“Mrs. Winston,” Manziuk said as he sat on the chair beside her bed. “We’re sorry to have to bother you again.”
“Have you found him?” Her voice was rasping.
“You mean the murderer? No, we haven’t yet. There are a couple of things I need to know. They might help me discover who it was.”
“He had no business hurting Crystal. She never did anybody any harm.” Her agitation continued to manifest itself as she twisted her hands in quick, jerky motions. “She was young. She never hurt anybody.”
“I know, Mrs. Winston. I wish I could bring her back. She didn’t deserve to die like that. But I can’t bring her back. I can only make sure that whoever did it doesn’t do it again.”
“She didn’t deserve it.”
“No.”
There was a long moment of silence.
Ryan opened her mouth to speak, but a sharp look from Manziuk made her shut it again.
Into the silence, Mrs. Winston at last spoke. Her voice was shaky, but determined. “What do you want?”
“I need to know,” Manziuk spoke distinctly, “whether Crystal was ever out of the kitchen on Sunday afternoon?”
“She was in the kitchen. We were working on supper.”
“I know. But it’s easy to forget. Did she go out to get glasses from the bar?”
“Glasses?”
“Dirty glasses. From the bar in the games room. Did she go to get them?”
“Dirty glasses. Oh, yes. I remembered them because of Bart. He was on the patio and I saw his glass. I don’t know why, but it made me remember that we hadn’t collected the ones from the bar since early in the morning. There were quite a few there from the night before. In the morning, Crystal put out fresh ones and we took the dirties to the kitchen. A little while after I saw Bart, I sent her to get the dirty ones and take a tray of fresh ones. She was hardly gone any time at all.”
“I see. So there were still people on the patio when you asked her to go?”
“Oh, yes. Quite a few. They were having lemonade.”
“Did Crystal go anywhere later? Say to check the flowers?”
“Flowers? I don’t remem—no, wait. She did go to the dining room to make sure the flowers were fresh for supper.”
“The dining room?” Manziuk’s voice betrayed disappointment. “But that’s at the front of the house.”
Ellen had come in and was listening, but now she interjected, “Yes, certainly. Is anything wrong with that, inspector?”
“No. I just—”
“What about the flowers in the other room?” Ryan asked. “Not the games room. The other one.”
“Oh, you mean the day room?” Ellen asked with interest. “Did you want her to go there?”
“Not particularly,” Manziuk said, his voice putting a damper on Ellen’s enthusiasm.
“She did, you know,” Mrs. Winston said, her voice weaker than before. “She told me she had just given them water because they still looked fine.”
“So she was in the day room?”
Mrs. Winston nodded. “Right after she picked the flowers.”
“What?” The word burst from Manziuk’s lips and exploded into the small, crowded room.
“She picked flowers for the dining room arrangement. Just a few. Most of the flowers were fine, but a few had wilted. She picked some Shasta daisies and some roses.”
“Which garden?” Manziuk asked, his voice under control again, but eagerness in every line of his body.
“Why, the rose garden, of course,” Ellen answered. “The Shasta daisies are just this side of the entranceway, and there are lots of roses.”
“Is the arrangement still in the dining room?” Ryan asked as she started toward the door.
“Goodness, yes,” Ellen replied. “Who’s had time to think about flowers in this house?”
It was fairly easy to tell which roses Crystal had added to the vase. A few were clearly fresher than the others. And a quick walk to the garden showed that the roses had been picked from two bushes that were near the entrance—a beautiful reddish orange tea rose called Tropicana, and a majestic pink bloom named Queen Elizabeth.
“Who knows what she saw?” Manziuk muttered half under his breath after he and Ryan had taken their leave of Mrs. Winston and Ellen and seated themselves in the front seat of their car, with Manziuk at the wheel.
“The question is, did he see her?” Ryan added.
“Or she.”
“Yes, or she.”
“In any case, we now have a good possibility as to what happened. She came out here and saw someone either coming from or going into the Japanese garden. She didn’t think anything of it. Who knows if she’d even put it together when we interviewed her? It may have been later that it occurred to her to wonder what that person had been up to.”
“Or perhaps he, or she, approached Crystal.”
“Whatever, we now have to figure out who she saw.”
“You know,” Ryan said, “she might have gone to the garden herself and murdered Jillian Martin, though I can’t imagine why.”
“Unless it turns out Crystal was Peter’s secret girlfriend, I don’t think I’ll buy that.”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“True. But I hope not in this case.”
“How about money?”
“If you mean that Jillian was blackmailing Crystal, or if, as I suspect you may mean, you think someone paid Crystal to kill Jillian, I don’t think so. I think she saw something and decided to make a profit from it.”
“It would have to be someone she wasn’t particularly afraid of.”
“According to Kendall, and even Nick himself, Nick Donovan has no trouble getting women to fall for him. I think if he had spun Crystal a good enough tale, she’d have believed Jillian’s murder was justified.”
Ryan nodded. “If a sensible girl like Lorry Preston is attracted to him, no doubt Crystal would have been.”
“Hmm.” Manziuk found a parking place. “Well, let’s go check out a few more things with Peter Martin.”
After a quick glance at Manziuk’s ID, Peter’s secretary buzzed her boss and watched with interest as Peter hurried out of his office to usher Manziuk and Ryan inside.
“Any news?” he asked as they seated themselves on the plush leather.
“No arrest, yet, but there may be one soon,” Manziuk replied.
“Dare I ask who?”
“Not for the moment. Mr. Martin, this is a rather delicate matter, but one I need to clear up. Your partner, Douglass Fischer, was on a business trip a couple of months ago. He took his secretary.”
Peter stared at him. “Even if he did, what’s that got to do with Jillian’s murder?”
“You’re aware of the trip?”
“Yes. Douglass, er, asked me for advice when he got back. You are, I take it, referring to the fact that it turned out to be more pleasure than business?”
“What I would like to know, Mr. Martin, is if you said anything to your wife about that weekend? Anything at all?”
“To Jillian? No, of course not. I wouldn’t…” His eyes looked away and a tinge of pink touched his cheeks.
“You remember something?”
“Yes. Not about the weekend. But—look, what’s this got to do with Jillian’s murder? You surely don’t suspect Douglass or Anne, do you?”
“Mr. Martin, your wife was blackmailing Mr. Fischer. She knew all about the weekend and had obtained evidence.”
“Oh, my God!”
“We need to know her source.”
“All I said to her—and it was unintentional, a slip of the tongue—was that I didn’t blame Douglass for slipping the leash. And I said something about his secretary—Miss Kayne—being attractive. Then I realized I shouldn’t have said that much and I changed the subject. That’s all.”
“Would it be possible for us to talk to Miss Kayne?”
“Douglass isn’t in yet. You could talk to her in his office where it’s private.”
Five minutes later, the young woman was threatening tears. “It’s so terrible about Mrs. Martin. She was so nice. So friendly.”
“Did you tell her about your relationship with Mr. Fischer?”
“Not what you’d call a relationship. Just that one time. My boyfriend Randy would kill me if he found out.”
“You told Mrs. Martin about that one time?”
“She asked me about him. You know, about me working for him. Said she knew how hard it was to work with someone every day and not get—I think the word she used was ‘involved.’”
“And you told her about the weekend?”
“Well, not right out.” She looked at her hands. “I—well, I asked her what I should do. You know, if my boyfriend ever found out, he’d be really mad. Really mad.”
“What did she say?”
“She asked me if there was any proof. You know, letters or such. I said no. And I said there wouldn’t be any trouble because we had signed in with our own names. You know, we had separate rooms.”
“Did you mention the name of the hotel?”
“I might have.” She looked at him, suddenly curious. “Why? You aren’t going to tell anyone, are you?”
“I don’t think that will be necessary.”
“Randy won’t find out?”
“Not from us.”
“Good. I sure wouldn’t want him to find out. And you know,” she said confidingly, “I thought it would be exciting, but it wasn’t. We were both too worried somebody would find out.” Her voice was wistful. “It wasn’t any good at all.”
Douglass Fischer sat alone at his desk. Before him was a paper full of writing; in his right hand was an empty glass.
He had a decision to make.
Life couldn’t go on this way. He couldn’t take it. Neither, it appeared, could Anne.
Manziuk had recommended counseling. But he didn’t know a good counselor. There were a lot of duds out there. How did a person find one worth taking the chance on?
And would Anne even go?
Well, it was that or what? Give up?
Who should he blame for the way his life had become? His kids? Anne? His job? Society? Himself? And why on earth hadn’t he realized what was happening? Why had he never once sat down and thought about it? Anne had tried. He had to be honest. She’d tried to get him to talk about the kids. About her needs. But he’d been too busy to listen. No. That was a cop-out. He hadn’t wanted to listen. Hadn’t wanted to bother.
And now look at the mess they were in.
But it wasn’t too late, was it?
They were still alive.
They were still young enough to change.
Well, there was no harm in trying.
Maybe Anne’s doctor knew the name of a good psychiatrist.
He looked at his empty glass. A refill? No, he really should go into the office.
No. No more escaping. No more running away. He would go upstairs and talk to Anne if she was awake. And if she wasn’t awake, he would sit in the chair across from the bed until she woke up. And then he would do something he hadn’t done for a very long time. He would tell his wife he loved her.
Bart and Shauna ate a late lunch. She’d ordered contact lenses, bought several new dresses and other items of clothing, and made a hair appointment which she would keep right after lunch.
Bart told her what George had said. He expected sympathy. He got scorn.
“You’re ridiculous,” she said simply. “I may not know anywhere near as much as you do, but at least I can support myself.”
“Oh? What’s this about Peter’s sending you to art school?”
Her cheeks flamed. “I’ll pay him back. Every penny. It’s only that I’ve given most of my money to my family. Otherwise I’d have enough.”
“You aren’t giving them any more, I hope.”
“Not my parents. But I’ll have to see if I can help the girls. Otherwise, they’re sure to end up like Jillian. They may, anyway, but I’ll have to try.”
“Well, Sleeping Beauty, you’ve awakened with a vengeance.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Where is this art school?”
“New York, I hope. Peter said something about Paris, but that’s a bit much.”
“Who knows? If you have talent, and I think you do, the world is yours.”
“I don’t want the world.”
“What do you want?”
“Just to be left alone. To be able to be me. Lorry said something about everyone’s needing to be loved and to have a sense of importance—something you do that is yours. I can’t really expect someone to love me, but I can do what is inside me to do. Maybe—I don’t know—maybe that will be enough.”
“Why can’t you expect someone to love you?”
“Why should I? Anyway, that’s out of my control.”
“Not entirely.”
She looked puzzled.
“It partly depends on you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Imbecile. Do you think I called you up because I had nothing else to do?”
Her eyes widened in dismay as she whispered, “Oh, no!”
Hildy set down the phone. It was done. She’d reserved two tickets to Vancouver. In one week they’d be gone.
Was she being foolish? With Jillian dead, there was no apparent reason to do this.
She shook her head. They had to go. Yes, it would be difficult. Hard to be so far from her sister. Hard for Stephen to leave his school and friends. But they had to go. Had to start a life someplace else where every street corner didn’t remind her of Peter.
For a brief moment back at the Brodies’ she’d thought maybe there was a chance. That Jillian’s death might have changed him. When he told her that he’d been in her room looking at Stephen’s picture, she’d held her breath, barely daring to hope. But it was no good. Peter didn’t love her. And he didn’t love Stephen. He liked them. But deep in her heart, she knew he didn’t care.
Next Friday, she would start a brand new life with nothing to remind her of Peter. And in time, who knew? A boy needed a father. No, a dad. Somebody to play catch with him and build a train with him and teach him to drive a car. Someday, maybe, she’d find a man like that. Someday. But not right away. Just now the very thought gave her a choked feeling in her throat.
Blindly, she grabbed a pitcher from a side table and threw it across the room. It hit full-on against a mirror and the two crashed together onto the floor, showering the room with a thousand bright slivers. “Oh, Peter, I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!”
A tremulous young voice said, “Mother?”
She spun around.
Stephen was standing in the doorway of his bedroom. His face was white, his chin quivering. “Mother? You’re scaring me.”
George Brodie opened the door of his office and came face to face with his son. This was a moment he’d waited for. A proud moment.
“We have an office all ready for you,” George said as he put his arm around Kendall’s shoulders. “I think you’ll be pleased.”
They walked down the hall, and George opened a door. “We’ll have your name put on it tomorrow.”
Kendall looked inside. A mahogany executive desk. A large matching credenza. Wine leather chairs. Heavy wine and cream curtains. Cream carpets. His face broke into a wide grin.
“Like it?” asked George.
“Like it? I love it! It’s perfect!”
“We’re still looking for a secretary for you. Should have one by the end of the week.”
“No problem. Although the secretary is a good idea. I never have been very good at typing. Nick has usually done it for me.”
“He hasn’t changed his mind?”
Kendall shrugged. “He told me this morning that he’s moving out at the end of the month. Says we’ll be living in different worlds now. I’m not sure where he’s going, and neither is he. But that’s his problem. If he’s going to turn down all th
is—” Kendall’s hand swept over the office as he spoke. “He’s got only himself to blame.”
It was pouring rain when Lorry walked out of the mission office. Nick was walking toward her.
“Oh! Nick! I—I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Have you any plans for dinner?”
“I’m staying with the man who runs the mission. At his house, I mean. I’ll be eating there.”
“How about going someplace with me tonight?’
“I—” She searched for an excuse that would sound reasonable. “I think that might be rude. I mean, considering I arrived yesterday.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“I’m here now.”
“I—I’m not sure.”
“Lorry, can’t you spare me a couple of hours? Or do you prefer giving your time to strangers?”
Her laugh sounded forced to her ears. “Nick, you’re basically a stranger. I’ve only known you since Friday!”
His eyes begged mutely as he said, “But I don’t want to be a stranger.”
“Nick.” Her voice implored him to leave.
“Lorry!”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“We don’t have to go far. There must be someplace around here we can eat. Just for a little while. Please?”
“You’re impossible. And you’re getting soaked. Oh, all right, but I’ll have to tell Dave and Marie.”
Nick took the umbrella from Lorry and held it as they walked through the rain to the house where she was staying.
She invited him inside to meet the Spaldings. Marie’s pale skin and straight blond hair contrasted with her husband’s ebony skin and curly black hair. Both expressed delight in meeting Nick.
“Never mind going out to eat in this miserable weather,” Marie said cheerfully. “I made stew and there’s a ton of it. You’re more than welcome to eat here.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind?” Lorry asked, ignoring the look in Nick’s eyes.
Shaded Light: The Case of the Tactless Trophy Wife: A Paul Manziuk and Jacquie Ryan Mystery (The Manziuk and Ryan Mysteries Book 1) Page 33