how to handle. 1 couldn't fault her. Even Miss Manners might find it hard to know what to say to a relative of a man accused of brutally murdering his wife. "Nice day" doesn't cut it.
1 flashed a reassuring smile. "Don't be upset. Mr. Matthews will soon be out of jail." This was a rumor 1 didn't mind starting. Who knew what effect it might have. "We both know he's innocent."
"Oh, yes, ma'am." Behind the glasses, her eyes remained wide and anxious.
1 glanced around. "So if we could find a quiet spot-"
She gulped nervously, then led the way to a bench in the deserted poetry section. She perched at the far end of the bench, her hands twisted tightly in her lap.
"How long have you worked here, Amy?"
"Two weeks. I'm part-time during the week because of school. All day on Saturdays and Sundays."
There's a feeling when you draw a straight flush. It's the way 1 felt at her answer. Amy was new. She wouldn't recognize voices, not even that of Patty Kay Matthews, the store's owner. Certainly not those of longtime customers.
An essential element of the murderer's scheme.
"College student?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Now, tell me about Saturday afternoon-and the phone calls."
She peered at me uneasily. "I can't say about the calls Mr. Matthews got. 1 mean, 1 wasn't watching him or anything. He may have answered the phone just like he says, but 1 didn't see it." Defensiveness threaded her high voice.
"No reason you should have," 1 agreed easily. "Whose job is it to answer the phone?"
"Whoever's standing there."
"Where?"
She stood to point. "There are phones at the information desk and the coffee bar and the office and the main desk. Some are different lines. For example, in the office. Anyway, whoever's closest to the phone that rings, they answer it." She shrugged.
"Where were you?"
"I was working the main register."
"Tell me about the call where you took the message for Mr. Matthews."
She sank back onto the bench, misery in her eyes. "Everybody keeps asking me and asking me. But I didn't pay a lot of attention. It was just a message-he was to go to this shop over by Green Hills and pick up a basket of fruit-but I don't exactly remember what she said."
"She?"
"Yes. A woman. I think. I mean, it sounded like a woman. She spoke fast, like she was in a rush. She said something like"-the clerk's face tightened as she strove to remember-" Tell Craig to go by Finedorff s and pick up a fruit basket and bring it home pronto. Thanks.' That's all there was to it. And people keep asking me and asking me about it. They ask if it was Mrs. Matthews. I don't know. How should I know? I met her only once and I don't even remember if she said anything. She smiled. She had a nice smile."
"You're doing fine, Amy. No one could expect more. So, you took the call. Then, when Mr. Matthews had finished with his customer, you told him about it. What did you say?"
"I told him his wife wanted him to pick up a fruit basket at this shop and bring it home right now."
"So he would have thought the call came from Mrs. Matthews."
She clasped her hands together and stared down at
them. "Yes. I guess. But I didn't know. I mean, I just gave him the message."
"Yes, of course. Did he leave immediately?"
For an instant laughter touched her eyes. "Yes, ma'am. He was out of here in a flash."
"And that was around…"
"A quarter to four."
She spoke with utter confidence.
And Craig had just as definitely and strongly told me he'd left the store at four o'clock.
An extra fifteen minutes could put Craig in prison, possibly on death row.
"I thought it was closer to four."
"No, ma'am. It was exactly a quarter to four. I know because I'd just looked at my watch."
"Why?"
A tiny flush of pink edged her cheeks. "I break at four. I was going to go into the coffee bar and have a caramel brownie. And then I couldn't when he left. I had to stay on the floor."
"I see. Mr. Matthews thought it was a few minutes later than that."
"No." Her voice was sharp. "It was exactly a quarter to four."
And she'd swear it today and tomorrow and forever. She might be young and uncomfortable. She was also stubborn.
I changed course. "How do you like working here?"
"Oh." She was surprised. Understandably. After all, what did her appraisal of the store have to do with anything? But, the customer is always right. She brightened. "I like it a lot. At least, until all this happened. I wasn't sure I would. They're all so rich, but they're nice."
They?
"Who?" It was my turn to be surprised.
"The ladies who work here. I mean, in addition to us. Me and Jackie and Paul and Todd and Candy. Oh, and Stevie, the assistant manager. She does most of the work. We're all just regular people. But all these rich ladies who work one day a week. I thought they'd be snotty. But they're not, they're real nice. At least, most of them are. I handle the scheduling." She grinned, and I caught a glimpse of a likable, fun girl when she wasn't under pressure. "It's like musical chairs. You'd think anybody could always be sure of one day a week, but they have Conflicts." Her voice capitalized it, making me smile too. "Like going to Atlanta to shop. Or they need to sub at tennis for a friend. Or their rottweiler's having pups. So Mrs. Forrest switches with Mrs. Hollis, who switches with Mrs. Pierce. But they're mostly nice. And they know everybody who comes in." She looked suddenly shrewd. "That's a big plus in a retail store."
Yes, it was smart marketing.
And now I had the funny little tingle you get with a full house.
This was Patty Kay's store. The rich women who worked here would be her friends. Were some her enemies?
I asked for the list of part-time employees.
Amy hesitated. "I don't know-Stevie's not here. She'll be in at noon and she probably-"
I headed off a declaration I wouldn't like. "Mr. Matthews knows I'm here," I said firmly.
That was enough to satisfy her.
She led me back to the office and quickly found the right file on a computer. As the file was being printed out, I said loudly, "A wonderful convenience, but noisy, isn't it?"
She nodded.
"I wonder-when you took that message Saturday, was
there any noise behind the voice? Music? Traffic? Phones ringing? Anything like that?"
She was relaxed now. She didn't feel badgered. I wasn't pressuring her to identify a voice-or not identify it. "No, ma'am. It was real quiet."
The printer clattered to a stop, and she ripped off the sheet and handed it to me: Edith Hollis. Brooke Forrest. Louise Pierce. Pamela Guthrie. Cheryl Kraft.
Two names surprised me.
"Louise Pierce. Is that Mrs. Stuart Pierce?"
"Yes, ma'am." Amy's face was placid. Old marital his�
�tory meant nothing to her.
"And Mrs. Guthrie. Is that Mrs. Matthews's sister?"
Amy frowned. "She's the only one who's rude. I called Mrs. Guthrie last week to see if she'd be in on her day and I woke her up. At ten o'clock in the morning. She was real hateful."
I folded the printout, put it in my purse. "Amy, thanks for talking to me." I took a step, then turned back. "If you remember anything else about that call, the one about the deli, please give me a ring. I'm staying at the Matthews house."
"Oh, yes, ma'am. I will. I promise."
Laverne kneaded my scalp with practiced fingers and the hot, soapy water tingled against my head. She rinsed my hair, wound a towel expertly around my head turban-style, and we walked back to her chair.
"You visiting here in town?"
"Yes. I'm doing some historical research in the area. My great-grandfather was killed in the Battle of Franklin."
That satisfied her. Genealogy is a passion in the South.
I sat down and Laverne covered me with a peach gown. As she set to work, I looked around the mostly empty salon. "Pretty slow today."
"Everybody's at the Hollis girl's funeral. It's really too bad. Sure makes you realize money isn't everything."
The stylist at the next station was buffing her nails. "That's for sure," she chimed in. "So they all went to Walden School. So what? At least my kid didn't walk into a lake. And I've heard there's something really odd going on. Judy Holzer-she works over at the Braidwood Florist-
she says she heard it was suicide. Isn't that awful? A kid fifteen years old."
I must have jerked, made a movement or a sound.
Laverne paused. "Oh, I'm sorry. Did I comb too hard?"
"No." My voice sounded thin even to me. "No. I'm fine."
But I wasn't fine. She hadn't combed too hard. I concentrated on relaxing, and suppressing, as best I could, the emotion that always threatens to engulf me when I see a child's obituary. Bobby was twelve, only twelve…
Laverne picked up a handful of curlers. "Well, I think that girl was a little slow, Tammy. Maybe it was an accident. That's what the family's saying. I do Mrs. Hollis's sister's hair and she said it was some kind of kid dare and poor little Franci didn't know any better than to try and swim across that lake."
"Franci Hollis," I repeated. "Is that-" I broke off. I'd almost revealed myself, almost asked if this was the family on King's Row Road. But I knew the answer. "The poor Hollises," Cheryl Kraft had said. Oh, God, yes. The poor Hollises with friends and family gathering in the wake of a family's bitter tragedy.
The beauticians were waiting politely.
And I shouldn't know anything about King's Row Road and its heartbreaks.
I cleared my throat. "What a lovely name. I'm so sorry. Children so often don't think when someone makes a dare."
"I used to see her at soccer games," Tammy continued. "My Jack and the Hollis girl's brother were on the Y team together." She shook her head, her thick blond hair swaying. "Sure makes you think."
I willed my muscles to relax. Forced them to relax. And managed, despite the pain, to focus on my task. "Bad things seem to happen all at once. Isn't this the town where that
young woman was murdered out in her pool cabana?" I felt Laverne's ringers slacken for an instant.
Tammy sat up straight. "I tell you, I don't know what the world's coming to! Patty Kay Matthews, the richest woman in town."
"Was it a robbery?" I asked innocently.
Laverne tilted my head to work on the back curls. "No. God, it's worse than that. They've arrested her husband- but I can't believe he did it. My Billy worked on his car. Billy says no way did Craig Matthews shoot somebody. One time Matthews was going to leave his Porsche and Billy saw the gun in his glove compartment and he asked Matthews to take it with him. Billy said he's never seen a man act so silly. Matthews didn't even want to put his1 hand on it."
"I know somebody who didn't have any use at all for Patty Kay." The blond stylist wriggled with excitement. "I saw Patty Kay at Kroger's just last week and she came around one of the aisles and there she was face-to-face with Louise Pierce, her first husband's wife, and you know what?"
Laverne and I both looked at her expectantly.
"Well, if looks could kill! Louise Pierce gave Patty Kay the meanest, hardest glare and she stalked right by without saying a word. Not a word. And the funny thing is, see, it was always Patty Kay who was mad because Louise got Stuart and Louise always went around looking like a cat with cream on her whiskers. But last week it's Louise who's furious. Now, I just have to wonder why."
I wondered too.
"And after Louise stomped by, Patty Kay turned and looked after her. And she looked real funny-almost like she was scared."
The sign hung a little crooked on the doorknob, a pasteboard clock face with movable hands. They registered eleven a.m. The legend informed: out of the office. back soon.
I used my umbrella to fend off the light drizzle and strolled the length of Fair Haven's Main Street. The restored brickfront buildings offered a charming assortment of shops. I admired patchwork quilts, wooden carvings, hand-wrought jewelry, and antique furniture and silver.
I walked back to Gina Abbott's shop. Her display included a long swath of Manuel Canovas fabric with a floral design-bright pink peonies and stylized jade-green leaves -draped over an eighteenth-century gilt wood backless seat patterned after a Roman camp stool.
Gilt letters in the lower left pane of the window read simply: gina abbott, decorator.
The light rain, persistent, elegiac, misted against the windows. I stepped into the recessed entryway. I tried the doorknob and was startled when it moved. Was it an oversight or was this indeed such a law-abiding small town that Gina Abbott didn't bother to lock up? More likely, she'd forgotten. Whatever, I propped my umbrella against the wall and went in.
Her taste ran to earth tones-mauve, coral, sand, peach. The showroom was fairly small, but it afforded several enclaves for customers, comfortable chintz sofas and chairs grouped around coffee tables at a good height for studying catalogues and swatches and wallpaper samples.
I wandered toward the back. A door stood ajar. I pushed it wider.
Gina Abbott's office was a jam-packed mess, but cheerful. Bolts of cloth, swatches of fabric, photographs, house plans, and stacked catalogues were everywhere.
The walls were bare except for a snapshot-laden bulle-
tin- board. I walked closer. I recognized four faces immediately. The tennis quartet was obviously of long duration. Lots of tennis pictures with Patty Kay, Gina, Edith, and Brooke when they were in their late twenties and early thirties. Sometimes their children were there. It didn't take long to figure out which belonged to whom.
Brigit didn't smile very often. But as a lit
tle girl, she was always stylishly dressed. Trust Patty Kay for that.
Elegant Brooke apparently had only the one child. Even when he was a little boy, Dan was as spectacularly handsome as his mother was beautiful, perfect bone structure, glossy black hair, wide-spaced blue eyes, even white teeth in a confident smile.
I recognized the freckle-faced, stocky girl who'd tried to get Edith's attention at Brigit's birthday party. And the red-haired boy who'd admired Dan's dancing partner was obviously her brother. The little girl had an especially sweet smile, the boy a steady, inquiring gaze. Edith Hollis was usually the model of brightness, but every so often the camera caught that edge of surliness. Was it jealousy? Lack of confidence?
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