Scandal in Fair Haven

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Scandal in Fair Haven Page 14

by Carolyn G. Hart


  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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