Scandal in Fair Haven

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Scandal in Fair Haven Page 19

by Carolyn G. Hart


  Three hos­ti­le pa­irs of eyes wat­c­hed me go.

  12

  I knoc­ked on the par­ti­al­ly open do­or. "Co­me in."

  I step­ped in­to a tiny of­fi­ce. It was one of a pa­ir tuc­ked bet­we­en the rest ro­oms and the ele­va­tor on the first flo­or at the back of the bo­ok­s­to­re.

  The yo­ung wo­man slowly lo­oked up from the ca­ta­lo­gue on her desk. She for­ced a smi­le. It didn't re­ach blue eyes lo­aded with dis­t­ress. "Yes?"

  Stevie Cos­tel­lo, the ma­na­ger of Bo­oks, Bo­oks, Bo­oks, was trying for a bu­si­ness-as-usu­al de­me­anor. I co­uld ha­ve told her she wasn't ma­king it. She lo­oked li­ke she hadn't slept, and her oran­ge car­di­gan didn't go with her bur­gundy skirt. She was in her early thir­ti­es, slen­der, with mas­ses of soft curly brown ha­ir. Ste­vie Cos­tel­lo had that kind of fra­gi­le, chi­na-shep­her­dess pret­ti­ness that age or har­d­s­hip can so easily des­t­roy.

  "Miss Cos­tel­lo, I'm Cra­ig Mat­thews's aunt. Hen­ri­et­ta Col­lins." I shut the do­or be­hind me.

  "Craig's aunt?" One hand to­uc­hed the co­ral be­ads

  around her slen­der thro­at. "Did Cra­ig send you?" Her eyes re­ma­ined une­asy, but eager­ness lif­ted her vo­ice.

  A pu­rist might con­tend my an­s­wer sho­uld ha­ve be­en no.

  In my vi­ew, Cra­ig's ac­cep­tan­ce of my aid ga­ve me car­te blan­c­he to cla­im Cra­ig did send me.

  "Yes." I to­ok the sin­g­le stra­ight cha­ir fa­cing the clut­te­red desk.

  "In the pa­per it sa­id he'd be­en ar­res­ted-I can't be­li­eve it. He's such a gen­t­le per­son. To think he-I can't be­li­eve it."

  "Arrest is no pro­of of gu­ilt."

  Her fin­gers tig­h­te­ned on the be­ads at her thro­at. I fe­ared she wo­uld snap the nec­k­la­ce. But she didn't an­s­wer.

  "Craig sho­uld be out on ba­il la­ter to­day."

  "On ba­il? That me­ans the po­li­ce still think he shot her. He didn't do it. I know he didn't. Cra­ig wo­uld ne­ver hurt an­yo­ne." She sa­id the last so for­ce­ful­ly, I knew she was bat­tling a lin­ge­ring wisp of fe­ar that Cra­ig, gen­t­le tho­ugh he might be, had in­de­ed shot his wi­fe.

  "You're pre­ac­hing to the cho­ir, Ste­vie. I've go­od re­ason to be­li­eve Cra­ig had not­hing to do with his wi­fe's de­ath."

  But qu­ali­fi­ca­ti­ons buz­zed in my mind: Cra­ig li­ed abo­ut the ti­me he left the bo­ok­s­to­re-if I be­li­eved the clerk's stub­born as­ser­ti­on. And I co­uldn't for­get the ma­id's enig­ma­tic re­marks abo­ut Cra­ig's vi­sits to the San­dal­wo­od apar­t­ments.

  I was still con­fi­dent.

  But not po­si­ti­ve.

  "But the po­li­ce ar­res­ted him."

  "Craig's law­yer and I ho­pe to per­su­ade the po­li­ce that they've ma­de a mis­ta­ke." I told her how I fi­gu­red the cri­me had oc­cur­red. "And you can help us."

  "I can? How?" She sta­red at me, her fa­ce eager and du­bi­o­us and a lit­tle bit frig­h­te­ned.

  "Tell me abo­ut Cra­ig. How he ac­ted this past we­ek. What you know abo­ut Mrs. Mat­thews. If you know of an­yo­ne who'd qu­ar­re­led with her."

  The nec­k­la­ce bro­ke in her hand. Be­ads scat­te­red. She ig­no­red them. "Cra­ig was just as usu­al. Just as usu­al." She spo­ke with ut­ter su­rety. I wis­hed Cap­ta­in Walsh we­re he­aring this.

  "Everything was fi­ne. And the idea that he'd get mad eno­ugh to throw things aro­und-why, that's silly. He's not li­ke that. Ask an­yo­ne who knows him."

  "Stevie, how well do you know Cra­ig?"

  The com­fort zo­ne swiftly ero­ded. She was ab­ruptly wary, her pretty, wan fa­ce ta­ut. "I've wor­ked he­re for two and a half ye­ars." She pic­ked the words ca­re­ful­ly, li­ke a cat se­eking dry grass. "I've al­ways fo­und him to be an ex­t­re­mely con­si­de­ra­te and tho­ug­h­t­ful em­p­lo­yer."

  "How abo­ut Patty Kay?"

  "I've de­alt mostly with Cra­ig. Patty Kay was he­re a lot, but she was busy with or­de­ring. She was re­al­ly in­to car­rying a won­der­ful stock. And she had a lot of cha­rity com­mit­ments. He was the per­son you al­ways went to with prob­lems or qu­es­ti­ons."

  "When you did work with Patty Kay, did you li­ke her?"

  "She was very ni­ce."

  Four bland words. Dam­ningly bland.

  "Come now. Ob­vi­o­usly so­me­body didn't li­ke her."

  The ma­na­ger shi­ve­red. "It's so aw­ful. So aw­ful. She was -she had a very strong per­so­na­lity. She la­ug­hed a lot. You al­ways felt ex­ci­te­ment when she was in the ro­om. Li­ke so­met­hing grand co­uld hap­pen at any ti­me…" Her vo­ice fal­te­red.

  "What do you sup­po­se it wo­uld be li­ke to li­ve with so­me­one li­ke that?"

  "I sup­po­se it wo­uld be ex­ci­ting." Ste­vie's to­ne was non­com­mit­tal.

  "Do you know of an­yo­ne who didn't li­ke her?"

  "It se­ems ugly to talk abo­ut pe­op­le."

  "We're go­ing to ha­ve to talk abo­ut a lot of pe­op­le if Cra­ig is to go free."

  She mo­ved un­com­for­tably in her cha­ir. "Mrs. Gut­h­rie works he­re one day a we­ek. She al­ways had so­met­hing sni­de to say abo­ut her sis­ter. It ma­de us-the staff-un­com­for­tab­le. I me­an, Mrs. Mat­thews is the ow­ner and he­re's her sis­ter bad-mo­ut­hing her. What we­re we sup­po­sed to say?"

  "What kind of things did Mrs. Gut­h­rie say?"

  "Oh. Li­ke Patty Kay was so po­li­ti­cal­ly cor­rect it was na­use­ating. That she was sel­fish. Im­pos­sib­le. A sho­woff."

  "How did Mrs. Gut­h­rie act aro­und Patty Kay?"

  "Snippy. But it ne­ver se­emed to bot­her Patty Kay. On­ce I re­mem­ber she just rol­led her eyes. She sa­id, 'Pa­me­la, you are so bo­ring.'"

  "No lo­ve lost bet­we­en the sis­ters."

  "That's right." She nod­ded eagerly.

  "Why do you sup­po­se Mrs. Gut­h­rie wor­ked he­re if she felt that way abo­ut her sis­ter?"

  "Oh, she didn't do it to ple­ase Mrs. Mat­thews. Mrs. Gut­h­rie didn't want to miss out on an­y­t­hing. And this is the pla­ce to be in Fa­ir Ha­ven. Ever­y­body drops in he­re for cof­fee. Bu­si­nes­smen. Law­yers. Ever­y­body." She spo­ke with pri­de, for­get­ting for a mo­ment the re­ason for our con­ver­sa­ti­on.

  "Do you know of any di­sag­re­ement Mrs. Mat­thews had re­cently with an­yo­ne?"

  "I don't know." Her to­ne was tho­ug­h­t­ful. "But Fri­day

  afternoon she was in her of­fi­ce-it's right next to this one- and I ope­ned the do­or and she was on the pho­ne. Ac­tu­al­ly, she was just fi­nis­hing a con­ver­sa­ti­on. She sa­id-I think her exact words we­re-That's the way it's go­ing to be. Li­ke it or not.' And she hung up. She so­un­ded ab­so­lu­tely de­ter­mi­ned. I didn't think much abo­ut it. I me­an, Patty Kay co­uld re­al­ly han­d­le pe­op­le li­ke sup­pli­ers or it co­uld even ha­ve had to do with, say, a cha­rity dri­ve. But this ti­me the­re was so­met­hing aw­ful­ly grim in her vo­ice. When she lo­oked up at me, I co­uld tell she wasn't even se­e­ing me. Her mind was a mil­li­on mi­les away. Then she ca­me to and as­ked me what I wan­ted. But she didn't smi­le the way she usu­al­ly wo­uld when you ap­pro­ac­hed her."

  Friday af­ter­no­on- "That's the way it's go­ing to be. Li­ke it or not." •

  "You don't know to whom she was tal­king?"

  "No. I've no idea."

  "Is the­re an­y­t­hing el­se dif­fe­rent or unu­su­al, an­y­t­hing that stri­kes you now as odd?"

  I saw a flash in her eyes.

  Her lips ope­ned. She se­emed abo­ut to spe­ak. Then, ab­ruptly, she sho­ok her he­ad. "No, ma'am."

  I held her ga­ze for a mo­ment. "Gi­ve it so­me tho­ught. It co­uld be the dif­fe­ren­ce bet­we­en li­fe and de­
ath for Cra­ig."

  That sho­ok her.

  I sto­oped and pic­ked up one of the pretty co­ral be­ads.

  She shif­ted aga­in in her cha­ir. "Lo­ok, it co­uldn't ha­ve an­y­t­hing to do with it. Not re­al­ly. But Patty Kay'd be­en cal­ling aro­und la­tely, tal­king to bo­ar­ding scho­ols. For her da­ug­h­ter. Bri­git wasn't happy abo­ut it. But-"

  She didn't want to say it. She didn't want to put it in­to words.

  I wasn't so squ­e­amish.

  "Brigit co­uld ha­ve shot Patty Kay."

  Stevie drew her bre­ath in sharply.

  I sto­od. "After all, so­me­one did." I pa­used in the do­or­way. "You we­ren't at the sto­re that Sa­tur­day af­ter­no­on."

  "Saturday's my day off… I was out shop­ping in the af­ter­no­on. In Gre­en Hills."

  "Did you buy an­y­t­hing?"

  Many char­ge card tran­sac­ti­ons re­cord the ti­me.

  "No. No. I was just lo­oking."

  "Alone?"

  "Yes. But you can't think I wo­uld ha­ve do­ne it. Why wo­uld I?" Her vo­ice grew sharp with fe­ar.

  "I don't know," I sa­id ag­re­e­ably. "But if you had a re­ason, Ste­vie, I'll find it."

  Handing her the be­ad, I left.

  Twenty mi­nu­tes la­ter I sto­od in front of Ste­vie Cos­tel­lo's se­cond-flo­or-apar­t­ment do­or at San­dal­wo­od Co­urts. Af­ter knoc­king briskly, I ga­ve the sur­ro­un­dings a qu­ick sur­vey. A UPS de­li­very man was trot­ting ac­ross the newly mown grassy rec­tan­g­le to­ward the op­po­si­te si­de of the com­p­lex. In a bed of iris, a gar­de­ner wor­ked with his back to me. I won­de­red if he was Jewel's gran­d­son. He didn't glan­ce my way.

  I used my Fre­qu­ent Fli­er card to jig­gle the lock lo­ose. The­re was, for­tu­na­tely, no de­ad­bolt.

  It to­ok abo­ut thir­ty-fi­ve se­conds. Lock-pic­king is a skill I pic­ked up over the ye­ars.

  It didn't ta­ke much lon­ger to exa­mi­ne Ste­vie's bed­ro­om clo­set. Mo­re than a do­zen items, in­c­lu­ding skirts and swe­aters, we­re from Lands' End. I saw what was pro­bably the mat­c­hing skirt to the be­ige cot­ton swe­ater that was now in po­li­ce cus­tody.

  Interesting that Cra­ig had ap­pa­rently re­cog­ni­zed the swe­ater.

  Even mo­re in­te­res­ting that it prom­p­ted him to run away, ta­king both the swe­ater and the mur­der we­apon with him.

  I to­ok a few mo­re mi­nu­tes to check out the apar­t­ment.

  I didn't find any pho­tos of Cra­ig. No let­ters from him. No tra­ces of mas­cu­li­ne oc­cu­pancy.

  But what I had fo­und was cer­ta­inly tho­ug­ht-pro­vo­king.

  I co­uld ima­gi­ne Ric­hard's he­ad­s­ha­ke and a mur­mu­red "Ca­re­ful, swe­et­he­art."

  Every mi­nu­te might turn out to mat­ter for Cra­ig Mat­thews. I dro­ve back to the Fa­ir Ha­ven Mall, pul­led in­to the Bo­oks, Bo­oks, Bo­oks par­king lot, glan­ced at my watch, and he­aded back ac­ross town to Hil­lsbo­ro Pi­ke. Twen­ty-fi­ve mi­nu­tes la­ter I tur­ned in­to the par­king lot of Fi­ne­dorffs, ac­ross from Gre­en Hills.

  If Cra­ig left the bo­ok­s­to­re on Sa­tur­day at fo­ur o'clock- but Amy in­sis­ted it was a qu­ar­ter to fo­ur-he wo­uld ha­ve ar­ri­ved at Fi­ne­dorffs aro­und fo­ur twen­ty-fi­ve. That wo­uld ha­ve gi­ven ti­me for the fru­it bas­ket to be dis­cus­sed and pre­pa­red, say by fo­ur-forty. Then Cra­ig wo­uld ha­ve he­aded ho­me. I'd clock that next.

  Finedorffs smel­led li­ke a rich mix of pic­k­les, pas­t­ra­mi, and sa­u­er­k­ra­ut. The first and the last from bar­rels ne­ar the me­at co­un­ter, the se­cond from the san­d­wich I was bu­ying for my lunch. I al­so bo­ught a Dr Pep­per and two Baby Ruths, one for des­sert, one for emer­gency ra­ti­ons.

  The small, in­ten­se wo­man be­hind the cash re­gis­ter, her dyed red ha­ir pi­led in he­avy rin­g­lets atop her he­ad, ra­pidly chec­ked my pur­c­ha­ses, in­c­lu­ding the la­test new­s­pa­per.

  The he­ad­li­ne be­low Cra­ig's in­dis­tinct pho­to re­ad:

  HUSBAND'S AR­REST SHOCKS FA­IR HA­VEN NE­IG­H­BORS

  I po­in­ted to his pic­tu­re. "We­re you he­re on Sa­tur­day when this man ca­me in?"

  The red- haired wo­man fi­nis­hed sac­king my stuff. Then she lo­oked down at the pho­to. Her glan­ce was shrewd, bir­d­li­ke. "So why do you ask?"

  "He's my nep­hew. I'd re­al­ly ap­pre­ci­ate it if I co­uld vi­sit with you for just a mo­ment…"

  "Oh, so. You got tro­ub­le, bad tro­ub­le." She lo­oked ac­ross the rows of fo­od­s­tuf­fs. "Eric!"

  A we­edy yo­ung man with ac­ne po­ked his he­ad aro­und a cor­ner.

  She or­de­red him to ta­ke over for a mi­nu­te. We sat in an oak bo­oth. I un­pac­ked my san­d­wich, pul­led the tab on my Dr Pep­per. I re­ali­zed I was very hungry and I star­ted eating in ear­nest. Ex­cel­lent pas­t­ra­mi.

  She pul­led out a gold ca­se, se­lec­ted a long ci­ga­ret­te, and stuck it in a mot­her-of-pe­arl hol­der. "So he ma­de me mad, that yo­ung man." She stab­bed the hol­der at Cra­ig's pic­tu­re. "I told him, we don't miss or­ders. We don't lo­se or­ders. We don't throw away or­ders. Or­ders, they are our bre­ad and but­ter. But this one, he was in a re­al pa­nic. Sa­id his wi­fe told him to pick up this bas­ket, Sa­id the­re'd be hell to pay if he ca­me ho­me wit­ho­ut it. I wan­ted to tell him a man in the fa­mily sho­uld we­ar the pants, but, li­ke I say, or­ders are our bre­ad and but­ter. May­be I'd get an or­der, so I don't say it. He tri­ed to call her; the­re wasn't any an­s­wer. He left a mes­sa­ge. Tatty Kay, I'm at the sto­re and they don't ha­ve an or­der, but I'll get them to fix up a bas­ket an­y­way and I'll be the­re as so­on as I can.' So I fi­xed him up a bas­ket, re­al ni­ce. Pi­ne­ap­ple, ki­wi, gol­den de­li­ci­o­us ap­ples,

  everything the best. And I wrap­ped it in pink cel­lop­ha­ne, pretty, with a red vel­vet bow."

  I fi­nis­hed half the san­d­wich. And to­ok a bi­te of the ot­her. "He was he­re qu­ite a whi­le?"

  A shrug. "We got ot­her or­ders ahe­ad of his. So may­be fif­te­en mi­nu­tes. I say fif­te­en max." She sa­id this with as­su­ran­ce.

  "Do you hap­pen to know when he ar­ri­ved?"

  Another shrug. "After­no­on. My fe­et hurt by then, I can tell you."

  "He sa­id he left he­re abo­ut twenty to fi­ve."

  A swift frown. "May­be so, may­be no. Me, I can't say. It was busy, busy. Be­ca­use we are the best. If you ha­ve a party, you co­me to Fi­ne­dorff's. We fix the me­ats, the che­eses, the ve­ge­tab­les, the dips. Ever­y­t­hing. So, he ca­me, he fus­sed, he got his bas­ket. That's all I know." Her shrug was elo­qu­ent.

  I cloc­ked the dri­ve from Fi­ne­dorffs to 1903 King's Row Ro­ad. I dro­ve qu­ickly, but I didn't spe­ed. I ate my des­sert, the Baby Ruth, and tho­ught abo­ut Cra­ig Mat­thews. And ti­me.

  If he left the bo­ok­s­to­re at a qu­ar­ter to fo­ur, ar­ri­ved at Fi­ne­dorffs at fi­ve af­ter fo­ur, spent fif­te­en mi­nu­tes the­re, de­par­ting at fo­ur-twenty, he cer­ta­inly wo­uld ha­ve ar­ri­ved ho­me in plenty of ti­me to ha­ve qu­ar­re­led with Patty Kay, then to ha­ve mur­de­red her.

  The dri­ve from the de­li to the Mat­thews ho­use to­ok twenty mi­nu­tes.

  And Cra­ig po­in­tedly sa­id he left the de­li at twenty to fi­ve.

  Did he?

  I un­loc­ked the do­or. In­si­de, I cal­led out Patty Kay's na­me, then I wal­ked qu­ickly thro­ugh the lo­wer part of the ho­use. I ca­me back to the front hall. The fru­it bas­ket still sat

  on the but­ler's tab­le. I smel­led the swe­et scent of too-ri­pe fru­it.

  Surely Cra­ig had he­si­ta­ted, cal­led out aga­in, then star­ted up­s­ta­irs.

  I hur­ri­ed up the steps.

  The bed­r
o­om. Patty Kay's study. The bat­h­ro­om.

  And back dow­n­s­ta­irs.

  Four mi­nu­tes. It wo­uld ha­ve be­en fo­ur mi­nu­tes past fi­ve on Sa­tur­day.

  Out to the kit­c­hen.

  Shock wo­uld su­rely ha­ve held Cra­ig mo­ti­on­less for a mo­ment.

  Out the back do­or. Skid­ding on the sticky flo­or.

  The gun on the grass-

 

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