Scandal in Fair Haven

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Scandal in Fair Haven Page 4

by Carolyn G. Hart


  Mrs. Mat­thews was the el­dest da­ug­h­ter of a well-res­pec­ted and long-es­tab­lis­hed Ten­nes­see fa­mily. The first Pren­tiss ar­ri­ved in Fa­ir Ha­ven in 1843. Fa­mily mem­bers ha­ve in­c­lu­ded jud­ges, law­yers, physi­ci­ans, and le­gis­la­tors. Her fat­her, the la­te Mer­ri­wet­her Pren­tiss, ser­ved as ma­yor of Fa­ir Ha­ven for three terms in the 1970s.

  Mrs. Mat­thews's first mar­ri­age, to Stu­art Pi­er­ce, en­ded in di­vor­ce. In ad­di­ti­on to her hus­band, Cra­ig Mat­thews, she is sur­vi­ved by her da­ug­h­ter, Bri­git Pi­er­ce, and her sis­ter, Mrs. Wil­lis Gut­h­rie, both of Fa­ir Ha­ven.

  Hmm. Cra­ig hadn't men­ti­oned his step­da­ug­h­ter, Bri­git. Whe­re was Patty Kay's da­ug­h­ter on a Sa­tur­day af­ter­no­on? Had Cra­ig run away, per­haps le­aving the girl to dis­co­ver her mot­her's cor­p­se? But no, an anon­y­mo­us pho­ne call sum­mo­ned the po­li­ce. Why hadn't Cra­ig men­ti­oned Bri­git?

  It would- be in­te­res­ting to know what the anon­y­mo­us cal­ler sa­id to the po­li­ce.

  The Mon­day-mor­ning up­da­te sho­wed a chan­ge in to­ne:

  MATTHEWS TELLS PO­LI­CE WI­FE WAS AL­RE­ADY DE­AD

  Craig Mat­thews ad­mit­ted to po­li­ce in a Sun­day in­ter­vi­ew that he dis­co­ve­red the body of his wi­fe, Patty Kay Mat­thews, in the­ir Fa­ir Ha­ven ho­me Sa­tur­day af­ter­no­on but ma­de no ef­fort to con­tact aut­ho­ri­ti­es.

  Desmond Ma­ri­no, Mat­thews's at­tor­ney, sa­id his cli­ent was dis­t­ra­ught by the gru­eso­me dis­co­very and he left the ho­me in a da­ze and went di­rectly to the va­ca­ti­on re­si­den­ce of an aunt, se­eking fa­mily sup­port. "His aunt ur­ged him to call me and he did so at on­ce. Mr. Mat­thews was com­p­le­tely sha­ken and unab­le to co­pe with the tra­gedy. It ca­me as a com­p­le­te sur­p­ri­se to him that he was be­ing so­ught by the po­li­ce. As so­on as he re­ali­zed the si­tu­ati­on, he ag­re­ed at on­ce to re­turn for an in­ter­vi­ew and did so Sun­day mor­ning. I ha­ve he­re a bri­ef sta­te­ment from him for the press."

  Statement to the press by Cra­ig Mat­thews: "I ca­me ho­me Sa­tur­day af­ter­no­on with a fru­it bas­ket I tho­ught my wi­fe had or­de­red. I en­te­red the ho­use. Patty Kay didn't an­s­wer my call. I lo­oked up­s­ta­irs, then dow­n­s­ta­irs. When I went in­to the kit­c­hen, I knew so­met­hing bad had hap­pe­ned. Our kit­c­hen had be­en van­da­li­zed. I ran out­si­de. The play­ho­use do­or was open. I fo­und my wi­fe's body the­re, on the flo­or. I knelt and tri­ed to lift her and then I knew she was de­ad. The­re was blo­od ever­y­w­he­re. I didn't see a we­apon.

  "It was such a shock, I ran out­si­de. I don't know what I was thin­king, but I wan­ted to go for help. I got in my car and dro­ve to my aunt's va­ca-

  tion ca­bin. 1 ha­ve tri­ed to be hel­p­ful to the po­li­ce. 1 know of no re­ason why an­yo­ne wo­uld mur­der my wi­fe. I ask an­yo­ne who has any in­for­ma­ti­on to ple­ase re­port to the po­li­ce or to my law­yer, Des­mond Ma­ri­no."

  Marino dec­li­ned to an­s­wer fur­t­her qu­es­ti­ons, sa­ying his cli­ent was do­ing ever­y­t­hing pos­sib­le to help the aut­ho­ri­ti­es.

  Police Cap­ta­in J. T. Walsh sa­id the in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on was con­ti­nu­ing.

  Funeral ar­ran­ge­ments for Mrs. Mat­thews are pen­ding.

  I put down the pa­per and dug my Sony Wal­k­man out of my gym bag. I tur­ned it on, fo­und a Nas­h­vil­le news sta­ti­on. It ca­me as no sur­p­ri­se a few mi­nu­tes la­ter when the an­no­un­cer sa­id that Fa­ir Ha­ven po­li­ce had ar­res­ted Cra­ig Mat­thews la­te Sun­day eve­ning. They had char­ged him with mur­der in the de­ath of his wi­fe.

  1 re­ac­hed for my cel­lu­lar pho­ne, then pa­used. I had a de­ci­si­on to ma­ke.

  What was I go­ing to tell Mar­ga­ret?

  More im­por­tant than that, what-if any-ac­ti­on was I pre­pa­red to ta­ke?

  I was not sur­p­ri­sed at the ar­rest.

  But an ar­rest didn't me­an Cra­ig Mat­thews was gu­ilty.

  I fo­und it in­t­ri­gu­ing, to say the le­ast, that Cra­ig re­ce­ived two pho­ne calls at the bo­ok­s­to­re whe­re the cal­ler promptly hung up.

  Aaah, so what, the pro-po­li­ce vi­ew wo­uld de­mand. Who sa­id tho­se pho­ne calls oc­cur­red?

  Craig Mat­thews.

  But when the clerk an­s­we­red, the­re was a mes­sa­ge for Cra­ig to pick up the fru­it bas­ket and bring it ho­me.

  Sure, the po­li­ce co­uld res­pond. Mrs. Mat­thews cal­led. The lack of a bas­ket co­uld simply ha­ve be­en a mis­ta­ke at the de­li. Or per­haps Patty Kay tho­ught she'd or­de­red the bas­ket and hadn't. The­re co­uld be lots of ex­p­la­na­ti­ons. The fact that the sto­re had no re­cord of an or­der was no pro­of that the pho­ne call to the bo­ok­s­to­re was part of an ela­bo­ra­te plan to fra­me Mat­thews.

  Because eit­her Cra­ig Mat­thews was gu­ilty of his wi­fe's mur­der or he'd be­en cle­verly lu­red to the de­ath sce­ne.

  To me, the stron­gest ar­gu­ment for Cra­ig's in­no­cen­ce was the Joh­n­ny-on-the-spot pho­ne call that bro­ught the aut­ho­ri­ti­es to the si­te just af­ter Cra­ig ar­ri­ved ho­me.

  It wo­uldn't im­p­ress the po­li­ce.

  Police ever­y­w­he­re re­ce­ive a lot of pho­ne tips. The calls can be ac­cu­ra­te as hell, but the cal­lers are not ne­ces­sa­rily in­vol­ved in the cri­mes they re­port. Many anon­y­mo­us tip­s­ters are se­mi-go­od ci­ti­zens. They want to see jus­ti­ce do­ne, but they de­fi­ni­tely don't want to get in­vol­ved.

  A sim­p­le sce­na­rio co­uld ac­co­unt for that pho­ne tip: A ne­ig­h­bor ob­ser­ved Cra­ig's ar­ri­val at the ho­use, per­haps he­ard a no­isy qu­ar­rel, and cal­led.

  A va­ri­ati­on on that the­me co­uld ac­co­unt for the call even if Cra­ig's story was true: A ne­ig­h­bor ca­me to the ho­use be­fo­re Cra­ig ar­ri­ved, fo­und Patty Kay's body, then scur­ri­ed off to call the po­li­ce but avo­id in­vol­ve­ment.

  So the pho­ne tip co­uld ha­ve oc­cur­red whet­her Cra­ig was gu­ilty or in­no­cent.

  But cle­arly the pho­ne tip co­uld ha­ve be­en part of a cle­ver plan to fra­me Cra­ig.

  I ma­de my de­ci­si­on.

  When I cal­led Mar­ga­ret, I didn't tell her not to worry. She wasn't a fo­ol. But I pro­mi­sed to help Cra­ig.

  I chan­ged from my ho­li­day slacks and cot­ton top to a crim­son li­nen su­it with a jewel-nec­ked jac­ket and a ple­ated

  skirt, a crisp whi­te blo­use, and mat­c­hing red pumps. As a fas­hi­on wri­ter I on­ce knew wo­uld ha­ve tril­led, "Fa­ux pe­arl ear­rings and nec­k­la­ce com­p­le­ted the en­sem­b­le." If I do say so myself, 1 lo­oked ele­gant and ab­so­lu­tely trus­t­worthy. It to­ok me fi­ve mo­re mi­nu­tes to pack, then I was on the ro­ad to Fa­ir Ha­ven and tra­ve­ling fast.

  At the out­s­kirts of Fa­ir Ha­ven, I stop­ped at a con­ve­ni­en­ce sto­re and bo­ught the af­ter­no­on pa­per.

  This he­ad­li­ne was crisp:

  POLICE AC­CU­SE CRA­IG MAT­THEWS OF WI­FE'S MUR­DER

  Police ar­res­ted Fa­ir Ha­ven bu­si­nes­sman Cra­ig Mat­thews, 29, la­te Sun­day eve­ning for the mur­der of his 38-ye­ar-old wi­fe, Patty Kay, af­ter te­ena­ge hun­ters fo­und a pis­tol lin­ked to her sla­ying in the brush se­ve­ral hun­d­red yards from Hig­h­way 94 ne­ar Snell.

  Fair Ha­ven Po­li­ce Chi­ef J. T. Walsh re­ve­aled that Mrs. Mat­thews was shot three ti­mes.

  Sheriff Coby Trent sa­id Snell re­si­dents Mic­ha­el Bet­tis, 15, and Jim­my Gra­ham, 17, we­re sho­oting squ­ir­rels la­te Sa­tur­day af­ter­no­on when they saw Mat­thews dis­card an obj­ect af­ter he stop­ped on a co­untry ro­ad ne­ar Hig­h­way 94. She­riff Trent sa­id, "The boys saw the sus­pect
, whom they la­ter iden­ti­fi­ed as Mr. Mat­thews, get out of a gre­en Por­s­c­he car­rying a bun­d­le. He un­w­rap­ped the bun­d­le, lo­oked aro­und to see if he was ob­ser­ved, then threw a gun in­to the brush. Mr. Mat­thews then got in­to his car and dro­ve off. The boys fo­und the gun and bro­ught it to us."

  Chief Walsh sa­id the we­apon had be­en wi­ped,

  but the la­bo­ra­tory fo­und a par­ti­al print on the bot­tom of the trig­ger gu­ard that mat­c­hed Mat­thews's right in­dex rin­ger. The bul­lets which kil­led Mrs. Mat­thews we­re shot from this we­apon, the chi­ef sa­id.

  Fair Ha­ven at­tor­ney Des­mond Ma­ri­no sa­id his cli­ent is in­no­cent of the cri­me.

  The mur­der of the well-known so­ci­ali­te on Sa­tur­day shoc­ked re­si­dents of the his­to­ric com­mu­nity twenty mi­les so­uth of Nas­h­vil­le. Next-do­or ne­ig­h­bor Carl Jes­sop sa­id, "I don't be­li­eve he did it. Cra­ig's a re­al­ly ni­ce, mild-man­ne­red guy. He and Patty Kay got along re­al well. This has got ever­y­body nuts. No­body aro­und he­re even locks the­ir do­ors in the day­ti­me. But now my wi­fe's sca­red. Who'd want to sho­ot Patty Kay?"

  Several ne­ig­h­bor­ho­od re­si­dents dec­li­ned to be qu­oted, but the­ir re­ports tal­li­ed with that of Jes­sop. All ap­pe­ared shoc­ked and sur­p­ri­sed at Mat­thews's ar­rest.

  Services for Mrs. Mat­thews will be at 10 a.m. Wed­nes­day in St. John's Epis­co­pal Church. The fa­mily re­qu­ests no flo­wers. Me­mo­ri­als may be ma­de to Wal­den Scho­ol.

  Craig had sa­id: The­re was blo­od ever­y­w­he­re. I didn't see a we­apon.

  Now eye­wit­nes­ses cla­imed they saw him toss away the gun that kil­led his wi­fe.

  Obviously, anot­her lie by Cra­ig.

  So what el­se was new?

  In Cra­ig's re­ci­tal to me the­re was no men­ti­on of a gun or that sur­rep­ti­ti­o­us stop.

  I didn't fe­el qu­ite that I had be­en pla­yed for a fo­ol. But

  I cer­ta­inly had to ac­cept the fact that Cra­ig Mat­thews had be­en less than can­did.

  The po­li­ce wo­uld ar­gue that the only re­ason to lie wo­uld be gu­ilt.

  But it co­uld be fe­ar, ca­me the whip-qu­ick tho­ught.

  1 lif­ted an eyeb­row. So­mew­he­re wit­hin me lur­ked a cham­pi­on for Cra­ig Mat­thews.

  Craig Mat­thews. A ci­vi­li­zed, de­li­ca­te fa­ce. And frig­h­te­ned eyes. Not a very trut­h­ful man. The po­li­ce dis­co­ve­ri­es su­rely aug­men­ted that jud­g­ment.

  All right. But the­re we­re facts in his fa­vor. And be­ing a li­ar can in­di­ca­te eit­her po­or cha­rac­ter or stu­pi­dity, but it hardly equ­ates with be­ing a mur­de­rer.

  I'd dri­ven fast. 1 was glad. If an­y­t­hing co­uld be do­ne for Mar­ga­ret's nep­hew, it had to be do­ne qu­ickly.

  As a re­por­ter 1 le­ar­ned so­me hor­rif­ying truths abo­ut our le­gal system. I don't call it our system of jus­ti­ce. It is, in­s­te­ad, an of­ten hap­ha­zard pro­cess re­len­t­les­sly af­fec­ted by the par­ti­ci­pants, who can be bright, stu­pid, in­do­lent, in­dus­t­ri­o­us, in­com­pe­tent, or bril­li­ant.

  If you qu­es­ti­on that, re­ad so­me true cri­me bo­oks. Or go down to the co­ur­t­ho­use and sit in on a mur­der tri­al. Eit­her ex­po­su­re sho­uld sca­re the be­j­esus out of you.

  Bottom li­ne: The cops wo­uldn't be trying to cle­ar Cra­ig; they wo­uld be busy amas­sing evi­den­ce so the D.A. co­uld get a mur­der con­vic­ti­on.

  I wasn't a cop. Or a pri­va­te de­tec­ti­ve.

  But the­re's no law aga­inst as­king qu­es­ti­ons.

  For wha­te­ver re­ason.

  4

  As I dro­ve on in­to town, I spot­ted Patty Kay Mat­thews's bo­ok­s­to­re. Bo­oks, Bo­oks, Bo­oks was ho­used in a lar­ge red­b­rick bu­il­ding ac­ross the stre­et from the up­s­ca­le Fa­ir Ha­ven Mall. I had a swift ap­pre­ci­ati­on of Patty Kay's abi­li­ti­es as a bu­si­nes­swo­man. Malls aren't it in the 1990s. Se­pa­ra­te shops with plenty of par­king and easy ac­cess de­fi­ni­tely are.

  It was anot­her co­up­le of mi­les on tree-sha­ded Henry Ave­nue to the tur­noff that led di­rectly to the he­art of old Fa­ir Ha­ven. As I ne­ared dow­n­town, plenty of bron­ze pla­qu­es at­tes­ted to pro­tec­ted his­to­ric ho­mes, both an­te­bel­lum and Vic­to­ri­an. I par­ked ne­ar the town squ­are. As al­ways, I'm stiff when I first get out of a car af­ter tra­ve­ling. I gin­gerly stret­c­hed, ad­mi­ring the worn gra­ni­te sta­tue of a Con­fe­de­ra­te sol­di­er and the re­cently pa­in­ted bric­k­f­ront bu­il­dings, the co­lors ran­ging from ap­ri­cot to gray to ma­uve. I stop­ped first at a small cot­ta­ge with a gilt sign proc­la­iming the Fa­ir Ha­ven His­to­ric So­ci­ety. I ca­me out with maps, a his­tory, and a qu­ick sum­mary of the ef­forts that

  had go­ne in­to re­fur­bis­hing dow­n­town and ma­king it a to­urist mec­ca. Patty Kay Pren­tiss Mat­thews's na­me was all over the broc­hu­res.

  Fair Ha­ven can't com­pe­te his­to­ri­cal­ly with ne­ig­h­bo­ring Fran­k­lin, of co­ur­se, ho­me of the Car­ter Ho­use which was so cen­t­ral to the an­gu­is­hing Bat­tle of Fran­k­lin. Fi­ve ho­urs of fi­er­ce fig­h­ting on No­vem­ber 30, 1864, re­sul­ted in 6,552 Con­fe­de­ra­te de­ad, 2,326 Uni­on de­ad. But Fa­ir Ha­ven has its own grim sto­ri­es of war, in­c­lu­ding bra­ve wo­men who car­ri­ed in­for­ma­ti­on past Uni­on tro­ops be­ne­ath ho­op-skirts and a han­d­so­me Con­fe­de­ra­te spy hung by the Yan­ke­es whi­le a sob­bing ma­iden lo­oked on.

  Today Fa­ir Ha­ven's ni­ne­te­en­th-cen­tury ma­in stre­et was ho­me to an­ti­que sto­res, funky lit­tle shops sel­ling ever­y­t­hing from han­d­ma­de qu­ilts to ho­me­ma­de jams and can­di­es, and, of co­ur­se, to Fa­ir Ha­ven's most pres­ti­gi­o­us law firms.

  The of­fi­ces of Des­mond Ma­ri­no, Co­un­se­lor at Law, we­re on the se­cond flo­or of a ma­uve brick bu­il­ding at the cor­ner of Ma­in and First. 1 ope­ned the fros­ted glass do­or and step­ped out of the ni­ne­te­enth in­to the la­te twen­ti­eth cen­tury.

  Sometimes it's hard to tell the of­fi­ce of a suc­ces­sful law­yer from the re­cep­ti­on area in an up­s­ca­le fu­ne­ral ho­me. The sa­me ice-to­ned gray pre­do­mi­na­tes in the dra­pes, walls, and car­pets, en­li­ve­ned oc­ca­si­onal­ly by a dis­c­re­et flash of gold in a va­se or pa­in­ting. The sub­li­mi­nal mes­sa­ge is that sil­ver and gold are our ul­ti­ma­te obj­ec­ti­ve, whet­her in the stre­ets of he­aven or on tho­se of earth.

  Desmond Ma­ri­no's Ox­ford su­it was gray too, with the me­rest hint of a mu­ted crim­son stri­pe. His Her­mes tie was jovi­al in com­pa­ri­son, a vi­vid car­mi­ne with a gold me­dal­li­on pat­tern. One of tho­se ab­surdly ex­pen­si­ve wat­c­hes glit­te­red on his left wrist.

  Marino had an in­te­res­ting fa­ce, part mon­key, part rac-

  coon. A bright in­tel­li­gen­ce was ap­pa­rent in the co­al-dark eyes, wily ca­uti­on evi­dent in his ca­re­ful smi­le.

  Not that Ma­ri­no was smi­ling over­much af­ter the ini­ti­al tho­ugh su­itably mu­ted (the cir­cum­s­tan­ces) warmth of his gre­eting to Cra­ig Mat­thews's aunt (me) af­ter his sec­re­tary, slim and blond in a gray silk she­ath, sho­wed me in.

  I ho­ped to find out a gre­at de­al from Des­mond Ma­ri­no, but the­re was one ur­gent qu­es­ti­on.

  "Where is Patty Kay's da­ug­h­ter?"

  "Oh, Bri­git's okay. She's ho­me."

  "In that ho­use. By her­self?"

  Desmond Ma­ri­no lo­oked sur­p­ri­sed. "She li­ves with her dad. Didn't you know that?"

  Fake aun­t­ho­od ob­vi­o­usly was go­ing to ha­ve many pit­fal­ls. "Oh, I sup­po­se I mi­sun­der­s­to­od a re­cent let­ter from Cra­ig. I tho­ught Bri­git had mo­ve
d back with her mot­her and Cra­ig."

  "Not li­kely."

  I ne­eded to get away from this su­bj­ect pron­to. I ma­na­ged a smi­le. "I'm so glad I mi­sun­der­s­to­od. So the­re's no one at the ho­use now?"

  "That's right. Un­less I can get ba­il for Cra­ig."

  "What are the chan­ces?"

  Marino wag­gled his hand. "May­be so, may­be no. Jud­ge Leh­man's hard to fi­gu­re. We're on his doc­ket for to­mor­row. The thing of it is, Cra­ig's in a to­ugh spot, Mrs. Col­lins. Not only did the po­li­ce find the mur­der we­apon whe­re he'd dum­ped it, they've got the shirt he wo­re that day and it's-"

  "Bloodstained. I know."

 

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