by Maggie Bruce
She really meant it, I could tell. Which was why she was the innkeeper and I was the woman who had stitched together a life that didn’t let me focus on only one thing so that I could call myself a gourd artist or a mediator or a writer. I shook the ruminations away and said, “You have time for a coffee break? I’m on my way to the Lovett’s, and I have forty-five minutes to kill.”
She set the beater on the ground and hooked her arm through mine. “I thought you’d never ask. I like doing that, but I like sitting around with a friend even better.”
Laughing and chattering about her spring cleaning, Melissa led me into the cool of the inn kitchen. I got down white porcelain mugs, the china sugar bowl, spoons while she put croissants on plates.
“How do you stay a size six with all this great food around?” Whenever I stopped at the inn, Melissa was always bringing out some rich temptation. And she never just watched, either.
“So now you understand about the rugs?” She slathered her croissant with raspberry jam and took a huge bite. “And the vacuuming and chopping vegetables and hauling out garbage and making beds and doing laundry and cleaning gutters and—”
“Okay, I’m impressed.” I knew she had help, but she worked right along with them, every day. “And now you’re adding another restaurant. Soon you’ll be a size four.”
She laughed. “Nora’s in charge of that one. Our partnership is really working out better than I expected. Oh, did I tell you I spoke to B.H.? You know, my assignment, so to speak.”
At the mention of my attorney’s name, my stomach did a little flip. I managed to smile and shake my head and hold my breath, all at the same time.
“He made it easy for me. Came to the restaurant for dinner night before last. All by himself. So after he ordered a drink I went over and chatted. You know, innkeeper greeting customer stuff.”
That was another aspect of her business I’d never be good at. Small talk was definitely not my strong suit. “And?” I said, as nonchalantly as I could.
“And he flirted with me. For five minutes. Told me how wonderful the place looked, how wonderful I looked, how he felt he could count on the experience of being well cared for here.” A blush crept into her cheeks and her hand went to her hair. “But I didn’t bite. I remembered what you and Elizabeth said about asking questions that would get someone talking, so I chatted him up about Marjorie.”
I ripped off a piece of croissant and popped it in my mouth to keep from saying “And?” again.
“He definitely didn’t want to go there. Seemed bored by the whole thing but I’m sure it was just that he knows he can’t talk about a case he’s involved with. Then he slipped in a really interesting bit of business.” Melissa sipped her coffee, a frown gathering across her forehead. “He asked me if I was interested in having a business partner. To develop more inns and restaurants in the Hudson Valley and the Berkshires. He said he wanted to have a minority interest, in return for a fair share of profits. I couldn’t believe it. I sort of stammered my way through some questions. How much did he want to put into the venture? Why did he think this was a good investment? Would he want to have a say in things, you know, the feel of a place, the menu, that kind of thing.”
“And?”
“And he said he was interested in making a change in his life. That he saw it as a way to stop pushing papers and making speeches in front of people who would rather be doing the laundry than sitting on a jury. But, you know, then he just shook his head and slugged down his drink—good Scotch, the kind he usually nurses for half an hour—and said that I should forgive him for being so impulsive, that he needed to think things through. Like magic, his appetizer appeared right then, so I left him to his dinner. We got busy and I didn’t even see him leave.”
Thoughts clanged against each other. In my mind, there arose a great clatter . . . What was I doing, thinking in children’s rhymes?
I was avoiding thinking clearly about Melissa’s conversation with Hovanian. I really needed to take a deep breath and apply a little sane logic to the question of whether their discussion shed any light on the murder of Marjorie Mellon.
“First thing that strikes me is that he’s got a lot of money. What if Marjorie discovered that it wasn’t kosher?” It was much easier to deal with that notion than the almost-proffered partnership offer that he’d set in front of Melissa.
“Mmmmph,” she said through a mouthful of flaky pastry. She chewed and swallowed and started again. “Exactly. That’s one of the things I thought. I have the perfect opening to ask him more about it. You know, his offer and all.”
“You’d really consider taking on another partner? What about Nora? Don’t you have to consult her about that?”
Melissa nodded and wiped the dollop of jam from the corner of her mouth. “Absolutely. If I were serious about having a business partner. That’s not in the cards. I don’t want to become HoJo’s East or anything. I’m having fun, making enough money to put some away, and I have no desire to get all corporate and greedy.”
There was the G word again. Maybe I was just paying attention differently, but it seemed to be on everyone’s lips these days.
“That sounds right. Let’s back up. You said that the idea of Marjorie discovering something weird about how Hovanian got his money was one of the things you thought. What was another?”
“Mmmm,” she said. This time, her mouth wasn’t full of food and a dreamy smile spread across her face. “The other thing I thought was that now that your brother is gone, probably never to return except for brief fly-overs between games, B.H. suddenly struck me as a very attractive man.”
Coffee sloshed onto the table as I set my cup down. I dabbed at it with a paper towel, got up and searched for the garbage.
“What’s the matter, Lili? Don’t you think he’s, well . . . intriguing?”
My back to her, I nodded and mumbled assent, and didn’t say that intriguing was exactly how I would describe Berge Hartounian Hovanian.
If I Were to imagine the perfect family and then conjure up the perfect house for them to live in, it would pretty much be a replica of Mel and Connie Lovett’s center hall colonial. Set on a knoll with a pond at the bottom of the gentle hill, the yellow clapboards and white trim sparkled in the late morning sun. The kitchen, spacious and sunny, flowed into a brick-floored breakfast area, and Connie sat in the window seat, working on a crossword puzzle. She got up when Mel led me into the room.
“Lili, I couldn’t resist your offer.” Her voice was weak and she appeared to have lost even more weight. Her jeans and sweatshirt hung from her body. “We should get started. I don’t know how long I’ll last.”
Mel blanched at her remark, then helped her to her feet. “She’s all set up in the mud room. Took over an entire wall with her gourd equipment.” His voice didn’t quite match the nonchalance of his words.
I followed behind, wondering whether this had been such a good idea after all. I didn’t want to be responsible for wearing her out—but maybe our time would have the opposite effect. Even if the only outcome was that Connie would have twenty pleasant minutes in which she forgot about her troubles, then I’d be happy. I exhaled, and then tried to breathe in some positive thoughts.
“I thought we’d try some pyrography today,” I said. “You know, it’s woodburning. Like the Boy Scouts used to do.”
Mel smiled as he helped Connie into her chair. “Still do. My grandson made me a box for my wallet and keys and such. Exactly like the one I made my grandpa when I was nine. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything.”
Connie tugged at his sleeve until he leaned down and kissed her cheek and then he left. “Okay,” she said smiling, “let’s burn some gourds.”
I set up the transformer, connected a stylus with a tiny round tip, turned the dial so that the heat was set at six, a good setting for general pyrography on a gourd with a medium thick shell. “See this cork protector?” I said, pointing to the two-inch cylinder that encircled the stylus. “It’
s like those cardboard sleeves for coffee cups. Keeps you from getting burned. So that’s where you hold the stylus. Some folks call it a pen, but that’s confusing to me, even though it looks like one. No ink. Not a pen.”
Connie reached for her gourd.
“Respirators first,” I reminded her. I reached into my box, pulled out my mask, waited until she fixed hers firmly across her nose and mouth.
I showed her how to hold the stylus. “Lightly, that’s it. The hot point is going to do the work, not the pressure. And if you want to do curved lines, I find it’s easier to turn the gourd and keep the stylus still.”
Smoke curled up from the gourd, and the peculiar and satisfying smell of gourdburning wafted through the air. Connie’s expression was familiar, a combination of transfixed wonder and utter concentration that I’d seen on the faces of most gourders when they learn a new skill. Her lips pressed together and the stylus glided over the surface of the gourd until a deep brown line nearly encircled the rim. As she was about to complete the circle, her hand jerked and a small gouge blossomed at the end of the line.
She exhaled between clenched teeth and turned to me with tears in her eyes. “I can’t do this. I’m not strong enough to hold this damn thing. I don’t know why I even try.”
I replaced the stylus in its holder and squeezed Connie’s arm. “You try because it’s who you are. You’re not one to give up. Even when things are hard.”
Her eyes, when she met my gaze, glittered with anger. “You can’t know. You just can’t know how it is. It takes so much energy just to . . .” She shook her head, covered my hand with hers. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m too tired to do this after all. I didn’t mean to snap at you. But I’m glad you’re here. I want to ask you a favor.”
I flipped off the transformer and said, “Anything, Connie. You know that. Whatever you need.”
She turned the gourd in her hands, then looked up at me. “I can’t tell anyone else. Not Mel, certainly, and not my doctor. Not until I know. I mean, I’m pretty sure, but I need proof.” She sank back in her chair, breathing hard from the exertion of her speech.
Her words were confusing, but knowing Connie, she’d get to the point in a minute. I wanted to wrap her in a soft pink cloud and pour sunshine on her head. Instead of asking questions, I waited.
“I think the pills I’ve been taking are fakes.”
“What?” I felt as though someone had punched me in the stomach. My head spun and a million thoughts clamored for attention. “Why?”
“Everything I read on the Internet, I should have had problems with my hands and feet. It’s pretty universal. Burning, itching. By the second month, I should have had some sign of that. But there’s nothing.” Her voice was stronger and her eyes glittered with anger. “I mentioned it to my doc. He said maybe I was just an exception. But I don’t think so.”
My brain calmed down enough so that I began to understand some of the implications. If she was right about the pills being fakes, then someone had given her placebos instead of the chemotherapy she was supposed to get. If it was accidental, a mistake at the drug manufacturing plant or a labeling error, then incompetence might kill her. If it was intentional, then either someone was trying to get rid of Connie or . . .
“Connie, how much do those pills cost?”
She nodded. “A lot. Eighty dollars each. And I take forty-two a month. The insurance covers most of it, but I see the bills.”
I was still trying to catch my breath. That was a lot of money to me, to anyone who didn’t have millions stashed away somewhere. Who would benefit from giving Connie pills that wouldn’t help her?
The drug manufacturer wouldn’t do it. Doctors wouldn’t keep ordering pills that didn’t work. A drug distributor? Were there such things—companies that shipped drugs from various manufacturers to . . .
“Oh, you’re saying that . . . Joseph Trent?” My voice was barely a whisper.
Connie exhaled hard. “I know. I didn’t let myself even consider it at first. But the more I looked for another answer, the more he seemed to be the only real possibility. And then I started thinking about it. His store is so shabby. He hasn’t taken a vacation in six years.”
“Since the Walgreens opened up down the road, right?”
She nodded. “His shoes have holes in the soles. His wife looks so sad all the time. I need to know, Lili, I really need to know. Can you help me?”
“Of course.” I grabbed her hand. “I’m not sure how, but I’ll figure it out. I’ll get my network going and I’ll find someone who can test one of those pills to see what’s in it. You have a couple extra?”
She reached into her pocket and handed me a pill bottle. “I need these like Bill Gates need another million.”
“Billion,” I said. “I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”
Chapter 25
“I’ve got a pharmacist friend. We’ll go see him together,” Karen had said after I told her Connie’s story over the phone. “Come down. Right now.”
With no traffic and a sense of urgency turning me into Leadfoot, the drive from Walden Corners to Brooklyn had taken less than two hours. We’d walked to Smith Street hissing and stomping out our anger. Mr. Kim, a man with a sweet smile and bottle-thick glasses, understood what Karen was asking right away, and agreed to help.
“Two hours,” he said, his mouth crinkling into a display of disapproval. He’d turned and disappeared through a doorway, leaving Mrs. Kim to continue smiling at us. Karen had leaned across the counter, kissed the startled woman on the cheek, and then grabbed my elbow and led me back out onto the street.
We spent the next half hour drinking coffee and pretending to catch up on the lives of mutual friends, but our hearts weren’t in it.
“Nothing’s worse than cold coffee and boring gossip.” Karen screwed her face into a frown and glared at her reflection in the mirror on the wall across from our small table. The café was practically empty, and so were our latte cups. She signaled for another round and fingerbrushed a stray turquoise hair back into place. “Tell me about your murder.”
“God, Karen, it’s not my murder! Although the sheriff ’s office keeps coming up with things that somebody’s doing to make it look that way.” My friend never asked a simple question when something shocking would do—I’d forgotten that. “Sorry. I don’t know if there’s a single new bit of information. The cops seem to be earnest about doing the right thing, but they have to wade through a townful of suspects. If I had to put my money on someone right now it would be Anita Mellon, Marjorie’s daughter.”
“Matricide. Usually it’s an Oedipal thing. Wouldn’t it be great if Anita turned out to be a cross-dresser and was really a guy? Then he’d be able to sell his story to The Enquirer for even more money.” She shook her head. “I’ve been reading too many graphic novels lately.”
“As in graphic sex and violence? I thought you hated that.”
She shook her head with an I-don’t-know-what-to-do-with-you smile. “Comics. That’s the latest thing. Although I suspect Jane Austen would turn up her sensibilities at the thought of calling them novels. And what about your guy, the one with the football player son? Last time we spoke he was on your short list.”
I glanced at my watch. Mr. Kim would be another hour. I might as well keep myself in this conversation or I’d go nuts waiting. Not that my impulse to delay answering was a form of denial or anything. Not that it meant I didn’t really want to face Karen’s question.
“He’s such a nice guy. He loves to cook, he’s interested in all kinds of music and books and stuff. He’s solvent and a good parent. Not to mention good-looking, with a great body. But he’s been acting weird since Marjorie’s murder.
He says he’s worried about me but then he turns around and cancels a dinner because he has to do paperwork and later he admits that he went to see Anita in Nashville about a business deal. And then he apologizes for not telling the truth. Dunno, Karen. I just don’t know about this guy.”
/> She grinned. “You sound the way you did when you were getting ready to break up with Ed Thorsen. Remember? You used to trot out all his good qualities. He was stable and compassionate and ambitious—for someone in the education field. He liked snorkeling. I can’t remember but you might have even said he had good taste in ties.”
“Oh, man, was I that transparent?” I laughed uncomfortably. “Took me months to get smart enough to see that I admired him, I respected him, but I did not, no way, shape, or form, love him. Breaking that engagement was so hard.”
“But you’re not engaged to Seth, right. And you never said you love him. He’s an attractive, available man you have a good time with, that’s all. Why do you need him to be more than that?”
“Maybe I want something I can count on.” I smiled and shook my head. “And also at the same time something that’s going to surprise me. So can I have it both ways, do you think?”
Karen studied my face and then broke out into a grin. “You know when I hear a different buzz in your words, that excitement you’re looking for? When you talk about your lawyer.”
A heart reader, that’s what she was. Karen always knew, even before I did, what I felt. I thought understanding my secrets was my brother Charlie’s province, but Karen could read my heart with a precision that spooked me. Once again, she’d gotten it right.
“Okay, all right. I haven’t said it out loud to myself but you’re right. He’s not like anyone I’ve ever met. He’s . . . I don’t know, he’s . . .”
“Old?” She toyed with her coffee cup. “And also new. Listen, you need to make sure you’re not turning into one of the girls who likes a guy for three, six, nine months and then when the novelty wears off you get restless and move on to something else.”
“Me? Not a chance. But it takes that long to get to know a person beyond the surface, right? Anyway, I don’t really have the energy for a relationship until a couple of other things are cleared up. Like the possibility of someone intentionally giving my friend phony pills instead of the expensive drug that’s supposed to keep her alive.” I looked at my watch. Another twelve minutes had passed.