Scandal in Fair Haven

by Carolyn G. Hart

  I didn't ta­ke ti­me to an­s­wer. I plun­ged past him, ga­ve only a cur­sory glan­ce at the open flo­or of the sto­re and the easily se­en mez­za­ni­ne, then hur­ri­ed to the stoc­k­ro­om.

  Todd fol­lo­wed. He qu­ickly got the drift of my se­arch. His eyes wi­de­ned.

  It didn't ta­ke long. The­re we­ren't that many pla­ces to check.

  Some lar­ge cup­bo­ards in the sto­re­ro­om.

  The ship­ping cra­te that had held a new ref­ri­ge­ra­tor for the cof­fee bar.

  The dark sha­dows by the clo­sed lo­ading dock.

  The dank old cel­lar no lon­ger in use.

  And, in the bric­ked al­ley­way, the dum­p­s­ter.

  The he­avy rus­ted top shri­eked when I prop­ped it open.

  I lo­oked at the worn so­les of low-he­eled pink flats. And at thin gra­yish an­k­les. The blo­od had dra­ined to her up­per

  torso. I was glad I co­uldn't see the con­ges­ted, dark, pur­p­le skin.

  Quick an­ger sho­ok me. Damn, oh, damn, damn, damn. "Call the po­li­ce," I told Todd, and didn't re­cog­ni­ze the harsh vo­ice as my own.

  16

  The lights over­he­ad spil­led down on the cof­fee area whe­re we wa­ited, cap­tu­ring us in a sickly yel­low po­ol of flu­ores­cen­ce. The only so­und was the qu­i­et mur­mur as the po­li­ce­wo­man, Ser­ge­ant Ro­man, to­ok down the na­mes, ad­dres­ses, and pho­ne num­bers of the em­p­lo­ye­es and cus­to­mers who we­re in the bo­ok­s­to­re when we fo­und Amy.

  I, too, scrib­bled the na­mes down. Not qu­ite sur­rep­ti­ti­o­usly, but wit­ho­ut ad­ver­ti­se­ment.

  I co­uld he­ar the slight scratch of my pen­cil aga­inst the pad, fe­el the pres­su­re of my fin­gers aga­inst the pen­cil.

  I was ali­ve, ab­le to fe­el-and ra­ging at myself.

  Because po­or lit­tle Amy with her over­si­ze glas­ses and an­xi­o­us eyes was de­ad in an al­ley dum­p­s­ter.

  And it co­uld be my fa­ult.

  Mine.

  I'd told Cra­ig Amy was ab­so­lu­tely po­si­ti­ve of the ti­me he left the bo­ok­s­to­re on the day Patty Kay di­ed.

  Goddammit, I told him.

  The tip of the pen­cil snap­ped be­ne­ath the pres­su­re of my fin­gers. I fo­und anot­her pen­cil, com­p­le­ted the list, and drop­ped pad and pen­cil in­to my pur­se.

  The sto­re aro­und us, lights gla­ring down on un­ten-an­ted ais­les, was som­ber, and va­gu­ely thre­ate­ning.

  Occasionally so­me­one rat­tled the loc­ked front do­or, puz­zled at the pre­ma­tu­rely pos­ted clo­sed sign.

  Police ca­me and went thro­ugh the en­t­ran­ce to the stoc­k­ro­om. Tho­se of us se­qu­es­te­red in the cof­fee area mi­se­rably wat­c­hed them in si­len­ce.

  One of the clerks, a plump girl with a wi­de mo­uth me­ant for smi­ling, snuf­fled no­isily in­to a damp wad of tis­sue. Todd Sim­p­son, his fa­ce sympat­he­tic and be­wil­de­red, pat­ted her sho­ul­der.

  Restless, I wal­ked over to the cof­fee bar, po­ured cho­co­la­te moc­ha cof­fee in­to a mug, and splas­hed in a ge­ne­ro­us amo­unt of cre­am. The cof­fee did not­hing to warm the hol­low col­d­ness in my sto­mach, but I sip­ped it as I glan­ced aro­und the cof­fee area.

  I didn't know any of the ot­her clerks. Ex­cept, of co­ur­se, Cheryl Kraft, the af­ter­no­on's de­sig­na­ted so­ci­ali­te. She kept brus­hing back sil­ver-blond ha­ir from a sud­denly ga­unt fa­ce, and her hu­ge pa­go­da-sha­ped sil­ver ear­rings ga­ve an eerie tin­k­le. The harsh light bet­ra­yed the tel­lta­le tra­ces of plas­tic sur­gery.

  A si­ren so­un­ded from the al­ley­way.

  Every he­ad tur­ned.

  Captain Walsh ca­me thro­ugh the sto­re­ro­om do­or. He glan­ced at a card in his hand. "Todd Sim­p­son?"

  Todd ga­ve the plump girl anot­her pat, then sto­od. "Sir?"

  "Come this way, ple­ase."

  About fi­ve mi­nu­tes la­ter Todd re­tur­nect He was swe­ating he­avily.

  I knew why. To iden­tify the body of so­me­one you know is a sic­ke­ning ex­pe­ri­en­ce.

  Now the po­li­ce co­uld clo­se the body bag on po­or Amy.

  I fi­gu­red it wo­uld be at le­ast an ho­ur be­fo­re Walsh in­ter­vi­ewed tho­se of us de­ta­ined. The cap­ta­in and his small in­ves­ti­ga­ting te­am had plenty to do: a pa­in­s­ta­king exa­mi­na­ti­on of the ac­tu­al sce­ne, no­te-ta­king, sket­c­hing, pho­tog­raphy (mo­re than li­kely vi­de­ocam ta­ping too), the ca­re­ful, te­di­o­us col­lec­ti­on of physi­cal evi­den­ce.

  A mum­b­le of vo­ices drif­ted thro­ugh the open stoc­k­ro­om do­or. Try as I might, I co­uldn't un­der­s­tand what was be­ing sa­id.

  Suddenly the do­or swung shut. Now we co­uldn't he­ar an­y­t­hing.

  I pro­bably had an ho­ur at most be­fo­re I'd see the po­li­ce chi­ef.

  I had a de­ci­si­on to ma­ke.

  If I told Cap­ta­in Walsh abo­ut my talk with Amy and my re­port of it to Cra­ig, I'd be hand-de­li­ve­ring a class-A mo­ti­ve for Cra­ig to com­mit mur­der.

  The pro­bab­le re­sult: Cra­ig's in­s­tant ar­rest.

  But may­be that's exactly what I sho­uld do.

  Only two facts held me back.

  The se­arch of Patty Kay's of­fi­ce.

  Craig ran away when I con­f­ron­ted him.

  But, no­net­he­less, the fif­te­en mi­nu­tes that Amy wo­uld ha­ve sworn to was eno­ugh to put Cra­ig back in ja­il.

  The de­ci­si­on was mi­ne to ma­ke.

  The bu­si­nes­sman who'd be­en pa­cing up and down by the psycho­logy shel­ves swung to­ward the po­li­ce­wo­man. "Lo­ok, I'm mis­sing cli­ents. I just drop­ped in he­re to buy For­tu­ne. I've gi­ven you my na­me and ad­dress. My of­fi­ce is just ac­ross the stre­et."

  "I'm sorry, sir. No one can le­ave un­til Cap­ta­in Walsh says so."

  "Well, ask him, will you?"

  "The cap­ta­in re­qu­es­ted that ever­yo­ne re­ma­in he­re un­til fur­t­her no­ti­ce. He will spe­ak with each of you as so­on as pos­sib­le."

  "Dammit to hell, I've got a new cli­ent co­ming in at fo­ur-thirty. He's-"

  Todd pus­hed up from the stra­ight cha­ir he'd strad­dled. He was a big yo­ung man, the kind who plays li­ne­man for his high scho­ol te­am-trunk legs, a bar­rel chest, a big he­ad. He wasn't lar­ge eno­ugh for col­le­ge ball, but he ma­de the bu­si­nes­sman lo­ok small. His fa­ce still glis­te­ned with swe­at. "Lo­ok, mis­ter, Amy's de­ad. You may not ca­re, but we do. And may­be you can help. Don't you want to help?"

  Every fa­ce tur­ned to­ward the com­p­la­iner. He had the gra­ce to turn fi­ery red. Then he slum­ped si­lently in­to a cha­ir.

  I had the clerks sor­ted out by now: Jac­kie, the plump, snuf­fling girl; Pa­ul, ca­da­ve­ro­usly skinny, his long black ha­ir in a pon­y­ta­il, a gol­den ring in his left ear­lo­be; Candy, se­ri­o­us gray eyes, a che­er­ful pug no­se, a sprin­k­le of frec­k­les that sto­od out now aga­inst shock-pa­led skin.

  Cheryl Kraft, of co­ur­se, didn't lo­ok li­ke a clerk. Not in that tur­qu­o­ise flo­ral silk jac­qu­ard dress. She was un­c­ha­rac­te­ris­ti­cal­ly sub­du­ed. The jewe­led hands in her lap trem­b­led.

  The ot­her cus­to­mers ma­de no com­p­la­int. A nur­sing mot­her tur­ned her back to the gro­up and cud­dled a baby to her bre­ast whi­le she pla­yed a rhyming ga­me with her res­t­less tod­dler. Two well-dres­sed mid­dle-aged wo­men ex­c­han­ged an­xi­o­us whis­pers. A dis­tin­gu­is­hed-lo­oking man abo­ut my age calmly re­ad a pa­per­back of Su­eto­ni­us.

  Todd on­ce aga­in strad­dled the stra­ight cha­ir. He res­ted his swe­aty fa­ce on his cros­sed arms.

  I wal­ked over to him.

  "Todd, whe­re's Ste­vie?"
<
br />   "Ma'am, the cap­ta­in sa­id no tal­king." The po­li­ce­wo­man was ple­asant but firm.

  I nod­ded, re­tur­ned to the cof­fee bar, and sat on a sto­ol. I got out my no­te­bo­ok aga­in. Okay. No qu­es­ti­ons now.

  But I'd damn su­re ask qu­es­ti­ons la­ter.

  I'd just star­ted sket­c­hing down my tho­ughts, when the front do­or ope­ned.

  We all tur­ned to lo­ok.

  A pat­rol­man us­he­red in Cra­ig Mat­thews and Ste­vie Cos­tel­lo.

  Craig lo­oked at me, lo­oked qu­ickly away. He to­ok a se­at at the pe­rip­hery of the ca­fe area.

  Stevie slid on­to the sto­ol next to mi­ne. "Tell me-"

  "No tal­king, ple­ase." The po­li­ce­wo­man step­ped to­ward us. Ste­vie nod­ded jer­kily. She didn't lo­ok to­ward Cra­ig.

  Across the ro­om, ig­no­ring us, Cra­ig wi­ped his fa­ce with a han­d­ker­c­hi­ef.

  I sta­red hard at him. I didn't ca­re now that he was Mar­ga­ret's nep­hew. That con­cern se­emed long ago and far away. What I had to know, what I must dis­co­ver, was whet­her he'd mur­de­red a hel­p­less yo­ung girl be­ca­use I'd tal­ked too much.

  The pi­ti­less over­he­ad light em­p­ha­si­zed the we­ak­ness of his fa­ce, the self-in­dul­gent mo­uth, the un­cer­ta­in eyes, the de­fen­si­ve ex­p­res­si­on. He'd chan­ged from the black pin­s­t­ri­pe su­it he'd worn to Patty Kay's fu­ne­ral in­to oli­ve li­nen slacks and a cot­ton sport shirt with bril­li­ant red, gre­en, and blue ver­ti­cal stri­pes. He wo­re brown al­li­ga­tor lo­afers. Fi­ne clot­hes. Ex­pen­si­ve clot­hes.

  Craig Mat­thews co­uld dress this way be­ca­use he'd mar­ri­ed an ol­der wo­man with a gre­at de­al of mo­ney.

  He must ha­ve felt my glan­ce.

  He lo­oked at me, and in his eyes I saw both de­fi­an­ce and ter­ror.

  It was Cra­ig who lo­oked away.

  The sto­re­ro­om do­or ope­ned aga­in. A trim yo­ung wo­man car­rying a lar­ge squ­are black at­tac­he ca­se wal­ked briskly to­ward us. She pla­ced it on one of the tab­les. "Hel­lo, I'm Li­e­ute­nant Mar­ga­ret Berry. I'm he­re to ta­ke yo­ur fin­ger­p­rints." Her vo­ice was mat­ter-of-fact. "The­se are cal­led eli­mi­na­ti­on prints. It's cus­to­mary to ta­ke the prints of all per­sons on the pre­mi­ses of a ho­mi­ci­de so that in­ves­ti­ga­tors can qu­ickly iden­tify and dis­card tho­se that are ir­re­le­vant."

  It was the very best but­ter-and no hint that the­se prints might send so­me­one to the elec­t­ric cha­ir.

  Lieutenant Berry was ple­asant, pro­fes­si­onal, and tho­ro­ugh. She to­ok fin­ger and palm prints. It was a te­di­o­us pro­cess. She to­ok Ste­vie's first, Cra­ig's se­cond.

  The bu­si­nes­sman lo­oked at the ink in dis­tas­te. "I just ca­me he­re to buy a ma­ga­zi­ne," he com­p­la­ined in a vo­ice used to be­ing obe­yed.

  "I un­der­s­tand Cap­ta­in Walsh will be­gin the in­ter­vi­ews as so­on as the fin­ger­p­rin­ting is com­p­le­ted." Li­e­ute­nant Berry held up the rol­ler used for palms.

  He gla­red at her, then stuck out his right hand. "I've al­re­ady mis­sed my ap­po­in­t­ment."

  Todd shif­ted for­ward in his cha­ir, his fa­ce pug­na­ci­o­us. The an­ta­go­nism bet­we­en them had be­co­me elec­t­ric. "So who ca­res?"

  I, too, was awa­re of the pas­sa­ge of ti­me and be­gin­ning to watch the clock in ear­nest. It was al­most fi­ve. The scho­ol bo­ard me­eting was in two ho­urs.

  Each per­son in turn was di­rec­ted to the bo­ok­s­to­re's

  main of­fi­ce on the mez­za­ni­ne in the or­der in which the­ir fin­ger­p­rints we­re ta­ken.

  Mine we­re ta­ken last.

  That it was de­li­be­ra­te, I had no do­ubt.

  But why?

  It was al­most six-thirty when I was fi­nal­ly us­he­red in­to the ma­in of­fi­ce on the mez­za­ni­ne. Cap­ta­in Walsh sat be­hind a pa­per-lit­te­red desk.

  An at­trac­ti­ve red­he­ad nod­ded to me from her cha­ir next to the desk. She had pul­led a swi­vel cha­ir away from a com­pu­ter work sta­ti­on to fa­ce the do­or.

  Walsh didn't get up. He jer­ked his he­ad to­ward the wo­man. "Assis­tant Dis­t­rict At­tor­ney Su­san Nic­hols," he sa­id brus­qu­ely.

  She nod­ded aga­in.

  "Hello, Cap­ta­in, Ms. Nic­hols."

  Captain Walsh no lon­ger lo­oked mo­vie-star han­d­so­me. The bris­t­le of the day's be­ard was dark on his che­eks; li­nes of ten­si­on we­re et­c­hed in his fa­ce. And he didn't gi­ve a damn who I was re­la­ted to.

  Or may­be he did.

  "I'd li­ke to ha­ve yo­ur mo­ve­ments to­day." He jab­bed a blunt fo­re­fin­ger at a ta­pe re­cor­der on the desk. "Wha­te­ver you say will be re­cor­ded. If you wish to spe­ak with a law­yer first, you can use the pho­ne."

  It was de­ci­si­on ti­me.

  And I still hadn't de­ci­ded.

  The po­li­ce chi­ef's glan­ce shar­pe­ned.

  I'd ta­ken just a lit­tle too long to an­s­wer.

  So I de­la­yed an in­s­tant lon­ger. "That's not a Mi­ran­da, Cap­ta­in."

  "No."

  "Very well. I've no obj­ec­ti­on to be­ing re­cor­ded." I ig­no­red the stra­ight cha­ir di­rectly in front of the desk and in­s­te­ad cho­se a com­for­tab­le ar­m­c­ha­ir. I qu­ickly sket­c­hed my ac­ti­vi­ti­es. To­day's ac­ti­vi­ti­es. But not­hing-yet-abo­ut my ses­si­on last eve­ning with Cra­ig.

  "You fo­und the mes­sa­ge as­king you to call Amy Foss on the front do­or of the Mat­thews ho­me?"

  "Yes."

  "When?"

  "At ap­pro­xi­ma­tely three o'clock."

  "You ca­me di­rectly he­re?"

  "No. I went in­si­de and cal­led the bo­ok­s­to­re. When I was told she'd di­sap­pe­ared-"

  Walsh held up his hand. "No­body sa­id she'd di­sap­pe­ared. Todd Sim­p­son sa­id she co­uldn't be fo­und."

  "That's cor­rect. She co­uldn't be fo­und. In my jud­g­ment, Cap­ta­in, obj­ects or pe­op­le who can­not be fo­und may re­aso­nably be con­si­de­red to ha­ve di­sap­pe­ared. That's when I got wor­ri­ed. I ar­ri­ved he­re abo­ut three-twenty."

  "Describe yo­ur ac­ti­ons."

  I did.

  The po­li­ce chi­ef's cold, sus­pi­ci­o­us eyes ne­ver left my fa­ce.

  The as­sis­tant D.A. ma­de no­tes.

  Walsh ab­ruptly bo­omed: "How did you know she was de­ad?"

  "I didn't know. I was af­ra­id she was." I kept my vo­ice re­la­xed. If he'd ho­ped for a ner­vo­us start, he didn't get it.

  "You went stra­ight to the body."

  "No."

  "You star­ted lo­oking for a body. Sim­p­son sa­id so."

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  Zero ho­ur.

  To spe­ak. Or not.

  He hun­c­hed for­ward in his cha­ir, his fa­ce for­bid­ding.

  When I con­f­ron­ted him, Cra­ig ran away.

  I to­ok a de­ep bre­ath. All right. Jewel sa­id it best, with a black wo­man's pa­in­ful wis­dom: It's a lot har­der to get in ja­il than get out.

  So for now, one mo­re ti­me, I was in Cra­ig's cor­ner.

  I'd gi­ve it-and him-twen­ty-fo­ur ho­urs.

  If I didn't know the an­s­wer by then, I'd co­me cle­an with Cap­ta­in Walsh.

  "We can't be su­re, Cap­ta­in, why Amy was kil­led. But the­re's one cri­ti­cal po­int to re­mem­ber: Amy to­ok the mes­sa­ge Sa­tur­day that in­s­t­ruc­ted Cra­ig to go to the de­li­ca­tes­sen and then ho­me."

  "So?"

  "I told her to be su­re to call me if she re­mem­be­red an­y­t­hing abo­ut that call, an­y­t­hing at all. I think she did re­mem­ber so­met­hing abo­ut that call, so­met­hing that ma­de her ex­t­re­mely dan�
�ge­ro­us to the mur­de­rer. And so she cal­led me."

  It might be true.

  Or it might be that I'd put Amy in ter­rib­le dan­ger.

  I would- before God-find out.

  The chi­ef's han­d­so­me fa­ce cur­led in­to a sne­er. "Oh. I sup­po­se she had a sud­den re­cog­ni­ti­on of the cal­ler's vo­ice." The sar­casm was thick.