Scandal in Fair Haven

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by Carolyn G. Hart


  "Did he? Dump her, I me­an."

  "You bet." Oh, how she re­lis­hed sa­ying it. "She was im­pos­sib­le to li­ve with, she de­man­ded at­ten­ti­on all the ti­me. It was ru­ining his li­fe."

  "Is that what he told you?"

  Louise Pi­er­ce gla­red. "Yes. He cer­ta­inly did. And ever­y­body in town knew abo­ut it. It dro­ve Patty Kay crazy. So she wan­ted to show what a go­od sport she was by in­vi­ting me to work in the sto­re. So I sho­wed what a go­od sport I am by ac­cep­ting the of­fer. I co­uld af­ford to. Stu­art is my hus­band. Mi­ne."

  She tur­ned the key in the ig­ni­ti­on, and the mo­tor pur­red.

  Before the lu­xury car bac­ked out of the dri­ve, our eyes loc­ked.

  I knew that Lo­u­ise Pi­er­ce knew that Stu­art and Patty Kay we­re lo­vers.

  But her tri­um­p­hant smi­le ne­ver wa­ve­red.

  Artists and ar­c­hi­tects re­ve­al them­sel­ves to the world by the sur­ro­un­dings they fas­hi­on.

  Light cas­ca­ded thro­ugh flo­or-to-ce­iling win­dows, tur­ning the oak fur­ni­tu­re of Stu­art Pi­er­ce's of­fi­ce a glis­te­ning gold. Be­a­uti­ful­ly de­ta­iled mo­dels of of­fi­ce bu­il­dings and ho­mes we­re dis­p­la­yed in de­ep shel­ves along one wall. Ever­y­w­he­re the­re was light and the co­lor of light, as rich and lu­mi­no­us as a Ver­me­er pa­in­ting.

  The tall, han­d­so­me ar­c­hi­tect ro­se and ca­me aro­und his desk to gre­et me.

  Patty Kay's gre­at lo­ve.

  It was cer­ta­inly easy to un­der­s­tand why. I had the sa­me sen­se I'd had upon me­eting Stu­art Pi­er­ce Mon­day eve­ning at the Kraft ho­use. He­re was a com­pel­ling man, a man you wan­ted to know, a man most wo­men wo­uld cer­ta­inly find ir­re­sis­tib­le.

  "You wan­ted to see me?" Unex­pec­tedly, he was brus­que. A tight frown pul­led his fa­ce in­to flat, hos­ti­le li­nes.

  I im­me­di­ately un­der­s­to­od. "You're very angry, aren't you? And hel­p­less to chan­ge it. Which ma­kes you even an­g­ri­er."

  "It sho­uldn't ha­ve hap­pe­ned." He spo­ke harshly. "Patty Kay sho­uld be wal­king on­to a ten­nis co­urt right now." His fa­ce might ha­ve be­en sco­red out of sto­ne. "If Cra­ig-"

  "He didn't. You know Cra­ig. Let me tell you mo­re of what hap­pe­ned, mo­re than was in the pa­pers. Then you can jud­ge."

  We sat on an over­si­ze whi­te so­fa.

  His bla­zing eyes ne­ver left my fa­ce.

  I was ke­enly awa­re of his bit­ter an­ger.

  But when I fi­nis­hed des­c­ri­bing the sce­nes I had fo­und in Patty Kay's ho­me, Stu­art's he­ad­s­ha­ke was ab­rupt and fi­nal. "No. That's not Cra­ig. If he we­re angry, he'd run away." He pus­hed up from the co­uch arid be­gan to pa­ce, he­ad down. "Patty Kay knew her mur­de­rer. That's ob­vi­o­us. But she must ha­ve be­en ta­ken by sur­p­ri­se. She didn't re­ali­ze she was in dan­ger. Why not? She was smart, plenty smart." He stop­ped and sta­red down at me. "But so­me­ti­mes she wasn't smart abo­ut pe­op­le's fe­elings. You know how she was-fun­ny, qu­ick, bright, kind in her own way. But she had a blind spot." Res­t­les­sly, he be­gan to pa­ce aga­in. "She saw things the way she saw them. She must not ha­ve re­ali­zed she had so­me­body on the raw.

  "Okay, why the play­ro­om? It's pri­va­te. So­me­body

  wanted to talk to her abo­ut so­met­hing in com­p­le­te pri­vacy. Or may­be that was the ex­cu­se to go out the­re. Be­ca­use the mur­de­rer must ha­ve plan­ned to trash the kit­c­hen. He co­uldn't sho­ot her"-a spasm of pa­in bri­efly tig­h­te­ned his han­d­so­me fa­ce, then di­sap­pe­ared-"in the kit­c­hen and then throw that stuff aro­und. It wo­uld ha­ve be­en ob­vi­o­us it hap­pe­ned af­ter she di­ed. And, if you're rig­ht-and I think you are-the en­ti­re sta­ge was set to trap Cra­ig. But why?" he de­man­ded we­arily. "For God's sa­ke, why?"

  His ho­pe­less gri­ef was pa­in­ful to see.

  "Do you know of a qu­ar­rel with an­yo­ne? An­y­t­hing Patty Kay plan­ned to do that so­me­one wo­uld kill to pre­vent?"

  He flung him­self down on the co­uch be­si­de me. "Christ, what co­uld pos­sibly be worth kil­ling her? She and Pa­me­la fo­ught all the ti­me. If it wasn't the land use, it wo­uld be so­met­hing el­se. So that was not­hing new. And Pa­me­la do­esn't re­al­ly ne­ed any mo­re mo­ney."

  "Pamela will ne­ver ha­ve eno­ugh mo­ney."

  "But not mur­der. Not even Pa­me­la." He scow­led. "But Patty Kay's de­ad…"

  "Patty Kay wan­ted you to send Bri­git away to scho­ol."

  Slowly he tur­ned to fa­ce me, his han­d­so­me fa­ce both in­c­re­du­lo­us and out­ra­ged. "Oh, now, wa­it a mi­nu­te. Wa­it a god­damn mi­nu­te. That's crazy!"

  It was de­fi­ni­tely a new tho­ught and not a wel­co­me one.

  "Sure, Bri­git and her mom tan­g­led. That's no big de­al. A te­ena­ge girl and her mot­her. But Bri­git's a ni­ce kid. No."

  "It is a new de­ve­lop­ment. We're hun­ting for so­met­hing that hap­pe­ned re­cently."

  "No. Ne­ver."

  "Why did Bri­git li­ve with you? And not with her mot­her?" I wa­ited a lit­tle ten­sely. Cra­ig's aunt might be ex­pec­ted to know the an­s­wer to this.

  But Stu­art Pi­er­ce was fo­cu­sed on pro­tec­ting his yo­ung da­ug­h­ter. "It se­emed li­ke a go­od idea last sum­mer. Girls ne­ed to fe­el li­ke the­ir dads ca­re. And she and Patty Kay- well, it was just that Bri­git was gro­wing up, wan­ting mo­re in­de­pen­den­ce. It wasn't a big de­al. She spent a lot of ti­me with Patty Kay."

  I let it drop.

  But I wasn't fi­nis­hed with Stu­art. Or Bri­git. Not by a long shot.

  There was no gra­ce­ful way to say it. "When did you and Patty Kay last-me­et?" The­re co­uld be no mis­ta­king my me­aning.

  For a mo­ment Stu­art was ut­terly still. His vo­ice was gruff when he de­man­ded, "Do­es Cra­ig know?"

  "I don't know," I rep­li­ed ho­nestly.

  "If he do­esn't, I'd li­ke to ke­ep it that way. Be­ca­use-" His eyes met mi­ne gra­vely but wit­ho­ut apo­logy. He sho­ok his he­ad and bro­ke off. "You won't un­der­s­tand."

  "I might."

  It was hard for him. The words ca­me re­luc­tantly, but with a pa­in­ful raw in­ten­sity. "We didn't me­an harm. We we­ren't go­ing to mess things up for an­y­body. Cra­ig de­pen­ded on Patty Kay. And Lo­u­ise and I-I lo­ve Lo­u­ise. She's gen­t­le and swe­et. She helps me ke­ep it all to­get­her. Patty Kay and I-it was al­ways wild and a lit­tle in­sa­ne. We we­re up and down but not at the sa­me ti­me. We co­uldn't li­ve to­get­her. We to­re at each ot­her. We co­ul­dn't-we ne­ver co­uld get a ba­lan­ce." Ble­akly, he sta­red down at his in­ter­loc­ked hands. Then he ad­ded fi­er­cely: "But I lo­ved her the way I'll ne­ver lo­ve an­yo­ne el­se in the world."

  I be­li­eved him.

  I al­so knew that this kind of af­fa­ir had to ha­ve bru­tal ra­mi­fi­ca­ti­ons.

  "Did you want Patty Kay to di­vor­ce Cra­ig and marry you?"

  "No. That was ne­ver a pos­si­bi­lity." His de­ep vo­ice was dis­mis­si­ve.

  "Patty Kay wasn't pus­hing you to di­vor­ce Lo­u­ise?"

  "No." He lo­oked star­t­led.

  "Did Lo­u­ise know?"

  "Absolutely not."

  "How can you be su­re?"

  "She wo­uld've wal­ked out."

  Maybe. May­be not. If she knew, Lo­u­ise Pi­er­ce might ha­ve fi­gu­red Patty Kay's de­ath co­uld sol­ve her ma­ri­tal prob­lem. Per­ma­nently.

  Of co­ur­se, every word Stu­art Pi­er­ce sa­id was sus­pect. Dis­co­ve­red as an adul­te­rer, he co­uld be put­ting on a cle­ver per­for­man­ce de­sig­ned to con­vin­ce any in­te­res­ted par­ti­es that cer­ta­inly ne­it­her he nor Lo­u­ise had any mo­ti­v
e to mur­der Patty Kay.

  "When we­re you and Patty Kay last to­get­her?"

  "Thursday. Thur­s­day af­ter­no­on."

  "How was she?"

  "She was just li­ke al­ways." An­gu­ish bur­ned in his eyes. "It was so per­fect. God, it was so per­fect. And now, now-"

  The cry ca­me from his he­art.

  As it so un­der­s­tan­dably co­uld, whet­her he was in­no­cent or gu­ilty.

  But I wasn't con­cer­ned abo­ut that just now.

  I tho­ught abo­ut what it me­ant.

  On Thur­s­day af­ter­no­on Patty Kay's world was full of hap­pi­ness. Sto­len hap­pi­ness.

  She then had two mo­re days to li­ve.

  "Why?" her lo­ver cri­ed. "Why?"

  14

  David For­rest's law of­fi­ce was not so much mor­ti­ci­an gray as ma­ri­ne dress blue. Blue ever­y­w­he­re. The walls, the car­pet, the cha­irs. Var­ying sha­des, of co­ur­se. But the ove­rall ef­fect was si­mi­lar to be­ing en­cap­su­la­ted in a Nor­we­gi­an fj­ord. The la­te af­ter­no­on sun­light stre­aming thro­ugh a west win­dow me­rely em­p­ha­si­zed the chill of the ro­om.

  He ro­se and ges­tu­red for me to ta­ke one of the le­at­her cha­irs that fa­ced his desk. Blue le­at­her.

  "Mrs. Col­lins." He pla­ced my card fa­ce­down on his desk. On it I'd writ­ten: May I ha­ve a few mi­nu­tes of yo­ur ti­me? We met at yo­ur ne­ig­h­bor's ho­me last night. Hen­ri­et­ta Col­lins. "What may I do for you?"

  He re­gar­ded me gra­vely. He was mus­cu­lar, trim, fit. For­rest hadn't lost his Corps sha­pe. His black ha­ir was cut so short, he lo­oked li­ke he'd be­en scra­ped. But no­body wo­uld ha­ve pic­ked him for a rec­ru­iting ad. His long, sa­tur­ni­ne fa­ce had a ze­alot's eyes and a tas­k­mas­ter's stern mo­uth. "I'd li­ke to talk with you for a mo­ment abo­ut Patty Kay.

  My nep­hew did not sho­ot his wi­fe. I'm lo­oking for the per­son who did."

  He tap­ped the ed­ge of my card aga­inst the po­lis­hed sur­fa­ce of his desk. "That is the duty of the po­li­ce."

  "It is the duty of ever­yo­ne who knew Patty Kay to pro­vi­de in­for­ma­ti­on abo­ut who might ha­ve be­en angry with her. Or je­alo­us of her."

  He ga­ve a fi­nal tap with the card, then tos­sed it down. "Cer­ta­inly. But I'm af­ra­id I know not­hing that wo­uld be hel­p­ful to you, Mrs. Col­lins. I ra­rely saw Patty Kay."

  "But you knew her."

  "Of co­ur­se. Fa­ir Ha­ven is a small town."

  "When did you see her?"

  "At so­ci­al oc­ca­si­ons. Usu­al­ly for cha­rity."

  "Patty Kay was cer­ta­inly ac­ti­ve in pro­mo­ting the arts. And ex­t­re­mely suc­ces­sful at it."

  His fa­ce was a study in dis­tas­te. "She had no dig­nity. I'm glad my mot­her didn't li­ve to see how Patty Kay che­ape­ned the Re­velry Club's an­nu­al Chris­t­mas dan­ce."

  "But it was all in fun-"

  Cold gray eyes sta­red at me.

  "- and it did earn a sub­s­tan­ti­al amo­unt for the scho­lar­s­hip prog­ram."

  He gla­red at me. "It was me­rely an ex­cu­se for Patty Kay to pa­ra­de her body in front of every man in Fa­ir Ha­ven. It was un­se­emly. Not be­fit­ting her po­si­ti­on. I'm sur­p­ri­sed her hus­band didn't ta­ke steps to stop it."

  Now tho­se icy eyes chal­len­ged me. Ap­pa­rently, as Cra­ig's aunt, I was to be held res­pon­sib­le for this fla­un­ting of so­ci­al mo­res by a mem­ber of the Mat­thews clan.

  "Husbands aren't czars an­y­mo­re, are they, Mr. For­rest?"

  "A man with the pro­per kind of wi­fe do­esn't ha­ve to in­s­t­ruct her how to be­ha­ve." The thin mo­uth clo­sed tightly.

  I re­cal­led the ten­nis vi­deo and Patty Kay's te­asing of

  Brooke. No won­der Bro­oke told Patty Kay not to joke abo­ut the ten­nis pro. Her hus­band Da­vid su­re as hell wo­uldn't think it was funny.

  But I do­ub­ted that be­a­uti­ful, so­ci­al­ly at­tu­ned Bro­oke For­rest en­ga­ged in any kind of im­p­ro­per be­ha­vi­or. Ac­cor­ding to Gi­na, Bro­oke had de­sig­ned every as­pect of her li­fe to ac­hi­eve so­ci­al pro­mi­nen­ce. Did she ever qu­es­ti­on whet­her it had all be­en worth it?

  Yet per­haps nob­les­se ob­li­ge was in­s­tin­c­ti­ve to Bro­oke. Cer­ta­inly her over­ri­ding pre­oc­cu­pa­ti­on this mor­ning at Wal­den Scho­ol had be­en to es­tab­lish the pro­per me­mo­ri­al for Patty Kay.

  "Your wi­fe was a go­od fri­end of Patty Kay's."

  "Brooke is ex­t­re­mely ac­ti­ve-and pro­perly so-in this com­mu­nity. She ta­kes her du­ti­es as a For­rest qu­ite se­ri­o­usly. This is, as I'm su­re you are le­ar­ning, a very small com­mu­nity-"

  It's a small town, for chris­sa­kes.

  "- and the wo­men who pre­si­de over our so­ci­al and ar­tis­tic en­de­avors form an eli­te gro­up. Bro­oke, of co­ur­se, ma­in­ta­ins cor­di­al re­la­ti­on­s­hips with ever­yo­ne."

  "So you wo­uldn't say yo­ur wi­fe was es­pe­ci­al­ly clo­se to Patty Kay?"

  "No. They we­re so­ci­al pe­ers. And she and Patty Kay enj­oyed pla­ying ten­nis. Patty Kay," he ad­ded grud­gingly, "was an ex­cel­lent ten­nis pla­yer."

  "And co­ok?"

  "Yes. Yes, she cer­ta­inly was that." Fi­nal­ly, a no­te of ap­pro­val.

  If Patty Kay's spi­rit lur­ked ne­ar earth, I co­uld ima­gi­ne her thum­bing her no­se and chan­ting, Frig­ging stuf­fed shirt.

  "Did you li­ke her che­ese­ca­ke?"

  "I ne­ver eat des­sert."

  "What did you think of Cra­ig's li­me­ricks, the ones he com­po­sed the night you pla­yed po­ker?"

  He sho­ok his nar­row he­ad firmly. "As I told Bro­oke, it was a dis­gus­ting dis­p­lay of dis­lo­yalty."

  "You didn't think-"

  The pho­ne rang.

  "Excuse me, ple­ase, Mrs. Col­lins."

  He lif­ted the re­ce­iver. "Hel­lo." He pic­ked up a pen and be­gan to mark on a no­te­pad. "That's no ex­cu­se, Dan." He ma­de a se­ri­es of thick, dark Xs-XXXXXX-on the she­et. "A For­rest ne­ver qu­its. You are to en­ga­ge in the com­pe­ti­ti­on. And I ex­pect you to do yo­ur best."

  He didn't wa­it for a res­pon­se. He didn't say go­od-bye. He simply rep­la­ced the re­ce­iver and lo­oked at me.

  I fi­nis­hed my qu­es­ti­on. "-think Cra­ig's li­me­ricks we­re funny?"

  "Most cer­ta­inly not."

  Willis Gut­h­rie kept glan­cing at his watch.

  To an ac­co­un­tant, ti­me is mo­ney, but not when spent tal­king to a fel­low po­ker-pla­yer's aunt.

  "… may ha­ve men­ti­oned the che­ese­ca­ke jokes to Pa­me­la." He ga­ve a qu­ick, snig­ge­ring lit­tle la­ugh, then smo­ot­hed his wispy gin­ger mus­tac­he. "Or I may not. I don't re­call."

  His tight, spa­re fa­ce wasn't im­p­ro­ved by that kind of la­ug­h­ter. Ab­ruptly, he was se­ri­o­us aga­in.

  "I know this is a dif­fi­cult ti­me for you and Pa­me­la."

  The blan­k­ness in his pa­le blue eyes was so re­ve­aling. Fi­nal­ly, he got it. "Oh, yes, yes, of co­ur­se. Such a loss." His vo­ice was fa­irly high for a man.

  Over the te­lep­ho­ne, co­uld it be mis­ta­ken for a wo­man's?

  "You we­re shop­ping for a mo­vie when the mur­der oc­cur­red?"

  "I sup­po­se so. I was out so­me­ti­me that af­ter­no­on."

  "Would you ha­ve any ide­as abo­ut who might ha­ve shot yo­ur sis­ter-in-law?"

  "Not re­al­ly." Tho­se pa­le eyes slip­ped to­ward the clock on the wall.

  I de­ci­ded to sha­ke his in­dif­fe­ren­ce. "How much mo­ney will yo­ur wi­fe get from Patty Kay's es­ta­te?"

  Instead of out­ra­ge, Wil­lis Gut­h­rie lo­oked at me with sud­denly ali­ve and shi­ning eyes. "A sub­s­
tan­ti­al amo­unt, Mrs. Col­lins." Then he re­ali­zed how cal­lo­us it so­un­ded. He ad­ded has­tily, "Of co­ur­se, my wi­fe was al­re­ady a we­althy wo­man."

  "But now," I sa­id softly, "she will be a very we­althy wo­man."

  I fo­und a pay pho­ne on the gro­und flo­or of Gut­h­rie's of­fi­ce bu­il­ding. It was al­most fi­ve. I cal­led Des­mond's of­fi­ce. A re­cor­ded mes­sa­ge ca­me on. I hung up.

 

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