Murder in Merino

by Sally Goldenbaum

  Finally Stan released her, looked away, and continued on into the crowded debate room.

  Nell couldn’t spot Ben in the crowd, and suspected he, Danny, and Sam had gone on in. She saw Tommy Porter, in uniform tonight, standing in the back of the room.

  “A sold-out crowd,” she whispered.

  Tommy’s smile was halfhearted, one that told Nell he had talked to the chief. She patted him on the sleeve and followed Birdie to a cleared space near the door.

  “I would rather stand than be squished,” she said, and the others agreed, lining up next to her. A breeze coming in from the lobby offered some relief in the overcrowded room.

  Once they were settled, their backs to the wall, Birdie whispered to Nell. “There’s something not quite right about all this.”

  Nell had sensed it, too. The setup was normal—two podiums on the stage, a small table for the moderator. Chairs neatly arranged. Stan in his handsome blue suit, Beatrice looking stylish in a pink silk jacket dress, slightly nervous, but confident and smiling, talking at the side of the stage. Waiting to be introduced.

  But there was a feeling, visceral and disturbing, traveling through the room. Birdie shivered.

  The green stillness before a tornado swoops down and destroys.

  It was as if the entire town had been privy to their day, watching them on some giant television screen as they had prodded and pulled apart and pieced together lives . . . and deaths. As if they, too, were aware that something ominous was hanging over the wood-beamed room in their beautiful community center. As if they were aware . . . that a murderer sat in their midst.

  But of course that was foolish. Nell pressed one hand against her heart, calming the painful feelings.

  The shrill buzz of the microphone being tested hushed the crowd.

  Lily Virgilio, Izzy’s obstetrician and director of the community center’s free health clinic, was the moderator. A wise choice, Nell thought.

  Lily stepped up to the microphone and smiled warmly at the crowd. She thanked them for coming and explained the event’s format: a brief statement by each candidate, followed by questions that had been gathered from e-mails and a library collection box. Lily would be the timekeeper, and if there was time, there’d be questions from the audience at the end.

  First, the moderator introduced Beatrice, who stepped up to the microphone and launched into an impressive and brief presentation, just as Lily had requested, of her hopes for the town. She ended with sincere compliments to Stan Hanson for the wonderful things he’d done for the city over the past years. “And now,” she said with a beguiling smile, “it’s my turn.”

  The crowd laughed and clapped and Beatrice took it all in. Then she sat back down, folded her hands on her lap, and waited for Stan to take his turn.

  The room grew quiet as the respected mayor stood before them. For a long moment, Stan didn’t speak. He looked out over the audience as if seeing some of them for the very first time. His head turned, looking from one side of the room to the other.

  Karen Hanson sat on the far side of the stage, where a few chairs had been set up for family members. She edged forward in her seat, her eyes glued to her husband, her body tight.

  Nell watched her, sensing her concern. She looked for Ben and spotted him at the end of an aisle halfway down. He was watching Karen, too.

  Bodies shifted on wooden chairs.

  On the stage, Lily Virgilio started to stand up to check the microphone and make sure Stan had water. But before she could take a step, Stan began to speak.

  After a gracious thank you to friends and supporters, he took a drink of water, then removed the microphone from its stand and walked informally to the edge of the stage. Again, he stood still for a minute and looked out at the crowd. And then he began.

  “This is an unusual night for me, folks. I know you came out expecting a rousing debate between my worthy opponent and me—” He looked over at Beatrice and smiled, and then he began clapping for her until the crowd, unsure of his gesture, joined in. When the applause died down, he looked back at the sea of faces and the people who had put him back in office term after term.

  “Well, you’re not going to get that rousing debate.” His eyes turned to his wife briefly, then back to the crowd.

  Nell looked over at Karen. The color had drained from her face but her eyes remained focused on her husband. Even from where she stood, Nell could feel the intensity in her look, powerful and commanding. Without averting her gaze, she stood and moved to the far wall of the stage, into the shadows near the fire exit, and away from the glare of the crowd.

  “I made some decisions this week,” Stan went on. “Tough ones. And I wanted to figure out a way to tell you all personally—and then Beatrice Scaglia made that possible by arranging this great gathering.” He nodded to Beatrice, thanking her.

  “The time has come for me to let someone else have a turn, as Beatrice here so aptly put it. I’ve cared about this town as well as I’m able, and I hope we’ve done a few good things. I’ll always be grateful to you for your acceptance and support. And I hope you will be as fair to Beatrice Scaglia as you’ve been to me. She will be a terrific and worthy mayor—far more worthy than I.

  “You’ve been wonderful to me. And to my wife, Karen, too. I hope . . .” His voice faltered slightly, then grew strong again. “I hope you will continue that support. I thank you for your humanness, your fairness, and your understanding.”

  He paused for so long that a few people clapped, not sure of what he was saying, but with the thought that he was finished. But then he looked up again and went on.

  “I ask for your forgiveness for errors in judgment I’ve made. I’ve loved my job. I’ve loved working for all of you. I’ve loved . . .” His voice faltered, but this time the crowd didn’t fidget. They sat quietly and waited. Stan looked down at his hands, then back at the crowd. “The truth is that sometimes loving can present dilemmas without clear answers.”

  “He isn’t talking about his love for his job,” Birdie said softly.

  Nell nodded. Stan’s dilemmas were born of a different source.

  Stan walked back and replaced the microphone in the stand. And then he raised one hand in a slight wave. “And now, good people, it’s time to say good-bye.”

  He smiled then, and a look of profound relief settled over him. He seemed to stand taller, as if one burden was being lifted from his shoulders before he took on another. He began to walk off the stage.

  At first the crowd sat in silence, unsure of what they had just heard.

  And then they began to clap, politely at first, and then with more enthusiasm as a surprised Beatrice Scaglia stood and walked quickly over to Stan, grasping his hand in her own and pulling him back to the center of the stage. She lifted their entwined hands dramatically into the air to rousing applause. And then the crowd effect took over and the noise grew louder as people stood up and cheered. Some because their neighbors were doing it, others because they liked Stan Hanson, even though they didn’t understand much of what he had just said, and still others because it was a beautiful night and they were happy to be with friends.

  In the back of the crowded room, Nell saw Ben trying to make his way toward the stage, moving against the tide of people and not getting very far.

  Nell stood as tall as she could and scanned the stage.

  “She’s gone,” she said loudly, motioning to Izzy, Cass, and Birdie to follow her.

  “Karen’s gone.”

  Chapter 37

  When they thought back on it later, they weren’t sure what their intentions were, where they were going, or what they intended to do when they got there.

  But instinct trumped reason and in seconds they were following Cass down the front steps of the community center and across the grounds to where she always parked—right at the edge of the lot, for an easy exit.

  Ca
ss drove fast, her four-by-four truck spewing gravel as they raced out of the parking lot and onto the winding narrow road leading into the town.

  In the distance, they spotted the bright silver Audi speeding erratically into the night.

  “To where?” Izzy asked. “Where is she going?”

  But the question was never answered.

  In the next stretch of road, they watched helplessly as the driver sped around a tree-lined curve, lost control, and careened into the thick, tangled shrubbery that edged the woods, crashing into a pole. The sound of metal against metal echoed in the night. Nell pulled out her phone and dialed 911.

  Izzy was the first one out of the truck, with Cass a footstep behind. They pulled open the driver’s door.

  Without the protection of a seat belt, Karen’s body had pummeled forward, cracking the windshield. She was hunched over the wheel, her face pale. A river of blood ran from her scalp down her face.

  “Karen, you’ve been in an accident. We’ve called for help,” Izzy said.

  She forced open her eyes and pressed her hand to her head, then stared at her bloody palm.

  “I’m all right.”

  Nell took a tissue from her purse and pressed it to Karen’s forehead.

  It was that gentle touch, they decided later, that triggered Karen’s uncharacteristic move.

  With her hands still on the wheel, she buried her head in the shadow of her arms, a trail of tears running freely down her cheeks.

  They waited quietly, but just as quickly as the tears started, they stopped. Karen pushed herself back, her face pale against the dark leather seat. “Why . . . are you doing this? Why are you ruining our lives?”

  Nell looked at Birdie over the top of Karen’s head. She was clearly injured badly. Did she know what she was saying?

  “It’s her. Jules Ainsley, isn’t it? She started all of this.” She stared at the blood, which was now running onto her suit. “No one should prod around in the past. It should have stayed buried. Digging it up helped no one.”

  “Except a daughter looking for her father,” Birdie said. “A daughter wanting to know what kind of a man Jimmy Brogan was.”

  Karen seemed not to hear.

  Nell filled in the silence, waiting anxiously for the sound of sirens. “We know about the hit-and-run, Karen. We know you were driving, and your parents paid to keep it out of the press so it would go away.”

  “How . . . how did you . . . ?”

  “You were familiar with Jules’s house. You even found the hidden bathroom without direction. You knew there was a potting shed. You told us yourself about the Three Musketeers—and then later, after Jeffrey was killed, you suddenly, conveniently, couldn’t remember Jimmy’s name. Jimmy, one of your husband’s best friends.”

  “It was an accident, you know, all of it. Everything,” she said. “I knew the old man was dead that night as soon as I hit him. He . . . he was dead. There was no reason to stay. Who would have been helped by that? My parents agreed—there was no reason for people to know who killed him. The . . . the deed was done. So they took care of it. Stan and I were talking marriage. Our life was just beginning.”

  Her voice was steady now, but her eyes looked glazed, and Nell wondered whether the blow to her head was causing the words to flow so freely. She put up a hand to quiet her, but Karen refused. “You need to know that it was all a mistake,” she said.

  “It was easy for my father to have one of his workers take the car back—all the partiers were gone or passed out on Jimmy’s floor. I told him where to put the keys, but he wasn’t very smart and put them in Jimmy’s pocket. A mistake, but not a serious one. Only a few of us knew that the keys were always kept on the kitchen hook. It was taken care of. No one was hurt.”

  “Karen, a young man committed suicide because of that cover-up.”

  “Jimmy was prone to depression. It was a foolish thing to do. He probably would have gotten off after a few years. Love does stupid things to some people. He needed . . . control.”

  “Did Stan know about your involvement?” Izzy asked.

  She rested her head back, wincing, and again Nell tried to keep her quiet, but she pushed her hand away. “No. Not until all these years later when Jeffrey Meara decided to take people’s lives into his own hands.” Her voice was becoming more sluggish now, but muffled bitterness still coated the words. “He recognized that woman. She looks just like Penny, and she always wears that charm Jimmy gave her. It brought it all back to Jeffrey—all those memories, Jimmy’s suicide.

  “He told Stan that he was going to tell Jules everything he knew—honor among friends, he said. They owed Jimmy’s daughter, he said. And then he told Stan about the things he’d found in the car. My purse, the earring.”

  “But the hit-and-run might not have even interested the police, not all these years later. It might not have hurt you, Karen . . .”

  “Hurt me?” The words came out slowly, painfully. “Who knows what Jules would have done with the information. Sued us? Dragged our good name through the mud? Ruined Stan’s career? We don’t know her, Nell. She’s not one of us.”

  Her eyes closed briefly, then opened again. “I begged Stan to stop Jeffrey, to convince him to leave it all alone. Jules Ainsley could lead a fine, long life without knowing who her father was.

  “But Stan said no. We needed to let it go. We’d deal with whatever happened. So . . . it was up to me. To talk Jeffrey out of it.”

  Her words were so soft they had to lean in to hear.

  “Karen, I think you should stay quiet.” Birdie reached over and felt her pulse.

  Nell looked up as the sounds of sirens blended with the night sounds.

  Karen seemed not to notice. Her head moved slightly on the headrest and her voice grew stronger, buoyed somehow by a need to keep talking.

  “Stan told me when Jeffrey was going to meet Jules. I left a message at the Edge telling him the meeting was earlier. And I met him there. He was wandering around . . . reliving the old days. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Don’t relive those days. Don’t . . .’

  “We moved into the shed to talk, for privacy, I said. Just old friends. He should think of us, Stan and me. Our life. But no. He’d made some promise. It was about a promise. A promise. I tried and tried—”

  Nell took over, trying to stop Karen from using up oxygen. “So you were angry, of course. You grabbed the glove, the knife—”

  “To scare him . . .” Her voice slowed. She tried again. “Scare him . . . Stan loves me . . .”

  “Yes, he does,” Birdie said, her voice soothing.

  “Stan . . . loves me. But tonight I knew . . . tonight I knew . . . he was going to the police. That’s what he was saying up there. He couldn’t live anymore with . . . all those secrets. He couldn’t live . . . He . . .”

  She closed her eyes and didn’t notice the police cars, the ambulance that had rounded the bend of the narrow road, their spinning lights filling the night air, and the uniformed men running toward the small silver Audi.

  She only noticed Stan, holding her gently as the ambulance took her away.

  Chapter 38

  “It was a tragedy back then. And it still is. Nobody won in any of this.” Ben leaned back against the counter and rubbed his temples. “And two people died.”

  They were gathered in Ben and Nell’s kitchen, the weight of the day pressing down on them.

  Although the paramedics hadn’t said much, it was clear Karen’s condition was deteriorating. Possible swelling in the brain from the trauma, Chief Thompson said. It didn’t look good.

  Sam and Izzy had picked Abby up from the sitter’s before circling by Jules’s house. Who knew how long it would take for some reporter to catch wind of what had happened and show up on Jules’s doorstep? She needed to know what was going on. And she needed to be with friends.

  Rebecca’s car was
in the drive when Sam went in, inviting them both to a magnificent pizza dinner at the Endicotts’. They accepted instantly.

  Danny picked up the pizzas and Nell pulled out an assortment of wines and beer.

  Jeffrey’s box was gone, now safely in Chief Thompson’s hands. The diamond stud earring that Jeffrey had found squeezed down in the seat of the Sprite went with it, along with a tiny leather coin purse with a folded note scrunched inside that Karen had written in her distinctive left-handed script, reminding her to pick up her laundry the next day. The day after an old man died from a hit-and-run—a forty-year-old note, yellow now with age.

  “Reminders before messaging and iPhone calendars existed,” Izzy had said, with a sad smile. The monogram on the purse was a scrolled KES. Karen Elizabeth Siegel.

  “The police will have to work out what Stan knew. Didn’t know,” Sam said. He filled the wineglasses lining the island.

  “I don’t think he knew for sure that Karen killed Jeffrey,” Ben said. “But he must have suspected it. Few people knew Jeffrey was going to meet with Jules, but Stan did. And he had told Karen about it.”

  But he loved his wife, Nell thought. Just like Karen said. He’d want to protect her.

  “He faced the same dilemma that Jeffrey Meara faced,” Birdie said. “Should Stan fill the police in on the past, on possible motives that his wife might have? Would that bring Jeffrey back? Or should he protect Karen, protect their life together?”

  They were quiet then, each sorting through the dilemma and their own feelings, their own lives and loves.

  Karen was an enigma, everyone agreed. A woman as steely as she was gracious.

  “She grew up in a bubble,” Birdie said. “Her parents controlled any obstacle in her life as diligently as they did their business. Even when it meant covering up a hit-and-run that might tarnish their family name.”

  Nell looked over at Abby resting in Sam’s arms, a pacifier bobbing between her small lips, and read their thoughts. Izzy leaned in to Sam’s side, one finger touching a curl on the baby’s head. Thinking of their own parenting ways. The stumbles their daughter would make, the challenge to let her make them, let her solve them. And she knew as certainly as anything in her life that Abby—and her parents—would handle it all just fine.