by Joyce Harmon
“Now you’ve done it,” I told him. “She’ll never leave you alone again.”
“She’s okay,” he said. “I like dogs.”
Returning to their previous thread of conversation, I said, ”Funny, we were just talking about the Tet Offensive the other day. Was that when you were wounded?”
“I’m here to tell ya!” he answered. “ January of ‘68. Seems like everything went wrong in ‘67 and stayed wrong. My folks got divorced, I got drafted and my girl married my brother, and then I got wounded. I was in the hospital and saw an old magazine saying that ‘67 was supposed to be the ‘Summer of Love’. I thought, man, have I been in the wrong places!”
That was quite a speech for Craig. It seemed to use up his daily quota. He stared off into the distance and became his usual quiet self. But he kept stroking Polly’s ears in an absent-minded way. Polly settled down beside him, smiling appreciatively.
I stood up and said, “Things to do,” and headed into the house.
Andrew followed. “Cissy, can I talk to you?”
“Of course, that’s what you’re doing right now.”
We were in the kitchen now. Andrew eyed his feet, looking absurdly young. “It’s about Mary. Do you think she’s interested in me?”
“Andrew, I never met Mary till after Winslow was killed, so I’m no expert. But she did go out with you. Goodness, she even introduced you to her mother; that’s got to be a good sign.” I reached up to the top shelf of the pantry and felt around until I found the hummingbird feeder.
“Yes, but she’s so touchy. And we seem to argue a lot. Isn’t that a bad sign?”
“It depends on what you argue about, and how you argue, I guess,” I said, as I filled the sink with hot water and immersed the feeder. “Any nasty personal insults?”
Andrew looked shocked. “Of course not!”
“No ‘if you weren’t so stupid – ‘ or anything like that?” I was fetching coffee as we talked.
“Good lord, no!”
I handed him a cup and grinned. “That’s nice. I’d like to say that’s a good sign, but I’ve seen people call each other hideous things and stay married for years and years. But it’s pretty darn uncomfortable for their friends.”
Andrew sat down and sipped thoughtfully.
I sat down too. “This has all been pretty stressful for Mary. She seems touchy, true, but maybe that’s just since the murder and all this mess. Maybe she’s really a calm, angelic type.” Even before I finished the sentence, I was giggling. I had to add, “But I doubt it.”
Andrew smiled. It was a wonderful smile. Oh, if I was younger and single!
“Just be patient until this murder is cleared up,” I told him. “Then we’ll see what we’ll see.”
“Until this murder is cleared up,” Andrew echoed. “And when do you think that will be?”
“I wish I knew. Julia thought we could sleuth it out ourselves, but it’s harder than we thought. I’m just about out of ideas.” I leaned across the table and refilled his cup. “Andrew, are you sure Priscilla’s death was an accident?”
He was startled. “Well, sure. I was there. I saw it.”
“Oh! I didn’t know that.”
“And I’ve got to say that if it was anyone’s fault, it was Priscilla’s. What the FAA calls ‘pilot error’. Basically, she turned too sharply heading for a jump. The horse didn’t see the jump in time to collect himself for a good takeoff. So he refused the fence, like any horse would.”
“Oh. That sounds like it would be hard to fake.”
“Take my word for it. It’s something we’ve all done at one time or another. Only the crybabies blame the horse. I broke a collarbone once. But Pris just landed wrong and there it was.”
Tough Stuff appeared on the table in the magical way of cats. I reached over to remove him, but Andrew said, “Hey, what a great cat.” T.S. strutted by, dusting Andrew’s nose with his tail and accepting tribute.
“You were really fond of Priscilla, weren’t you?”
“Yes, I was. She didn’t know anything about raising kids, but did the best she could. When I read ‘Auntie Mame’, it reminded me of her. She was so understanding about things. Like being embarrassed about the wedding picture.”
“The wedding picture?”
“Yes. I was the ringbearer at Priscilla’s wedding. I was only five, and was all rigged out in satin kneepants, with a velvet pillow – you know the drill. At the time, I thought I was really hot stuff. Of course, just a few years later, I was hideously embarrassed by the pictures of the wedding party with me in my Little Lord Fauntleroy outfit. I would always take the big silver-framed picture off the piano when I had friends over, so I wouldn’t get razzed about it.”
“Aren’t little boys awful?” I asked nostalgically.
“Priscilla never said anything about it, but she put that picture away until I was old enough to have some perspective.”
“That was nice,” I agreed.
“And she always got along quite well with Obie, so I don’t want you to go around thinking he killed her. He seemed fond of her and he certainly didn’t start showing up with a string of girlfriends after she died.”
“Alright. But so far, all our leads have turned into dead ends. Everybody with a motive seems to have an alibi.”
“Even the chef?”
“Yes, dammit, even Rene Phan. I asked Luther Dawson this morning and they say he checks out.”
“Well, then, I don’t know what to tell you.” Andrew stood up. “I’m at the Washington House for a few days.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Oh?”
“You can classify me as in respectful yet hopeful pursuit.”
“Consider yourself classified. But if things don’t work out, I’ve got a daughter about Mary’s age. She’s seeing a real jerk at the moment, but I keep hoping she’ll wise up.”
Andrew bowed. “Noted for future reference.”
After he left, I thought about getting some campaign literature to send to Deb.
That evening, I tried to keep Jack entertained with speculation about Andrew and Mary. But he seemed absentminded, and didn’t even mention my lovely lamb chops. Jack is usually quite punctilious about complimenting the chef, so I knew he was worried.
I was restless that night. Jack was fast asleep, looking so sweet and innocent. I wanted to ask the Commonwealth’s Attorney “Is this the face of a killer?”, but of course it was after midnight and anyway, don’t some killers look like angels?
Polly was also asleep, with her paws twitching, dreaming about squirrels.
And I was wide awake, staring at the ceiling. For some reason I couldn’t understand, I had a phrase stuck in my head. The Summer of Love.
Deb was born in the spring of ’68. Conceived during the Summer of Love. I remember Jimmy laughing about that. Maybe that’s why Mary worked on my maternal instincts. Both Summer of Love babies. Mary born somewhere in the countryside around Hue, hiding from the Viet Cong, and Deb born in the Norfolk Naval Hospital, where I shared a room with a young thing who had just named her first-born son Frodo.
Finally I got up and went downstairs. Polly the faithful padded along beside me.
I turned on my computer and checked my e-mail, but the writers group had been wrangling for several days about a plagiarism case in Chicago. Dull, dull, dull.
The Summer of Love. Why was that resonating?
Poor Andrew. I hoped Mary wouldn’t be too mean to him. Of course, if he wants to be in politics, he’d better be tough, or get that way quick. He sure didn’t seem very tough. To me, he seemed like a baby, far too young for the rough and tumble.
Far too young?
Where was this thread taking me?
I chewed on it a bit more and it seemed to make an interesting counter-balance to the Summer of Love.
And it gave me an idea. I reached for the phone.
“Cissy, do you have any idea what time it is?” Julia sounded cranky.
“It’s 12:45 AM,”
I said unrepentantly. “Listen, this could be important. How old do you think Andrew is?”
SEVENTEEN
“WHAT?” Julia shrieked. I covered the phone, sure she could be heard upstairs, if not in the next county. “You woke me up to ask me how old Andrew is?”
“Yes, because it could be important. What do you think?”
“Not much more than thirty,” she guessed grudgingly.
“Would you say thirty-four?”
“I doubt it. There’s not a single line on that sweet face. Why?”
“Listen to this. Andrew said that he was five when Priscilla married Obie. He was the ringbearer in a Little Lord Fauntleroy outfit. Now, if he’s thirty-four, then Priscilla married Obie in ’67, before he married Li Nguyen. If, on the other hand, he’s thirty-two – “
“Ooh!” Comprehension oozed from the telephone. “That is interesting! How are you going to find out?”
“Let me think a minute – “
Julia waited patiently, while I wrestled with my conscience. My conscience lost. “Listen,” I said. “There’s a database I could check.” I powered up the computer.
I left out one tiny detail. The database I could check belonged to the Commonwealth of Virginia, and I didn’t have any business being in there. But I still remembered the password posted so brazenly in the sheriff’s office.
If they didn’t want people to break into their computers, they should be more careful with their passwords, I told myself self-righteously.
“Okay,” said the voice on the phone, unaware that she was aiding and abetting. “Check and see.”
So I cruised the system until I found the DMV and the menu for driver’s license registrations.
“Here we go,” I announced triumphantly. “Andrew Billington Smith was born in 1965.”
“So Priscilla married Winslow in 1970!” Julia calculated quickly. “Well, this is a whole new kettle of fish. But does that give someone a motive to murder him?”
“It’s a murder motive, alright,” I said darkly. “Could you come over tomorrow morning? Bring the timeline.”
I hung up the phone, logged off the computer, and crept up to bed, where I slept like the proverbial baby.
The next morning, Julia arrived before the coffee had finished brewing. She breezed in breathlessly, attired in stylish denim, with the timeline under her arm rolled like a papyrus.
“What motive?” she asked by way of greeting. “I’ve been thinking and thinking, and I still don’t get it.”
“Not before coffee,” I snarled, watching the pot avidly. While I was waiting, I went to the phone and called Washington House and asked for Andrew.
“Andrew? This is Cissy Rayburn. Could you and Mary stop by here this morning? I’d like to check out a few things with you that might clear up some of the fog in this case.”
He was startled and curious, but I ruthlessly cut him short. The coffee was ready.
With the largest mug filled with coffee, I sat at the table and spread out the roll. Julia sat down and watched me, silent for once.
Jack wandered through, yawning. “Keep the dog out of the winery today, Cis. Craig and I are going to bottle the ’94 Cabernet.”
“Um-hmm,” I agreed absently. Then I looked up and smiled at him. “Come here, you big lug.” I gave him a hug and a massive kiss as well.
“What’s that all about?” he asked. “Not that I’m complaining.
“I’m just in a good mood. I figured out a few things.”
“Caught the murderer?”
“Not yet, but things are looking up. Be careful with my Cabernet.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He saluted smartly and went off to the barn.
A car pulled into the back yard before we had finished our first cup of coffee, but it wasn’t Andrew and Mary. It was Luther Dawson.
I opened the back door before he could knock and presented him with a cup of coffee.
“Good morning, Miz Rayburn. Miz Barstow.” He nodded politely in Julia’s direction and then turned back to me. “I’ve come to consult with you on a computer matter.”
“Oh?” I waited in encouraging silence.
“It seems that someone illegally accessed the state police computer system last night; I got a report about it this morning. Do you have any idea how that could have happened?”
Whoops. This crew wasn’t as lax as I thought. Luther was looking at me knowingly.
Julia butted in from the kitchen table, “Oh, was that what – “
As Luther turned to her, I gave her a scalding look behind his back. She broke off and added lamely, “Was that what you wanted to see us about?”
“It sure is.” He turned back to me. “And you know what I told them? I told them that I had logged on to generate the report and put the fear of the Lord into some jackasses who were posting the password in plain sight.”
I barely suppressed a sigh of relief. “That was, uh – very forgiving of you.”
“Forgiving my ass. Now you owe me. And I don’t want to hear another word about those computer games which have all been erased now anyway. The password has been changed, by the way.” He turned toward the door.
“Don’t leave!” I protested. “We’re just about to have a little get-together to straighten out some things like alibis and what-not.”
Luther gave me an amused look. “Is this where you gather all the suspects in the drawing room?”
“Not exactly. We’re just going to have a little chat with Andrew and Mary. Here in the kitchen. Have a seat.” He hesitated. I produced a loaf of banana bread. He sat down.
And here came Mary’s spiffy little Miata, with Mary driving and Andrew clutching the dashboard. I ushered them in and dispensed coffee and banana bread all around.
An uncomfortable silence fell.
“Well?” Julia prodded.
“Well,” I agreed. “I wanted to talk to you folks about the murder and some assumptions we’ve all been making that may not be true.”
Luther pulled out a little notebook.
“Julia has produced this timeline, of where everyone was or says they were from Sunday to Thursday.” I unrolled the timeline on the table. Heads craned to study it.
“Julia pointed out something odd; how little is known about Winslow’s movements during that time. Of course, we couldn’t ask him. And there doesn’t seem to be anyone with any particular reason to pay attention to his comings and goings.”
“That’s true,” Andrew said. “He has the west wing all to himself. And he never did get into the habit of letting Mrs. Griffith know whether or not he was going to be in for dinner. It used to drive her wild, but then years ago she decided to assume that he’d be there. And if he wasn’t, she’d have leftovers for lunch the next day.”
“Right. But look at these gaps.” I followed the Winslow track on the timeline. “Did he ever get home Sunday night? Who knows? Where was he on Monday? No one says.”
Luther leaned back. “So?”
“So,” I told him, “of the people who could have taken the shovel and secateurs, and could have dug the hole in the woods, you can’t eliminate Winslow.”
Luther snorted in disbelief. “Come on! Are you saying the man dug his own grave?”
“Not at all. There’s something funny about that grave. My boy Danny is an archaeology student, and he tells me that a lot of primitive societies bury their dead in a fetal position, with their legs drawn up. But do you think a Twentieth Century American would really intend to bury a six foot man in a five foot grave?”
Andrew was listening intently. “So what was the hole for?”
“Oh, it was a grave, alright, and Winslow dug it. But he was expecting someone else to occupy it.”
Mary had been unusually quiet to this point. Now she had a question. “Where are you getting all this?”
“Just speculation, really. But it makes sense to me that Winslow was planning to kill someone and bury them in my woods. Look at what we know about his recent activities. He
had cut back significantly on his travel around the country. His assistant said he was staying close to home. He had in his files a newspaper article about Passatonnack Winery.”
I got up and fetched the article from the countertop. “The article not only identifies me as a remarried widow whose first husband was killed in Viet Nam. There’s also Jerome’s standard gush setting the scene. Listen to this – ‘the winery is nestled amid two hundred acres of untouched wilderness, where the paths are trod only by the deer’.”
“Oh, gag,” was Julia’s comment.
“That’s Jerome’s style. Anyway, if I were someone looking for a secluded place within driving distance of the city, a place to bury a body and hope that it would remain undiscovered for years, this sounds like a place I’d check out.”
“And,” I went on, “that explains something that puzzled me about Winslow’s visit here. When he left, it seemed like he hadn’t really accomplished anything. He certainly hadn’t gotten us to ante up any money, and I didn’t give him authorization to act as my representative, like he said he wanted. But when he left here, he looked like a man who was well pleased with himself. Because he had accomplished something. He’d performed a successful recon, and decided that this area suited his purposes just fine.”
“Okay, I give up,” Luther said. “Who was Winslow planning to bury in the woods?”
“He was planning to bury his wife. Li Nguyen.”
“WHAT?” It was a general chorus from Mary, Andrew, and Luther. Julia nodded her head, looking smugly in the know.
I turned to Mary. “When you researched Winslow’s life, didn’t you notice that Winslow married Priscilla after he married your mother?”
“Of course,” she answered. “But I though the marriage to Mom was a hoax. You know, just a ploy to get a good Catholic girl into bed.”
Andrew looked at her like she had rocks in her head. “In the cathedral?! Obie may have had all manner of rotten motives, but I doubt if he had that kind of pull.”