Scandal in Fair Haven

Scandal in Fair Haven Page 26

by Carolyn G. Hart

  "I don't know what it was."

  His to­ne be­ca­me ac­cu­sing. "How much mo­ney do you ha­ve, Mrs. Col­lins?"

  "Sufficient, Cap­ta­in Walsh."

  "Are you next of kin to Cra­ig Mat­thews?"

  Oh, what a tic­k­lish, in­te­res­ting, re­ve­aling qu­es­ti­on.

  I smi­led at him. "It wo­uld ta­ke a bit of ge­ne­alogy to

  figure that one out, Cap­ta­in. I'm mo­re of a dis­tant co­usin tre­ated as an ho­no­rary aunt."

  He le­aned back in the cha­ir, cros­sed his arms over his chest. "Just whe­re we­re you, Mrs. Col­lins, when Patty Kay Mat­thews was kil­led?" His eyes we­re let­hal as sti­let­tos.

  "Late Sa­tur­day af­ter­no­on I was en ro­ute to Mon­te­ag­le."

  "You can't pro­ve it." i

  "No." I smi­led gently. "But you can't pro­ve ot­her­wi­se."

  "And you don't ha­ve an ali­bi for the mur­der of Amy Foss." Aga­in that pi­er­cing sta­re.

  "When," I as­ked qu­i­etly, "was Amy kil­led?"

  He didn't ha­ve to check his no­tes. "Bet­we­en two-forty and three this af­ter­no­on."

  "At that ti­me, I was dri­ving back from Nas­h­vil­le to my nep­hew's ho­me."

  "Alone?"

  "Yes."

  His eyes sa­id it all: Sa­me song, se­cond ver­se.

  "Was Amy shot?" I as­ked ab­ruptly. Whe­re was Patty Kay's gun now?

  There was a flic­ker in his chilly eyes. He ga­zed at me tho­ug­h­t­ful­ly, then sho­ok his he­ad. "No. So­me­body knoc­ked her un­con­s­ci­o­us. Then he-or she-st­ran­g­led her."

  Oh, God. Po­or Amy. Po­or kid. "It's hi­de­o­us," I sa­id an­g­rily.

  But Chi­ef Walsh wasn't in­te­res­ted in my ex­p­res­si­ons of con­cern.

  Instead, he snap­ped, "Was Cra­ig Mat­thews's ar­ri­val at yo­ur ca­bin Sa­tur­day eve­ning pre­ar­ran­ged, Mrs. Col­lins?"

  It's al­ways ni­ce to be ab­le to tell the truth. "No." I tho­ught it had a ring of ve­ra­city.

  "How did he know you we­re the­re?"

  This was tricky.

  "I al­ways ke­ep my fa­mily in­for­med of my va­ca­ti­on plans." Which I do.

  Captain Walsh rub­bed a bristly che­ek; his eyes ne­ver left my fa­ce. "I want a copy of re­cent let­ters you and Cra­ig Mat­thews ex­c­han­ged."

  "I don't ke­ep let­ters, Cap­ta­in."

  The as­sis­tant D.A. sco­oted her cha­ir for­ward. She stu­di­ed me li­ke Ba­call eye­ing a bad guy. Her to­ne was co­ol as she spel­led it out. "Cra­ig Mat­thews is go­ing to be ex­t­re­mely rich if he in­he­rits his wi­fe's es­ta­te. He won't in­he­rit a cent if he's con­vic­ted of her mur­der. And you've co­me to Fa­ir Ha­ven and re­pe­atedly tri­ed to di­vert po­li­ce sus­pi­ci­on from him. We ha­ve to won­der if the cir­cum­s­tan­ces of his wi­fe's mur­der we­ren't ar­ran­ged to lo­ok as tho­ugh so­me­one was trying to pla­ce the bla­me on Mat­thews."

  I met her ga­ze ste­adily. "Inte­res­ting the­sis. But you're go­ing a lit­tle fast, aren't you, Ms. Nic­hols? The­re are still so­me items to be ex­p­la­ined. To whom did the be­ige swe­ater be­long, the one Cra­ig wrap­ped the mur­der we­apon in?"

  Walsh didn't ne­ed to con­sult his no­tes. "Mr. Mat­thews sa­id it was his wi­fe's swe­ater."

  Damn Cra­ig. He was go­ing to wrap a no­ose of li­es aro­und his own neck.

  I han­d­led it as well as I co­uld. "Re­al­ly? I sup­po­se most men don't pay too much at­ten­ti­on to clot­hes. In fact, he co­uld ha­ve ma­de a mis­ta­ke." I lo­oked at the as­sis­tant D.A. "I ima­gi­ne you know qu­ite a bit abo­ut clot­hes, Ms. Nic­hols. Suf­fi­ce it to say, the blo­odi­ed swe­ater ca­me from Lands' End. If you check Mrs. Mat­thews's clo­set, you'll find a lot of far mo­re ex­pen­si­ve de­sig­ner out­fits."

  Captain Walsh lo­oked fa­intly be­wil­de­red, but qu­ick un­der­s­tan­ding flic­ke­red in Nic­hols's eyes.

  "Actually, Cap­ta­in, Ms. Nic­hols, I re­com­mend that you

  take a lo­ok at the clot­hing worn by ot­hers who knew-or wor­ked for-Mrs. Mat­thews."

  "More dis­t­rac­ti­on, Mrs. Col­lins?" Walsh sni­ped.

  I was ple­asant but crisp. "I'm not in­to con­s­pi­racy, Cap­ta­in Walsh. I'm just trying to get at the facts. I sug­gest you do the sa­me."

  17

  I was gra­te­ful I had the se­cond Baby Ruth in my bag. I ma­de it out to Wal­den Scho­ol with two mi­nu­tes to spa­re, the candy wrap­per crum­p­led on the car se­at, a sur­ge of su­gar in my blo­od.

  I was torn.

  I des­pe­ra­tely wan­ted to know mo­re abo­ut Amy's last day at the bo­ok­s­to­re. To whom did the girl talk? What did she do? I wan­ted to know what the ot­hers in the sto­re had se­en. I wan­ted to ask each of the cus­to­mers when they last saw Amy, if they tal­ked to her.

  I didn't know a damn thing. The last to be in­ter­vi­ewed, the last out the do­or, I was left with all the unan­s­we­red qu­es­ti­ons and no­body the­re to ask.

  Did Amy ha­ve a desk, a dra­wer, a cub­byho­le, an­y­t­hing whe­re she kept her things?

  Where was Ste­vie when Amy di­sap­pe­ared?

  Where, most im­por­tant, most em­p­ha­tic, was Cra­ig?

  Twenty- four ho­urs, that's all I'd gi­ve him.

  And 1 ke­ep my pro­mi­ses.

  But I co­uldn't miss the me­eting of the trus­te­es of Wal­den Scho­ol. Amy was kil­led be­ca­use she was a thre­at to Patty Kay's mur­de­rer. To aven­ge Amy, I had to find out why Patty Kay was fu­ri­o­us on Fri­day, the day af­ter she went out to Wal­den Scho­ol for her fi­les. Wal­den Scho­ol-its trus­te­es we­re in­vi­ted to a din­ner can­ce­led by Patty Kay's mur­der. Wal­den Scho­ol-its he­ad­mas­ter knew mo­re than he was tel­ling.

  Walden Scho­ol. Sud­denly every path led to it.

  Light spil­led che­er­ful­ly from the tall win­dows on the first flo­or of the be­a­uti­ful Gre­ek Re­vi­val man­si­on.

  I hur­ri­ed up the steps, ope­ned the front do­or-and can­no­ned in­to Chuck Selwyn.

  The he­ad­mas­ter jer­ked back. Aga­in he wo­re the navy bla­zer, Ox­ford cloth but­ton-down shirt, kha­ki slacks, and tas­se­led ox­b­lo­od lo­afers. But the­re was not­hing bo­yish abo­ut the lo­ok he ga­ve me.

  "Mrs. Col­lins, the scho­ol is clo­sed to vi­si­tors at the mo­ment. I'll ha­ve to ask you-"

  "Henrie O, glad you co­uld ma­ke it!"

  Desmond's wel­co­me was warm, lo­ud, and ge­ni­al. He duc­ked aro­und the he­ad­mas­ter, hand out­s­t­ret­c­hed, to gre­et me, then lo­oked to­ward Selwyn. "Mrs. Col­lins is he­re to rep­re­sent the Mat­thews fa­mily to­night." His to­ne was ple­asant but fi­nal.

  Brooke For­rest hur­ri­ed in. "Oh, I ho­pe I'm not la­te." Her smi­le fal­te­red. The dark smud­ges be­ne­ath her eyes em­p­ha­si­zed her pa­le­ness. She ac­tu­al­ly lo­oked ill. Her ap­ple-gre­en silk blo­use was ele­gant with the char­co­al li­nen skirt, but not per­haps the best co­lor cho­ice for her wan fa­ce.

  "Hello, Bro­oke. I was tel­ling Chuck that Hen­rie O's he­re to gi­ve us so­me help on an ap­prop­ri­ate me­mo­ri­al for Patty Kay."

  "Oh, yes, yes. I'm so glad you co­uld co­me." Her hand to­uc­hed my arm. "It's so im­por­tant."

  Every word Des­mond and Bro­oke sa­id ma­de it mo­re dif­fi­cult for Selwyn to obj­ect.

  The he­ad­mas­ter nod­ded grud­gingly. "Very go­od of you to ta­ke the ti­me, Mrs. Col­lins," he sa­id stiffly.

  As the gran­d­fat­her clock in the cor­ner chi­med se­ven, Stu­art Pi­er­ce and Wil­lis Gut­h­rie en­te­red to­get­her. Cheryl Kraft was the last to ar­ri­ve. For on­ce she didn't ap­pe­ar ele­gant. Her silk dress was crum­p­led, her too-thin fa­ce dis­t­res­sed.

  "God," she sa­id to me, "you ma­de
it too. God, what a dre­ad­ful thing." If the ot­hers he­ard her husky, sub­du­ed vo­ice, they ga­ve no sign of it.

  Selwyn wa­ved us to­ward his of­fi­ce. "Ple­ase find a com­for­tab­le cha­ir. And I ha­ve cof­fee-"

  I slip­ped up be­si­de Des­mond. "I've be­en at the bo­ok­s­to­re. Did you-"

  He cut me off. "Yes. Cra­ig's ho­me now. I think he's okay."

  That wasn't my first con­cern, but Des­mond had no way of kno­wing that.

  "- and so­das if an­yo­ne wo­uld li­ke one."

  Selwyn had no ta­kers. This was one bo­ard me­eting that wo­uld ha­ve no aura of a so­ci­al gat­he­ring.

  Desmond qu­ickly bro­ught the me­eting to or­der.

  The som­ber-fa­ced trus­te­es wat­c­hed and lis­te­ned as Des­mond spo­ke.

  "… a do­ub­le toll on our fa­culty and stu­dents and pat­rons. I know that we…"

  Selwyn was trying hard to ap­pe­ar ap­prop­ri­ately sor­row­ful, yet calmly in char­ge. But it was a strug­gle. He ga­ve me a fi­nal sharp glan­ce, then lo­oked away. His mo­uth tur­ned

  down. He lo­oked mo­re li­ke a pe­tu­lant scho­ol­boy than a scho­ol­mas­ter.

  Desmond pa­used, his vo­ice cho­king. "… all of you know that Patty Kay and I we­re such old and…"

  Desmond's gri­ef was ref­lec­ted in Stu­art Pi­er­ce's grim fa­ce. Patty Kay's lo­ver and for­mer hus­band sta­red mo­ro­sely down at his tightly clas­ped hands, his ga­ze ble­ak and des­pa­iring.

  "… dif­fi­cult for our stu­dents to co­pe with the de­mi­se of a clas­sma­te. It is very im­por­tant that we em­p­ha­si­ze how all of us-stu­dents, fa­culty, pa­rents, trus­te­es-are ava­ilab­le at any ti­me to tho­se in des­pa­ir. We can't…"

  Willis Gut­h­rie smot­he­red a yawn. It was pro­bably as well for him that ne­it­her Stu­art nor Des­mond was lo­oking his way.

  "… at the as­sembly to­mor­row I will des­c­ri­be the co­un­se­ling ser­vi­ces that…"

  Brooke wat­c­hed Des­mond with an­gu­is­hed eyes. On­ce aga­in I re­cog­ni­zed a mot­her's ter­ror, the un­s­po­ken fe­ar that one yo­ung su­ici­de might trig­ger anot­her and anot­her and anot­her. Ever­yo­ne in this ro­om knew the tur­mo­il and un­cer­ta­inty and dep­res­si­on that tu­mul­tu­o­us hor­mo­ne le­vels can cre­ate. All too well we knew that no te­ena­ger co­uld be con­si­de­red im­mu­ne, no mat­ter how out­wardly happy or well-adj­us­ted.

  The pas­si­ons and fe­ars and he­ar­t­b­re­aks of the yo­ung burn brig­h­ter and fi­er­cer than tho­se tem­pe­red by age and ex­pe­ri­en­ce.

  I ho­ped that ex­pe­ri­en­ced eyes we­re wat­c­hing all the yo­ung pe­op­le in Fa­ir Ha­ven for the next few we­eks.

  "… ne­ces­sary for all of us to pre­sent a re­as­su­ring fa­ce to the world."

  Cheryl Kraft bro­ke in sharply. "That's easy eno­ugh for you to say, Des­mond! I can't be­li­eve what's hap­pe­ned to

  our lo­vely, lo­vely town. Two hi­de­o­us mur­ders in Fa­ir Ha­ven in less than a we­ek-"

  At the shoc­ked lo­oks from aro­und the tab­le, her eyes bla­zed. "The po­or de­ar lit­tle clerk at Patty Kay's bo­ok­s­to­re, fo­und this af­ter­no­on in a dum­p­s­terl I fe­el that we must de­mand mo­re ca­pab­le po­li­ce pro­tec­ti­on, and I in­tend-"

  "Dumpster!" Stu­art's han­d­so­me he­ad jer­ked to­ward her.

  The me­eting hal­ted as Cheryl des­c­ri­bed the af­ter­no­on.

  Selwyn's fa­ce puc­ke­red in dis­tas­te.

  Brooke pres­sed a slen­der hand hard aga­inst her mo­uth.

  Even Wil­lis Gut­h­rie ap­pe­ared sha­ken.

  Finally, Des­mond in­ter­rup­ted firmly. "Wa­it, ple­ase. We're all ap­pal­led at what's hap­pe­ned, but, ple­ase, let's fo­cus on Wal­den Scho­ol's si­tu­ati­on. The­re's not­hing we can do abo­ut the mur­der at the bo­ok­s­to­re ex­cept sup­port Cap­ta­in Walsh in his in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on. And cer­ta­inly we will do that. But we ha­ve ex­t­re­mely se­ri­o­us mat­ters to dis­cuss to­night. Be­fo­re we get in­to our work, I want to wel­co­me Mrs. Col­lins, who is vi­si­ting us to­night to rep­re­sent Patty Kay and Cra­ig."

  "Thank you, Des­mond." I lo­oked at each trus­tee in turn. "I'll be bri­ef. I know the bo­ard has much to dis­cuss. But I un­der­s­tand a me­mo­ri­al to Patty Kay is un­der con­si­de­ra­ti­on. Both Cra­ig and I be­li­eve the fi­nest me­mo­ri­al Wal­den Scho­ol co­uld ma­ke wo­uld be to ho­nor Patty Kay's last re­qu­est. The prob­lem, of co­ur­se, is that al­t­ho­ugh we know she con­si­de­red the din­ner me­eting at her ho­use to be very im­por­tant, we don't know why. So, I'll ask each of you to help if you can."

  Selwyn jum­ped in. "I can't be cer­ta­in, of co­ur­se, Mrs. Col­lins, but I do think it was the flying pro­j­ect. I'd told her I was ab­so­lu­tely op­po­sed to it. We'd had a sharp ex­c­han­ge abo­ut it Fri­day mor­ning, and it was Fri­day af­ter­no­on that

  my sec­re­tary to­ok the mes­sa­ge sa­ying the din­ner was sched uled." He flip­ped that bo­yish lock of ha­ir back from his fo­re­he­ad. "I'll ha­ve to ad­mit 1 wasn't happy with Patty Kay.' His vo­ice oozed the reg­ret of hin­d­sight. "I felt she sho­uld at le­ast lo­ok in­to the as­pects I'd bro­ught up. Es­pe­ci­al­ly the le­gal li­abi­lity. We all know how lit­tle wa­ivers can me­an. But on­ce Patty Kay got an idea in her he­ad, it was hard to get her at­ten­ti­on." A ru­eful smi­le. "As ever­yo­ne he­re well knows."

  Stuart Pi­er­ce scow­led. "She didn't say a word abo­ut flying to me. Her call ca­me just as I was go­ing in­to a me­eting with out-of-town cli­ents. She sa­id, 'Stu­art, I'm ha­ving the trus­te­es for din­ner Sa­tur­day night at se­ven. We've got a prob­lem out at scho­ol.' Be­fo­re she co­uld con­ti­nue, I sa­id I had to get in­to a me­eting, but I'd co­me."

  The an­gu­ish in his eyes told me he was re­cal­ling that con­ver­sa­ti­on as the last ti­me he'd spo­ken to Patty Kay-as the last ti­me he wo­uld ever spe­ak to Patty Kay.

  "A prob­lem out at scho­ol," I re­pe­ated. I lo­oked at Sel-wyn. "That do­esn't so­und li­ke a di­sag­re­ement over a co­ur­se And I find it qu­ite in­te­res­ting that the­re was not a sin­g­le men­ti­on of a flying co­ur­se in any of Patty Kay's pa­pers. I know. I lo­oked."

  "Of co­ur­se not." Selwyn was bland. "I told you. She'd co­me up with this plan only this we­ek. And of co­ur­se she saw it as a prob­lem." Ir­ri­ta­ti­on shar­pe­ned his vo­ice. "Anyti­me an­yo­ne di­sag­re­ed with Patty Kay, it was a prob­lem The prob­lem was that I op­po­sed her."

  "What Patty Kay wan­ted or didn't want do­esn't mat­ter.' Wil­lis Gut­h­rie's to­ne was qu­eru­lo­us. His pa­le blue eyes ske­wed me with dis­li­ke. "What mat­ters is that you're ca­using tro­ub­le for all of us. You're run­ning aro­und town stir­ring things up, Mrs. Col­lins, tel­ling the po­li­ce li­es."

  "I'm glad to he­ar it." I ga­ve him sta­re for sta­re. "I ho­pe

  to ca­use a lot of tro­ub­le. I'm go­ing to find out who kil­led Patty Kay and why. I tho­ught tho­se clo­se to her wo­uld not only un­der­s­tand but ap­pro­ve my ac­ti­ons."

  "I cer­ta­inly ap­pla­ud them." Cheryl Kraft's ear­rings ma­de the­ir ghostly chi­me. "And I must say I think it's very odd-odd in­de­ed-that no one knows why Patty Kay cal­led this me­eting. She wo­uldn't tell me. I as­ked her and she sa­id the mat­ter wo­uld be ma­de cle­ar at our din­ner. But I cer­ta­inly stand be­hind yo­ur ef­forts to find out what hap­pe­ned, Mrs. Col­lins. We owe it to Patty Kay." She ga­ve a de­ter­mi­ned nod, and the ear­rings tin­k­led.

  "So you want to en­co­ura­ge this old wo­man to stir up tro­ub­le, send the po­li­ce af­ter us?" Gut­h­rie's vo­ice was sa­va­ge.

  Cheryl lif­ted a fi­nely pen­ci­led eyeb­row. "Mrs. Col­lins sho­uld do wha­te­ver is ne
­ces­sary." Her ga­ze was im­pe­ri­o­us.

  "Well, my wi­fe and I don't ap­pre­ci­ate be­ing tre­ated li­ke sus­pects." Gut­h­rie slam­med a hand on the tab­le.

  I knew that the po­li­ce in­qu­iry that prom­p­ted Gut­h­rie's out­burst was ca­used by Des­mond's ho­nesty and not my pro­bing, but I was qu­ite wil­ling to ta­ke the res­pon­si­bi­lity. And 1 was de­lig­h­ted at the une­asi­ness I sen­sed. Go­od oh, as an Aus­t­ra­li­an fri­end lo­ved to sho­ut when news con­fe­ren­ces tur­ned rowdy.

 

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