Scandal in Fair Haven

by Carolyn G. Hart

  I had to see the fa­ce of my in­t­ru­der.

  He slum­ped in the ro­om's sin­g­le easy cha­ir, his dark eyes wi­de and sta­ring, fo­cu­sed on not­hing.

  His fa­ce sur­p­ri­sed me. It was slen­der, al­most de­li­ca­te for a man. It re­min­ded me of tin­t­y­pes of Ro­bert Lo­u­is Ste­ven­son, oval with de­ep­set eyes, a small, gen­t­le mo­uth, a high-brid­ged no­se. In his mid-thir­ti­es. Des­pi­te the bristly

  stubble fuz­zing his che­eks, my in­t­ru­der had a tho­ug­h­t­ful, ci­vi­li­zed, al­most pro­fes­so­ri­al lo­ok. But he ap­pe­ared des­pe­ra­tely ti­red. Mo­re than that, his fa­ce re­ta­ined a kind of in­c­re­du­lo­us as­to­nis­h­ment, li­ke the sin­g­le sur­vi­vor of a ro­ad smash sur­ve­ying the crus­hed cars and man­g­led vic­tims.

  His long, le­an body sag­ged with des­pa­ir. He wasn't dres­sed for the part of a ho­useb­re­aker. He wo­re a glen pla­id cot­ton shirt, stylishly ple­ated kha­ki slacks, tas­se­led bur­gundy le­at­her lo­afers. But his right tro­user leg was so­iled, so­me kind of dark sta­in.

  And I had the elu­si­ve, te­asing sen­se that I'd se­en him so­mew­he­re be­fo­re. So­mew­he­re…

  Faintly a mo­tor rum­b­led from the ro­ad.

  He jer­ked up­right, every mus­c­le ten­sed, his pa­le, stra­ined fa­ce fro­zen in pa­nic.

  The ro­ar grew lo­uder, ne­arer.

  He scram­b­led to his fe­et.

  The car rat­tled clo­ser, clo­ser. And then it was by. The so­und re­ce­ded.

  He drew his bre­ath in, gul­ped it. His hands we­re sha­king.

  I saw him cle­arly now in the light. All of him-in­c­lu­ding his left shirt-sle­eve.

  I sta­red at the sle­eve, at the blac­kish sub­s­tan­ce that dis­co­lo­red it. It was qu­ite dif­fe­rent from the sta­in on his tro­users.

  Blood.

  Viscous thick blo­od had dri­ed to a dark crust abo­ve the cuff.

  A wo­und?

  He didn't mo­ve li­ke an inj­ured man. His left fist was tightly clen­c­hed. The in­s­tin­c­ti­ve ten­dency of an inj­ured mem­ber is to go limp, the­reby put­ting the le­ast pos­sib­le stress on pa­in-rac­ked flesh.

  Abruptly his fig­ht-or-flight stan­ce re­la­xed. The yo­ung man tur­ned, stum­b­led we­arily to the cha­ir, and flung him­self down.

  I slip­ped away from the do­or, ed­ged si­lently ac­ross the bed­ro­om. I was we­aring cot­ton shorts and a T-shirt, my fa­vo­red garb for sle­ep. My su­it­ca­se and gym bag we­re on the flo­or ne­ar the bat­h­ro­om. I fis­hed out a pa­ir of swe­ats and my Re­eboks. I pla­ced the Ma­ce ca­nis­ter han­dily on the ed­ge of the bed, then slip­ped in­to the swe­ats, pul­led on at­h­le­tic socks and the run­ning sho­es. May­be it to­ok me forty se­conds.

  I crept qu­i­etly back to the open do­or. He hadn't mo­ved.

  My hus­band Ric­hard al­ways war­ned me aga­inst snap jud­g­ments. But I don't was­te ti­me, and I don't wa­ver bet­we­en cho­ices.

  I step­ped out in­to the li­ving ro­om. "Excu­se me. Co­uld you pos­sibly be in the wrong ca­bin?"

  I did, of co­ur­se, ha­ve the Ma­ce in my right hand, re­ady to spray, and I was on a di­rect li­ne to the front do­or.

  His he­ad jer­ked to­ward me. The re­ma­ining co­lor dra­ined from his fa­ce. He tur­ned a sickly hue. I tho­ught he was go­ing to fa­int.

  He strug­gled to his fe­et, sta­ring at me as if I we­re the first witch in Mac­beth.

  I know that at ti­mes I can be in­ti­mi­da­ting. I ha­ve a Ro­man-co­in pro­fi­le, dark ha­ir sil­ve­red at the tem­p­les, jet-black eyes that ha­ve se­en much and re­mem­be­red much, and an an­gu­lar body with a le­an and hungry ap­pe­aran­ce of for­ward mo­ti­on even when at rest. Ho­we­ver, su­rely not wit­c­h­li­ke. Oh, the right age per­haps, but I fe­el that I lo­ok es­pe­ci­al­ly non­t­h­re­ate­ning in baggy gray swe­ats and run­ning sho­es.

  "Oh, my God, who are you? What the hell are you do­ing he­re?"

  "Henrietta O'Dw­yer Col­lins," I rep­li­ed crisply. "I'm a gu­est of Mar­ga­ret Fra­zi­er's. So I might ask the sa­me of you."

  He swal­lo­wed jer­kily. "A gu­est… oh, Christ. If that isn't my frig­ging- Sorry. God." He lo­oked past me to­ward the bed­ro­om. "Whe­re's Aunt Mar­ga­ret?"

  Aunt Mar­ga­ret. Of co­ur­se. That's why he lo­oked fa­mi­li­ar. That aqu­ili­ne no­se and small, full mo­uth.

  I slip­ped the keys and Ma­ce ca­nis­ter in­to the poc­ket of my swe­ats.

  Craig. Mar­ga­ret's nep­hew. "I'm sorry to say she's in the hos­pi­tal. A he­art at­tack and bypass sur­gery. But she's…"

  He wasn't lis­te­ning.

  I felt a qu­ick fla­re of an­ger. No won­der Mar­ga­ret had re­sis­ted no­tif­ying him.

  "I be­li­eve she is go­ing to re­co­ver qu­ite ni­cely, in ca­se you're in­te­res­ted."

  His eyes blin­ked. He he­ard my an­ger. It to­ok a mo­ment for him to ma­ke the con­nec­ti­on. "Aunt Mar­ga­ret… oh, I'm sorry." Blank dark eyes fi­nal­ly fo­cu­sed on me. "She's re­al sick? I'm sorry." He ga­ve me a sha­me­fa­ced lo­ok. "And I'm sorry I sca­red you. I didn't me­an to. Truly, I didn't know you we­re he­re. I'm Cra­ig. Cra­ig Mat­thews."

  He lif­ted a slen­der, well-ma­ni­cu­red hand to mas­sa­ge his tem­p­le. The eme­rald in a thick yel­low-gold ring glit­te­red li­ke put­ting-gre­en grass on a sunny day.

  The blo­od­s­ta­in ran from just abo­ve the cuff to his el­bow.

  He fol­lo­wed my glan­ce.

  There are many kinds of si­len­ce. Com­pa­ni­onab­le. Hos­ti­le. Angry. Sha­med. De­fe­ated.

  And frig­h­te­ned.

  His han­d­so­me fa­ce crum­p­led, a mix­tu­re of hor­ror and

  pain and dis­be­li­ef. He sho­ok his he­ad. "I didn't kill Patty Kay. I didn't do it." It was a husky, bro­ken whis­per. Gin­gerly, he to­uc­hed the crus­ted blo­od with his right hand. His fin­gers qu­ive­red.

  His de­ni­al ec­ho­ed in my mind. What had I stum­b­led in­to? I didn't kill Patty Kay. Did he say it aga­in or did the shoc­king, frig­h­te­ning phra­se simply pul­se in my mind?

  No won­der Cra­ig Mat­thews wasn't wor­ri­ed abo­ut his aunt. No won­der his de­me­anor was ter­ri­fi­ed.

  I ten­sed li­ke a run­ner awa­iting the star­ter's pis­tol. My hand clo­sed aga­in aro­und the slen­der Ma­ce ca­nis­ter. Mar­ga­ret's nep­hew or no, if he to­ok a step to­ward me…

  Instead, he bac­ked to the cha­ir and sank in­to it aga­in. Dully, he lo­oked up at me. "You know Aunt Mar­ga­ret?"

  I sa­id not­hing.

  He blin­ked; his mo­uth twis­ted in a small em­bar­ras­sed smi­le. "Sorry. I can't hold an­y­t­hing in my he­ad. You sa­id you we­re her gu­est. Su­re."

  He was a man in shock. Tal­king abo­ut the pri­ce of chic­ken fe­ed whi­le the sky fell.

  He sho­ok his he­ad, as if strug­gling to cle­ar it, then on­ce aga­in got to his fe­et, as if be­la­tedly re­mem­be­ring his man­ners. "I'm sorry. Aw­ful­ly sorry. I wo­ke you up, frig­h­te­ned you. I didn't me­an to. I me­an, I didn't see yo­ur car. But I didn't lo­ok. And it was dark… I'll le­ave."

  But on­ce on his fe­et, he simply sto­od.

  "Where will you go?" I to­ok my hand out of my poc­ket. I was in no dan­ger from this sca­red, di­so­ri­en­ted yo­ung man.

  "… Chat­ta­no­oga, I gu­ess. I've got an old fri­end the­re."

  "Do you ne­ed a fri­end?"

  "I've got to talk to so­me­body. I'm in tro­ub­le. Big tro­ub­le."

  He'd whis­pe­red, I didn't Mil Patty Kay. I didn't do it.

  Yes, I tho­ught, he pro­bably was in a shit­lo­ad of tro­ub­le.

  Killers co­me in all sha­pes and si­zes. And it is do­mes­tic vi­olen­ce that can sur
­p­ri­se you every ti­me.

  He didn't lo­ok li­ke a man who'd kil­led a wo­man.

  I wasn't af­ra­id of him.

  I know when to be sca­red.

  He glan­ced to­ward the do­or, then back at me. His sho­ul­ders sag­ged. "I don't know what to do. 1 don't know what the hell to do."

  There was the ti­ni­est sug­ges­ti­on of a plea in his vo­ice, per­haps a flic­ker of ho­pe in his eyes.

  I knew what I was he­aring, the to­nes of a man ac­cus­to­med to let­ting so­me­one el­se run the show.

  I won­de­red when I'd be­en tran­s­for­med from a Sha­kes­pe­are­an witch to a suc­co­ring fi­gu­re. If he we­re ol­der, he wo­uld know bet­ter than to as­su­me age ren­ders its pos­ses­sor har­m­less. But he was se­e­ing me now as not only har­m­less but so­me­one to help. The fri­end of his aunt.

  I'd spent a li­fe­ti­me among ta­ke-char­ge men. I'd but­ted he­ads with most of them. But even whi­le in­sis­ting upon my rights and pre­ro­ga­ti­ves, I'd ad­mi­red the­ir ver­ve and spi­rit and, yes, the auto­ma­tic mas­cu­li­ne pre­sum­p­ti­on of each and every one that by God, I'm in char­ge he­re. It's a fac­tor that ma­kes news po­ols a li­ving hell for re­al re­por­ters. The tes­tos­te­ro­ne le­vel among new­s­pa­per­men beg­gars des­c­rip­ti­on. As a class, it's al­so true of law­yers.

  So win­so­me I'11-le­ave-it-up-to-you types don't im­p­ress me.

  But I hadn't spent a li­fe­ti­me as­king qu­es­ti­ons to be ab­le to ig­no­re what was ob­vi­o­usly a li­fe-and-de­ath dra­ma. And this was Mar­ga­ret's only li­ving fa­mily, the son of her be­lo­ved sis­ter.

  He was ga­zing at me with ple­ading spa­ni­el eyes.

  It wo­uldn't hurt to talk to him. Talk didn't com­mit me to an­y­t­hing. Not a sin­g­le damn thing. Af­ter all, my night's sle­ep was al­re­ady ru­ined. Mo­re­over, I had to find out if I co­uld help Mar­ga­ret's kin.

  And, yes, I ad­mit it, I wan­ted to find out what had hap­pe­ned to Patty Kay. Who, what, when, whe­re, why, how- they pul­se in my blo­od and in my bra­in. May­be I sho­uld ha­ve them sco­red on my tom­b­s­to­ne. Or, She Ca­me, She As­ked, She Wro­te.

  So that's how it be­gan for me.

  I sa­id, "Who's Patty Kay?"

  "My wi­fe."

  "What hap­pe­ned to her?"

  The da­zed, un­com­p­re­hen­ding lo­ok re­tur­ned to his eyes. "I ca­me ho­me and-and I went in the ho­use and cal­led out. But she didn't an­s­wer. I went up­s­ta­irs. She wasn't an­y­w­he­re. But she'd told me to co­me ho­me. I me­an, I tho­ught she had. The­re was this mes­sa­ge from her. But may­be it wasn't from her be­ca­use-"

  I held up a hand. "Wa­it a mi­nu­te. You ca­me ho­me." I didn't yet know whe­re "ho­me" was. The­re was so much I didn't know. But it was cri­ti­cal to ke­ep him fo­cu­sed. "You lo­oked for Patty Kay. What hap­pe­ned then?"

  "I went in the di­ning ro­om. Ever­y­t­hing was re­ady for the party." Aga­in dis­be­li­ef fla­red in his frig­h­te­ned eyes. "We we­re go­ing to ha­ve a party to­night. The tab­le was set. The chi­na. The sil­ver. Crystal. Per­fect, the way Patty Kay al­ways has ever­y­t­hing. So I tho­ught she was pro­bably in the kit­c­hen and just hadn't he­ard me. She co­oks-Pat­ty Kay al­ways co­oks ever­y­t­hing her­self. She do­esn't be­li­eve in ha­ving it do­ne by a ca­te­rer. She al­ways la­ughs and says she's a bet­ter co­ok than any ca­te­rer. And she is. So I tho­ught she was in the kit­c­hen and I went in the­re and that's when I

  knew so­met­hing was wrong, re­al­ly wrong. Che­ese­ca­ke was all over ever­y­t­hing."

  "Cheesecake?"

  "Patty Kay's che­ese­ca­kes are fa­mo­us-cho­co­la­te wa­fer crumbs and but­ter and cre­me de men­t­he and… So­me-body'd ta­ken the ca­ke pan and thrown it up and the­re was stuff on the ce­iling and the ca­bi­nets and the flo­or, and the pan with the cho­co­la­te-the one on the sto­ve-had bur­ned black. The smell was aw­ful. And the­re was cre­me de men­t­he splas­hed on the flo­or and a who­le bot­tle of cre­me de ca­cao em­p­ti­ed out too. 1 me­an, it sca­red me. What the hell was go­ing on? And Patty Kay wasn't an­y­w­he­re. Then 1 saw the back do­or was open. 1 wasn't re­al­ly thin­king. I star­ted for the do­or, too fast 1 gu­ess, and 1 skid­ded and slip­ped." He lo­oked down at his tro­user leg. "Got the stuff on my hands too. The li­qu­e­ur. 1 pic­ked up a to­wel and wi­ped my hands off, then I went out the back do­or. Ever­y­t­hing lo­oked okay, li­ke it al­ways did." His vo­ice lif­ted with re­mem­be­red as­to­nis­h­ment. "The deck and the po­ol. And no­body was out the­re. That me­ant Patty Kay had to be in the play­ho­use-if she was an­y­w­he­re. So I ran down the­re."

  He ca­me to a stop. His fin­gers grip­ped the worn si­des of the ar­m­c­ha­ir.

  "What did you find?"

  Just for an in­s­tant his eyes met mi­ne. They we­re wor­ri­ed, un­cer­ta­in, frig­h­te­ned-and sic­ke­ned. "1-" He yan­ked a han­d­ker­c­hi­ef from his poc­ket and wi­ped his fa­ce. "I've got to ha­ve so­met­hing to drink."

  I went in­to the kit­c­he­net­te, grab­bed a glass, and fil­led it with tap wa­ter. He was clo­se be­hind me. But 1 wasn't frig­h­te­ned. He scar­cely knew I was the­re.

  1 held out the glass to him.

  He to­ok it and drank in long, gre­edy gulps. He

  slumped down at the ric­kety pi­ne tab­le. Swe­at be­aded his fa­ce. An un­he­althy red­dish flush over­lay the pa­le­ness.

  I to­ok the se­at op­po­si­te him.

  I didn't re­pe­at my qu­es­ti­on.

  But we both knew it wasn't go­ing to go away.

  He didn't lo­ok at me. He spo­ke as if each word we­re a bur­den. Was he pic­king his way or was the re­col­lec­ti­on too pa­in­ful?

  "I ran down the path. The play­ho­use do­or was par­ti­al­ly open. But when I pus­hed, it didn't mo­ve. I kept sho­ving and sho­ving. Fi­nal­ly I squ­e­ezed in­si­de." He shud­de­red. "You don't ever think that so­met­hing li­ke this can hap­pen to you. Not-not mur­der."

  He sta­red down at the tab­le, but I knew that wasn't what he saw.

  "The do­or wo­uldn't mo­ve be­ca­use Patty Kay was bun­c­hed up on the flo­or be­hind it. I got down on my kne­es. I lif­ted up her he­ad"-His vo­ice crac­ked. His fin­gers so­ught his blo­od-en­c­rus­ted shirt-"and her fa­ce… the­re was blo­od-" He bu­ri­ed his fa­ce in his hands.

  "Why didn't you call the po­li­ce?"

  His hands fell away. His he­ad jer­ked to­ward me. "How'd you know-"

  "You're he­re. You ran. Why?"

  "Because- " His eyes flic­ke­red away.

  I le­aned for­ward.

  "The si­ren. I he­ard a si­ren. Co­ming clo­ser and clo­ser. I knew it was co­ming the­re."

  "Why did you run?" I in­sis­ted.

  His fin­gers pluc­ked at the blo­odi­ed sle­eve. "I don't know." The­re was just a tra­ce of sul­len­ness in his vo­ice. "God, wo­uldn't you? Co­me ho­me, find yo­ur wi­fe blo­ody and de­ad. He­ar the cops co­ming. Why? Why we­re they co­ming? And they al­ways bla­me the hus­band. Pick up a

  newspaper, any new­s­pa­per. You re­ad abo­ut it al­most every day. You know that."

  I knew it bet­ter than he ima­gi­ned.

  But with go­od re­ason.

  So of­ten, so very of­ten, de­ath we­ars a fa­mi­li­ar fa­ce.

  Of co­ur­se, tho­se sta­tis­tics are chan­ging. We li­ve now in a dri­ve-by-sho­oting so­ci­ety. Mo­re and mo­re of­ten de­ath is a stran­ger. That's why the ho­mi­ci­de sol­ve ra­tes ha­ve plum­me­ted.

  "They'll put me in ja­il." Fe­ar lif­ted his vo­ice.

  "They cer­ta­inly will if they pick you up as a fu­gi­ti­ve, Cra­ig. You must go back."

  Like a be­reft child, he lo­oked at me. "What am I go­ing to tel
l them?"

  "Whatever yo­ur law­yer ad­vi­ses you to tell them."

  "Lawyer?"

  "Don't you ha­ve a law­yer?"

  He shrug­ged. "Not me. Patty Kay do­es. Mr. Fa­ir­lee."