she said conversationally, waving at Margo, who stared, aghast, into the rearview mirror. “Perhaps you didn’t notice that sign there.”
Waiting for Armando (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) Page 13