by Vicki Delany
“When was the last time you saw Karla?” I asked Barbara. “Before this weekend, I mean?”
“College. A lifetime ago.”
“Really? Not since then?”
“Karla was the one who kept the group together all these years, but only through letters and then e-mails and social media. I wouldn’t have bothered myself, and I suspect the others felt much the same, but when someone writes you a letter, you have to reply. That’s the way I was brought up, anyway. She talked a lot over the years about having a reunion, but I don’t think she ever seriously tried to organize anything. Maybe she hoped someone else would. I don’t know that any of us saw Karla after college. I mean, not many people go to Minnesota for a vacation, right? Even I, who love nothing more than a week of hiking, camping, and canoeing, have never been there, although I’ve heard it’s beautiful. I saw your mom now and again when she was in New York, and Genevieve sometimes. I visited Constance a couple of times when I was in California on business, and she came to New York once or twice. I went out to L.A. for her husband’s funeral. Your mom was there, too, but not Karla, who’d been the one who let us know he’d died. I think the only reason we bothered to still be friends was because Karla kept us all in touch.”
“Karla mentioned she came on this weekend because Constance told her she was planning to come. Did you ever meet up with Ruth? She lives in Rochester, not so far. Mom would have lunch with her sometimes, when she was in town.”
Barbara sighed. “Maybe I should have made the effort, but Ruth, well, she hasn’t done so well in life. She had talent, real talent. She and your mom were the ones our teachers expected to go somewhere. Your mom did. Ruth—” Barbara’s voice faded away.
“Ruth what?” I asked.
“She went to college on a full scholarship. When she graduated, she waited tables for a while, like all the other wannabe young actresses, but then her mother got sick so she had to go home and look after her. I guess she just never left again.”
“Going home’s not so bad. I lived in New York for a while. I worked at my dream job, and I loved it. But . . . things change, and now I’m glad to be back in Rudolph.”
“Because that’s what makes you happy,” Barbara said. “Losing her dream didn’t make Ruth happy.”
“And you?” I asked.
She opened her mouth and sang a scale. The notes rang through the morning, pure and clear. A starling settled in the branch of a nearby maple tree, as though to listen. Mattie stopped sniffing under a bush and lifted his head.
Barbara smiled. “I used to sing. I intended to be the next big thing in pop music. Karen Carpenter had nothing on me, or so I thought. Yes, I had the talent, if I may be so immodest, but I eventually realized I didn’t have the ambition, or the ruthlessness, to make it. Maybe not the luck or the patience, either, so I went to law school instead.”
“And that worked out okay?” It was a bold, personal question to ask a virtual stranger, but somehow, on this pleasant morning, we had fallen into deep conversation.
“More than okay. I love it. I care passionately about the environment and I’m making a difference, in my own small way.” She sighed. “Which is why I can’t spend any more time here. I have to get back to work. My husband and I are partners in the firm. I spoke to him last night. I have a court date tomorrow, and he can’t take it for me. I have to be there.”
“Speak to Detective Simmonds. I’m sure she’ll understand.”
“Ha,” was Barbara’s reply. Then she changed the subject. “What about you, Merry? Do you sing?”
“I inherited all my musical talent from my father. Meaning absolutely none. My sister Carole’s an opera singer, like Mom, and doing fairly well. Eve is acting in Hollywood, and our brother, Chris, although he inherited no more talent than I did, got the performance bug. He’s a stage designer. Carole and Chris are planning to come home for Thanksgiving this year.”
If we even have a Thanksgiving.
Chapter 10
“I cannot believe you’re gotten yourself involved in another murder, Merry.” Jackie stood in front of my desk with an accusing expression on her face.
I groaned. “Neither can I. But it might not be a murder case. The police still have tests to run.”
Mattie walked in circles, deciding how best to settle himself in exactly the right position on the big dog bed that took up about half the available floor space in my office.
“Poison’s what I heard.” She narrowed her eyes and studied me. “Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m tired.”
“You don’t look so good.”
“I didn’t sleep much last night, that’s all.”
“Did you eat what the dead woman ate? Or did she have something special?”
“Jackie, I’m not talking about it. I appreciate you coming in early and opening the shop, but right now you have to get back to work. We have customers.”
“They’ll be fine for a few minutes.”
“They will not!”
“Okay,” she said with a martyred sigh. I swear she must practice that sigh at home in front of the mirror. Along with her world-weary expression. “We’ll talk about it later. Kyle has a theory. He heard the mob followed one of them here and got the wrong woman.”
“Gosh, that might be important. Kyle had better take that information to the police right away.”
Jackie failed to notice my sarcasm. “Do you think so, Merry? Kyle doesn’t like to have contact with the police, not if he can help it.”
I didn’t like to ponder what that meant. Kyle was Jackie’s boyfriend. I thought he was lazy and not too bright. He didn’t have a regular job, just picked up the odd piece of work around town now and again in the busy season. He claimed to be an artist, but as far as I knew he’d never produced any actual art.
“Go to work, Jackie,” I said. “I’ll come out in a few minutes and let you have your break.”
“Going,” she said. And she did.
I dropped into the chair behind my desk with a groan.
When Barbara and I got back to Mom’s house from our walk, she went upstairs to get dressed and I checked the kitchen. No police tape was wrapped across the door, and no signs had been posted warning us to keep out, so I’d gone in.
The trash can was empty, all the pots and pans that had been in the sink or left on the counter, gone. The police had taken away the leftover food from the potluck, the bowls the meal had been served in, the dishes we’d eaten off, the bottles of wine—whether empty or not—and the used drinking glasses. They’d even carried away the untouched desserts. I wondered if they’d dig in to the chocolate cake and mince tarts down at the police station. The kitchen had been left perfectly neat and tidy except for the thin layer of black dust over all the surfaces. Fingerprint powder.
I hoped word wouldn’t spread that having an unexplained death during a dinner party was a cheap way of getting someone else to clean up your mess. Although Mom wouldn’t be at all pleased at the thought of them packing her good china and crystal into boxes and lugging it all down to a lab somewhere.
The day-to-day dishes remained untouched, so we wouldn’t be reduced to eating our Thanksgiving dinner off paper plates.
I could only hope the pack of visitors would be gone and Karla’s death solved by Thursday, so we could enjoy a nice, peaceful family Thanksgiving.
I made a big pot of coffee and found bagels and cream cheese in the fridge. I laid the breakfast things out in the dining room for guests to help themselves when they came down.
Mom was first to arrive. She’d pulled a silk wrap over her nightgown and scrubbed her face. In the absence of the makeup she never appeared in public without, including in front of her own children, the lines on her face were deep and the circles under her eyes dark. I suspected she hadn’t slept much, if at all. I wrapped her in my arms and felt her body quiver.
<
br /> “You okay, Mom?” I asked when we separated.
“I will be when your father gets here. I see the police have left. Thank you for making the coffee, dear.”
I poured her a cup without asking. Black, no sugar.
“Did they discover anything of significance after I went to bed?” she asked after she took the cup from me and enjoyed her first sip.
“I found an EpiPen in the garbage can in the garage.”
Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose. “What do you suppose it was doing there?”
“I don’t know, but it’s highly unlikely Karla went into the garage herself to throw it away.”
“Was it empty?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t hold it for more than a fraction of a second before I realized what it was and dropped it.”
“This is a nightmare,” Mom said. “This morning I have to drive them all into town to the police station to have their fingerprints taken. Do you think Diane expects you to come also?”
“My prints should be on file. They were taken after Max . . .”
“Oh yes. That.” Mom left the sentence hanging. After Max was murdered in my office.
“So I know from experience,” I said, “that it’s not pleasant, even when one knows one is completely innocent.”
“They’re not going to be happy about it. Except for Ruth. I suspect she’ll be delighted at being a suspect.”
“Why? Do you think she had something to do with Karla’s death and deep inside she wants to be caught?”
“I mean nothing of the sort, dear. It will be like living in one of those books she reads all the time. She’ll get a kick out of it.” Mom’s face softened. “Although that might be a bit harsh of me. None of us are getting any sort of kick out of this.”
Footsteps clattered on the stairs. I touched my finger to my lips. Mom nodded and took another sip of her coffee as Constance and Ruth came in. They were both dressed, Constance in a dark red dress with a white belt and Ruth in the same jeans and T-shirt she’d worn yesterday. Constance’s makeup and hair were perfect. Ruth’s hair was still wet from the shower.
“I called my father before turning in,” Constance said. “His lawyers will ensure I’ll be allowed to go home when I want to.”
“If the police need us here,” Ruth said, “we should respect that.”
“Nonsense,” Constance replied. “I know nothing about what happened to Karla, and I’m not going to stay here a moment longer than I intended to at the whim of some small-town cop who wants to make a name for herself.”
Mom and I exchanged glances. Diane Simmonds had been a homicide detective in Chicago. She came to Rudolph after a difficult divorce from another Chicago cop, seeking a quieter life with her young daughter. The last thing she wanted was any attention.
Constance caught our look. “Sorry. I don’t mean to sound heartless. Poor Karla, it’s hard to accept that she’s dead.”
I had no wish to be in the company of Mom’s friends any longer than I had to. Fortunately, I had an excellent excuse to get out of there without seeming rude. “I have to take Mattie for a walk.”
I walked the dog for a long time. When we got back to the house, it was empty. Mom had left a note on the table by the door saying they’d gone to the police station.
They returned a few minutes after me. Constance immediately marched upstairs, yelling into her phone as she went. She slammed her bedroom door behind her.
“That was interesting,” Ruth said to me. “It was all over in no time. I wanted to stay and watch them run the results through the computer, but they wouldn’t let me.”
“You’re a ghoul,” Genevieve said.
“I call it wanting to be informed,” Ruth said with a huff.
Genevieve snorted. “I need a smoke.” She headed for the back door.
“Wouldn’t mind one myself,” Ruth said, following her.
“I’m going for a walk,” Barbara said. “Get the scent of the police station off me.”
“You okay, Mom?” I asked when the women had gone their separate ways.
“I’m fine, dear, but I cannot wait to see the backs of them. All of them. And I’d thought this visit wasn’t going well before.”
“Why don’t you have a sit, and I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
She smiled at me. “I’d like that.”
I waited with Mom until Dad, still dressed in his orange and pink Bermuda shorts, got home. I’d given him a quick hug, then left him and Mom to talk over what was happening and headed for Mrs. Claus’s Treasures.
As soon as Jackie left the office, I checked my phone once again. More messages from Mrs. D’Angelo, pretending she was worried about me; from Sue-Anne, wondering why my father wasn’t returning her calls; from Russ Durham, hoping for a statement. I deleted them all.
“In the back,” I heard Jackie say.
A footstep sounded on the floorboards. Mattie’s ears pricked up. I straightened in my chair.
The office door wasn’t closed, and Alan Anderson’s unruly blond mop peeked around the corner. “Are you receiving guests?”
“Meaning you? Anytime.”
He walked in and gave me a kiss. It was only a light one, as he had to lean across the desk, as well as Mattie, who was begging for attention, but it was welcome nonetheless. He then gave Mattie a rub on the top of his head as he said, “You okay, Merry?”
“Tired, but I’m fine. I was worried about Mom, but Dad cut his fishing trip short and he’s home now.”
“That’s good.”
“What brings you into town today?” I asked.
“You do, Merry. I called the store at opening this morning and asked Jackie to give me a call when you got here. I’ve been sitting next door at Cranberries, waiting.”
“In that case, I’m guessing you don’t want to go for a coffee?”
“You guess right. But if you want to, we can.”
I shook my head. “No, I had a coffee at Mom’s.”
“Do you want to talk about what happened last night?”
I explained briefly. I told him about the curried egg salad, the missing EpiPen, and my suspicions.
“You think someone killed her deliberately?”
“I do. From what I’ve heard, people who are highly allergic can detect the presence of the forbidden substance from the slightest taste and they immediately stop eating it. Karla dug into the curried egg salad without hesitation and had several spoonfuls. Because no one claimed to have made it, even before we started to eat, I have to think that dish had been made specifically to disguise the taste of peanuts. If the EpiPen turns out to be full, which I suspect it will, that has to mean someone deliberately hid it so we couldn’t find it to help Karla when we needed to.”
“You have a limited pool of suspects,” he said. “The women at dinner. Not including you, your mom, and Vicky.”
I’d been thinking about that while walking Mattie. “Not necessarily. The kitchen door was unlocked when I arrived at the house. It usually is during the day.”
He nodded. Rudolph was generally a safe town.
“Which means just about anyone could have come in and left the salad,” I said. “Granted, they would have had to be mighty cool about it. To walk into someone’s house, rifle through the cupboards looking for a serving bowl, dump the salad in the bowl, put it in the fridge, and walk out again.”
“To poison someone’s food and sit there and watch them eat it, you’d have to be mighty cool also,” Alan said. “Cool, and totally heartless.”
I felt a shudder run through me. Alan touched my hand and gave me a gentle smile. I tried to smile back. “You didn’t see anyone creeping around the outside of the house, I suppose,” he said.
I mentally slapped my forehead. “I did, Alan, I did. I forgot all about it until now. When I arrived, a car was b
acking out of the driveway. I assumed it was one of Mom’s or Dad’s friends who’d dropped in and then left when they realized Mom had guests. I never thought about it again, and I didn’t ask Mom who it had been. My gosh, it might have been the killer.”
His face tightened. “It might. You say you forgot about it until now. Meaning you didn’t tell Simmonds?”
“I didn’t, but I will.”
“Do you have any idea why someone would want to kill the woman? What was her name?”
“Karla Vaughan. I know nothing about her except that she’s a bookkeeper at her family’s construction company in Minnesota, and she’s married with children and grandchildren. I didn’t get the feeling she was a particularly happy person, but nothing stood out about her. That’s a thought. Construction. Doesn’t the mob have a lot of ties in construction?” I didn’t mention I’d first heard that suggestion from Kyle, via Jackie.
“So they say, but I wouldn’t know. I’m glad I’m a small-scale, simple woodworker.”
“Your business might be small,” I said, giving him a smile, “but it’s anything but simple.” In Alan’s workshop, next to his house in the woods outside Rudolph, he crafted everything from solid, practical, beautiful furniture, to works of whimsy and charm that were guaranteed to delight children on Christmas morning. He even made jewelry, which was popular in the store: bracelets of polished wood and necklaces of interlocking rings in different colors of wood.
“Speaking of my business, we need to talk about what extra stock you need for the holidays,” he said. “But right now, you should call Simmonds and tell her what you just told me about that car you saw. How about dinner at my place tonight?”
“I’d like that. I’d like it a lot.”
“I’ll see you later then.” He leaned over the desk, and I stood up and leaned toward him. We kissed across a stack of design magazines, craftspeople’s catalogs, a pile of accounts addressed to me, a smaller pile of bills from me waiting to be put in the mail, and a tattered and well-chewed dog rope that had somehow not made it back onto the floor.