“Brigit, do you want to help Craig get out of jail?” I will admit I felt a qualm. Taking advantage of children has not been a customary ploy of mine.
There was no hesitation. “Oh, yes, yes, yes.”
“Could I see you tonight? Or sometime tomorrow? I need to know more about your mother and who might have been angry with her.”
“I can tell you a lot.” The switch from tears to venom was startling. “I can …” Abruptly the sound was muffled, but I could hear some of what she said. “… Paulie … she’s got my copy of the play … home early, I promise.”
Then swift and short: “Sure, Paulie. I’ll meet you at the library. At seven. Don’t forget the play.”
The line went dead.
Slowly, I replaced the receiver. Seven o’clock. That would give me plenty of time to get back to King’s Row Road for the neighborhood meeting Cheryl had mentioned. But I was just as interested in meeting Brigit. “Don’t forget the play.” An artful touch. Apparently Brigit, too, was a glib liar. Like her stepfather. But many teenagers have secret lives.
Sometimes the secrets are innocent.
Sometimes they are not.
I checked the phone book. One Fair Haven library. I called for directions. I had time for a quick supper and a shower.
It’s sweaty work, cleaning up after a murderer.
Clean and freshly dressed, I carried the plate of Stroganoff and some iced tea into the game room. It wasn’t that I was trying to make myself completely at home. I intended to work while I ate.
I slipped in the video entitled Brigit’s Sweet 16.
I immediately had to turn down the sound. The band played music I always make it a point to avoid on my radio at a decibel level which must have made the neighborhood dogs howl.
A patio party: The girls and women in pretty summer frocks, the boys and men in slacks and sport coats, Japanese lanterns in pink and yellow, carnation-laden bowers, table centerpieces of hurricane lamps wreathed with pink organdy bows, and loud, loud music.
“My God.” I said it out loud, the shock was so great—Patty Kay with a bulging face, double chins, and a bored, peevish expression. Then I blinked and realized my mistake as slim, dark-haired, vivacious Patty Kay greeted the woman who was her heavy doppelgänger. The resemblance was striking. The same angular face, mobile mouth, green eyes. What a difference forty pounds and an attitude made.
“Hi, sis.” Pamela Guthrie offered a carmined cheek.
The sisters lightly embraced, turned away to talk to others.
Body language is just that. It was evident in the faces of the sisters, in their lack of animation, in their barely concealed indifference. These siblings weren’t remotely interested in each other. I didn’t sense hostility so much as disengagement.
It was their only contact on the birthday video.
Patty Kay was a gracious hostess, warm, welcoming, good-humored. She smoothly moved from person to person with real interest. She was never perfunctory. Craig was a better host than I would have expected, quick to refresh a drink or make an introduction.
It was easy to spot the tennis chums and their husbands. Brooke Forrest was gorgeous in a hibiscus-patterned sarong, but one very modestly cut. I noticed that she danced only with her husband. David, wasn’t that his name? I could see why Patty Kay teased. David Forrest had a Mr. Rochester-harsh face, and his smile never reached his cold gray eyes.
I recognized another tennis player, chunky Edith. She kept pushing back her reddish curls as if she were hot. As always, she smiled. But her smile seemed automatic. I had the distinct feeling Edith wasn’t enjoying herself. Occasionally, she danced with a stocky, balding man, but he spent most of the evening buttonholing other men to talk earnestly. He never seemed to notice how quickly they moved away. Except for Craig, a good host. At one point, he clapped Edith’s husband on the back and asked, “How’s your golf game, Ed?”
Small, feisty Gina Abbott didn’t appear to have an escort. She was all over the party, refilling a punch bowl, urging young people to dance, holding a discarded beach towel like a matador’s cape as she recounted a story that evoked peals of laughter. At one point, Gina shooed young Dan Forrest to the dance floor with an eager blond girl who looked up at Dan with adoring eyes despite his scarcely masked boredom.
Cameras film without prejudice. This video caught so many unguarded moments: Brooke’s proud smile as she watched her son on the dance floor, David Forrest’s down-turned mouth as he observed them both, the immobility of Patty Kay’s face as Craig whirled by with a deliriously happy Brigit—no braces here, so why didn’t her mother have a more recent picture in her purse?—Edith’s irritation as she shrugged away a stocky teenage girl tugging on her sleeve, Gina’s almost frantic pursuit of laughter.
I felt I was seeing the merest surface of many tangled relationships.
I reran it and saw more than I’d noticed the first time:
A cheerful red-haired boy kept trying to interest the blond girl who looked so adoringly at Dan, but he didn’t have any luck.
At his father’s nod, Dan was quick to bring a plate to his mother and to help gather up discarded wrapping paper from the presents.
The red-haired, freckled girl, whom Edith had shrugged away, bubbled with happiness throughout the party. The girl’s broad, freckled face was ecstatic when Brigit managed to blow out a final stubborn candle.
The blond girl who’d danced so happily with Dan was always at his elbow despite his indifference.
Near the party’s end, Gina, her shoulders drooping, stared bleakly toward the woods, then, whirling about at Brooke’s call, once again slipped into her frenetic party personality.
In the final frame, Patty Kay swept her daughter into a tight embrace.
But Brigit was looking over her mother’s shoulder into the eyes of her mother’s second husband. It wasn’t a look her mother would have liked.
And Craig’s face?
It gave no inkling that he realized his attraction for the teenager.
How could he have missed it?
The public library reflected the prosperity of Fair Haven, sprawling and beautifully maintained, lots of glass, an adjacent playground, and a small pond rimmed with benches.
I arrived early. Of course. Is there any reporter who isn’t compulsive about being on time?
This library had on-line capabilities. I checked the local media, calling up the file on Patty Kay Prentiss Pierce Matthews. Lots of entries. It was clear that Patty Kay had been a power in Fair Haven’s social and civic life. It was interesting that only rarely was her sister, Pamela Prentiss Guthrie, mentioned. In fact, I came upon Pamela’s name only when she married and when she was listed as a survivor in her grandparents’ and parents’ obituaries. Two sisters who didn’t sing the same song.
I had two stories on Patty Kay printed out. The second was pay dirt all the way. I scanned it, but it was nearing seven o’clock, so I tucked it in my purse for later study.
I watched the main entrance. I knew, of course, what Brigit looked like from the video, but I kept a sharp eye. The library was full of teenagers coming and going, some studying, some pursuing other interests. They appeared practically interchangeable, and it wasn’t the big-city grunge look. Not in Fair Haven. These teens looked—as they were—like young replicas of the country club set. All wore button-down shirts and slacks, cotton wraparound skirts or floral print cotton pants and cotton pullover polos. The only common link to everyday USA teen culture were the odd hairstyles so popular now, many of the boys with their hair cut in layers, the girls with hair that looked as though it had undergone an unfortunate confrontation with an electric circuit.
Brigit’s costume was de rigueur. The dazed look in the teen’s reddened eyes was not.
I walked toward her and softly called her name.
She had a new hairstyle since the video. Her unremarkable blondish hair now frizzed around her face like coiled wires, making her narrow features seem even more waiflike. Her skin wa
s so fair, the red-rimmed eyes jumped out at you.
“Mrs. Collins?” Her voice had more resonance in person than on the telephone. At my nod, she glanced warily around. Then she said swiftly, “Let’s go outside. I see Mrs. Galloway. European history.”
I took that as an elliptical identification of a teacher.
Privacy suited me too.
We walked halfway around the pond to a wooden bench that faced the library entrance. The lights from the library were reflected in the pond. It was cool enough outside to make my sweater welcome.
“Just in case Louise comes.” Her voice oozed disdain.
I had sense enough not to ask who Louise was. After all, as Craig’s aunt I could be expected to be familiar with most family names. I guessed Louise must be Brigit’s stepmother.
“Does she do that a lot? Follow you around?”
She looked at me sharply, but I’d kept my voice nonjudgmental.
“Craig says I imagine it. He says it’s a small town, for chrissakes, and not to take everything personally.”
I could hear the echo of his voice in hers.
She began to cry, tears rolling down her thin cheeks.
“Crying won’t help Craig.”
At that, she rubbed the sleeve of her sporty jacket across her face. She took a deep breath. “I know. But I can’t stand it if anything happens to him. I love him so much.”
And not, obviously from her tone, in a way appropriate for a stepfather. This was what I’d feared. If the police cottoned onto this little family complication …
I might as well know the worst.
“How does Craig feel about you?” What had he seen? A cute little girl with a crush on him? Or a sexy nymphet? And, more important, how had he responded?
Brigit lifted her hands to her cheeks. Her whole face was transformed, and I had a brief, tantalizing glimpse of the woman she would be. “He kissed me. Just on my cheek. But if Mother hadn’t been there, I know—” She broke off. She hugged her arms tightly to her slender body.
Was this her dream alone? Or had she aroused him too? Perhaps the truth of it didn’t matter. What mattered was the girl’s perception.
“Did your mother know how you feel about Craig?”
She trembled. Her light blue eyes blazed with an un-childlike fury. “She laughed at me. She laughed at me.”
I remembered that mocking whoop of laughter in the video. Yes, I could believe it. Patty Kay made a joke of almost everything.
But there’s nothing funny about first love. Requited or unrequited. Appropriate or silly. There is an elemental starkness to a first passion that later, more experienced loves will never possess.
Remembered anger—God, still vivid, living anger— thickened Brigit’s young voice. “She wanted to send me away. She said I was making a fool of myself and embarrassing Craig. She said”—the girl swallowed miserably— “she said Craig thought I should go away too. I could have killed her!”
I said nothing.
The passionate, heartbreaking words pulsed in the dusky silence.
Blues eyes brimmed over with sudden tears. “But I didn’t. You don’t think … you can’t think …”
I avoided that. “You’re upset,” I said soothingly.
Brigit’s face was abruptly so young, so stricken. She pressed her hands hard against her eyes, but the tears streamed down her cheeks.
I found a tissue in my purse, handed it to her.
“Mother … oh, Mother …”
“I’m sorry, Brigit. So sorry.”
She scrubbed at her face, tried to stifle the little sobbing hiccups.
But I wondered about Brigit. Yes, she was crying for her mother, but perhaps crying for more than her loss. In fact, Brigit might have the best of all possible reasons to believe in Craig’s innocence.
Brigit would know where Craig’s gun was kept. She would know how to call the bookstore and arrange for him to come home.
Why would she involve him?
She loved Craig, didn’t she?
Had she believed Patty Kay’s taunt? Did Brigit think that Craig, too, wanted to send her away? Had scorned love turned ugly?
But now she was sobbing because her mother was dead and distraught because Craig had been jailed.
No one ever said human desires and emotions could be totted up like arithmetic sums. Any kind of mix was possible.
“No.” Her head jerked up. “No. I didn’t do it. I wouldn’t hurt Mother. I wouldn’t. And I know Craig didn’t. Listen.” She reached out, her fingers clamped on my arm. Her words tumbled out feverishly. “I can help you find out what happened. I know that Mother and Aunt Pam were mad at each other. Really mad. And something must have happened at school Friday, because Mother was frosted with Mr. Selwyn.” Her face fell. “ ’Course, that’s probably not anything.”
Mr. Selwyn? Then I remembered. ‘That’s the headmaster at Walden School? You go there?’
“Of course.”
Of course. Everybody did.
I was very interested in Walden School and anyone connected with it. Because Patty Kay had suddenly decided to throw a party for the trustees of Walden School. And before the chosen guests could arrive, she was dead.
Cause and effect?
I couldn’t know, but I sure intended to look hard at Walden School.
Friday, Brigit said.
“Why do you peg it to Friday?”
“Because I saw Mother talking to Mr. Selwyn Thursday afternoon—down at the track—and she was flirting with him. Of course.” Scorn sharpened her voice. “But on Friday—”
I interrupted. “Of course?”
“Oh, Mother couldn’t see anything in pants and not turn it on. I don’t know why Craig put up with it. I’ll bet Daddy never did.”
If this child didn’t hang her stepfather one way, it looked like she’d manage another.
But Brigit was oblivious of my thoughtful gaze. She continued without prodding. “On Friday he was stalking down the hall—”
“Who?”
“Mr. Selwyn. And he was really ticked off. Mother was glaring at him. She had a certain look when she totally despised somebody, and that’s how she was looking at Mr. Selwyn. Not mad exactly. But really icy. Like he was some kind of scum. Maybe she came on to him and he turned her down.”
Her eyes glinted with malice. The child looked a little like a white rat when she was being spiteful. That would become more pronounced with age.
She was obviously obsessed with sexuality. Not, of course, an unusual condition at her age.
I doubted very much that she’d correctly read the situation between Patty Kay and Mr. Selwyn. Nobody becomes headmaster of a posh school without learning exactly how to handle women of all ages, whether budding or fully bloomed, whether eager to be picked or prickly.
No. It must be something else entirely. The headmaster would never have intentionally offended Patty Kay. He would know how to flatter her sexually without going over the bounds. That was part of his job.
I was looking forward to meeting Mr. Selwyn.
I wondered, too, if there was a Mrs. Selwyn.
Just in case he had forgotten the boundaries.
“Oh, damn.” Brigit jumped to her feet. “There’s Louise’s car. Checking on me. I know she is. I’ll have to go.”
She darted up the path toward the library. I wondered if this was an often-reenacted ritual.
I didn’t try to follow her. I could find her again if I needed to.
I looked after her running figure soberly.
Yes, Brigit could be the one.
Vertical slabs of limestone glistened in the wash of lights illuminating the shadowy garden. The huge front door—carved teak—was swinging shut as I pushed aside a sweep of ferns to reach the steps.
Everywhere there was the sound of water, slipping, sloshing, splashing. I spotted at least three waterfalls, artfully lighted. Massive granite boulders formed pools and water eddied and swirled beneath overhanging banks of vines and pott
ed flowers, bright peonies and masses of scarlet phlox. I suspected Cheryl Kraft had a full-time gardener with waders.
I pulled a bellrope. The low, reverberating gong sounded like that of a temple in Tibet.
The door opened immediately—or as immediately as a huge slab of teak could move.
Cheryl Kraft welcomed me. Tonight she was dramatic in gold hostess pajamas. Diamond dolphins dangled from an enormous gold chain that looked too heavy for her razor-sharp shoulders.
She reached out to take my hands, and I felt the heat of too-thin, feverish fingers. She glanced swiftly past me. No Craig. I saw the flicker in her eyes, but she jumped right in. “You’re the last to come, Mrs. Collins. I’m so pleased you’re here.” She held the door wide and made no mention of Craig. No doubt she felt it would be tactless. Women like Cheryl Kraft excel in tact. “We were hoping you’d make it. Everyone’s down in the atrium.”
She led the way across a bridge. The foliage flowed into the house, as did a stream of water inhabited by foot-long red and orange carp.
I followed her down a winding stone stair into an astonishing lair, three separate levels fashioned of redwood. Ferns, vines, several banana trees, more water, and iridescent fish thrived on every level. I’d last felt this immersed in sticky humidity in a Costa Rica rain forest.
She was now quite at ease. “Almost everyone’s here. Except the Neals. They’re in Egypt. A trip on the Nile. I do hope they don’t get shot. Or bombed. The world’s such an unsafe place now. Especially when you go where people have these religious persuasions. So unpredictable. And horribly, horribly hostile. And the poor dear Hollises. That’s where all the cars are tonight. You know, that darling Cape Cod on the other side of the Jessops. Family from away, of course. So terribly sad. But they probably couldn’t have helped us anyway. Too far from Patty Kay. And Edith isn’t much of a gardener. I do wish Gina had come, but she felt she had to go over to Edith’s.”
The Cape Cod. I’d been right when I judged that heartbreak wasn’t confined to Patty Kay’s house. The poor Hollises, dealing with grief, unable to be a part of a neighborhood aroused by murder.
I felt awash in a swirl of names and circumstances that I didn’t understand. But I would learn.
Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_02 Page 9