I looked at my hands. “Will you just look at these raggedy nails?” I said.
Andrea raised an eyebrow. “You have no nails at all, Maggie. You cut them off to play the piano.”
I ignored her. “I think a mani-pedi is the perfect indulgence, don’t you?”
“I knew you wouldn’t be satisfied with whatever I found out,” said Andrea. “Just do me the kindness of looking at my notes so I feel that it was worth my while to go through the charade of talking with Carol Ann myself.”
“Not a charade,” I said, trying to sound chastened. “You turned up an interesting piece of information—that Carol Ann was about to tell Grace she was pregnant just before she died. I just want to have a chance to talk with her myself.
“Besides,” I added, “I need a little grooming tune-up. I’m going to be at the Junior League fashion show, watching you strut your stuff and making your mother feel welcome at the Small Town table.”
Andrea paused, and turned around. She narrowed her eyes at me. “I’d hoped you’d forgotten we had a table at the show,” she said. “And don’t try to pull a fast one on me. You are not going to be there to watch me. You’re not even interested in seeing anything on the runway.”
“How do you know?” I protested.
“Because you’re going to be there watching Calvin and my mother together. Or, you’ve got some nefarious detecting planned.”
“Or both,” I said. “That’s a possibility. We women are multitaskers, you know.”
When I walked into Ocean View Day Spa later that afternoon, I actually started to believe the indulge-oneself philosophy women’s magazines spout. The hectic hours between coffee with Andrea and stepping into the taupe, cream, and brown understatement that was Ocean View Day Spa seemed to disappear. Apologizing to a theater company about wrong information and a vicious review—gone; explaining six ways to Sunday why we were paying a kill fee instead of accepting a lame-brained feature on some wacky, herbal alternative to Botox—gone; gobbling a carton of yogurt and a KitKat while sitting through an excruciating budget meeting, with time out to field a call from Josh’s teacher about the increasingly risqué jokes he seemed to be telling on the playground—gone. Well, the last item wasn’t gone, but it seemed less urgent when I realized that I could make an excellent case for Michael dealing with the problem.
Little matter, I thought, as I sank into the sueded easy chair, with my feet up on an ottoman, sipping unexpectedly delicious herb tea, while I waited for my mani-pedi adventure. From the waiting room, a series of picture windows opened onto dramatic ocean views—ocean, not bay, with the rocky coastline just below, and the afternoon sun starting to edge toward the western horizon. Gulls wheeled outside the windows. Best of all, instead of the predictable spa soundtrack—goopy New Age harp music—I could hear the late Beethoven string quartets softly pouring from the speakers. It was so blissful just sitting there, I was somewhat startled when Carol Ann came out of her office to greet me and apologized profusely for the “aesthetician,” who was running just a little behind.
“I’m early,” I said. “This is heaven in a teacup just to sit here for a few minutes. And you’re so nice to come say hello.”
“Purity told me you were doing a story on Grace,” she said. “And I talked to the writer who’s working on the story the other day. I just want you to know how happy I am that you’ll be saying nice things about Grace in the article.”
I was silent.
“You are, aren’t you?” she asked. “Saying good things?”
“Well,” I hedged, “it’s a magazine article, not a eulogy.”
She looked troubled. “I don’t want to talk to you if it’s not a positive story.” Trouble, on Carol Ann’s creamy-skinned, perfect-featured young face, simply dimmed a little of the incandescence.
I raised my hand. “Carol Ann, I want to tell you something.” I took a deep breath. “When we began this story, I didn’t know what I thought about Grace Plummer. And when I first saw the background on her, I have to admit I jumped to a pretty stereotypical set of conclusions—some spoiled socialite with more time and money than the rest of us.”
Carol Ann started to bridle. “But then,” I continued, “I began to get to know who Grace really was. I visited A Mom’s Place, I talked to people like Purity and the folks at the San Francisco Botanical Gardens. And a completely different picture of Grace started to emerge.”
Her face brightened. “Thank you for telling me that. You know,” she colored a little, “I’m taking a journalism class to finish out my writing requirements at San Francisco State. I’m almost done with my degree,” she added shyly.
“Andrea, the writer who talked with you, told me,” I said. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you. I have to say I feel proud of myself, and I think that Grace would be proud of me as well. But anyway, in this class, as we’re reading news stories, I’ve started to see how—well, wrong so many stories are in the media. Not just print,” she said hastily, “television and radio and online, too. I mean, sometimes you can recognize the truth in a story, but it’s as if no one has the time to get things really right. They may get some of the facts, but…” she faltered.
“I know just what you mean,” I said. “Fortunately, we’re a magazine, so we get to take a little longer when we’re working on a story than daily newspapers do, but it’s still never enough to get things exactly right. But, I’ll tell you this, we’re doing our best on this story, and we keep turning up new and interesting information.”
“Information on Grace?” she asked.
“On Grace and other people as well,” I said.
I looked at Carol Ann and made a decision. “You know,” I said, “I want to tell you a story about Grace’s childhood that may help explain why she was drawn to A Mom’s Place.”
It was a judgment call, but I knew we couldn’t use the information in the story that ran in Small Town, and somehow it seemed as if Carol Ann should hear the story anyway. So I told Carol Ann—about Grace’s childhood, about her mother, about being raised by her grandparents.
She went from puzzled to wide-eyed to stricken in just a few minutes.
“She never told me,” said Carol Ann.
“Nothing about this story?” I pressed her.
She shook her head. “No, but it explains so much. She always told me that I could invent my own life. That whatever I wanted, I could just decide, and go after it and make it a real thing.”
“What did she mean by that, do you think?”
“It wasn’t just about material things,” said Carol Ann, “though I know she wanted me to be able to earn a good living. She wanted me to get an education and feel happy. She said she knew it was possible to just—what was her phrase—‘gut through’ the bad stuff and create a whole new life.” Carol Ann laughed. “Once when we planted a winter garden at A Mom’s Place, broccoli and things, we woke up one morning, and all the outer leaves were gone. Some neighborhood kid’s pet bunnies had gotten into the yard and nibbled everything in the raised beds down to nothing. We were so upset, but Grace just laughed. She said gardening taught her to be humble and persistent. That someone else might try to wreck what you were doing, but you always have another planting season to try again.”
A young woman in a taupe smock leaned over my chair. “Mrs. Fiori, I’m ready for you.”
Carol Ann stood up. “You know what, Charlene? I’ll take care of Mrs. Fiori myself.” Charlene looked startled, and a little offended.
“It’s all right,” Carol Ann said, putting her arm around the young woman’s shoulder. “I’m crediting this to your account. It’s just that Mrs. Fiori and I…” she paused.
“We’re friends,” I said hastily. “This gives us a chance to catch up.”
“Go get yourself a coffee,” said Carol Ann. “Put your feet up for a few minutes. Think of it as an unexpected vacation.”
The young woman‘s face brightened. She hugged Carol Ann, “Thank you. I was up all nig
ht with the baby, and I’d love to sit down for a few minutes.” And in an instant, she disappeared back through the billowing, chiffon curtains.
Soon, Carol Ann had me settled at a manicure table, positioned so that whoever sat on the client side of the table could look out on the view. There were oversize arrangements of exotic white flowers everywhere—and the room was filled with fragrance I dimly remembered from a long-ago trip to Hawaii. “This feels wonderful,” I said, almost whispering, though no one could hear us. “It reminds me of staying up late with a girlfriend and doing each other’s nails and discussing important issues like did we think Bobby Gage was cute or not?”
“Soak,” said Carol Ann, gently guiding my hands into a bath of warm, sandalwood-scented water. “Well, then, you’ll have to do my manicure next.”
“Sure,” I said.
She shook her head. “I’m just being silly. This is fun for me, too. Mostly I do paperwork in the office these days, juggling work schedules, ordering supplies, things like that.”
I sat in silence and watched her work.
“Purity told me a story about Grace taking you for a manicure the night of your high school prom,” I said.
“She did so many things for me,” said Carol Ann. “I always wanted to do something for her.”
“Is that why you named your daughter after her?” I asked.
Carol Ann patted my hands dry, one at a time.
“I just wish she’d known.”
“You didn’t have a chance to tell her?”
She looked down at my right hand, busily pushing the cuticle back.
“No, I wanted to tell her, just as soon as I knew I was pregnant. But Steven, my husband, thought we should wait ’til I was past the first three months before we told anyone.”
“In case something happened?”
“Yes,” she said. “But that was so hard for me. Hard to keep something like that from Grace.”
I was quiet for a moment, watching Carol work. I’d heard something in her voice that seemed not quite right.
“Carol Ann,” I said. “Did you really keep that news from Grace?”
She looked up, startled. “What do you mean? I told you I didn’t have a chance to tell her.”
I looked at her carefully. She broke eye contact and picked up my other hand.
“I think you couldn’t stand keeping that kind of secret,” I said.
She kept her head down, but I could see the curve of her cheek turning pink.
“I assure you,” she said, still not looking up, “Grace died without knowing I was expecting another baby.” She put my hand down, looked up and met my eyes straightforwardly. “And I don’t think it’s very nice of you to come here and accuse me of telling a lie.”
Good going, Maggie, I thought. Nothing like insulting a lovely young woman who’s had troubles you never dreamed about. I put my damp hand on Carol Ann’s. Her eyes were blazing at me now.
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
She blinked quickly, and I realized she was about to cry.
“Carol Ann,” I began again. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just…” I trailed off, as tears began to run soundlessly down her cheeks.
“Why are you asking me about this?” she said. “Oh, never mind. I want to tell someone. But…” she snatched tissues from the box next to the manicure table, and blew her nose. “How did you know I told her? Well, actually I didn’t tell her. But I almost did.”
And then the words came tumbling out. How her husband, Steven, was studying at the library late one night. And her toddler was fussy, so she’d packed her in the car and gone for a ride.
“I didn’t mean to go to Grace’s,” she said, “but we ended up on her street. Jenny had fallen asleep, so I was just sitting outside Grace’s house. I could see lights on upstairs, and her husband’s car was gone, so I thought I’d wait ’til Jenny woke up, and surprise Grace by ringing her doorbell.”
I could feel my heart speeding up. The water was cooling, and feeling a little slimy, but I was afraid to move my hand out; afraid that if I made a move, I’d spook Carol Ann and she’d stop talking.
Carol Ann looked over her shoulder. “I can’t believe I’m opening my mouth and all this is coming out,” she said.
“I’m listening.”
She gulped, the way kids do when they’ve been crying, and are ready to get control of themselves again. She sat back in the chair.
“I was going to call Grace from my cell, and tell her we were outside, but…”
I caught my breath. Mrs. Lomax had been right. The mystery car belonged to Carol Ann.
“But?”
She shrugged. “You know how you get some picture in your head sometimes? I just had this picture of waiting on Grace’s doorstep, and as soon as she opened the door, saying something like ‘guess what? There’s going to be another baby—and if it’s a girl, we’re naming her Grace.’ So, I wanted to surprise her. I couldn’t wait to see her face!”
“You didn’t get a chance to do that, did you?”
She shook her head. “No. Jenny was just starting to stir, so I’d climbed into the back, to get her out of her car seat, in case she needed changing, before we went up to Grace’s doorstep. The diaper bag was on the floor of the backseat, so I was bent down, rummaging in it, and when I sat back up, I saw someone standing on Grace’s front porch. And then Grace was opening the door for him.”
“Him? You could see him?”
She shook her head. “No, I couldn’t see anything really. It was dark, and he had his back to me, but I could tell it was a man.”
“Didn’t you get out of the car?”
She shook her head. “No, it was weird. The man had clearly said something that upset Grace—she disappeared back into the house, came back with a coat, and literally ran across the lawn with this guy. She was moving so fast, I didn’t even have time to call out to her. I remember,” she stopped and swallowed. “There was a scarf hanging out of her coat pocket, and she was running so it looked like a kite tail, floating out in back of her. I couldn’t be sure because it was pretty dark.” She hesitated. “But it looked like a flowery scarf I had given her for her birthday.” She stopped. I hoped Carol Ann would never see the grim police photo I had seen, the one with Grace’s hands bound in back of her—by a flowery scarf.
“Then what?”
“There was a van parked in the driveway, and they both got in it and zoomed away.”
Right again, Mrs. Lomax, I thought. There were two vehicles.
“What time was that? Do you remember?”
“Around ten, I think.”
“You didn’t notice the license plate?”
“No, Jenny was awake, and had started to fuss, so I was dealing with her, and besides—it all happened so fast.”
“You never told the police any of this?” I asked.
She flushed. “I didn’t. Wasn’t that dumb? But Steven said they might think I had something to do with the murder. Since I was kind of lurking around her house. Plus, Grace’s body was found in that guy’s limo, and this was a van, so I didn’t see how they could be connected.”
She was silent for a moment. “At least, I couldn’t see how it would have anything to do with the murder. So, I really haven’t let myself think about that night since then.” She hesitated. “And then, there was one other thing. It’s odd but, as the van was pulling away, I thought, ‘Oh, that’s funny, I think there’s someone in the backseat.’”
“You mean you saw someone?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Not exactly. It’s just that, as the van was driving away, I had this vague impression there was someone…” She paused to think. “A short someone, who must have been lying down on the seat, or something, because I had this impression of some figure cautiously sitting up. I assumed it was a woman, because the person was short. But, I guess it could have been a young person or a short man. I remember thinking, ‘Ah, somebody besides Jenny had a nap,’ ” she finished. She looked at
me. “What do you think?”
“I think you have to tell the police what you told me,” I said. “Or maybe the lawyer who’s handling Travis’s appeal. I don’t really know. But somebody needs to know this.”
Carol Ann nodded. “I know,“ she said miserably. “It just didn’t seem to have anything to do with the murder,” she repeated. “I mean, I assumed she’d run out that night on an errand or something, and then somehow, ended up with Travis Gifford later that night. I knew.” She hesitated.
“Knew what?”
“That sometimes, when Frederick wasn’t home, Travis would come by and take Grace out. Just for a drive. Or…” she faltered.
“Or for a late date,” I suggested.
She looked uncomfortable. “Yes, I guess so.”
“Did Grace tell you about…those dates?” I asked. “Or you just concluded that?”
Carol Ann hesitated. “It’s not like we had some big talk about her relationship with Travis. It’s just that she didn’t make it much of a secret. I guess,” she hesitated again. “I guess I didn’t think it was a secret from Frederick, either. From Mr. Plummer,” she corrected herself. “I thought maybe they had some kind of agreement.”
“Did that bother you?”
She shrugged. “I loved Grace, and so whatever she did was okay with me. I don’t mean I think it’s great to be unfaithful or anything,” she amended hastily. “But I don’t know much about the kind of lives people like the Plummers have. It’s like a book Grace gave me, The Great Gatsby.”
“The rich are different from you and me?” I asked.
“That’s right,” said Carol Ann. “Or at least that’s how I explained it to myself. But anyway, none of it seemed important—it didn’t interfere with what a good person Grace was.”
“Except maybe it got her killed,” I mused.
“Maybe,” said Carol Ann, “but maybe not. Maybe Travis didn’t even do it, is that what you’re suggesting?”
“I didn’t make the original suggestion,” I said grimly. “But people I respect are saying just that, and I have a feeling they’re going to be glad to hear from you.”
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