Edith’s plump face was claret red by mid-match. She huffed and puffed, but she had a wicked backhand and a corkscrew serve that drove the others mad. She chattered brightly, but when she had a chance to drill an opponent, her eyes glittered with undisguised satisfaction.
Brooke—Brooke Forrest, the trustee?—was the classic beauty of the bunch. She had an elegant, patrician face, luxuriant jet-black hair, aquamarine eyes, camellia-smooth skin. Somehow Brooke never looked hurried or hot or frantic. Her timing was superb, and her strokes smooth as spun glass.
Patty Kay was in charge. With great good humor, of course, but there was no mistaking the leader. And she was the champion of the doubles players, a booming serve, a slashing return of serve, put-away volleys. She was always moving.
In life, Patty Kay Prentiss Pierce Matthews had a mischievous grin, sparkling green eyes, and a husky, almost breathy voice. Her laugh ranged from an infectious peal to an earthy whoop. She laughed a lot. She wasn’t conventionally pretty. Her face was too angular, her mouth too wide. But she was compelling, fascinating, a woman who would always be noticed.
The laughter stopped when the tennis started. Patty Kay’s eyes blazed with fierce determination and total concentration. She was the kind of player who would rather die than lose. But they all played hard, Gina making little cries of victory or despair, Edith’s mouth a thin, straight line, Brooke’s body arching gracefully for an overhead.
Patty Kay’s iron will wasn’t as apparent off the court. At night—the four women lounging in brief, expensive silk gowns as they played bridge and gossiped—Patty Kay was the life of the party. Her earthy laughter sounded again and again. She could outlaugh them all: Gina, thin and nervous, talking a mile a minute; Edith, smiling and agreeable on the surface, but eager to cut down her companions in a superficially nice way; Brooke, tall, dark-haired, serious, her beauty almost breathtaking.
Perhaps the four women took too long a holiday. It was toward the end of the tape, again during one of the nightly bridge games, that Brooke—Brooke Forrest?—and Patty Kay clashed.
“I wonder what David will think about you and Evan?”
Brooke was arranging her cards. Her beautiful eyes studied Patty Kay for a moment before she said, “What are you talking about?”
“Our tennis pro from heaven, my sweet. You can’t tell me,” Patty Kay said slyly, “that you aren’t lusting for his body. I saw the way you leaned against him this afternoon. Mmm-mmm.”
“Who wouldn’t lean on him?” Gina gave a raucous whistle.
Edith simpered. “Brooke, your secret’s out.”
Brooke’s exquisite face might have been chiseled out of stone. Her eyes flashed as she looked from Edith to Patty Kay. “You’re not funny, either one of you. And don’t you dare say anything like that to my husband.”
“Tell the truth and shame the devil,” Patty Kay crowed.
Brooke threw down her cards. “Patty Kay, stop it. You don’t understand. David—” She shook her head and her lustrous black hair swirled around her narrow, elegantly boned face. “That would make David wild.”
“Oh, ho. That’s an almost irresistible temptation. Are you saying David Forrest, Mr. Perfect, can be roused to passion?” Patty Kay’s eyes glittered with amusement. “Oh, dear. Now, that’s another deep question. But one perhaps we’d better not pursue.”
“Why not?” Edith asked, her laughter trilling.
Gina frowned, suddenly serious. Perhaps she had recognized the cruelty of their taunts. “Knock it off, you two.”
Abruptly, Brooke shoved back her chair. “I’ve had enough. Sometimes you go too far, Patty Kay.” The door slammed. The sharp crack almost drowned out Patty Kay’s murmured “She’s never had enough.”
That was the end of the film. I punched Rewind. As the tape whirred, I kept hearing Patty Kay’s final vibrant whoop of laughter.
I returned the cassette to the cabinet and checked my watch. Just after four. Plenty of time. The library came next. It appeared to be the least lived-in room in the big house. The books were so evenly aligned, I knew they’d not been moved in a long time except perhaps to be dusted and reshelved. But it wasn’t the books, though many were beautifully bound, that attracted my interest.
The focal point of the room was the portrait of Patty Kay.
Portrait painters must despair of the unoriginal poses so often selected by their wealthy subjects. The most common, I suppose, are the demure hostess in a white organdy dress seated on a garden bench or the jodhpur-clad horsewoman standing next to an elegant Thoroughbred.
Instead, Patty Kay was forever captured in sweat-dampened tennis whites, her forehand curving into an overhead smash, her tanned face flushed, her green eyes intent and arrogantly triumphant, her curly dark hair bunched beneath a worn headband, her lips parted in effort, her tennis shoes smudged with dust from red clay. The portrait wasn’t especially flattering. The tendons in her neck were distended, the muscles in her arm were bunched, the bones of her vivid face were predatory and implacable. But the artist without doubt captured her intensity, her vitality, her total and complete determination.
Here was a victor, a champion, fiercely proud of her strength, of her body, of her will.
Here was a woman who would never give up.
Or in.
I felt as though Patty Kay’s ghost walked with me through the rest of her home. I imagined her grin as I surveyed the master bath.
It was Italian Renaissance-inspired: a vaulted ceiling, painted mirrors framed by blond onyx, a deep, golden marble bath. The space was generous enough for a bevy of nymphs to cavort in. Patty Kay could have practiced her serve in this sumptuous chamber—or whatever other physical pleasures she enjoyed.
The master bedroom, too, suggested physical delight as well as respite. A silk spread covered the king-size bed. The walls, too, were of silk, and the window hangings all in subtle shades of rich apricot. At the four corners of the massive bed hung delicate light golden muslin swaths that could be pulled shut. They and the spread were reflected in the mirrored ceiling.
I had no difficulty determining Patty Kay’s closet from Craig’s.
Hers contained rack after rack of designer dresses and suits with every possible matching accessory, all in vibrant, eye-catching primary colors. Gold. Emerald. Scarlet. There were dozens of equally brightly hued shoes and purses for every occasion and season. The drawers held elegant sports apparel for the seashore, the mountains, the courts, the riding trails.
It was easy to imagine her fresh from her bath, lithe and eager, ruffling through the sachet-scented drawers, hurriedly pulling one dress from a hanger, discarding it, picking another.
Craig’s sparsely filled closet and a monogrammed silver hairbrush on the dresser were the only evidence he’d shared in the life of this luxurious room. A dozen suits for winter and summer. Ten conservative dress shirts. More sports clothes, mostly khaki slacks and patterned sports shirts. Two pairs of black dress shoes. Three pairs of loafers. Athletic clothes. Tennis shoes. Of course.
I would ask Craig. I felt confident he was a good player. But probably not quite good enough to beat Patty Kay.
The hallway walls were covered with framed photographs. I scanned them quickly. The teenage girl, the same one in the album in her purse, had to be Brigit.
Definitely not a case of like mother, like daughter.
The girl’s thin face was almost colorless, her wispy blondish hair mousy, her lips often tightly pressed together. Brigit seemed caught in a perpetual pout. Except in a number of photos in costume. Class plays, more than likely. The only photos in which she was smiling were a half dozen taken with Craig. These revealed a delicate, fawnlike beauty that her sullen demeanor had obscured in the other likenesses.
There were many photos of Patty Kay and a laughing, tanned, relaxed Craig. Playing tennis, as I’d expected. White-water rafting. Hiking, in European train stations. Skiing. Horseback riding.
I walked on down the hall and looked through
an open door.
Into chaos.
7
Captain Walsh blocked the doorway to Patty Kay’s office. He surveyed the dumped-out desk drawers, the shards of glass in the smashed bookcase fronts, the gouged surface of the once-elegant mahogany desk, the emptied file cabinets, and the cardboard files in untidy heaps.
I looked past him and shivered. There was a viciousness at work here that frightened me: Ink splattered against the cheerful daisy wallpaper, photos ripped from a bulletin board and scattered in pieces, papers ground beneath a heel, a lamp used like a baseball bat on the desktop, an upended aquarium and the limp bodies of the fish on the sodden rug.
Captain Walsh turned toward me and crossed his arms over his midriff. His expressionless eyes slowly moved to my face. “Interesting thing is, Mrs. Collins, this office was undisturbed when my men searched the house Saturday.” “So somebody broke in between Saturday night and this afternoon.”
“Broke in?” Chief Walsh inquired. “Shall we check, Mrs. Collins?”
We made a survey of the ground floor together.
No broken windows. No smashed-in doors.
But the back door was unlocked.
Once again Captain Walsh stood, feet braced, arms crossed. “The house was secure when we left Saturday night.” He pointed at the door. “That was definitely locked.”
“Craig could have unlocked it on Sunday and, with a good many other things to think about, not locked it when he left.”
“He could have.” Chief Walsh’s voice was flat. He turned and pointed at the madras patchwork purse on the butler’s table. “There’s Mrs. Matthews’s handbag. And there are a great many valuable articles in this house. Silver, right out on the dining room table. VCR. Can you describe any missing items?”
He knew I couldn’t. “We’ll have to wait until Craig gets home to answer that.”
“Yes.”
“Patty Kay’s office is a mess,” I said sharply.
“Yes. I’ll agree to that.”
We glared at each other.
I got the picture.
Captain Walsh believed I’d planned a diversion.
Now I crossed my arms. “I didn’t touch that office, Captain.”
“No, ma’am.”
“Are you going to investigate this?”
“Of course, ma’am. I’ll make a full report.”
As the captain’s black unmarked pulled away—and I have to hand it to the Fair Haven police, it arrived four minutes after I phoned—I marched down the drive and crossed the street. As I waited by the white rail fence for the riding mower to come toward me, I admired the two-story colonial overlooking the sloping lawn. A cream Mercedes turned into the next driveway. A cocker spaniel bounded into a tangle of underbrush, his high, excited bark announcing pursuit of a squirrel or cat. Toward the end of the curving street, Cheryl Kraft strode briskly up another manicured drive.
This was the kind of neighborhood where people noticed strangers. Most assuredly every eye on King’s Row Road would have been turned toward the Matthews house since the murder story broke in the Sunday papers. The young man on the riding mower certainly noticed my arrival this afternoon.
The mower turned, heading back to me.
When it was no more than a dozen feet away, I lifted my hand.
The driver of the mower was a handsome youth. He had thick, lustrous black hair, strong, even features, intelligent, dark blue eyes. At my summons, he looked surprised. But he promptly switched off the motor and jumped down. He hurried toward the fence.
“Yes, ma’am?” He was slim and athletic in a blue polo and white tennis shorts.
“I’m Henrietta Collins. I’m staying at the Matthews house. I’m Craig Matthews’s aunt.”
I held out my hand.
He yanked off brown gardening gloves, swiped his right hand against his shorts before holding it out to shake mine. “Yes, ma’am. I’m Dan Forrest.” His grasp was firm.
I looked at the boy more closely. He was truly extraordinarily handsome—and the masculine image of Patty Kay’s beautiful tennis partner, Brooke. Brooke, the tennis player. Brooke Forrest, the trustee.
“Did your mother and Patty Kay play tennis together?”
“Yes, ma’am. Mom loves to play. Mrs. Matthews was one of her best friends.” Dan waited politely, tucking the gloves in a back pocket.
I did some quick figuring. Craig must have returned to the house at some time on Sunday to change clothes before he was questioned by the police. I didn’t know what time he was arrested. The newspaper article had indicated the arrest was made Sunday evening. So—
“Dan, between late yesterday and about four this afternoon, Mrs. Matthews’s study was burglarized. Have you seen anyone near the house?”
“My gosh.” His eyes widened. “I guess I should’ve called somebody. Gosh, I’m sorry.” He sounded uncomfortable and embarrassed. “But I thought it could be the wind.”
I scarcely dared to breathe. “What happened?”
“Well, it was just a little while before you came.” His eyes slid away from me. “I mean, I couldn’t help but notice when you turned in. Your car’s neat.”
I abruptly understood. The teenager was embarrassed that he had indeed been curious and couldn’t keep his eyes off the Matthews house. He didn’t want to admit to poor manners. Interest in sports cars was acceptable, however.
I hastened to give him an out. “I imagine a riding mower gets pretty boring. You can probably tell me how many squirrels have crossed the road this afternoon. And certainly I’m glad you were here and happened to be looking around.”
“Yeah. That’s funny too. Usually I’d still be at school. But they canceled sports today. I guess they thought it wouldn’t seem right. Not until the funeral.”
I tried to sort that out. I thought Patty Kay’s funeral was Wednesday. Why no sports on Monday? But that didn’t matter. What mattered was what this boy saw.
“So you were home this afternoon?”
“I got home about three-fifteen. I started mowing about three-thirty. Anyway, I happened”—his tone was painfully casual—“to look across the street and I saw the Jessops’ little white poodle dashing up your driveway. And Mitzi’s not supposed to be out. She gets lost. So I ran over, but by the time I got there, she’d run around back. I went back there and I heard Mrs. Jessop calling and then I realized Mitzi’d gone home. So I was turning around and that’s when I saw the back door was open.”
His face wrinkled in remembered indecision. “I looked around the drive and Mr. Matthews’s car wasn’t there, just hers. And so nobody was home. I mean, there weren’t any cars but hers. But the door was open. I just stood there and looked at it and then I thought that was odd, so I went up to the screen and opened it and poked my head in. I called out for Brigit, but I didn’t think she’d be there. I mean, not” —Dan Forrest paused, then said awkwardly, “with what had happened. So I stepped into the hall.” He stopped and jammed his hands in the pockets of his shorts. “And I thought I heard something—like a bump, maybe?—upstairs. So I called out real loud this time for Brigit. It was quiet. Real quiet.” He looked sheepish, a different kind of embarrassment this time. “It was—I don’t know. I just felt funny. So I decided to leave. I closed the door and came back home and started mowing again.”
I didn’t say anything. I looked at his handsome, uncomfortable face and wondered if maybe Dan Forrest had been luckier than he would ever know. If Patty Kay’s murderer had waited upstairs, listening—
Dan mistook my silence.
“I’m sorry,” the boy said miserably. “I guess I should have called somebody.”
“No, you did fine, You couldn’t have known. And everything downstairs looked all right?”
He nodded eagerly. “Yeah. Everything looked okay.”
“You didn’t see anyone leave?”
“No, ma’am.”
But I hadn’t expected that. Obviously, the searcher would have heard Dan call, heard the door close.
It would be easy to go down the alley or to slip through the thick woods behind the Matthews house and gain the street—or a nearby yard?—without being seen.
“Thank you, Dan.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I heard the mower start up again as I walked swiftly back to the house. I went by my car and retrieved my 35mm camera.
All the way upstairs, I thought about Dan Forrest—and luck. But maybe it was also my lucky day—and by extension Craig Matthews’s. Because the trashed study had to mean something.
Captain Walsh thought it meant I’d do anything necessary to help my “nephew.”
I knew better.
I took careful photos that would overlap and show the precise condition of the room.
The more I looked at the destruction, the more somber I felt.
The rampage that had turned this room into a shambles reflected enormous anger. And frustration?
Surely the search was made to find something the murderer feared anyone else seeing.
It had to be something so shocking, so revealing that the search was made despite Craig’s arrest.
The desk was littered with papers. It would take hours to sort through them. And, more than likely, they would mean nothing to me.
The same was true of the emptied files.
It looked very much as though the searcher had taken whatever came to hand and dumped it out, then mixed the papers into untidy heaps.
Searching for something specific?
Or angrily destroying order.
Behind the desk, a ring-binder notebook lay spread-eagled on the floor. Gold letters on the navy vinyl cover read: Walden School, Special Projects. In a corner of the room was a cracked Rolodex. Jammed against the wall was an appointment book.
I used a pencil to edge the appointment book over. I opened it to Friday, April 2.
Patty Kay’s handwriting was as distinctive as her laugh. Oversize looping letters were scrawled in vivid scarlet ink.
She evidently used the daybook simply to jot down appointments and reminders. That didn’t surprise me. It takes a more reclusive, inwardly turned personality for journal keeping. So I didn’t expect to find a diary entry relating the latest upheavals in what had surely been a life filled with controversy and confrontation.
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