by Maggie Bruce
“You missed something,” I said. I took the towel, turned to the page filled with doodles and scribbles.
My timing was perfect. Lights flashing, a car pulled up beside Hovanian’s Honda. At least Michele Castro didn’t use the siren to alert all the sleeping inhabitants of Walden Corners that she was on her way to nab a criminal. I let her in and nodded in the direction of the book. B.H. was leaning against the counter, hands thrust in pockets, looking for all the world like a model for Gap chinos.
A very appealing model, I caught myself thinking.
“Scooter Johnson found this under the stove,” I said, “and I called you right away.”
“So you were here on a social visit?” She looked at B.H. and then circled the butcher block island, knelt, and peered under the stove.
“She called me too.” His eyes followed her as she stood and faced us again. “This is getting almost comical. Whoever is trying to make it look like Lili Marino is responsible for Marjorie Mellon’s death is only making herself or himself look like a fool.”
Despite my vulnerable position, I couldn’t help smiling at his pronouns. He hadn’t used the masculine default. B. H. Hovanian was more thoughtful than I realized.
Castro pulled on a pair of surgical gloves, slipped the book into a large plastic bag, and zipped it closed. “Nothing about this is funny. You said you never heard anyone come in, but it might have happened while you were asleep. Or it might have happened tonight. While you were at the meeting.”
I shook my head. “Could be. But my brother and Scooter and Armel Noonan were here the whole time. I don’t remember who searched the kitchen when you came with those warrants, but that person didn’t find it. Either time you went through my house. And I didn’t see it the last time I washed the floor.”
Not exactly what I’d meant to say—we all looked down and saw the spot where I’d spilled coffee, another where the rice had overflowed the pot on the stove before I could turn the flame down, and a small brownish blob that might have been congealed gravy or something much less appetizing.
I thought back to that first search—I was sure that one of the deputies had been assigned to the kitchen while Castro worked the bedroom and my studio. I had no doubt that she remembered the same facts. The second time around, they did only a cursory search, concentrating instead on the computer and the printer. But I wasn’t about to gloat, or even point that out to her.
Hovanian broke the silence. “My guess is that it was here one of the times you searched the house. You were meant to find it. Lili or any other sane human being wouldn’t steal a murder victim’s address book and then leave it for someone else to find so she could call the police. It doesn’t make sense. The only thing that works logically is that the person who put it under that stove knew the house would be searched. They didn’t want Lili or Scooter to find it. They wanted the police to discover that book.”
Her cheeks flaming, Castro didn’t argue. Her silence made it clear that it wasn’t her job to convince B.H. that his logic didn’t matter and the fact of that book showing up in my kitchen did. “We’ll check it for prints. I don’t need you to do anything right now, but this time I really don’t want you to leave town, at least not for a couple of days.”
I glanced at B.H., at his raised eyebrow and, strangely, at his hands, which rested on the butcher block. His fingers looked strong, decisive, as though they worked out every day, too.
“You can’t restrict her movements, Michele.” His voice, not loud, was nonetheless emphatic. “Unless you’re going to arrest her.”
I’d remember that direct gaze and forthright manner when I played poker—and probably at other times when I’d find myself drifting in thought and seeking comfort. But bluffing wasn’t in my bag of tricks, and I wasn’t sure that it was a good idea that Hovanian had played the challenge card right then. Still, I had to trust him. I gulped back the plea that rose to my lips and clenched my teeth to keep from speaking.
“Not yet,” Castro said as she followed every twitch of my face with her eyes. “I’m not going to arrest her yet.”
Which left a whole lot open to interpretation. But B. H. Hovanian didn’t appear to be interested in the subtleties.
“You’d better have some really solid ground. I can make a better case for police incompetence than you can for Lili Marino’s guilt. It’s late, and unless there’s anything else you want to chat about, I want to go home and I want to let Ms. Marino have the quiet enjoyment of her home returned to her.”
They stared at each other, two cool customers. It struck me that they’d forgotten that I was the reason they were both standing in this kitchen at 11:22 on a Monday night. They were inhabiting a professional space, not a personal one, and it annoyed me that they’d both lost of sight of me. Especially B. H. Hovanian.
The words they’d used, their maneuvers, gave each of them a special pleasure, it was clear. But I didn’t like being the pawn, the girl-in-the-middle. None of what was happening felt like a game to me.
“I’m going to wash my face and brush my teeth,” I said, already moving to the doorway. “If you need anything else, I’ll be out of the bathroom in a few minutes. Otherwise, would you leave the back way and pull the door shut behind you? It should lock if you pull hard.”
It took enormous willpower not to wait and check out their expressions, to see whether they were properly shocked or angry or confused or insulted. But the reward of marching off to the bathroom without looking back was much greater than any satisfaction I might have gotten if I’d lost my nerve and waited for approval.
I must have brushed my teeth for ten minutes as my thoughts bumped up against that jumble of words and numbers in the back of Marjorie’s address book. They meant something, I knew they did.
Chapter 14
Nothing made any sense.
Someone killed Marjorie Mellon and left the murder weapon in my attic. Had the same someone planted the note in Wonderland Toy Town, and slipped Marjorie’s address book under my stove?
Could Trisha Stern, cheerful, focused, married to a nice man who owned a gorgeous piece of property adjacent to the proposed casino site, kill someone to protect her hallowed ground? Or might Seth have thought that getting Marjorie Mellon out of the way would open the door to huge personal profits if his retirement community was built on that land? Nathaniel Bartle wanted justice—by some twisted logic might he have justified those ends by the horrible means of using Marjorie’s murder to call attention to his cause? Tony Caterra, who had the subtlety of a tarantula, could potentially benefit from anything that was built on that land, so killing Marjorie wouldn’t gain him anything. Reluctantly, I moved him to the “unlikely” category.
And then there was Anita Mellon. Who had been, inconveniently for building a case against her, in Tennessee when Marjorie was killed. She could have had help from someone local, but that seemed like long odds. Besides, you didn’t go killing your mother just because you didn’t like the way she treated you.
Unless there was more to the story than anyone knew.
The thought chilled me. My relationship with my own mother was certainly complicated, but the challenge of trying to understand her was, so far, worth the effort. I could hardly imagine a world without her energy, her strong opinions, her fierce and unwavering love—and I needed a dose of all that soon.
When I returned to the house after my morning walk, a sweet aroma mingled with scent of freshly brewed coffee.
Neil smiled up at me from his perch on the kitchen stool. “Feel better?” he asked.
“I didn’t feel bad to start,” I said. “Okay, maybe a little confused. And a little harried when I remember that I have to finish my big writing job. Want some scrambled eggs?”
He shook his head, watching as I deposited my muddy shoes on the mat outside the door. “I made us French toast while you were walking. And I started a dark wash.”
Which was, I realized, his way of showing me how mobile and independent he’d become.
“Mr. Homemaker. Thanks. I’m starved. And then I have to make a call.”
I savored each bit of conversation with my brother and every bite of the wonderful, nutmeg-and-vanilla-soaked French toast, putting off my phone call and the return to work for twenty-six delicious minutes. Finally, I walked the handset into the living room, dialed my mother’s office, waited while it rang several times. I was just about to give up when I heard her voice.
“Ruth Marino. Can I help you?”
As though that question had a right answer where my mother and I were concerned.
“Hi, Mom. Just wanted to say hello and hear your voice.
Neil’s doing great. The therapist says that if everything keeps going so well, he’ll be able to play by maybe August. How’s Dad?”
“Lili, you don’t call to hear my voice. You called because you need something.”
My throat swelled and my pulse rate went through the roof. Adrenaline—my own mother stimulated my flight-fight response. I managed to say, “I need a little contact from you. That’s really all. It’s been a hard week. How’s Dad?”
For once, my mother didn’t have a snappy comeback. Instead, after a couple of seconds of silence, she said, “I’m sorry. I went into some automatic thing with you there. I don’t like doing that and I’m sure you don’t either. Let’s start again. Hi, Lili. We’ve been thinking about you and Neil. Do you think you could stand a visit from me and Dad? Just for a day. We wouldn’t stay over. I have too much going on with Passover and Easter events the mayor is sponsoring. But we want to see you both.”
To my surprise, everything in me relaxed. “That’s great. When can you get away?”
My enthusiasm must have caught my mother off guard. “Well, uh . . . I’m not sure exactly. I’ll have to call you back,” she said. “Your father started a new medication two days ago, and he doesn’t like to travel until after the first couple of days have passed. You know, to see if he’s going to have any reaction—aside from his anger at how expensive those drugs are. Thank goodness the union covers most of it. I can’t tell you how many kids of pharmaceutical executives your father has helped put through college. Is Neil around? I haven’t spoken to him in a couple of days.”
“I’ll put him on in a second, Mom. I want to ask you something first. How does the mayor respond when the press or another person says things about him that aren’t true?”
“You don’t really want to know about the mayor.” The edge was gone from her voice when she said, “You just make sure of two things, baby. That your lawyer knows what he’s doing. And you keep in mind that Kris Kristofferson song, okay?”
“Which Kris—”
“It’s called “Don’t Let the Bastards Get You Down.” You have to remember that.”
My mother never used swear words. But she sure knew her music.
And her daughter.
“Thanks, Mom. Lyrics to live by. Talk to you soon.”
“I love you, Lili. Now put Neil on.”
When I handed my brother the phone, I felt better than I had in days. I would do this—find a way to prove my innocence and get on with the job of juggling all the bits and pieces of my life. As I washed the breakfast dishes, the sound of running water drowned out Neil’s voice. Just as I squeezed out the sponge and set it in its wire basket, I heard him behind me.
“I need more coffee. Want some?”
“Not yet,” I said, still full from the juice, bacon, French toast, and coffee we’d just devoured. The brilliant April sunshine and the conversation with my mother had filled me with energy and with hope. “Anyway, Connie will be here any second. Trisha’s a little late, isn’t she?”
Twenty minutes late, which wasn’t like her.
“She’ll be here soon. In fact . . .” He smoothed his beard as we looked out the window to see Trisha’s car pulling in. She popped out of the car, pulled open the back door, and rummaged in her blue nylon bag.
“I’m going to try to finish that report after Connie leaves. I mixed up some granola and apples to put on the yogurt for lunch in case you get hungry. I’ll leave it in the fridge.”
“And you said you didn’t know how to cook. Seth taught you all that?” Neil grinned and punched my shoulder. “I’m looking forward to dinner tonight, and not only for the falafel. I want to meet his son and get to know the man a little better.”
“Ron’s a good kid, into sports and motorcycles and girls.” I laughed. “Which makes him the poster teen for normal, I’d say.”
Neil swung to the door to answer Trisha’s knock.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said breathlessly. “I had to pick up some Tintin comics. Last minute birthday gift for my little cousin’s party this evening. Four people on line in front of me, and, well, sorry I’m late. I guess I was trying to squeeze too much into too short a time.”
“I didn’t know Books and Brew carried Tintin,” I said. “I tried to get some for my nephew once and they said they’d have to order them.”
“Oh, you should have gone across the street to Wonderland. They have every single one. With all my nieces and nephews and cousins, I must spend half my income there. You ready to get going, Neil?”
Wonderland Toy Town—Trisha Stern was a regular customer. One who surely knew where the bathroom was so that she could, oh so casually, deposit a note meant to look like one I’d written. Meant to add to the evidence against me.
Maybe. Until I could prove something, I wouldn’t make accusations without proof to back them up.
As Neil settled into the straight-backed chair for his exercises, Connie Lovett’s car pulled into my driveway. I watched as she trudged to the front door, her gait slower and more labored than it had been the night before. Maybe she’d had bad news, or was in pain. I hurried to the living room and pulled open the door before she could knock.
“Hey, darlin’.” She smiled. “Oops, there goes my Tarheel, still coming out after all these years living with you Yankees. Thanks for switching our class to Wednesday this week. That doctor’s appointment . . . Anyway, good to see you.”
I brushed her cheek with a kiss and stepped aside for her to enter. “Good to see you, too. Connie, you know Trisha Stern and you’ve met my brother Neil. Neil, you should see Connie’s gourds. She’s a natural.”
Neil’s face brightened with his smile. He raised his right crutch in salute. “I’d love to see them some time. Did I hear you say you’re from North Carolina? One of my favorite places.”
Beaming with pleasure, Connie said, “Oh, I moved away long before you were born, but there’s always a little bit of me that yearns for those beautiful mountains. How’s your leg doing? Healing right up, I hope.”
“Okay, we all have only one hour,” I said over my shoulder as I hustled Connie toward the studio, “so please forgive us if we don’t stay around and chat.”
Trisha smiled and nodded. Neil said something unintelligible, and I leaned closer to Connie and said, “He’d want you to keep talking to him for an hour. He loves attention. And he loves it even more if it’s coming from a woman.”
She stopped and frowned up at me. “Don’t you go saying things just to make me feel good. That’s not a very Brooklyn way to behave. I’ll have to revise my opinion of you if you do that. Do I look so bad that you have to tell me lies to make me feel better?”
That was a lot of stuff all at once. Most of it was true, and I didn’t know how to respond. But her accusation held the answer. If I was going to be Connie’s friend, I needed to be as Brooklyn as I could manage.
“I must be susceptible to your Southern ways, Connie. I did feel protective, because you look tired today. I guess I was trying too hard to make you feel better.”
She nodded and lowered herself to the chair. “I am tired. I don’t understand. Mr. Trent says that it could take a long time for this medicine to kick in and that I should give it another month or even two, but I just don’t have any energy. I’m as worn out as a hound dog at the end of hunt day.”
My stomach dropped to my toes. I wanted to hug her tight and tell her everything would be all right, but that would have been a lie. “Do you feel like going home?” I asked.
“No!” Her voice was strong, the tone emphatic. “I made it here and I want to learn how to make a pine needle rim for my gourd. Now, how do you do that? And what are all the parts called? I want to be able to order my own materials when I’m done.”
She didn’t want to be treated like a patient, didn’t want to become just an illness. I pressed my hands together. “I’ll give you contact information for my vendors. Primitive Originals. The Caning Shop. Turtle Feathers. They’re all great to do business with.”
A little color crept back into her face, and her smile had more energy in it.
“Nothing about working with gourds is magic, and everything is. It’s up to you to find the magic. I’ll show you the techniques and explain how to use the materials, and then you’ll add your personal Connie-ness, and that’s the magic. So, here’s how you make a pine needle rim.”
I demonstrated how to mark off even intervals using a pencil and a flexible transparent ruler. When the markings were made, I chose a bit for my Dremel, showed Connie how to insert it into the chuck and tighten it so that it wouldn’t wobble and injure either the gourd or the gourd artist, and then I made the first hole.
“Even pressure,” I said. “And a firm hand. That’s the only secret.”
When she picked up the tool, it fell out of her hands. I caught it just before it clattered to the floor and put it back in her hand. Tears glistened in her eyes, and defeat slumped her shoulders.
“I should have warned you. It’s heavier than you think. I dropped this sucker three, four times before I got the hang of it.”
If she could tell that I was lying, she didn’t let on. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and said, “Okay, let’s try this again.”
Six minutes later, she had seventeen evenly spaced holes half an inch below the rim of her gourd. She took her time choosing pine needles, lining them up to make sure they were all the same length and laying them out on the work table with care. She was quick to pick up the technique of holding the needles against the rim with one hand and using the upholstery needle to lace the sinew that would hold them in place through the holes. When she came to the end, her eyes were glistening again, but this time a smile of triumph lit her face.