Icing Allison

by Pamela Burford

  “Allison booked this adventure trip,” Nick said. “Three weeks horseback riding somewhere in Australia where there are mountains or desert or something. She was always doing stuff like that. That’s where I thought she was. And all the time she was in that damn lake.”

  “When was she supposed to go to Australia?” I asked.

  “The day after Christmas.”

  I did the math. Twelve days. Allison’s body had been discovered nearly two weeks after she was scheduled to fly halfway across the world. I said, “Didn’t you worry when you didn’t hear from her?”

  He shook his head. “She didn’t keep in touch much when she was away on these adventure trips. The idea was to throw herself into whatever she was doing and take a break from the real world.”

  “So this is why you didn’t report her missing,” I said.

  Nick brought his glass to his lips and stared at the bare ice cubes for a moment, as if wondering where the vodka had gone. He set the glass on the side table.

  My brain was whirring. I knew I shouldn’t pursue it, but I couldn’t let it go. “So when she left to go for a walk in the woods, you thought, what, that she was going to the airport?”

  After a moment he said, “I wasn’t up yet. I kind of slept in that day.”

  “Oh.” What kind of man “sleeps in” when his wife is about to take a long trip like that?

  “Christmas didn’t go so great,” he said. “Well, Christmas Day was okay. We went to Allison’s folks’, had a nice dinner and everything. But after, when we were back home, we fought.”

  I really didn’t want to hear this. Nick was clearly a bit tipsy, and I strongly suspected he was going to regret opening up to me like this. I cast about for a graceful way to end the conversation and slink out of there.

  “She found out I lost my job. I never even wanted it, it was all her idea. I mean, she’s got all this money, this huge place.” Nick made a broad gesture meant to encompass the sprawling farmhouse. “And I’m supposed to stock merchandise in some stupid sporting goods store? For what, to prove I’m not some bum living off my woman? To her, my acting career was BS. It was worth nothing. Just ’cause it’s been a little slow lately.”

  A little slow? If Nick had appeared in anything other than that long-ago soda commercial, I never heard about it.

  “So you worked for Porter Vargas?” I asked. That was the only sporting goods store in town.

  He nodded miserably. “Porter’s an old pal of Allison’s. She asked him to take me on. He did it as a favor to her, but I could tell the guy had no use for me.”

  “Why did he let you go?” I asked.

  Nick rolled his eyes. “I’m chronically late, he says. I take too long for lunch. I make too many mistakes. But the main thing, and the reason a stupid job like that could never work out for me? I need time off for auditions. I mean, that’s my career, you know? Acting. Not inventorying his damn hockey sticks and crap. He could never get that through his thick skull. Neither could Allison.”

  “How did Allison find out you lost your job at Vargas?” I asked

  “She called Porter. Checking up on me like I’m some kind of untrustworthy little kid,” he said. “And he tells her he canned me five weeks ago.”

  Five weeks? The man doesn’t tell his wife he’s been out of work for five weeks? Not that he’s untrustworthy or anything.

  “So we had it out,” Nick said. “Then she closed herself up in here for a while, editing pictures or whatever, and went to bed. I was still too wound up to sleep, so I stayed up for hours playing video games and getting loaded.”

  “And you slept in the next morning,” I said.

  “Yeah, till like noon, maybe a little after. She had to be at the airport by then, and I’d planned to drive her, but she didn’t wake me up. She must’ve still been angry.”

  “So you assumed she got to the airport under her own steam?” I asked.

  “Her car was gone,” he said. “I figured she left it at one of those long-term parking places near the airport. She sometimes did that.”

  “But she never made it that far.”

  He shook his head. “After her body, you know... after she was found, the cops located her car at the nature preserve. Her luggage was in the trunk.”

  Obviously Allison had been on her way to the airport and decided to stop at the preserve and take a walk. “I was just talking with Porter a few minutes ago,” I said. “He seems to think Allison wouldn’t have taken that kind of risk. I mean, going out on the frozen lake like that without checking it for safety. What do you think? Does that sound like something she’d do?”

  He shrugged. “Who knows? We didn’t do stuff like that together.”

  “You never went hiking with her?” I asked.

  “Hiking, mountain climbing, all that outdoorsy crap...” Nick lifted his glass, sucked an ice cube into his mouth, and crunched it. “It’s just not my thing, you know?”

  So. Unlike husband number one, Nick didn’t share Allison’s love of fresh air and vigorous outdoor exercise. I had to wonder what had attracted Allison to Nick. I mean, sure, he was easy on the eyes. More than easy—Nick was so handsome, it was almost painful to look at him. Could that be the whole story? I hadn’t known Allison Zaleski well, but she didn’t seem like the type of woman to commit her life to someone as... well, as shallow as Nick Birch.

  Which wasn’t really a fair assessment on my part. I knew him even less well than I’d known Allison. I was going on first impressions. Still, I like to think I’m a good judge of character. In my line of work I often have to make prompt assessments of people, particularly when the client requests some unusual or even borderline illegal service.

  Perhaps her marriage to Nick could be explained simply by the fact that she was on the rebound following sudden widowhood. My curious nature sought answers, but my practical nature simply wanted this assignment to go smoothly.

  I decided I’d heard enough of Nick’s personal woes. I stood and lifted his empty glass. “Can I bring you another one of these?” It would be a watered-down refill if he took me up on the offer.

  He pushed his fingers through his honey-colored hair. “No. Thanks. I’ll get back in there in a minute.” He waved me away.

  More people had arrived while I’d been sequestered with the young widower. Friends and relatives of Allison’s now mingled in small groups throughout the first floor. Kari was in the living room, collecting dirty dishes. I took the tray from her and held it while she piled it with plates, glasses, and flatware.

  A large palm caressed my back. I knew who it was even before I looked over my shoulder. My ex-husband, Dom Faso, gave me a warm smile and a kiss on the cheek. He was a couple of inches over six feet, with dark, wavy hair and bottomless espresso eyes—not classically handsome, but bristling with sex appeal. At least I’d always thought so.

  “Here, Janey, let me help you with that.” He tried to take the laden tray from me, but I held on to it.

  “Thanks, I’ve got it.” I’m not a guest here, I wanted to tell him, but he knew that. Dom’s just a nice guy and wants to help where he can.

  At this point you’re probably thinking we’re pretty friendly for a divorced couple. It’s not just me, Dom gets along great with all his ex-wives. Oh, didn’t I mention? I’m just the first of three ex–Mrs. Fasos. We divorced seventeen years ago after eight months of marriage. No, come to think of it, it will be eighteen years next month. How time flies when you’re miserable watching the former husband, whom you regretted leaving even before the divorce was final, cycling through two more wives and fathering three kids who should have been yours. The fact that Dom was fully aware of my misery only added to it.

  Bitter? Moi? Whatever gave you that idea?

  Martin claimed I never got over Dom, which might explain why the padre refrained from putting the moves on me. Or it might just be that he wasn’t interested. Of course, he was awfully flirtatious for someone who wasn’t interested. But I digress.

&nb
sp; Just because Dom and I were the best of friends and we talked all the time and shared confidences and he still visited my parents and we’d almost kissed a few months earlier, that did not mean I was still hung up on him, despite what Martin said. What did he know?

  What’s that? You want me to tell you about the almost kiss? It didn’t happen, that’s all you need to know. I didn’t let it happen because of the woman now joining Dom and placing a proprietary hand on his elbow. That particular hand, her left one, sported a blindingly sparkly diamond that irked me every time I saw it.

  Just so we’re clear, I fell in love with Dom when he was a poor kid trying to scrape up enough moolah to buy a food truck—the first incarnation of what would morph into the stunningly successful Janey’s Place health-food restaurant chain. No, that’s not true. I fell in love with Dom in eighth grade when I first set eyes on him during Mr. Bender’s third-period Spanish class.

  When we got married, Dom was too poor to buy me a gold band, much less a diamond. And yes, the cheap silver ring he put on my finger all those years ago is still in my jewelry box, black with tarnish.

  Bonnie Hernandez and I greeted each other politely. She looked sleek and sophisticated in a formfitting navy silk dress and a string of ferociously expensive South Sea pearls—a gift from Dom, natch. Her dark hair was cut in a short, fashionable style.

  I looked like what I was, the hired help, wearing my usual work uniform of gray skirt suit, white blouse, and faux pearls. Faux sounds so much swankier than fake, don’t you think? Plus I was carrying a tray loaded with dirty dishes, the go-to fashion accessory for the well-put-together Death Diva. My strawberry-blond hair was trying to spring free of the French twist I’d coerced it into, and doing an admirable job of it.

  I gave Bonnie a smile that oozed sincerity. Or something. “How’s the new job going, Chief?”

  “Just fine, thanks.”

  She’d recently been promoted from detective to chief of police, following a scandal involving another detective, his buddy the then-chief, and a drunk dispatcher who happened to be the chief’s mistress.

  From outside, Crystal Harbor might appear to be a starched, well-mannered New York bedroom community, but we have our share of scandals, and that one was a biggie. It shook up the entire police department, leaving my ex’s future missus in charge of the whole shebang.

  Besides being elegant and well put together, Bonnie was young, in her early thirties, whereas I’d be facing the big four-oh in March. Of course, my age didn’t seem to bother a certain hot Parisian I’d met a couple of months earlier. The thing about hot Parisians, though, is that they tend to live in Paris. Talk about geographically undesirable.

  Bonnie tucked herself a little closer to her fiancé. “I was so sorry to hear about Allison.” Her speech carried a hint of her native Dominican Republic.

  “Did you know her?” I asked. My tray full of dirty dishes was growing heavier by the second. Why hadn’t I let Dom be a gentleman and take it from me? At that moment I was at a loss.

  “She had that gallery show last month in the city. That’s where we met.” Bonnie’s gaze lit on the framed pictures on the walls. “Her work was exquisite. I tried to commission her to photograph Frederick, but apparently portraits of pets were beneath her. Oh, she didn’t put it like that, but...” She shrugged. “I didn’t take offense.”

  Frederick was Bonnie’s blue-ribbon-winning standard poodle and the reason—okay, one of many reasons if I’m being honest—for Sexy Beast’s inferiority complex.

  “Well, I have to, um...” I indicated the tray.

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “Don’t let us keep you.”

  “Help yourself to the buffet,” I said, and hurried to the kitchen, where I helped Kari empty and refill the dishwasher. Maia, meanwhile, made trips through the butler’s pantry to the dining room, replacing empty platters with full ones.

  A young couple entered, carrying several foil-wrapped plates and a plastic deli container filled with some dark liquid. It was the pottery couple, who’d crafted all the ceramic pieces on display in this very room. I’d seen them at the funeral home and cemetery also. I greeted them and set the offerings on a counter. Whatever they’d brought, it was still warm. And it smelled heavenly.

  “It’s empanadas,” Pottery Lady said, “with a beef filling and a dipping sauce. I hope that’s okay. I didn’t know the Gleasons hired a caterer.” Her eyes were red-rimmed and it was clear she’d been crying. She had long blonde dreadlocks tied back with a scarf, and wore gray corduroy overalls over an ivory sweater that appeared to be handmade. A tiny gold stud adorned her nose just above one nostril.

  Maia answered her. “It’s more than okay. We’re drowning in bakery boxes. It was so thoughtful of you to bring something homemade.”

  “It was Allison’s favorite.” Pottery Lady’s voice was thick. “I used to make these for her when she came over.”

  Her husband—at least I assumed they were married—put his arm around her shoulder. Pottery Man was quite tall, with reddish-brown hair and a bushy beard. His hairline was trying to make a run for it, despite his youth. Both of them appeared to be in their mid to late twenties.

  Maia lifted the foil on one of the plates, revealing crispy fried turnovers. “Oh, they look wonderful. I’ll put them out now while they’re still warm.” She stacked the plates and carried them into the dining room.

  I decided on total honesty. What? It’s been known to happen.

  “I know we’ve been introduced,” I told the couple, “but I can never remember your names and I’m always too embarrassed to ask.” They’d called me by name when we said hello, so the memory lapse only went one way.

  The man smiled and tipped his thumb toward his chest. “Beau Battle.” He indicated his wife. “Poppy Battle.”

  I tried to think of some mnemonic trick to avoid being humiliated by having to ask again. Poppy Battle... I envisioned a red flower waving a scimitar and rushing toward the enemy line. Hmm, that one might need a little work.

  I said, “I get the feeling you and Allison were close.”

  Poppy nodded. She appeared to be controlling her grief with an effort. “She was a good friend, one of our best friends here in Crystal Harbor.”

  “Then you must know Skye Guthrie,” I said.

  “Yeah, I know Skye.” Poppy left it at that. I got the feeling she wasn’t a fan of Allison’s best friend.

  Beau said, “We should go find Joleen and Doug.” His wife nodded and they went in search of Allison’s parents. I figured they must indeed have been close to Allison to be on a first-name basis with her folks.

  I was kept busy for the next hour getting visitors settled, helping Maia with the food and beverages, and making sure Allison’s closest family members were comfortable and had everything they needed. I saw Joleen and Doug sitting near the fireplace in a quiet huddle with Poppy and Beau, ignoring the animated conversation around them. The women held hands, their eyes glistening. It was clear they were talking about Allison, reminiscing.

  Watching them, I felt my own eyes tear up. I glanced around for Skye and spied her in a corner, giggling with another young woman as she displayed something on her phone. I’d yet to see the person who was supposed to be Allison’s best friend exchange one word with the grieving parents.

  Sten Jakobsen had arrived a short while ago. He was a local attorney, over seventy but still practicing general law. Sten was very tall, about six four, his blond hair and trim beard gone mostly white. He was suitably dressed, as always, in a dark pinstriped suit and somber tie, wearing his ever-present wire-rimmed glasses.

  I spotted him now standing alone near the dining room windows, holding a small plate with some cut fruit on it. As I watched, Nick approached him and started a conversation, gesticulating with yet another glass of vodka on the rocks. The room was too crowded and the noise level too high for me to make out their words. Nick spoke animatedly to the older man, while Sten glanced around uncomfortably as if concerned abo
ut being overheard.

  I busied myself tidying the food set out on the dining table, gradually making my way closer to Nick and Sten, straining my ears for snippets of conversation.

  Okay, yeah, I was curious. So sue me.

  Skye Guthrie appeared just as curious, staring fixedly at the two men as she nibbled a sandwich: smoked turkey and brie on a croissant.

  “... Just a hint,” Nick was saying. He was smiling, mock-punching Sten’s shoulder. “I’m not looking for a final number right now. Can’t you just ballpark it?”

  Sten kept his volume low as he leaned toward the younger man, but his signature slow, precise delivery and deep basso profundo voice helped me make out his words. “This is not the appropriate time or place to discuss it.”

  “Ah, come on, man, I’m dying to know—”

  “Come to my office Monday morning at ten as we arranged,” Sten said.

  “I have a right to know.” Nick was starting to get loud. Heads were turning toward them. People started whispering. “And you have no right to keep this information from me. You’re her lawyer. You drafted the will. I know you know how much she left me.”

  Sten was a dignified person. The last thing he’d want is to cause a scene during a client’s funeral reception. It was clear Nick wasn’t going to wait until Monday morning to find out how rich he was. Sten set his plate on a side table. “Where can we speak privately?” he asked.

  Nick looked gleeful. “That’s what I’m talking about! Come on.” He finished off his vodka and shoved the glass at Kari as she set out a fresh platter of grilled veggies.

  Sten looked grim as he trailed the young widower through the house and down the hallway to Allison’s office. The reason I know this is because, you guessed it, I kind of followed them.

  Oh, like you wouldn’t have done the same thing. You want to hear about this or not?

  Nick closed the office door after them. Meanwhile I meandered closer, doing important Death Diva work like straightening pictures and inspecting the carpet runner for wrinkles. I heard nothing from behind the door for close to a minute, even with my ear very close to it. Okay, with my ear pressed to it.