I was looking forward to meeting Mr. Selwyn.
I wondered, too, if there was a Mrs. Selwyn.
Just in case he had forgotten the boundaries.
"Oh, damn." Brigit jumped to her feet. "There's Louise's car. Checking on me. I know she is. I'll have to go."
She darted up the path toward the library. I wondered if this was an often-reenacted ritual.
I didn't try to follow her. I could find her again if I needed to.
I looked after her running figure soberly. Yes, Brigit could be the one.
Vertical slabs of limestone glistened in the wash of lights illuminating the shadowy garden. The huge front door-carved teak-was swinging shut as I pushed aside a sweep of ferns to reach the steps.
Everywhere there was the sound of water, slipping, sloshing, splashing. 1 spotted at least three waterfalls, artfully lighted. Massive granite boulders formed pools and water eddied and swirled beneath overhanging banks of vines and potted flowers, bright peonies and masses of scarlet phlox. I suspected Cheryl Kraft had a full-time gardener with waders.
I pulled a bellrope. The low, reverberating gong sounded like that of a temple in Tibet.
The door opened immediately-or as immediately as a huge slab of teak could move.
Cheryl Kraft welcomed me. Tonight she was dramatic in gold hostess pajamas. Diamond dolphins dangled from an enormous gold chain that looked too heavy for her razor-sharp shoulders.
She reached out to take my hands, and I felt the heat of too-thin, feverish fingers. She glanced swiftly past me. No Craig. I saw the flicker in her eyes, but she jumped right in. "You're the last to come, Mrs. Collins. I'm so pleased you're here." She held the door wide and made no mention of Craig. No doubt she felt it would be tactless. Women like Cheryl Kraft excel in tact. "We were hoping you'd make it. Everyone's down in the atrium."
She led the way across a bridge. The foliage flowed into the house, as did a stream of water inhabited by foot-long red and orange carp.
I followed her down a winding stone stair into an astonishing lair, three separate levels fashioned of redwood. Ferns, vines, several banana trees, more water, and iridescent fish thrived on every level. I'd last felt this immersed in sticky humidity in a Costa Rica rain forest.
She was now quite at ease. "Almost everyone's here. Except the Neals. They're in Egypt. A trip on the Nile. I do hope they don't get shot. Or bombed. The world's such an unsafe place now. Especially when you go where people have these religious persuasions. So unpredictable. And horribly, horribly hostile. And the poor dear Hollises. That's where all the cars are tonight. You know, that darling Cape Cod on the other side of the Jessops. Family from away, of course. So terribly sad. But they probably couldn't have helped us anyway. Too far from Patty Kay. And Edith isn't much of a gardener. I do wish Gina had come, but she felt she had to go over to Edith's."
The Cape Cod. I'd been right when I judged that heartbreak wasn't confined to Patty Kay's house. The poor Hollises, dealing with grief, unable to be a part of a neighborhood aroused by murder.
1 felt awash in a swirl of names and circumstances that I didn't understand. But I would learn.
We reached the base of the staircase. Cheryl gripped my arm as if I were a prize. "Here she is. Dear Craig's aunt, Mrs. Collins. She's come to help. Now, let me introduce everybody."
In that first quick survey, a half dozen or more faces turned toward me. Shuttered faces. Wary faces.
Because I was Craig's aunt?
Or because violent death had come so close to them?
It was odd to pretend total ignorance when I did indeed know some of them. At least, I felt I knew them after viewing the videos.
But the first introduction fascinated me.
He pushed away from a redwood pillar to gaze at me somberly-the man whose photograph Patty Kay had carried with only the notation Hilton Head. The same thick curly brown hair and strong, bold features. He wasn't quite as trim now and there was a touch of gray in his hair. But the striking difference was in his face. In the photograph he was young and happy. It was summer with no hint that winter would ever come. Tonight he didn't look as though he'd ever smile again.
"Stuart Pierce." Cheryl shot me a swift glance.
But I knew. "Brigit's father," I said easily. I held out my hand. "I'm so pleased to meet you."
It wasn't awkward. After all, the American family in the nineties is often a hodge-podge. To put it gracefully.
"Of course, Stuart and Louise"-Cheryl smiled at Patty Kay's somber ex-husband-"don't really live right here on King's Row Road. But they're close, right around the corner on Pennington Way, behind Gina's house. I'm sorry Louise couldn't come this evening, but I know she will try to help."
So Stuart Pierce's second wife had declined to attend this neighborhood gathering. How had she felt about Stuart responding to Cheryl Kraft's summons?
Cheryl swept ahead. "And here are Pamela and Willis. But, of course, you know them."
Thank God for the videos. It was still an awkward moment for me. Had Margaret visited here, met Patty Kay's sister and husband? I could always pretend to be another aunt…
But Pamela Prentiss Guthrie's protuberant eyes slid over me with neither recognition nor interest. She murmured insincerely, "So good to see you again. Very good of you to come. Under the circumstances."
The little flash of venom was intended. It caught me by surprise. She looked like such a boring blob. But the blob wasn't stupid-and she didn't like Craig.
Pamela's husband Willis was tall and bony with a concave chest, thinning ginger hair, and a scraggly, light mustache. His pale blue eyes looked at me coldly. His hand felt moist. "Yes, yes, good of you to come."
Cheryl swiftly shepherded me past them.
A distinguished-looking older man with crisp white hair and aristocratic features stood behind the wet bar. He had that air of confidence that only power and money provide. He was used to chairing meetings in boardrooms. Genial. Unless crossed.
"My husband, Bob." Cheryl favored him with a bright, surprisingly sweet smile.
Bob Kraft reached across the bar to shake my hand in a painful grip. "I'm so glad you could come, Mrs. Collins. What would you like to drink?"
"Gin and tonic, thanks."
The final couple I didn't know at all. They had the lean bodies and leathery faces of the horsey set. It was all too easy to picture them in a paddock. I suppressed a smile.
"Carl and Mindy Jessop. They live on the other side of Patty Kay." Cheryl clapped her thin hands together. "Everyone, come gather round the pool table."
Bob Kraft flicked a switch. Light flooded yet another level and a pool table.
Cheryl led the way down five stone steps.
Her guests obediently followed, though I saw Pame�
�la Guthrie's heavy shoulders move in a shrug of disdain.
Cheryl waved us around the table and she took her place at one end. "I've been giving all of this a lot of thought." With the air of a conjuror, she pointed at nine upended whiskey tumblers on the table. "See, I have them
arranged. On this side"-she touched the bottom of each glass in turn-"we have the Neals, the Jessops, Patty Kay, our house, and Gina's. On the other side of the street are"- plink, plink, plink-"the Hollises, the Forrests, and the Guthries. Over here on Pennington"-one glass sat by itself -"is Stuart's house." Plink. "Now, King's Row Road is a dead end." She glanced at me. "You remember, the street ends just past the Hollises' house."
I nodded. The Cape Cod with too many cars and women bringing food.
Cheryl's bright eyes moved restlessly from face to face. "It's very important for us to put our heads together. This police idea that poor, dear Craig hurt Patty Kay is absurd. We all know it."
It was my turn to glance swiftly about.
Brooke Forrest crossed her arms tightly across her chest. She stared at the glasses in sick fascination.
Brooke's husband watched Cheryl. David's cold gray eyes were skeptical.
Bob Kraft's face was thoughtful and not at all genial.
Pamela Guthrie sipped greedily at her drink, then plunged pudgy fingers into the amber liquid to lift out a maraschino cherry. She popped it into her mouth. She gave no attention to the table or the glasses.
Her husband's lips curved into a tiny, unpleasant smile, then he lifted one hand to stroke his limp mustache.
Stuart Pierce gripped the edge of the pool table. A muscle twitched in his jaw.
Not one of them jumped to Craig's defense.
Only the Jessops were nodding eagerly.
"Damn right." Carl Jessop pounded a fist on the green felt. The whiskey tumblers quivered. "Got to get busy, find out what the hell happened, who came in here, did such a thing. Not Craig. Couldn't have been Craig."
Mindy Jessop pushed back a lock of short-cropped gray hair. "So sorry I wasn't home. I was out at the stables. Sweet Delight's due any day now."
"How about you, Carl?" Cheryl asked, pointing at "their" glass.
"God, I wish I could help. I was at the club. Playing a round with Buddy Fisher."
It didn't take long. Only Brooke Forrest, her son Dan, and Pamela Guthrie appeared to have been at home on Saturday afternoon between four and five o'clock.
Cheryl looked at them eagerly. "Oh, good, good. You see, I was in the front yard from four o'clock until the police car came screaming up-except for just a few minutes right around five! And I know that not a single car turned in while 1 was outside." She turned toward Brooke. "So, if you or Pamela were outside, did either of you see a car come to Patty Kay's?"
Pamela shook her head. Her high voice was mildly surprised. "Why would 1 be outside?"
Brooke turned her slender hands over helplessly. "I was planting sweet Williams in the backyard. I couldn't see the street at all."
Cheryl tapped her fingers on the rim of the pool table. "I can't believe this. Someone must have seen something." She sounded slightly petulant.
"Maybe there wasn't anything to see." Pamela Guthrie's tone was bland,
I didn't let it pass. "No one but Craig may have driven into King's Row Road. But let's not forget the alley."
It was a fairly nice counterpoint.
But Cheryl Kraft's damning testimony that not a single car came into King's Row Road during most of that critical period on Saturday afternoon would certainly delight Captain Walsh.
I woke to rain. I'd not slept well. It isn't pleasant to dream of murder. Again and again I saw the same scene in my mind, Patty Kay backing away from her killer, one reluctant step after another. In those last desperate seconds-seconds that were forever too long and too brief-Patty Kay's expressive mouth would have opened in shock, her vivid green eyes flared in surprised disbelief. That's how she would have reacted-incredulous that anyone she knew intended to kill her, robbing the vigorous minutes and hours and days of her life.
In my dream I saw gloved hands aiming the pistol. Yes, they would have been gloved because the murderer came prepared.
Sometimes the gloved hands belonged to Brigit. Surely it wasn't her young mind that had connived so murderously and cleverly. But it could be. I knew it could be. The young are so often underestimated, their pain and passions ignored.
I quickly fixed my breakfast, pushing away thoughts of
Brigit. There were other roads to go down. And, irritablv, I admitted to myself that I didn't want it to be Brigit. The pain of that betrayal would have been deeper for Patty Kay than the burn of any bullet.
Rain splashed against the kitchen windows. I turned on all the lights. As I drank my coffee, I read the article fror the Fair Haven Gazette that I'd printed out at the library.It was accompanied by a picture of a smiling Patty Kay, he face crinkled in exuberant delight.
A three- column head:
FAIR HAVEN'S
PATTY KAY MATTHEWS
LEADS WITH LAUGHTER
She's arrived atop a circus elephant, climbed a fire ladder to plant a flag, led a Dixieland band in a mock funeral march, shouted down protesters, and engaged in a public "striptease" (of sorts).
She is Patty Kay Prentiss Matthews, a civic and social leader in Fair Haven, who laughs as she says, "111 do anything for the arts. And I'm determined to prove you don't have to be stuffy to support the art museum or the library or the playhouse."
Mrs. Matthews certainly could never be considered stuffy. Interviewed at her home recently, she was in a rare state of relaxation. "The community fund drive is done-and we earned twenty thousand dollars more than our goal!-so for me it's downtime until we [Fair Haven Women's Society] put on the May charity auction."
It was for the community fund drive that she climbed a fire truck ladder to place the Fair Haven flag on the flagpole at the Fair Haven Mall.
Even a modest assessment of Mrs. Matthews's many accomplishments reveals that her efforts on all fronts have earned Fair Haven's charities and social agencies more than a half million dollars over the past decade.
Mrs. Matthews's late parents, Merriwether and Cornelia Prentiss, were also active in civic affairs. "Mother and Dad made giving fun. They loved to host ice cream socials and picnics for worthy causes. So 1 learned to have a good time while raising money. But appetites are jaded today, so 1 decided the best way to get everybody out is to offer irresistible bait. That's why 1 came up with Catch a Ride with Dumbo for the drive for underprivileged children."
Three years ago Mrs. Matthews hired the lead elephant from a circus appearing in Nashville. She staged a community-wide picnic at Hickory Park and sold rides on the elephant for five hundred dol
lars each, earning the largest amount ever- $46,000-for the summer camp program.
Mrs. Matthews's efforts aren't restricted to fund-raising. She is willing to ruffle some feathers in this conservative community by the causes she passionately espouses. The mock funeral march was in protest against the Gazette's decision not to carry a comic strip with political overtones. Mrs. Matthews rallied support from enough advertisers to change the Gazette's policy.
One of Mrs. Matthews's principal detractors is the Reverend James Holman. Pastor of Mt. Zion Revival Church, Reverend Holman opposes abortion, gay rights, and feminism. Reverend Holman
Scandal in Fair Haven Page 12