Friends began to move toward her.
Pamela and Willis Guthrie walked in front of me as we filed away from those seats so close to the grave. Craig was behind me.
"… a very nice service. Ill have to tell Father Burke that the family is well pleased." Pamela's voice was just one shade short of condescending.
"Quite nice, quite nice," Willis echoed.
Like well-rehearsed marionettes, they took their places beside Brigit and began to greet friends.
I moved to join them.
And realized Craig was standing motionless near the open grave. He looked from it to his wife's daughter and her aunt and uncle. Uncertainty flickered in his eyes.
Brigit, struggling for composure, looked toward Craig, saw the open space around him. Her eyes widened indignantly. "Craig!" she called out.
He took a step toward her, hesitated, his eyes dark with misery.
Brigit darted to him. "Over here, Craig. We'll say hello to everyone over here." She grabbed his hand and tugged.
In an instant it was a family receiving line headed by
Brigit and her stepfather. Then came I and Pamela and Willis.
Craig Matthews became the widower.
Not the murder suspect.
Now came the handclasps, the murmured condolences.
It was like watching a water-starved plant respond to a rain shower. Craig stood taller, his shoulders back, his handshake firm.
Brigit stood beside him, clung to his arm. I admired the determined jut of her chin. But I didn't like the glint of satisfaction-and delicious pleasure-in her eyes.
Captain Walsh watched too.
So many kind words, so much sorrow.
I wondered how Patty Kay's murderer felt at that moment, that moment of finality and grief.
Was the murderer among us, pretending to grieve for Patty Kay?
The mourners were walking away now and our line broke apart, Brigit reluctantly loosing her hold on Craig.
I heard Pamela's calm voice. "… put out that lovely crystal punch bowl of Mother's. It is perfect for…"
And watched Louise Pierce stride briskly toward the cars, parked bumper to bumper on the winding gravel road.
Or perhaps the murderer was among us-and not pretending to grieve.
Pamela Guthrie, her heavy body molded into a black silk dress, might have been presiding at a spring social event, not the gathering following her sister's funeral. Candy-striped awnings and cloth-covered tables were set up on the patio behind the Guthrie house. A long table
provided a substantial buffet. Almost a hundred people milled about.
I stood with Desmond near a gazebo. The lawyer stared down at the ground and didn't say a word.
I didn't mind. I had people to watch.
Volatile Gina Abbott sped directly to Brigit and held her close, then took both of Craig's hands and gave them a hard squeeze.
Cheryl Kraft shaded her eyes from the sun and listened as Brooke Forrest spoke earnestly. I'd have bet a bundle Brooke was presenting her plans for a memorial to Patty Kay.
David Forrest shook hands with Stuart Pierce. Then, in what I would guess to be a rare display of emotion, Forrest cuffed Stuart on the shoulder before he walked away.
Gina's plump, fair daughter carried two plates of food. Chloe came shyly up behind Dan Forrest and called his name.
He turned and took the plate, said casually, "Thanks, Chloe."
She stood beside him, toyed with her food, and watched him with glowing eyes. Dan ate briskly, oblivious of her scrutiny.
Ah, young love.
Better though than the hungry glances Brigit was wont to give her stepfather.
Speaking of…
Brigit clung to Craig's arm. Proudly. And almost as possessively as her stepmother with her father.
At least Captain Walsh wasn't here to see it.
But a small black woman in a lace-trimmed purple dress watched, her elderly face lined with worry. Jewel took a step toward Brigit and Craig, then her shoulders sagged,
and she stayed where she was, alone, in the shadow of a flowering mimosa.
Cheryl Kraft's husband stood with one arm about the shoulder of each grieving Hollis parent.
No wonder his emaciated blond wife sped him bright, sweet smiles.
Willis Guthrie smoothed his wispy ginger mustache and glanced at his watch.
I was tempted to tell Guthrie he could charge this afternoon up as a financial success. Look how much money his wife was going to inherit.
Near the swimming pool, Walt Hollis stared stubbornly at the brightly colored tiles, making no response as Chuck Selwyn spoke to him, the headmaster's hands chopping in short emphatic gestures.
And threading in and out of those who had known Patty Kay well-and either loved or hated her-were those who had come to pay their respects. Well-dressed, articulate, charming, Fair Haven's elite.
Yet, 1 knew that they'd been talking, all of them: You know, the sisters never did get along … I saw Patty Kay and Stuart in Atlanta… Somebody said Louise Pierce cut her dead … Of course he married her for her money…
Pamela's plump cheeks glowed pinkly. She moved from group to group, receiving homage.
One small group hesitated near the French windows that gave onto the patio. I recognized Amy, small, dark, anxious-eyed. Oh, of course, the employees from the bookshop. Ill at ease, they clustered close to Stevie. The young assistant manager looked toward Brigit and Craig. Her face was shuttered.
Pamela crossed to them. "It is so nice of you to come. Very, very thoughtful. I know Patty Kay would have been pleased. Do be sure and have something to eat before you
go back to the store." It wasn't the precise words that offended, it was her patronizing tone, her unconcealed assessment of them as social inferiors.
"Thank you, Mrs. Guthrie." Stevie's voice was wooden.
Beside me, Desmond abruptly growled, "Jesus, what a poisonous woman! Let's get out of here. Okay?"
It wasn't easy to follow Desmond's low-slung black Ferrari. He drove too fast. We made it from Pamela's house to Vanderbilt Plaza in Nashville in a little less than twenty minutes.
He was driving fast, but he wouldn't be able to escape the demons that rode with him.
I pulled into the hotel parking lot right behind him.
Desmond held my arm as we entered the cool, expansive lobby.
"The bar's this way."
Our shoes clicked on the sand-toned marble.
I was amused at his choice of bars. Certainly this one was refined enough for anyone's elderly aunt.
We settled on an overstuffed couch.
Desmond looked at me. "What would you like?"
"Iced tea, please."
Desmond looked up at the waiter. "One iced tea. One double scotch."
Inwa
rdly, I was chafing to be back in Fair Haven. There was still so much to learn.
But sometimes you have to answer other calls. Desmond wanted to talk. I almost told him how the headmaster was squelching Gina's efforts to discover who drove Franci to suicide. But another look at his grieving face dissuaded me. Yes, Desmond needed to talk, but he needed more to talk about his childhood friend.
The lawyer looked down at his clasped hands. "You know about Junior Assembly, the dances for kids so they learn how to be ladies and gentlemen?"
I nodded.
"We were probably twelve, maybe thirteen. Patty Kay snuck in this tape of The Colonel Bogey's March,' you know, da da turn turn turn turn, and she'd sent word around in whispers, and when it came on we all started marching back and forth and the ladies in charge stood there, looking at us like we'd turned into Martians and everybody got hysterical, it was so funny."
Our drinks came.
He downed half of his and signaled for another. "Kid stuff. Maybe funny only when you're twelve."
Twelve… I held tightly to my glass.
A scowl twisted his forlorn-monkey face. "She shouldn't be in a casket." His voice was flat and cold. It held no trace now of the softness of reminiscence.
"No. She shouldn't."
Nor should Bobby. Or Franci.
"So I want to be straight with you. I spilled my guts to Walsh. I told him everything you've found out-and everything I know about these people. This may spell the end of my legal career in Fair Haven. But I fucking well don't care." A brief glance. "Sorry."
I reached across the table, gave his hand a brief squeeze. "I'm glad. Every piece of information puts pressure on Walsh to look harder."
"He's looking. Believe it, he's looking. The guy's not stupid. And he's scared now that maybe, just maybe, Craig didn't do it. Walsh doesn't want several million dollars mad at him. But every time he asks a question, he's stepping on expensive toes."
"That's not going to get any easier." I told him about
Patty Kay's late-night trip to pick up her files on Walden School. "Next morning she's upset. And she invites the trustees to dinner. Cause and effect? I don't know. I've been through those files like the Golden Girls with a list of eligible men. I can't find anything out of order. But Patty Kay was terribly upset about something. Whatever it was, it set everything in motion, including the dinner. So what did she say?"
"I got her message on my answering tape." He concentrated, trying to recall. "She said, 'Desmond, I'm having dinner at my house Saturday night at seven for the Walden School trustees. It is essential that you attend.'"
"That's all?"
"Yes."
"She didn't identify herself, didn't call back, tell you what it was all about?"
"No."
I sipped my tea. "Don't you think that's odd?"
"When Patty Kay made up her mind, she moved fast. She assumed I knew her voice. She assumed everybody'd come. And I'm sure-"
"No. I'm not talking about the dinner party. Why didn't she contact you before the dinner to pitch her plan or campaign or whatever it was she wanted? Why was it essential? To her? Or to the school?"
He finished his second drink, gestured again to the waiter. "I don't have any idea."
"But she arranged a dinner. There had to be a reason. She was upset, so she must have had something serious to discuss with the trustees. Here's a woman who's used to running all kinds of groups. What's the first precept of success in an organization?"
"You rally your troops long before there's open discus-
sion. You never make a motion unless you're sure it will cany."
"Right. Why didn't she?"
"I don't know." He picked up his new drink, took a greedy gulp. "Maybe she called later but didn't get me. She wouldn't leave another message. Besides, she knew she could count on my vote-if it really mattered to her."
I looked in his eyes.
He met my gaze.
And it was there, love and grief and deepest hopelessness.
Abruptly, I understood. Desmond had never married. Now I knew why. Desmond, too, had loved Patty Kay. Had he ever told her? Did it make any difference? Would he have been upset by her secret rendezvous with Stuart? What did he really feel about Craig?
He downed the rest of his drink and grimaced. "So if I knew what she wanted, I'd tell you. You're right, Patty Kay'd definitely line up her ducks. You can find out tonight from the others."
It was just past three when I got back to the house. My conference with Desmond frustrated me-we'd rehashed everything we knew or imagined but got nowhere even though my instinct said we were close-and I was desperately impatient for that evening's meeting of the Walden trustees. Some of them surely would know what Patty Kay wanted, enough at least to carry a vote.
1 slammed out of my car, then stopped to take a refreshing breath. A frisky breeze stirred the blooming jonquils, dazzling gold in the spring sunlight.
I decided to jog. Not only did I need the exercise, I could take another survey of the neighborhood, perhaps
spot where the murderer might have awaited Craig's arrival. If that was what had happened…
The note on the front door stopped me cold:
Henrie O,
Amy called at 2:25. Wants you to call her at the store.
Said it's important. Gone for a drive.
Craig
Amy. The little clerk was so certain when Craig had left the bookstore on Saturday. Had she changed her mind?
I used the hall phone.
"Books, Books, Books." The voice was pleasant and masculine.
"May I speak to Amy, please?"
"… She isn't here."
"With whom am I speaking?"
"Todd Simpson."
"I had a message asking me to call her. Is she supposed to be there?"
"She certainly is." He sounded puzzled. "From noon to six today."
"She didn't leave word where she was going?"
He was silent for a moment. "Who is speaking, please?"
"Henrie O Collins. Craig Matthews's aunt."
"Oh, Mrs. Collins." Todd rushed now to confide. "Listen, we don't know what to think. Amy's been absolutely dependable. She even came in a few minutes early today. She was here, unpacking boxes, doing some phoning, other stuff. Then we had a real rush around two. When I looked for her later, I couldn't find her. I've even called her apartment and there's no answer. You'd think she would've told me if she was sick or had to leave."
A dreadful wave of coldness swept through me. I thanked Todd and hung up hastily, battling nausea.
I drove too fast, all thoughts of spring beauty and a jog gone. I didn't like the thoughts I was having.
Amy's message asked me to call; she'd said it was important.
I parked at the curb directly in front of the store and hurried inside.
I spotted a stocky blond young man, still in the navy blue suit he'd worn to the
funeral.
He walked swiftly to me. "Mrs. Collins?"
"Yes. Are you Todd?"
"Yes, ma'am. Listen, it's awfully nice of you to come, but I've looked again. Everywhere. Amy's definitely not here."
"1 hope not."
"What do you mean?"
Scandal in Fair Haven Page 24