Guilt Trip

by Donna Huston Murray

  In the glow emanating from downstairs I watched Lyle reach for his jeans.

  I halted him with my urgent, “Wait!” before he could grab his shirt. “You have any tracking on it?” I asked.

  “Yeah, sure. An anti-theft tracer.”

  “So Tom can see where it is at all times?”

  “Yes, but...”

  “Then let him tell us where it went when we get up in the morning.” Three reasons: I thought I already knew where it was going, we had no authority to stop it, and I really needed some sleep.

  Conflicting thoughts crossed Lyle’s face like cloud shadows across a field.

  “Your murder. Not mine,” he concluded. Then he climbed down the ladder to explain it all to Tom.

  Chapter 46

  “Good morning,” I told Marsha as I entered the kitchen.

  Standing by the center island, her hands embraced a coffee mug as if it were a wishing well or perhaps the Fountain of Youth. Without makeup her complexion was even and bland as pizza dough, and her white chenille bathrobe added twenty pounds to her waistline. I’d forgotten about her age, but I remembered now.

  “Umph,” she answered, clearly no good until the caffeine kicked in.

  I took my turn with the coffee pot while she slipped a couple slices of whole wheat into the toaster.

  Lyle had not been pleased that I elected to do this by myself, but he had to admit I was right. Descending on the Roitman household together might do more than raise eyebrows; it could put a nervous murderer on Red Alert.

  I also won our disagreement over the Glock, which was safely locked away in the Miata’s glove compartment. Having been picked up by his bodyguard and driver, Frank wasn’t around, but Abby was.

  Elbows splayed on the kitchen table, the child shoveled Cheerios into her mouth with a concentration suitable for the SATs. Her orange juice remained untouched, but the amount of sugar on her cereal probably made the juice taste like vinegar.

  “…so then the troll got so angry he…” she continued another of the verbal book reports she couldn’t seem to resist.

  “Abby, please,” said her mother with a hand to her forehead. “Enough.”

  Abby looked to me for a diversion. Any diversion.

  I considered complimenting her pajamas, but their sky-blue background dotted with rubber duckies struck me as so age-inappropriate I simply couldn’t.

  “No school?” I remarked absently.

  “Orthodontist,” the kid mumbled with an eye-roll. Abruptly popping up from her seat, she gathered her bowl, set it in the sink, and pushed through the swinging door.

  Marsha and I were alone at the table.

  “Oh!” I exclaimed, dipping into my pocket for the baggie containing the stitch holder. When I slapped it on the table, the clank sounded so loud I almost jumped.

  I did jump when the pantry door swung open again.

  Abby pushed through and made a bee-line for her juice. While she drank, she monitored the silence between her mother and me over the lip of the glass.

  “Go get dressed, Sweetie.” Marsha spoke in a tone as cloying and outdated as the pajamas. Meanwhile, she seemed mesmerized by the sandwich bag.

  A final slurp and Abby was gone. I listened but didn’t hear the expected footsteps hammering up the stairs. Slippers, I guessed. Or socks.

  “What’s that?” Marsha asked when enough time had elapsed for her daughter to be out of earshot.

  “Lana’s stitch holder. Thought I’d return it before I forget.” I rose and made like I was headed past the stove toward the cook’s bedroom door.

  Marsha’s chair scraped on the floor as she rushed to stop me. “She’s not there.”

  I feigned mild surprise, because I knew Lana was already gone. “Dulles,” read the penciled note Tom left for Lyle and me at the end of his shift, confirmation that the Roitman’s Volvo had traveled to Washington Dulles International Airport and back.

  “Family emergency,” Marsha informed me.

  “Oh my,” I sympathized. “When do you think she’ll be back?”

  Marsha shrugged with ambiguous despair.

  “Oh, that sort of family emergency,” I observed. “Lucky you’re such a good cook.”

  A sharp glance told me an employment agency would be getting a call this morning.

  “You know Toby was murdered, right?” Another answer I knew in advance. Chantal had called her mother regarding dinner right after she’d seen the rug, and there was no way my conclusion about Toby’s death wouldn’t have been the first thing out of Chantal’s mouth. Just as there was no way the rest of the family wouldn’t hear it within moments. These days, for better or worse, everybody might as well be standing right next to each other.

  Toby’s mother-in-law blinked and breathed and lifted a finger as if she might reach out and touch the baggie, perhaps to steal it and bury it and thus erase the final evidence that Lana had ever been part of her household.

  She refrained. Instead turned her head to look out past the pool and the barn, maybe as far as Belarus.

  “I have to get dressed,” she said to the window. The chair scraped on the tile. I was on her heels, but the pantry door swung hard into the cabinet and bounced back at me.

  Marsha turned right into the hall and put on speed as she ran up the stairs.

  I followed close, even when she cut diagonally across the upper hall into the master bedroom. It was lovely if you like French provincial, but it was also a mess. The lavender sheets lay tangled in the middle of the bed. Frank’s aftershave spiced air still damp from his shower. Yesterday’s clothes were strewn on a window bench, and two window shades were crooked while the third remained down. Adjacent to the opened closet to my right sat a mirrored vanity, its satin-cushioned chair the very one that crushed the faux gem and sparked the argument that upset Abby so badly. “They’re fighting,” she’d sobbed as if it were the end of her world.

  Marsha wheeled on me, “Get out,” she ordered.

  “Not until we’ve talked.”

  Her jaw suddenly set in concrete. Just like that. As if she’d been practicing all her life to play Scarlet O’Hara.

  I made my next line sound like an accusation. “You realize what Lana’s stitch holder means, don’t you?”

  Her helpless hand grasped the air. “Since Chantal’s call, I’ve thought of nothing else.”

  “Say it.”

  Marsha shut her eyes and bowed her head. “Lana murdered Toby.”

  “Why do you suppose she did that?”

  “She must have heard Frank telling me Toby was going public with damning information, information that could mean financial ruin. She was probably terrified of going back to Belarus.”

  “But isn’t that exactly where you sent her?”

  Marsha looked shocked that I should mention this. “Lana was…is…very dear to me. Did you expect me to let her go to jail?”

  A regular thumping noise came from the hall. Footfalls on the steps. Abby hadn’t come upstairs to change after all. Noting the strain between her mother and me, she must have slipped into her safe haven behind the living room sofa, the spot where she used to suck her thumb when she was frightened, where she discovered that the old vacuum ducts built into the walls were ideal for eavesdropping.

  “I’m curious,” I told Marsha. “How did you plan to kill me? Smother me with a pillow? Stab me in my sleep?”

  “What? I didn’t…”

  “You did. There’s a security recording of you exiting the pool house. Your diamond ring flashed in the light by the front door. Here. I’ve got a copy on my phone. You want to see…?”

  Abby burst into the room running, threw herself at her mother, and nearly toppled them both.

  “Mother, tell her. I helped you, not Lana. Lana didn’t do a thing.”

  “No no, Abby. Hush.”

  Tears smeared the child’s face. “Don’t you remember? You asked me to tell you about that book again. You said I was brilliant, and you were proud of me. You even hugg
ed me until I fell asleep.”

  “Please Abby, no.”

  Abby was sobbing now, huffing out big gasps of air between her damning words. “You said I was ‘The smartest girl in the whole world,’ because I knew things you didn’t. Tell her, Mother. You said I saved Daddy’s company.”

  “Abby, please. No more, baby. Please be quiet.”

  The girl grabbed at her mother’s chenille sleeves. “You said I was the smartest girl in the whole world.” Her sobs deflated to a heart-breaking whimper.

  “Yes, Sweetie. You are,” Marsha finally agreed. “Now please be quiet.”

  Marsha was no longer acting. She was glassy-eyed but eerily calm. She clutched Abby’s head to her breast and petted her daughter’s hair so hard it was a wonder the girl could breathe.

  Other feet trotted up the stairs. Uncertain whether they belonged to friend or foe, I glanced around for a weapon. Nothing in sight but a hand mirror or maybe the vanity chair.

  Abby mustered all the strength in her neck to look Marsha in the eye. “You thanked me, don’t you remember? Tell her, Mother.”

  “What’s going on here?” Chantal stood in the doorway, one hand steadying herself, the other lightly touching her abdomen.

  “Get Abby out of here,” I urged, but Chantal needed time to catch on and process. “Your mother killed Toby,” I explained, figuring that pretty much summed it up.

  I might as well have kicked Chantal in the head. She gasped and staggered and skewered me with her disbelief.

  While her older daughter reeled, Marsha broke loose from Abby’s fists, intent on attacking me. Abby ran screaming from the room.

  No choice. I giant-stepped to the vanity and grabbed the hand mirror, a thick silver thing resembling a ping-pong paddle.

  “Go!” I instructed Chantal as Marsha dove toward me. As she tackled my hips, I whacked the back of her head, a satisfying sound, but she simply stumbled past into the shower of glass. I swatted at her again, but the dented silver paddle had no effect. Marsha latched onto my calf, drew it to her mouth and bit.

  Time for stronger measures. I reached for a certain pressure point in her neck that had proven useful in the past, and within a minute her eyes fluttered and she dropped the rest of the way to the floor.

  I had just finished tying Marsha’s wrists behind her back with the bathrobe sash when Lyle came puffing in.

  “Jesus,” he said. “You’re bleeding.”

  “Yup,” I agreed. “I hope she’s had all her shots.”

  Chapter 47

  Chantal gave the hysterical Abby half of one of her mother’s tranquillizers, which caused the child to sleep for hours, plenty of time for the local sheriff to respond to Lyle’s 9-1-1 call then to debrief Lyle and begin on me. Sheriff Troxell would coordinate with the local man on Monday, and they would swap custody of the prisoner. Marsha’s bone-deep fear of losing her comfortable lifestyle had become reality. Bail was out of the question. Frank’s wealth made her a flight risk.

  Before the local law arrived, however, Marsha succumbed to reason and cut a deal with Lyle and me. We agreed to withhold Abby’s blubbering condemnation (recorded remotely on the estate’s security equipment) and promised never to involve Abby in any way, if Marsha volunteered to sign a confession in front of official witnesses. Chantal agreed to explain Marsha’s too-little-too-late (in my opinion) maternal gesture toward Abby to ensure the girl’s everlasting cooperation.

  Three Tuesdays later I was polishing glasses at The Pelican’s Perch when Anthony slapped a palm on the mahogany bar.

  “Lady ask for you,” he stage whispered, his lips wagging back and forth in concert with his pelican earring. I took that to mean the woman looked out of place among his summertime lunch customers. The rakish lift of his eyebrow expressed the hope that she came with a big appetite.

  I’d been hired back because, “dose college kids jus’ pay attention udder college kids.’” Also, because Anthony was a soft touch. Frank had reneged on paying me to bodyguard Chantal, a not unexpected move considering that I got his wife arrested for murder. However, that left me without a down payment on an apartment. Karen and Ron accepted my status report graciously, perhaps even with sympathy, but a whiff of disappointment hung in the air like the stink of sweaty sneakers. Nobody said a word, but it was there just the same.

  “Go, go,” Anthony ordered. “I do dat.” He grabbed the towel from my hand.

  Chantal Stoddard waited on the bench by the restaurant’s opened front door. Midday sun spilled across the worn wooden floor like paint and filled the rectangular opening with white glare.

  We embraced in the melancholy way that seemed appropriate. Chantal’s belly-bump was now a solid presence impossible to ignore, a not-so-subtle reminder that he or she would be a presence in her life for all the years she had left. I envied her that, but it didn’t hurt like it once had. For me, children were a regret to be stored in my attic of regrets, the place I occasionally deposited something new but one day hoped to lock and leave for good.

  “Let’s…” I gestured toward the privacy of outdoors. Alongside the restaurant a green employee’s picnic table waited in the shade of a tall red oak. We held hands like grammar school girlfriends until we’d settled down face to face.

  “How are you?” I asked.

  Chantal tilted her head and slanted her eyes toward the river just below. Hundreds of diamond flashes, not unlike the one that revealed Marsha as a murderer, bounced off the water onto the leaves of the trees.

  “Coping, but just,” Chantal replied as her eyes returned to me.

  Surely, mourning her husband would continue to progress at its own unalterable pace, but Marsha’s pathological behavior was so harsh, so unprecedented, I thought it might be nearly impossible for Chantal to process. I felt I owed her an apology.

  “I’m sorry about your mother,” I said.

  Tears sprang to her eyes, but she swiped them away. “My mother has always been a controlling, narcissistic bitch,” she remarked bitterly. “Now I can hate her without feeling guilty.”

  We listened to the river splash for a while. Then Chantal wiped her nose with a tissue, gave the view a glance, and remarked, “Abby’s back at your brother’s farm. She’s going to babysit while Karen and I do some more shopping.” A short laugh. “Karen thinks two hours should be enough all around.”

  I blew out a breath to unlock my shoulders. “Think you can get everything you need in two hours?”

  Chantal suddenly looked terminally sad, making me regret my unfortunate phrasing. I reached across and took her hand again. “You’ll be happy again,” I assured her.

  “When?”

  “Oh, in about four months would be my guess.”

  She laughed at that, thank goodness, and I realized it was probably true.

  “So what else is going on?”

  “Gavin and Julianna are married. Did you know that?”

  “Wonderful,” I hedged. “About time he grew up.”

  That rated a smile. “And of course Dad is up to his ears in lawyers.”

  “For your mom?”

  “And for the company.”

  The recall mess, of course.

  “What about you?”

  “The house Toby and I picked out for the baby is still up for sale. I’m almost tempted to buy it again. What do you think?”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  There was a glitch. It was written all over her face.

  “I just don’t know. Dad spends very little time with Abby, as you can imagine.” I could. He never did, and now would be even worse. “And he’s pretty much of a wreck himself. He works,” works, as if he shoveled coal all day, “but it’s more of a Herculean effort than ever. Abby’s already in counseling…”

  Déjà vu all over again, I thought, and the lock’s tumblers clicked, the door of my mental vault swung wide, and there it was: Frank’s own “Déjà vu all over again” remark as he turned off the Metro-wreck news back on the yacht.

  “By
any chance does Roitman Industries own a company connected to trains?” I wondered aloud.

  The seemingly random question pinched creases between Chantal’s eyebrows. “Used to,” she said. “Not anymore. Why?”

  I stood and crossed my arms to hold myself together. “Remember the name?”

  It took Chantal a minute, but she came up with it.

  Jacked up like a racehorse crammed into the starting gate, I waved my hand beside my head to release some tension. “Remember what they made?”

  Chantal’s pregnancy pallor had drained to a dangerous gray. Her fingers touched her temple as if anticipating pain. “Um, uh, brake parts, but Dad sold…”

  “Buy the house,” I told her with grim conviction. “Everybody needs a place of their own.” And after I phoned the National Transportation Safety Board to suggest that another Roitman subsidiary may have used sub-standard parts, she may not have a choice. The NTSB’s head Metro-crash investigator would attack the new lead like a Doberman on steroids, and the Roitman’s grand estate just might become cannon fodder in the fight to secure its remaining owner’s freedom.

  “Take Abby with you,” I suggested. “Short term? Long term? Up to you.”

  “Yes,” Chantal agreed obediently as if she saw it all spread out before her. Her own attic of regrets. Her very own fresh start.

  “I’m sorry,” I said again.

  Understatement of the century.

  #

  Dear Reader—

  I hope you enjoyed investigating this modern-day “locked-room” mystery along with Lauren. For me it was fun imagining how she would behave outside her comfort zone pitted against a family of intelligent misfits. Pretty much like a camel inside a tent, wouldn’t you say?

  If you did happen to enjoy Lauren’s “guilt trip,” I would be very pleased if you would do me the great favor of contributing a review to one or more of your favorite book sites. More and more readers—and authors—rely on the guidance offered by fans such as yourself, and I can personally assure you that the couple of minutes it takes to share your thoughts are very greatly appreciated.

  Amazon review link; Goodreads link