Broken Vows Mystery 01-For Better, for Murder

by Lisa Bork

  She held up her hand. “Don’t start with me now. They didn’t have any open rooms on another floor. We’ve got a waiting list, you know. Mainstreaming some of these babies didn’t work.”

  “Someone should be watching Erica and Sam.”

  “Wheels, we don’t have the staff to do suicide watches, let alone keep Romeo away from Juliet. You’re going to have to speak sharply to her, that’s all.” With a wave, Tommye took off down the hall with a tray of meds in hand.

  The Ping-Pong war had ramped up by the time I returned to the rec room. Erica beamed from ear to ear as she scored another point, but Sam’s expression caught my attention. His face was flushed, his brow furrowed, and his lips moving without any sound. She scored three more points and threw her arms up in triumph. “Yes!” Her fans roared their approval, stomping their feet and banging their hands on the table.

  Sam took aim and beaned her in the forehead with his paddle.

  “Ow! Hey!” Erica fingered the red spot on her forehead.

  Sam stormed out of the room and the rest of the peanut gallery faded into the woodwork.

  I approached Erica and put my arms around her. She had tears in the corners of her eyes. “Are you all right?”

  “No. I’m going to have a lump. What’d he do that for?”

  I pulled her over to a vacant couch and settled her. “He’s a sociopath. He doesn’t really care about anyone else. He’s not capable of it.”

  Erica began to sob. “I know. I know. But I thought he loved me.”

  I held her hands in mine. “He’s not capable of love. I love you, if that makes you feel any better.”

  She buried her face in my chest, hiccupping and stroking my pink fuzzy scarf. “I like this. Is it new?”

  “Yes.” I resolved then and there to go to Talbots and buy her one for Christmas. “Listen, now may not be a good time, but I have to talk to you about our house.”

  Erica drew back and wiped her nose on the sleeve of her yellow blouse, leaving a trail of glistening mucus. “What about it?”

  “Ray moved out, and I don’t want to live there anymore. The shop is struggling financially and I could use the money from the sale of the house to bail it out. Would you mind terribly if I put it on the market?”

  “Where will Mom’s ghost live?”

  Oh, well, there was a party I hadn’t considered. “I think she could stay on with the new owners or maybe she’d like to move on.” I breathed in deep and plunged. “Do you need to talk to her about it before we decide?”

  “No. Go ahead and sell it. I’ll tell her to move over to your apartment.”

  And here I was trying to rid myself of old ghosts. But I didn’t really believe in ghosts, so Erica’s ramblings didn’t bother me. Not much anyway.

  “I was thinking of selling most of the furnishings. I planned to hire one of those services to run an estate sale. Can you think of anything you want me to set aside for you? Something to keep for your children, maybe?”

  Erica burst out laughing. “If you’re afraid you’re going to pass on mental illness to a child, what makes you think it’s safe for me to have one? I can’t even take care of myself.”

  A very insightful observation for a mental patient. “Okay. I’ll pick something special out for you and pack all your stuff that’s still there.”

  I walked her to her room. She greeted a dark-haired boy of around eighteen in the hall. He wore a Syracuse Orangemen sweatshirt and jeans that hung off his boney butt to reveal plaid boxer shorts.

  “Hey Mikey, you remember my sister, don’t you?”

  He held out his hand and shook mine. I couldn’t place him but he said, “Nice to see you” and ambled off toward the rec room.

  “I don’t remember Mikey, Erica. Who is he?”

  She flicked on the television and flipped through the channels until she found a Meg Ryan movie. “He’s Walter Burnbaum’s kid. He’s in here for drug addiction.”

  At least he hadn’t stabbed his mother in the hand over pork chops.

  “Why didn’t he go to a regular detox place?”

  “His dad wanted him close so he pulled a few strings. His friends can all visit him here. He’s been here a couple weeks.”

  I supposed if I were on the town grapevine I would have known about this sooner. No wonder Walter looked so down in the dumps the other day.

  “Who are his friends?”

  “Sam’s brother, for one. He visits Sam and Mikey at the same time.”

  How convenient for him that all his closest associates gathered here.

  I sat with Erica, watching Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks take one step closer and two steps back, until she said it was time for her to go to group therapy. I left the psych center after filing a complaint in the main office, documenting Sam’s assault on Erica. I wasn’t taking any chances with him. In the parking lot, I dialed Brennan Rowe’s office number, connecting with his secretary.

  “He’s not here, Miss Asdale. He’s on a job site. He’ll be there all day.”

  “Can I see him there?”

  “Sure. Just go straight to the trailer on the building site. It’s not safe to walk around in the building without a hard hat.” She read me the address and gave me directions.

  The building site turned out to be an old farm they razed in order to build a new retirement home development, according to the big wooden sign next to the road. The development would be called “Apple Creek,” since the site used to be an apple farm. I remembered coming here with my parents every fall and riding the hay wagon into the orchard to pick Cortlands and Macouns, a treasured family memory that sprang to mind as I pulled off the main road. I was inordinately pleased to realize I had more than one treasured memory. But now all the trees had been plowed into a heap near the road, and a massive backhoe was loading them into a dump truck.

  Another backhoe was knocking down the walls of one of three barns on the property. The din from the backhoes striking the dump truck and the barn made my ears ring. Toward the middle of the lot, what looked to be a community center had been framed and sided and yet another backhoe was smoothing the basement of the first residential dwelling.

  I knocked on the door of the white house trailer labeled Rowe Construction in big red block letters on the door. No one answered. I turned the knob and stepped inside.

  The front half of the trailer held two desks and an architect’s drawing board and smelled of sawdust, but held no occupants. I followed the murmur of a voice to a second area where a man sat at a desk with his back to the door. As I got closer, I recognized Brennan Rowe’s voice and knocked on the wall.

  He swung around. My mouth dropped open.

  He was the best-looking man I’d ever seen. Slender with streaked sandy-colored hair. He had a tanned face and light blue eyes that reminded me of Robert Redford. When he smiled, his square white teeth only enhanced the similarity.

  He lowered the phone to its cradle and stood, extending his hand. “Brennan Rowe.”

  I darted forward and shook his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  His grin widened. “Nice to meet you too, Miss …”

  I felt my face flush. “I’m sorry. I’m Jolene Asdale.”

  His head jerked back as though I’d caught him by surprise. “Yes, of course. What brings you here, Miss Asdale?”

  “Jolene, please.” Now that I’d had a look at this guy, I knew I didn’t want to stand on formalities.

  “Brennan, then. Please.” He indicated the armchair in front of his desk and I settled in it, unbuttoning my coat.

  “Well, let me get right to the point. I’d like to offer you the roadster at the price you originally authorized, seven hundred and fifty thousand.”

  He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on his stomach. “You’d be taking a loss.”

  “I would, but it’s the end of the year. I have two unsold cars that I need to move. You were quite clear in your instructions to me. I failed in the bidding. It’s only fair I take the loss.”
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  He continued to look at me with surprise and something akin to respect. “All right, sold. I’ll draft a check for you and deliver it tomorrow. But let me arrange for the car to be shipped here. It’s the least I can do.”

  “Agreed.” I made no move to get up. Neither did he.

  “So tell me, am I still on your husband’s suspect list?”

  “I have no idea, but I doubt it very much.” If Ray had proof of Brennan’s involvement, he would have slapped the cuffs on him by now. Besides, the only thing this man could be guilty of was being too handsome.

  “Well, that’s a relief. I didn’t want to spend the holidays in jail.”

  I saw my opening. “Are you spending the holidays with your family?”

  “No, my parents have been dead for years. I’m an only child.”

  I checked his ring finger but these days one can never be sure without asking. “What about your wife’s family?”

  His smile said he was on to me and found it amusing. “I’m not married.”

  “Oh.”

  His smile broadened.

  It hit me then that I looked like I was on the make for an affair. Brennan Rowe knew me as Ray’s wife. Hell, I knew me as Ray’s wife, but his looks had gotten to me. Yet another embarrassment. “So how long have you been working on this development?”

  “We started about six weeks ago. We’d hoped to get more done before the snow started to fly. Pretty soon the ground will be too frozen to dig cellars but we can at least finish the demolition and the main building over the winter. If it warms up a little, we might be able to pour one more basement and start the first set of townhouses.”

  I gazed out the window and spotted a group of workers approaching. I decided to take my leave. Standing, I held out my hand. “Well, a pleasure to meet you, Brennan, and congratulations on your new car.”

  “You’re more than generous, Jolene. Thank you. I’ll be sure to refer all my friends to your dealership.”

  I refrained from asking if they’d all be as good-looking as him.

  ___

  By six-thirty I’d forgotten all about Brennan Rowe as I hopped in the Porsche and headed toward Bowl-A-Roll, the bowler’s Mecca and the one place I might find answers about Tim Lapham.

  Bowl-A-Roll was lit up like the Fourth of July with those blinking, color-changing lights that can blind a person. The inside of the bowling alley was no better. It was Saturday Night Fever on Wednesday night and the disco balls twirled colored lights over the twenty-four full alleys as “Staying Alive” played in screechy tones over the sound system. The loudspeaker cut the music off to announce ten cent drafts and I almost got trampled by the crowd as they stormed the bar. The whole place smelled like stinky feet and overcooked hot dogs, a potent combination.

  I fought my way through to the main desk.

  The grungy fellow who looked to be in charge slammed his hands on the counter when I stopped in front of him. “What size shoe?”

  “I’m not here to bowl.”

  He leaned over the counter and leered at me. “Are you the stripper for the bachelor party?”

  “No!” Ew and in a bowling alley, no less. “I’m looking for Tim Lapham’s bowling team.”

  “They’re not here tonight. They’re league bowlers. League bowling starts again in January.”

  “Can you tell me who bowls on his team?”

  He slammed his hand on the counter again, apparently prone to talking with his hands. “Teams change all the time. I don’t know who’s playing next year yet.”

  I gazed around the room and spotted Celeste with a group of women bowling in lanes fifteen and sixteen. When I turned back to the guy, he’d already moved on to the next person at the counter.

  Maybe Celeste knew some of the members of Tim’s bowling team. Although I was kind of surprised she bowled. It was a sport where broken nails came into play. I wouldn’t have thought she would stand for that.

  She caught sight of me as I dodged a drunken man holding two very full pitchers of beer, and a wary look settled on her perfectly made-up face. In a room full of sweaty people, Celeste wasn’t even glistening.

  I greeted her pleasantly. She replied in kind. One of her friends jostled past me to take her turn throwing the ball, pushing me into Celeste. When I got my footing again, Celeste smoothed her hot pink bowling shirt and asked, “What brings you here, Jolene? More questions about your dad?”

  I was glad the music drowned her words so that none of her friends heard. I didn’t want to discuss my dad in front of the whole town. “I wanted to know if you knew anyone on Tim Lapham’s bowling team.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “Can you name them?”

  She reeled off the names of three guys in Tim’s high school graduating class plus the brothers who ran The Dream Team, Dave and Riley Nelson. “There were two other guys I didn’t know. One was older, I think maybe from Tim’s accounting practice, and the other was very good-looking, but unfriendly.”

  I interpreted her statement to mean she’d hit on him and been shot down. Silently I applauded the man.

  Celeste’s friend, Mindy Something, tapped her on the shoulder. “You’re up. Hey, Jolene.”

  “Hey, Mindy.” I watched Celeste line up on the pin and let loose with a big wind-up. Her ball flew down the lane and the pins scattered. A strike. All the women cheered for her, each giving her a high five as she basked in their admiration.

  I realized one woman wasn’t cheering. It was Martha, Walter Burnbaum’s wife. The disco lights lit up her face every few seconds, but each time her expression was blank. It didn’t even seem like her eyes were focused.

  Celeste reappeared at my side.

  I tilted my head toward Martha. “Isn’t that Martha Burnbaum?”

  “It is, poor thing.”

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “For starters, her son’s impossible to handle. He’s in drug rehab now. Then Walter had to go and try to cheer her up by having their old carpet pulled up and wood flooring installed on their entire first floor. Martha hates wooden flooring. Thinks it’s cold and hard on her feet. She’s been complaining about her feet all night, as a matter of fact. And she hasn’t bowled worth a damn, either.”

  I watched as Mindy and another woman prompted Martha to take her turn. She rose, stumbled to the ball return, put her fingers in the holes of her orange ball, and threw without any preparation, splitting the pins and leaving a couple on each side of the alley. Her spare rolled through the middle of them, leaving them untouched. Martha assumed her seat, still staring blankly at the room.

  “Are you sure she’s not on drugs herself?”

  “She’s depressed. You should know depressed when you see it.” Celeste’s face turned smug.

  Our détente was over. Time to leave.

  I drove to my dad’s house, wondering who the two mystery men were on Tim’s bowling team. I could try the direct route and phone Becky to ask, but I didn’t want to set her off. Bowling had seemed like a touchy subject for her. In the morning, I would phone The Dream Team and ask them instead. One of them was married to a woman who ran an estate sale business. I wanted to hire her to dispose of the contents of Dad’s house so I could put it on the market.

  As I pulled into the driveway, I noticed headlights down the block from a car that had made the turn onto our street after me. It had stopped when I put on my turn signal. I got the uneasy feeling the driver was watching me. I pulled out my cell phone and entered 911 just in case. Before I punched the send button, the car accelerated and blew by me. It was a dark-colored minivan, its driver hidden in the shadows of the car. I shook off my nerves and headed inside, rolling my eyes at the ludicrous thought of a criminal driving a soccer-mom car. Probably just some kids out on a lark.

  The rest of my evening was consumed by sorting through the contents of the attic. By ten, I had one box of Erica’s things, another of my old books that merited a second read, my father’s box of papers including my mother’s lett
ers, and two items for Erica and me as keepsakes: my mother’s sterling silver engraved mirror, comb, and brush set, plus my father’s family bible, its last notation my mother’s death. It wasn’t much but it would be enough. If neither of us had children, we would have no one to pass things down to anyway.

  I expected to feel sadness at leaving this house for the last time, but I felt only relief. After all these years and tears, the bad memories outweighed the good.

  I was ready to make new memories elsewhere.

  First thing in the morning I phoned The Dream Team, but not early enough to catch them. I left a message on their machine and ended up doing the same for the wife who ran the estate-sale business.

  The town and county tax bill for Dad’s house remained in the unpaid bill drawer of my desk. After I opened the shop and chatted with Cory for a few minutes, I pulled it out and verified online that Mr. Travis had made a deposit in my bank account for his candy apple red Jaguar. The profits would just cover my tax bill.

  Since the shop was dead, I left Cory in charge and walked to the bank. Then I continued on to the town hall tax office. The clerk was available.

  “Taxes went up this year, didn’t they?”

  The clerk stopped filling in my receipt and bobbed her cottony head in reply. “They went up five percent. We hated to do it, but the cost of living goes up each year along with everything else.”

  A man walked into the office and slid into position beside me at the window. “Excuse me, is this where I pay my parking ticket?”

  “Yes. I’ll be right with you. I just have to make a copy of this woman’s tax bill.” The clerk shuffled off.

  The man turned to me. “I took my kids to the Rotary Club to see Father Christmas yesterday. I parked on a meter. The waiting line for the guy was ridiculous. By the time we got back to the car, we had a parking ticket.”

  I could sympathize. “The meters are a pain.”

  The clerk reappeared at the window and held out my bill stamped “Paid” in red letters with today’s date.

  “Thank you.” I folded it in half and smiled at the clerk. “I’m curious. How much money do the parking meters and tickets add to the town’s revenues in a year?”