Maia was in her mid-thirties, with dark, catlike eyes and a cloud of Afro coils, tied back today with a pretty paisley headband. She was popular for a reason. Not only was her food the absolute best, but she was unfailingly professional in her dealings with clients. Our friendship had begun seven years earlier when she’d made the decision to move her budding catering business from a less affluent community to well-to-do Crystal Harbor.
“Well,” she said, “if you could find a place for all these boxes, that would be great.” She indicated the stacks of bakery boxes piled up all over the kitchen, brought by Allison’s friends and neighbors, most bearing the distinctive gold-and-white label of Patisserie Susanne. Yes, the same wonderful French bakery where Martin had bought the chocolate croissants that were supposed to be part of our skating lunch four days earlier when we found Allison’s body. Will you be surprised if I tell you neither of us ate a bite that day? Martin had ended up tossing our lunch into the trash.
“I’ll do that.” It was Kari, coming in from the living room. Karina Faso was my ex-husband Dom’s oldest child, by his second wife, Svetlana. Kari was only sixteen, but she was a go-getter, and Maia had started employing her part-time as an assistant on weekends. The girl was tall, like her father, and with the same dark brown eyes. She had long, golden brown hair, pulled back now in a neat braid.
“These belong in the butler’s pantry.” Kari hefted a stack of boxes and headed for the pantry, which had connecting doors to both the kitchen and dining room.
“You can put some of those in the freezer,” Maia told the girl.
“I’m way ahead of you.”
The aroma of coffee mingled with the yeasty perfume of baking rolls in the big country kitchen. Allison Zaleski had had quite a sense of style, no surprise when you consider that she’d been a gifted amateur photographer. Her artistic eye spilled over into her personal space. The irregular walls of the old kitchen were painted in broad vertical stripes of ivory and marigold yellow. The original beamed ceilings and rough plank flooring had never been replaced, nor had the enormous stone fireplace. The state-of-the-art appliances didn’t detract from the many homey touches, including a roughhewn, whitewashed display cabinet filled with charmingly rustic handmade pottery: plates, platters, bowls, and mugs with irregular edges, dimpled surfaces, and unusual earth-toned glazes.
I recognized the style of this pottery, although I’d never seen so much of it in one place. The young couple who created it had a studio on Main Street next to Janey’s Place, the health food restaurant that belonged to Dom. Yeah, named for me a couple of decades earlier when we’d been dating. I’d been introduced to the pottery couple, but I could never remember their names and was too embarrassed to ask again. To me they were Pottery Man and Pottery Lady. Allison must really have loved their work to buy so much of it. And I had to admit it looked great in her eclectic kitchen.
More pottery hung on the sides of the cabinet and sat on a sideboard beneath it. My gaze was drawn to a little ceramic mushroom, three or four inches tall. I picked it up and examined it. It was crafted in the same rustic style as the rest of the pottery, with a pale speckled glaze. There were several holes in the top and a cork plug in the bottom. A salt shaker, I realized. Or a pepper shaker, one or the other. Where was its mate? I turned it upside down and shook it. Empty. It felt good in my hand.
I was still examining the little shaker when Allison’s mother, Joleen Gleason, entered the kitchen, carrying yet another bakery box, handed to her by a guest. She looked around for a place to set it down. Every surface was taken up with food in various stages of preparation. It was organized mayhem. Well, maybe not that organized.
“I’ll take that, Mrs. Gleason.” It was Kari, entering from the butler’s pantry.
“Why, thank you.” After Kari disappeared back into the pantry, Joleen said, “Such a nice girl.” She had a strong Texas accent. Allison’s had been much milder, which made sense considering she’d moved to New York in her youth. Joleen was tall, as her daughter had been. Her iron-gray hair was cut in a practical bob that stopped just short of her shoulders. The strain of the past few days showed on her face, but I had yet to see her cry or fall apart. She and her husband, Douglas, maintained a dignified stoicism.
I was about to place a comforting hand on Joleen’s back but then thought better of it. My gut told me this reserved woman wouldn’t appreciate such an intimate gesture from someone she wasn’t close to. Not that we were strangers. I’d met Allison’s parents the previous June when Allison herself hired me to do the very same thing I was doing today: organize a post-funeral reception. Back then it had been for Allison’s late first husband, Mitchell Zaleski, who’d died tragically in a hiking accident.
And now here we were again, mourning another accidental death that had occurred during a supposedly healthful outdoor activity. There’s a lesson in there somewhere.
And yeah, the lesson just might be that the healthiest thing you can do is laze around in front of the TV with some pizza and a bottle of orange soda and leave the outdoor stuff to the risk takers. Which happened to be kind of my specialty. The pizza and soda thing, I mean, not the risk-taking thing.
Allison and Mitchell had been married for six years. He’d been close to sixty when he died, decades older than his young wife. At least it couldn’t be said he’d died young. Allison, on the other hand, had been only thirty-one, beautiful and statuesque. She’d had black hair, worn in a long, sleek curtain with blunt bangs. Her most striking feature, however, had been her violet eyes. I recalled thinking, when I first met her, that she looked like a young Elizabeth Taylor.
She hadn’t remained single very long following Mitchell’s death. Three months later she’d married Nick Birch, an unemployed actor several years her junior. From what I could tell, Nick was taking Allison’s death hard.
The Gleasons had remembered me from Mitchell’s funeral and asked me to help make arrangements. I’d been present at both the funeral home and graveside service that day, making sure all went according to plan while Maia got the refreshments ready for visitors.
Joleen was looking around the kitchen as if seeking something to do.
“Mrs. Gleason,” I said, “everything here is under control.”
“We’ve got this.” Maia was arranging cookies on a platter. “You don’t need to do anything.”
“I’m not used to not doing anything. What’s that you have there, Jane?” Joleen asked.
Only then did I realize I was unconsciously rolling the ceramic shaker between my hands. I showed it to her. “I’m thinking this must be part of a pair. You know, a salt-and-pepper set. I don’t see the other one.”
“That’s cute,” Maia said.
“You’re right,” Joleen said, “that’s the salt shaker. The pepper is darker and smaller. I haven’t seen it in a while. It probably got broken.”
“That’s too bad.” I set the shaker back on the sideboard.
“They made the set especially for her,” Joleen said, “you know, that nice young couple that do the pottery. Allison loved mushrooms. If you like it, why don’t you keep it,” she added. “It could still be used for salt or spices or whatever.”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” I said, reflexively.
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “You can ask Nick if you want, but I’m sure he won’t mind. What on earth is he going to do with half of a salt-and-pepper set? He’ll probably throw all of this away.” She swept her arm toward the pottery cabinet, her expression dour. “I’m sure it’s not his style.”
I’d fallen in love with the silly little thing, but still I hesitated. Maia made the decision for me, with a muttered, “Good grief, Jane, she wants you to have it.” She grabbed the salt shaker, wrapped it in a paper towel, and shoved it into my purse, which hung on one of the kitchen chairs.
I thanked Joleen, who said I was very welcome and headed back to the guests.
“I’d better get out there too,” I said. “Let me know if you need any help.�
�
“I have Kari,” Maia said. “No worries.”
I greeted people as I passed through the dining room. Most of them were friends and neighbors of mine there in Crystal Harbor. I said hello to Lacey and Porter Vargas. Porter owned a chain of sporting goods stores. The Crystal Harbor store is where Martin had rented our skates four days earlier. His wife, Lacey, owned a lingerie shop called UnderStatements. Porter was in his mid-fifties but looked younger, with an athletic build and dark hair just beginning to go gray. Lacey, on the other hand, looked her age, although she dressed well and took care with her appearance.
“Do they know what happened?” Lacey asked.
“The best they can figure,” I said, “is that Allison went for a walk in the preserve a couple of weeks ago and ended up on the frozen lake, but the ice was too thin. She fell in and couldn’t get out. The cause of death was drowning.”
“It didn’t get really cold until the end of December,” Lacey said. “I guess the ice just couldn’t support her weight.”
Porter frowned. “That doesn’t sound like something Allison would do, taking a risk like that.”
“She used to work for you, didn’t she?” I asked.
He nodded. “When she was younger, before she met Mitchell.”
“They met at the store,” Lacey said. “Mitchell came in for some camping supplies and they hit it off.”
Allison’s first husband had owned a ski resort in upstate New York. The couple had had plenty in common, despite the age difference. They’d both been sporty, outdoorsy types, always hiking, kayaking, camping, and of course, skiing. They’d been devoted to fitness and had participated in several triathlons in their respective age categories.
I glanced into the living room and spied the young woman who’d been taking selfies at the cemetery, and snapshots of the buffet table. She stared at her phone, her thumbs a blur as she tapped the screen. I nodded in her direction and lowered my voice. “Do you know who that is?”
They looked. “Sure,” Lacey said. “That’s Skye Guthrie, Allison’s best friend.”
Skye had black hair worn in the same style as Allison’s, but that’s where the physical similarities ended. Skye was about five foot three, a good six inches shorter than Allison had been, her figure somewhat rounder. She had a pronounced midwinter tan, which I suspected owed more to chemicals than an island vacation. She wore a black dress, the kind normally associated with the term little black dress. A cocktail-party dress, short and low-cut. Not the kind of thing you expect to see someone wearing at her best friend’s funeral.
But who was I to judge? In my two decades as Death Diva, I’d seen far worse. This Skye Guthrie might not be the most sophisticated creature, but I’m sure she’d loved her deceased friend.
“Oh my God,” Skye crowed to everyone within earshot, “my picture of the casket already has forty-two likes.”
Come on, work with me, I wanted to tell her. I’m trying to give you the benefit of the doubt here.
The doorbell rang and I excused myself to answer it, passing through the cozy living room, where a fire blazed in the hearth. Here, as in the rest of the house, Allison’s photography was on display. There were plenty of nature pictures, attesting to her love of the outdoors. My favorite was an arresting image of creamy-white oyster mushrooms growing on a fallen tree in the woods. The overcast sky, the low photographic angle, the shallow depth of field, all lent the picture an otherworldly feel.
There were also photos of people, singly and in groups, taken all over the world. She’d had a fondness for photographing strangers, but she wasn’t sneaky about it. It was clear she got to know her subjects before turning her camera lens on them. The result was intriguing, often quirky images full of humanity. Her photographs of architectural detail were a revelation. It was as if Allison Zaleski had seen things that other people, including me, simply passed by without notice, and the results were often striking.
I entered the small vestibule and opened the front door. I recognized the couple who stood on the front porch, their breath smoking in the cold air. They’d been at the funeral home and cemetery. I ushered them inside and accepted yet another white bakery box. “Let me take your coats,” I said. “I’m Jane Delaney. I’m helping the family today.”
“Lou Yates.” The man stripped off his overcoat and helped his companion shed hers. “This is my wife, Brenda. She’s Allison’s... well, Mitchell was her dad.”
“Oh.” Somehow I managed to juggle both their coats and the bakery box. “So you’re Allison’s stepdaughter.” I regretted the words instantly. Brenda and her husband were in their mid to late thirties, several years older than Allison had been.
Brenda’s only response was a sour look, quickly squelched. She was of average height and build. She had shoulder length chestnut hair and wore a conservative dark green sweater dress. Lou wore a dark suit and tie. Both of them appeared ill at ease. Clearly they didn’t know anyone else there.
I signaled to Porter and Lacey to join us, and introduced them. Skye Guthrie glanced furtively at our little group, then quickly redirected her attention to her phone. Porter apparently thought Allison’s best friend should meet her stepdaughter. He pulled Skye into the conversation and made introductions. Both women seemed ill at ease as they shook hands and murmured polite greetings. This close to Skye, I noticed that the roots of her hair were conspicuously pale, medium brown rather than the shoe-polish black of the rest of her hair.
I deposited the bakery box in the kitchen, and the Yateses’ coats in the small bedroom we’d set aside for that purpose. In the hallway I bumped into Sophie Halperin, who was the mayor of Crystal Harbor as well as one of my closest friends. She lived in another historic nineteenth-century home not far from there. Sophie was a pugnacious, amply padded woman in her mid-fifties and one of the best people I knew.
“Have you seen Nick?” I asked her. Allison’s young husband wasn’t in the dining room or living room.
“Last I saw him, he was headed in there.” Sophie pointed to the closed door of Allison’s first-floor home office.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll catch you later.” I listened outside the door for a moment and heard nothing. I quietly knocked and peeked inside. The curtains were drawn against the afternoon sunlight, the room dim. Nick Birch sat slumped in an upholstered easy chair, nursing a small glass of clear liquid that I suspected was not water. He was ridiculously good-looking, with longish dark-blond hair, whiskey-colored eyes, and the kind of bone structure romance authors write about.
“I don’t mean to intrude,” I said. “I didn’t see you out there and... well, I just wanted to check up on you, see if you need anything.”
“I guess I should be...” Nick tossed his hand in the direction of the doorway. “I just needed some time.”
“No problem.” I started to withdraw.
He stopped me. “No, don’t go, Jane. Sit with me a few minutes.” He gestured toward the chair opposite his.
I closed the door and sat. Nick had shed his suit jacket and tie. His white dress shirt looked like it had been sewn onto his toned torso. I assumed Allison’s money had paid for the bespoke clothing—that is, the money she’d inherited when her first husband died. As far as I knew, Nick’s acting career had yet to take off. There’d been a soda commercial some time ago. Several people had mentioned that commercial to me. Clearly it was the highlight of his career thus far.
He sipped his vodka. “How are her folks doing?”
It seemed an odd question for the young widower to be asking of the hired help. Then again, he’d been the Gleasons’ son-in-law for a scant four months. He and Allison had married in September. He probably didn’t know her parents well.
“They appear to be holding up,” I said, “but it’s hard to tell.”
He nodded at that. “Cold fishes.”
“I wouldn’t say that. They’re reserved is all. I guess they’re trying to get through this as best they can.”
Nick waved away t
he excuse. “Joleen and Doug have always been that way, at least toward me. I know they think I married Allison for her money.”
In my admittedly bizarre line of work, I’d become accustomed to virtual strangers in the throes of grief revealing personal information they would never have mentioned under ordinary circumstances. I was accustomed to it, but it still made me uncomfortable. The best strategy, I’d learned, was to quietly allow the individual to unburden him or herself without comment. Naturally, I would never share anything I learned. I was like a priest that way, or a doctor. It was part of the Death Diva code of honor.
There is too a Death Diva code of honor. I should know, I made it up. You can do that when you’re the only Death Diva.
“Well, all her assets are mine now. Two-thirds anyway. The other third goes to...” His vague gesture told me that either he forgot or it hadn’t been important enough to learn in the first place. “Anyway, it’s got to be making her folks crazy.”
I know it would make me crazy if the freeloading pretty boy my widowed daughter had married on the rebound three months after her first husband’s death managed to inherit two-thirds of her multimillion-dollar estate.
Nick swirled the vodka in his glass, to the accompaniment of clinking ice cubes. It occurred to me he was awaiting a response, some sort of validation. He needed reassurance that he was somehow entitled to his sudden windfall.
The closest I could offer was, “Mr. and Mrs. Gleason are still reeling from their daughter’s death. I doubt they’re thinking about who’s inheriting what.”
He drained his glass and sat staring into middle distance. I was about to take my leave when he said, “She was supposed to be in Australia.”
“Excuse me?”
Icing Allison Page 2