It was nine in the morning. She’d stayed up the rest of the night, cooking and worrying. At midnight, she’d had a call from Jessica’s mother, telling her that Erin was there and was planning to spend the night.
“I take it you two are having some problems,” said Jessica’s mother, a slight, quiet woman whose name Mary Bliss couldn’t remember. “She was pretty upset when she got here. I told her she could stay tonight, but she had to let you know where she was. She doesn’t feel quite ready to talk to you just yet.”
“That’s fine,” Mary Bliss said, relieved to know where her daughter was. “Thanks for letting me know. And thank you for letting her stay.”
“It’s no problem at all,” the woman assured her. “I’ll try to have her call you in the morning.”
“Good luck with that,” Mary Bliss said. “She’s really angry with me.”
“It’ll blow over,” Jessica’s mother said. “Jess has two older sisters. When they were this age, we were always fussing at each other. Now they’re just fine. They call me every day. We’re best friends.”
“I look forward to that time,” Mary Bliss said fervently.
At ten o’clock Friday morning, Mary Bliss picked up the phone and called Katharine.
“I need to borrow your refrigerator,” she said. “I’ve run out of room in mine and I’ve still got thirty pounds of chicken to go.”
“Good Lord,” Katharine said. “Are we having another funeral?”
“It’s a wedding,” Mary Bliss said. “And I’ve got to make a hundred pounds of Mamie’s chicken salad.”
“Who do we know that’s getting married?” Katharine asked, puzzled. “Seems like everybody we know is getting divorced.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Mary Bliss said. “This is for a total stranger. Braelynn Connors.”
“The blonde chick on channel eleven? That’s supposed to be a really big society wedding. I’ve been reading about it in the Constitution’s ‘Peach Buzz’ for weeks. How’d you get hooked up with Braelynn Connors?”
“Her caterer’s grandmother was Meemaw’s old cook. She took care of Parker when he was a little kid. The grandson, Gerran Thomas, came to Parker’s memorial service. He had some of the chicken salad and decided he absolutely had to have it for this swanky wedding. So I agreed to make it for them. A hundred pounds. I must be out of my mind to even try.”
“How much are they paying you?” Katharine asked.
“Twenty-five dollars a pound,” Mary Bliss said. “After this is over I’ll never look at another piece of chicken again. So, how about it? Do you have room in your fridge?”
“Sure,” Katharine said. “Bring it on over. Just don’t ring the doorbell when you get here. Charlie had kind of a rough night.”
“Charlie? He’s there? So you worked things out?”
“He’s here, sort of,” Katharine said. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you when you get here.”
By noon she’d finished shredding the rest of the chicken and had poured the Italian dressing marinade over everything. Her fingers were red and shriveled. She was hungry, but the thought of food made her nauseous.
Mary Bliss was picking at a plate of cottage cheese when her own doorbell rang.
Damn. Good news never came to her front door. It was probably a bill collector. Or worse, Matt Hayslip again.
She stepped out the kitchen door and peeked down the driveway. A dark-green SUV was parked there. Not Hayslip’s black cop-mobile. And her own car was now blocked in. She would have to answer the door.
The woman standing on her front porch was a massive black woman with arms like tree trunks. She wore a tentlike navy-blue dress and a stern expression, and she was clutching a thick briefcase under her arm.
“Mrs. McGowan?” the woman said sternly.
“Yes?” Mary Bliss said, taking a step back.
The woman produced a business card and handed it to her.
“I’m Quiana Reese. With Southern Mutual Insurers. I wonder if I could have a few minutes of your time?”
Mary Bliss felt the blood drain from her face. She stared down at the card, trying to think of something to say. QUIANA REESE. CASE INVESTIGATOR, the card said. This was the person Charlie had warned her about. A fraud investigator. He hadn’t told her the investigator would be a huge, intimidating woman named Quiana Reese.
“Just a minute, please,” Mary Bliss said, taking yet another step back. “I’ve got something on the burner in my kitchen, and I’m afraid it’s boiling over. I’ll be right back.”
She closed the door and ran to the kitchen. She picked up the phone.
“Katharine? Is Charlie awake yet?”
“I think so,” Katharine said. “I heard water running down there a few minutes ago.”
“Down there?”
“In the basement. You didn’t think I’d let the lying, cheating scumbag sleep upstairs with me, did you? I fixed him up a bed in the playroom.”
“You’re keeping him down in the basement? That seems a little drastic to me,” Mary Bliss said, forgetting for a moment just how drastic her own situation was.
“He’s lucky I didn’t make him sleep out in the garage,” Katharine said tartly. “He’s got everything he needs down there, no stairs to contend with, as long as he stays put. Now, why are you so interested in Charlie’s living arrangements?”
“I need to talk to him,” Mary Bliss said. “There’s a fraud investigator from the insurance company standing on my front porch. She says she has a few questions to ask me. The last thing Charlie told me was that I was absolutely not to talk to anybody from the insurance company unless he was with me. I need to know what I should tell her.”
“Stall,” Katharine said. “I’ll run downstairs and give Charlie the phone. He can call you and tell you what to do.”
“He doesn’t have his own phone down there?”
“So he can call the BW whenever he feels like it?” Katharine said. “Fat chance. He stays in the basement. And he doesn’t use the phone unless I’m standing right there.”
“Well, hurry,” Mary Bliss said. “This woman looks like she means business.”
Mary Bliss raced back to the front hall. “Just a minute, Ms. Reese,” she called. “I’ve got a tiny little grease fire. I’ll be right back.”
She stood over the phone in the kitchen, willing it to ring.
“Mary Bliss?” Charlie’s voice sounded thin and weak. No match for the bulldozer cooling her heels on her front porch.
“Charlie, I hate to bother you,” Mary Bliss said. “But that fraud investigator is here. She wants to ask me some questions. What should I do?”
He sighed. “Let her in. Stall her some more. I’ll see if I can get my jailer to bring me over there.”
“No, Charlie,” Mary Bliss said. “You just got out of the hospital. Katharine said you’re not supposed to have any stress. Just tell me what to do. You don’t have to come over here.”
“I don’t want you talking to anybody unless I’m sitting right there,” Charlie said. “Hang on, sugar. I’m a-coming.”
After she hung up, Mary Bliss took some of the fat she’d strained off the chicken broth, put it in a black iron skillet, placed it in the sink, and set a match to it. Flames shot up, singeing her eyebrows. She leapt backward, fanning her face, then reached forward and turned the faucet on. A cloud of smoke filled the kitchen.
She sighed and marched herself out to meet the enemy.
“Good heavens,” Quiana Reese said as Mary Bliss led her down the hall to the living room. “You really did have a grease fire, didn’t you?”
“I’m afraid so,” Mary Bliss said. “I’ve been cooking chicken. I guess I got a little careless. That happens sometimes.”
“You don’t have a home-owner’s policy with us, do you?” Ms. Reese asked, alarmed.
“No, ma’am,” Mary Bliss said. “We’re State Farm all the way. Except for that life insurance policy my aunt gave us for a wedding gift, all those years ago.�
�
She seated the investigator on the sofa and pulled up a wing chair to sit opposite her.
Ms. Reese started unfastening the brass buckles on her briefcase.
“Let me get you some iced tea,” Mary Bliss said, jumping back up. “All that smoke is making your throat itch, I’ll bet.”
“I’m fine,” Ms. Reese protested. “Now, if we could just get down to business…”
“I’ll be right back,” Mary Bliss said, rushing from the room.
She boiled water for the tea, added the Luzianne bags and the sugar, then let it steep while she dialed Katharine’s house again.
The phone rang, but nobody answered. “Hurry,” Mary Bliss urged aloud.
She was just taking the tray of iced tea and sugar cookies into the living room when the doorbell rang again.
Quiana Reese’s hamlike hand was hovering over the cookie plate. She snatched it back. “Were you expecting company?” she asked, frowning.
“I wasn’t expecting anybody today,” Mary Bliss said pointedly. “But people just keep showing up. Haven’t you ever had a day like that? When people won’t seem to leave you alone?”
Charlie’s face was pale and his neck seemed suddenly too small for his white golf shirt. His blue blazer hung from his shoulders.
“Hey, shug,” he said, stepping inside.
“Charlie,” Mary Bliss said, hugging him gingerly. “You shouldn’t be out of bed yet.”
“Hush,” he said. “I was going stir-crazy down there in the basement. You know that woman doesn’t even get cable down there?”
She showed him into the living room.
Quiana Reese had a clipboard in her lap, and she was busy reading some kind of document. “Hello,” she said, glancing up at Charlie, visibly surprised.
He walked haltingly to the wing chair Mary Bliss had pulled up and gripped the arms as he lowered himself into it.
“Hi there,” he said when he’d made himself comfortable. “I’m Charles Weidman. I’m an old friend of Mr. and Mrs. McGowan’s. And Mrs. McGowan’s attorney, of course. I’ve been in contact with your people out there at Southern Mutual, but I wasn’t aware you’d be visiting my client today.”
“I’m Quiana Reese,” she said. “And I wasn’t aware it was necessary to notify you of my intentions. This is strictly an informal inquiry. And I’d prefer to talk to Mrs. McGowan in confidence.”
Mary Bliss shivered. She’d known Charlie for years but had never seen him doing the lawyer thing before. She was impressed. And glad he was on her side.
“Anything the two of you discuss is in strictest confidence,” Charlie said pleasantly.
“All right, then,” Quiana Reese said, pursing her lips. She looked down at her clipboard again, then reached into her briefcase and brought out a small silver tape recorder, which she set out on the coffee table.
“You don’t object to my taping our discussion, do you?” she asked, looking at Mary Bliss.
Charlie reached into the inside pocket of his blazer and brought out a black, slightly smaller tape recorder. “I don’t mind if you don’t mind,” he said, setting his machine right next to hers.
Quiana Reese started off with the easy stuff.
“For the record, this is the home of Mrs. Mary Bliss McGowan, and this is the fifteenth of July,” she said stiffly. “Mrs. McGowan has agreed to answer questions pertaining to the apparent death of her husband, Parker McGowan, in Cozumel, Mexico, on or around June fourth.”
“Not an apparent death,” Charlie said, interrupting. “The police in Cozumel ruled his death an accident, and after a thorough investigation issued a death certificate for Parker McGowan. Your company has been furnished with copies of that certificate, as well as the pertinent police documents.”
“Mexico,” Ms. Reese said. The way she said it, Mary Bliss thought, it was like it was a dirty word. Like phlegm. Or vagina.
“It’s your statement that you and your husband traveled to Cozumel for a vacation, is that correct?”
Mary Bliss looked at Charlie for approval. He nodded his head.
“Yes,” she said.
“You traveled separately?”
Charlie nodded again.
“Yes. Parker was away on a consulting trip. He asked me to fly down to Cozumel and meet him there. Which I did.”
“And where was your husband traveling from?”
Mary Bliss bit her lip. Charlie nodded. She bit her lip again. “You know, I don’t believe he said where he was traveling from,” she said. “His business took him all over the country, and I guess I kind of lost track of where he was the week before. Dallas, maybe. Or Phoenix.”
Quiana Reese scribbled a note on her clipboard. “Kind of unusual, isn’t it? Not knowing where your husband is?”
“It wasn’t unusual for the McGowans,” Charlie pointed out. “Anyway, I don’t see why that’s pertinent to your investigation.”
“Everything about them is pertinent,” Ms. Reese said. “And you checked into your hotel, the Casa Blanca, on June third?”
“I believe so,” Mary Bliss said.
“And your husband had already checked in?”
“Yes,” she said, clasping her hands tightly in her lap.
“Has your husband always been a heavy drinker?” Quiana Reese asked, switching gears. “Has he ever sought treatment for substance abuse? To your knowledge, had he ever been arrested for possession of a controlled substance?”
“What?” Mary Bliss asked, her voice shrill. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t answer that, Mary Bliss,” Charlie said calmly. He leaned forward and shut off both tape recorders.
“I wish you wouldn’t interfere with my investigation,” Quiana Reese said, frowning.
“And I wish you wouldn’t ask my client insulting, immaterial questions,” Charlie said.
“It’s not immaterial,” Ms. Reese retorted. “I’ve been to the Casa Blanca. I’ve talked to hotel employees. Mr. McGowan was seen several times in the hotel’s beach bar, consuming large amounts of beer and tequila. I also learned he may have purchased marijuana from one of the hotel’s maintenance workers.”
Dinky Davis, Mary Bliss thought. If he wasn’t already dead, she would surely have to track him down and kill him for real this time.
“Parker McGowan?” Charlie said, laughing. “That’s ludicrous. Parker detested tequila. Couldn’t stand the stuff. And he never did drugs. Of any kind. He wouldn’t even take an Ibuprofen for a pulled back muscle. You’d better check your sources more carefully, Ms. Reese. I knew Parker for ten years before his untimely death. Obviously, you’re talking about somebody other than Parker McGowan.”
Quiana Reese thumped her clipboard for emphasis. “I have signed affidavits from all the people who witnessed your client’s behavior. I have the copies of the McGowans’ hotel bill—he charged two fifths of Tecate to his room, as well as a case of Dos Equis beer. That doesn’t sound like a case of mistaken identity to me.”
Charlie held up his hand. “That’s enough. We’re done here, Ms. Reeves. Mrs. McGowan lost her husband less than six weeks ago. She’s still in mourning. I won’t let you sit in her house and slander her husband. If you have any other questions, you can submit them in writing to me, and we’ll review the situation at that time.”
Quiana Reese stood up suddenly, smoothing the voluminous folds of her navy-blue tent over her hips. She grabbed her tape recorder and stuffed it in her briefcase. Then she pulled out a pamphlet and flung it on the coffee table.
“What’s that?” Charlie asked, reaching for it.
“ ‘Timely Tips for Home Fire Safety,’ ” she retorted. “Your client should read it—before she burns this house down.”
50
Charlie followed Mary Bliss into the kitchen, his gait halting. While she busied herself putting away the tea glasses and the cookies, he lifted the foil covering on one of the trays of chicken and helped himself to a handful of poached chicken breast.
“Stop
that,” she said, popping his knuckles with the back of a wooden spoon. “That’s my mortgage payment you’re eating.”
“No, it’s my legal fee,” Charlie said. “What is that smell?” he asked, sniffing and glancing around the kitchen.
“Burnt chicken grease?” she said. “You told me to stall the insurance investigator. So I staged a little kitchen fire.”
“What else did you stage?”
Mary Bliss stood with her back to the sink, her arms crossed over her chest.
“What’s that supposed to mean? The fire was strictly a diversionary tactic. It was your idea, Charlie Weidman.”
He took a saucer from her dish drainer and began spooning poached chicken onto it. Then he opened the refrigerator and got out one of the jars of Duke’s, adding a huge dollop. He liberally salted and peppered the chicken, sat down at the kitchen table, and calmly tucked into it like one of the starving Armenians Mary Bliss’s mother had always taunted her with.
“You shouldn’t eat that,” Mary Bliss scolded. “You’ve just had a heart attack. You’ve got about a cup of mayonnaise there. And all that salt! Are you trying to kill yourself?”
He continued eating. “Katharine won’t feed me anything but red Jell-O and plain white rice,” he said. “I’d rather die of a heart attack from eating mayonnaise and red meat than live on that crap.”
He looked up at her again. “Stop playing dumb, Mary Bliss. I know you two are up to something. But I can’t help you unless you tell me the truth.”
“I’m telling the truth,” she said stiffly. “I can’t believe that woman went down to Mexico and found out about Parker’s drinking. It’s so embarrassing. And the drugs. I swear, I didn’t know he was doing drugs too.”
“All right,” Charlie said wearily. “You just stick to your story, then. But I warn you, Mary Bliss. It sounds fishy even to me—and I’m your lawyer and your best friend’s husband.”
Little Bitty Lies Page 26