by Sherry Lewis
Brandon settled back in the chair and tried to smile. “So, what can I help you with, Mr. Vickery?”
Fred sat on the couch. “I’d like to talk with you about the night Joan died.”
Brandon’s smile never made it to his eyes. His mouth stopped its upward tilt, his body tensed. “What about it?”
“I’d like you to tell me what happened.”
Brandon looked out the window in the direction of the lake. Clouds hung heavily over the forest, obscuring the view of the lake. “I wish I knew.”
If his grief was genuine, Fred wanted to tread carefully. If it wasn’t…well, he should probably tread carefully anyway. “I’ve heard that you think she committed suicide. Would you tell me why you believe that?”
With a huge sigh, Brandon looked back at Fred. His eyes sagged downward at the corners. His entire face took on a pathetic look. “Who knows? Like I told the sheriff, I never could figure out what upset her. Now suppose you tell me why you care so damned much.”
Fred shrugged. “I knew her a little. It just doesn’t seem like something she would do—as far as I knew, that is. She adored your little girl. I can’t wrap my mind around the idea of her taking her own life and leaving the girl alone.”
“Madison is hardly alone,” Brandon said. “And trust me, Joan wasn’t what she pretended to be. Is Kate behind this?”
Fred shook his head. “I wouldn’t say that, although she’s curious about why Joan would take her own life. Joan just never seemed unstable to me. When I heard that she might have committed suicide, it came as a shock.”
“So that’s why you’ve been asking questions all around town?” Brandon’s expression softened a bit, but his eyes remained guarded. “Her suicide wasn’t surprising. She’d threatened it so often, I’d stopped paying attention.”
That seemed harsh, but the man was talking to him and Fred didn’t want him to stop. “I suppose nobody really knows what goes on in someone else’s life. But why was she unhappy?”
“Joan had serious problems as long as I knew her. Her father . . .” Brandon lowered his head in a gesture of despair, but his display of emotion wasn’t entirely convincing. “Tell me, how well do you know Kate?”
“As well as I can in four days, I suppose.”
“What do you think of her?”
Fred wasn’t sure how to answer that, and he didn’t want to let the conversation get off-track, but he said, “She’s interesting. Hard to get through to, I guess you could say.”
Brandon nodded slowly. “Their father destroyed them both. Classic case of emotional abuse. They each found their own way of dealing with life. Kate doesn’t believe in love—not any kind. She’ll do anything to avoid commitment. She can’t give. That’s how Russell screwed her up. Joan . . . well, Joanie was different. She wanted love. She needed to be loved, but nobody could ever love her enough. No matter what I did, it wasn’t good enough. She wanted someone to coddle her and take care of her, but she didn’t like the physical demands of marriage. While I—” He stopped. Shrugged. And went on with a thin smile. “I found out too late that she didn’t really want a husband—if you know what I mean.”
Fred did. He didn’t want to hear the details.
“God, this is hard.” Brandon reached for his glass, remembered it was empty, and scowled into the bottom of it. “You must know how I feel. Didn’t you lose your wife a few years ago?”
“Under different circumstances, yes.”
Someone came into the room behind Fred and cleared his throat. Brandon looked up, smiled weakly and composed his face. “Tony. Fred’s asking some questions about Joan.”
Tony Striker came into view and perched on one arm of the sofa. “Really? What kind of questions? Has something new happened?”
“No, nothing like that,” Fred said. “I’m asking about the night Joan died. I’m curious about what had her so upset that the two of you believe she committed suicide.”
Tony smiled easily, a flash of white in his tanned face. “I had no idea you and Joan were so close.”
Fred had never claimed they were close. “I haven’t been able to sleep well since it happened. I can’t imagine what she felt . . . And I’m curious about the bruise on her neck. How do you suppose that got there?”
Tony shook his head thoughtfully. “She must have fallen out there by the lake. Did you know that we found Kate’s sleeping pills gone? She must have taken twenty or thirty of them.”
“So many? How can you be sure?”
“I took her to Granby to fill the prescription just a few days before she died. If she took any before that night, it would only have been one or two.”
Interesting, but Fred hadn’t asked how she’d committed suicide, he’d asked why, and nobody wanted to answer him. He rubbed one hand across his chin and tried to look thoughtful. “It’s a terrible tragedy for everyone. But I still don’t understand why she’d do it, and neither does Kate. She’s starting to have some doubts.”
Brandon leaned forward, his eyes bright. “What do you mean, doubts?”
Tony shot a look at Fred and moved to stand beside Brandon’s chair. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’m sure Mr. Vickery didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
Fred had meant it exactly the way it sounded.
Brandon shot to his feet. “How can you say it’s all right? You want me to just sit here and smile while this old man tries to make it sound like someone killed Joan? It’s hard enough going through all this as it is.” He pointed one finger unsteadily at Fred. “I’m through talking to you.”
“You’re over-reacting,” Tony said. “Fred didn’t say that, did you Fred?”
Not yet. But he sure wanted to. “All I said was that Kate is starting to have some doubts about how her sister died. If she knew exactly what happened the night Joan died, and what was making Joan unhappy enough to end her own life, I think it would help.”
Brandon’s chest heaved for a moment as he struggled to compose himself, and the sound of labored breathing filled the room. “If Kate wants to know anything, let her come and ask me. I’m not talking to you about it. This is a family matter.”
“Come on, Brandon. Talking with Fred won’t hurt anything,” Tony said reasonably.
Brandon glared at Tony for a moment, but with visible effort, he calmed himself and faced Fred again. “You want to know what happened here the night she died? Fine. She destroyed me. The biggest night of my life, my once in a lifetime chance to make something of myself. Me, not Joan’s husband. And what did she do? She refused to come down before dinner, barely spoke to any of our guests when she did deign to join us, and then disappeared right after dinner. Of course, I didn’t know where she was or what she was doing. All I knew was that those people would never take me seriously again. She destroyed me, in more ways than one.”
“It was a fiasco,” Tony agreed. “And it upset Brandon, as you can see.” He put an arm around his cousin’s shoulders and urged him toward the door. “If you’ll wait a minute, Mr. Vickery, I’ll be right back. I think Brandon’s had enough for now.”
Fred inclined his head slightly and the two men moved out of the room. Relieved to find himself alone, he pulled in a deep breath. His knees trembled. He pressed his hands against them and willed the trembling to stop. By the time Tony returned, he felt better.
“I’m sorry about that,” Tony said as he took the chair Brandon had vacated. “You’ll forgive Brandon, won’t you? This whole thing has been so rough on him. Not just Joan dying, but the last few months. She was like a different woman toward the end.”
“So people have said,” Fred admitted. “But I still don’t know how she was different, or why.”
“I wish I could tell you. Hell, we all wish we knew the answers to those questions. Something was obviously bothering her, though none of us knew how bad it really was. And of course Brandon feels guilty. He thinks he should have been able to recognize her problem and fix it somehow.”
“Brandon said tha
t Joan destroyed him in more ways than one. What did he mean by that?”
“Their marriage had been on the rocks for several months, ever since Joan started suspecting him of cheating on her. She started taking sleeping pills to get through the night, and God only knows what else to get through the day. That’s the truth, Fred, though whether you tell Kate or not is up to you. It might make it worse for her to know.”
“Do you think Joan purposely ruined Brandon’s dinner party?”
“No. She was genuinely upset that night, but I don’t know why. They’d had some horrible arguments over the last few months. I guess I just assumed they’d had another one.”
Fred knew he was pushing, but he also knew that Tony could clam up at any time. He wanted as many answers as he could get. “What did they argue about?”
“That night? I don’t know.”
“Weren’t you here?”
“Sure, but I didn’t hear them arguing—I just assumed they’d had an argument since lately that’s what they seemed to do most.”
Trying to get answers from these people was next to impossible. “I understand that she had an argument with Logan Ramsey that night. Do you know what that was about?”
Tony frowned thoughtfully. “With Logan Ramsey? Where did you hear that?”
“Around. I don’t remember where.”
“I don’t think he was even here that night.”
“I understand he left early. He said that Brandon and Joan had been arguing when he got here.”
Tony’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know about that. But I’m starting to think that Brandon isn’t over-reacting. Are you suggesting that Joan was murdered?”
Fred didn’t respond.
Tony ran his fingers through his hair and one dark lock fell across his forehead. “Do you know how ridiculous that sounds? Who on earth would want to murder her? What motive could there possibly be?”
“There’s always money,” Fred said simply.
Tony laughed shortly. “You think somebody killed Joan because of money? You really didn’t know her very well, did you? Nobody would have to kill her for money—she practically gave it away. If anybody wanted money from Joan, all they had to do was ask.” He kneaded his forehead for a long moment. “You don’t really believe somebody killed her, do you?”
“I don’t know. Apparently she recently had arguments with a number of people.”
“Ramsey? I didn’t think he’d have the guts to kill somebody.”
“If there’s one thing I’ve realized the last couple of days, it’s that I don’t know people as well as I thought I did.”
“Really? Lots of secrets lurking out there in our little village? Who else has surprised you?”
Fred waved his hand, pushing away the question. He had no intention of telling Tony Striker—or anybody else, for that matter—what he knew.
Tony opened his mouth to speak again, but stopped short at the sound of quick footsteps on the front deck. The front door burst open and Margaret came in on a blast of cold air. She stomped her feet and looked up, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold.
When she noticed Fred in the living room, her expression fell. “Dad? What are you doing here?”
Fred gave her a smile, partly so she wouldn’t worry and partly because she grew more beautiful every day. With her dark hair and eyes and her heart-shaped face, she looked like a young Olivia de Havilland, except Margaret’s eyes were a little closer together and her mouth was a bit wider.
He got up and walked into the foyer for a hug. “Waiting to see you, sweetheart,” he lied.
To his dismay, Tony followed him and started up the stairs. “Well, then… Madison’s having a nap. I’ll let you know when she’s awake. And I’ll leave the two of you to visit. It was good to see you Mr. Vickery.”
With a sinking heart, Fred watched him climb the stairs two at a time. After all that, he still didn’t know much more than he had when he got here. The one thing he did know was that he’d have to work long and hard to get either of them to talk to him again.
thirteen
As Tony disappeared up the stairs, Fred turned back to Margaret and tried to hide his disappointment. Not only had he come up empty handed in his search for new information about the night Joan died, but he’d waited too long to ask about the problems between Joan and Summer. Summer’s version differed from Winona’s, and he’d hoped that either Brandon or Tony could shed a little light on the subject. Now he’d lost his chance to ask.
Margaret was watching him with her sharp eyes, so Fred decided to strike before she could. “So you’re up here again today? Don’t you think it’s time Brandon found someone permanent to take care of the child?”
“It’s only been a week, Dad.”
“I realize that, but shouldn’t some of the other ladies take a turn? You can’t do it all.”
Margaret’s eyes clouded and the smile slid from her lips. “Is that why you’re up here? To check on me?”
“Somebody’s got to keep an eye on you,” he teased. He wanted her to bristle at him the way Phoebe would have, but he should have known better.
“Nobody has to keep an eye on me,” she said firmly. “I’m not doing anything wrong.”
“Of course you’re not. You’re just doing too much.”
Margaret busied herself with her keys, gloves and purse and Fred fell silent. He didn’t say that he knew Webb would be too busy at the Copper Penny to look after her, because he knew how much it would hurt her.
But she knew what he meant. “Webb’s angry enough at me,” she said with a scowl. “Don’t you start.”
Fred cursed silently at the thought of his son-in-law and wished for the millionth time that Margaret had never married him. “Why is he angry?”
Margaret shrugged out of her coat. “The usual. He says I’m not taking care of my own family. He wants me home.” Her tone hinted at things she left unsaid.
“And?”
“And nothing.”
If Webb had started acting up again, no wonder she spent every waking hour caring for these people. Fred pressed a kiss onto her cheek. “You’re not angry with your poor old dad, are you?”
The annoyed look eased from her eyes and she laughed, a wonderful sound that ran up the scale of delight. It was Phoebe’s laugh, and it never failed to tug at Fred’s heartstrings when he heard it—which was far too seldom these days.
“Were you really waiting for me,” she asked, “or did I interrupt something else?”
This wasn’t the time or the place for a confession, so Fred put an arm around her shoulders and said, “You didn’t interrupt a thing, sweetheart.”
She made a face at him. “I’m not sure I believe you, but come into the kitchen and I’ll pretend that I do.” She started toward the back of the house, talking as she walked. She looked too thin these days. Her jeans practically hung from her hips and her sweatshirt looked two sizes too large. “Where’s Kate? Didn’t she come with you?”
Fred trailed after her. “She wasn’t up when I left.”
“So you sneaked off without her? What are you up to?”
“Up to?”
Margaret laughed. “Don’t act innocent with me, Dad. I know you.”
“I’m just trying to help Kate, that’s all. She’s a stranger in town, and she needs help figuring out what happened to her sister.”
“There are plenty of other people who can help her. Enos, for example.”
“True, but she’s staying with me. I feel responsible.”
Margaret stopped just inside the kitchen. “I heard all about how you managed that. Enos isn’t pleased, to say the least.”
“Can’t help that.”
“Why don’t you just leave the whole thing alone? Enos is the Sheriff. He’s got everything under control.”
“Under control?” His voice came out too loud. He closed the kitchen door and lowered his voice before he spoke again. “When he believes this cockamamie suicide story? If I leave it up to
him, somebody’s going to get away with murder.”
Margaret folded her arms over her chest. “You’re doing it again, aren’t you? You’ve been up nights thinking about this and you’re obsessed with it.”
“I am not obsessed.”
“Have you been sleeping? Don’t lie to me. The last few weeks it’s been the brakes on your car. Now it’s going to be Joan’s death. It’s always something. If you’re not careful, you’ll worry yourself to death.”
“Horse feathers.”
“Just tell me one thing—what makes you so sure Joan didn’t commit suicide?”
“It’s a gut feeling,” he said. “My gut has never failed me.”
Margaret rolled her eyes and stowed her things in a utility closet. “You don’t have any proof, do you? Please let it go, Dad. You’re not as young as you used to be. Your health isn’t good. I worry about you.”
Fred didn’t know why he worked so hard to spare her feelings when she didn’t give a thought for his. “I’m not dead yet.” He’d meant his words to sound light, but they came out harsh and tight.
“Thank God for that! I can’t stand the thought of something happening to you.”
Her pain hit him right between the eyes. “Now who’s worrying? I’m not going anywhere yet, sweetheart.”
“How do you know? Doc says you’ve got to take it easy. He says—”
Fred cut her off. “He says a lot of things, the old fool. Why do you believe him and not me? I know my own body. If there was anything wrong with me but this blasted arthritis, wouldn’t I know it? I tell you, if I hadn’t known that joker all my life, I’d file a complaint against him for malpractice.”
Margaret ticked her tongue but she stopped arguing. Fred counted that as a minor victory. He lowered himself into a chair at the kitchen table near a large plate-glass window and stared at the granite face of the mountain a few yards behind him. He knew that Margaret was afraid of losing him, and how deeply losing her mother had hurt her. But he couldn’t give up on life yet, not even for her.
Cupboards opened and closed, pans rattled, and silverware clinked as she worked. After a minute, she spoke again. “So how are things going with Kate? Are you two getting along?”