Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_02

by Scandal in Fair Haven

  We reached the base of the staircase. Cheryl gripped my arm as if I were a prize. “Here she is. Dear Craig’s aunt, Mrs. Collins. She’s come to help. Now, let me introduce everybody.”

  In that first quick survey, a half dozen or more faces turned toward me. Shuttered faces. Wary faces.

  Because I was Craig’s aunt?

  Or because violent death had come so close to them?

  It was odd to pretend total ignorance when I did indeed know some of them. At least, I felt I knew them after viewing the videos.

  But the first introduction fascinated me.

  He pushed away from a redwood pillar to gaze at me somberly—the man whose photograph Patty Kay had carried with only the notation Hilton Head. The same thick curly brown hair and strong, bold features. He wasn’t quite as trim now and there was a touch of gray in his hair. But the striking difference was in his face. In the photograph he was young and happy. It was summer with no hint that winter would ever come. Tonight he didn’t look as though he’d ever smile again.

  “Stuart Pierce.” Cheryl shot me a swift glance.

  But I knew. “Brigit’s father,” I said easily. I held out my hand. “I’m so pleased to meet you.”

  It wasn’t awkward. After all, the American family in the nineties is often a hodge-podge. To put it gracefully.

  “Of course, Stuart and Louise”—Cheryl smiled at Patty Kay’s somber ex-husband—“don’t really live right here on King’s Row Road. But they’re close, right around the corner on Pennington Way, behind Gina’s house. I’m sorry Louise couldn’t come this evening, but I know she will try to help.”

  So Stuart Pierce’s second wife had declined to attend this neighborhood gathering. How had she felt about Stuart responding to Cheryl Kraft’s summons?

  Cheryl swept ahead. “And here are Pamela and Willis. But, of course, you know them.”

  Thank God for the videos. It was still an awkward moment for me. Had Margaret visited here, met Patty Kay’s sister and husband? I could always pretend to be another aunt….

  But Pamela Prentiss Guthrie’s protuberant eyes slid over me with neither recognition nor interest. She murmured insincerely, “So good to see you again. Very good of you to come. Under the circumstances.”

  The little flash of venom was intended. It caught me by surprise. She looked like such a boring blob. But the blob wasn’t stupid—and she didn’t like Craig.

  Pamela’s husband Willis was tall and bony with a concave chest, thinning ginger hair, and a scraggly, light mustache. His pale blue eyes looked at me coldly. His hand felt moist. “Yes, yes, good of you to come.”

  Cheryl swiftly shepherded me past them.

  A distinguished-looking older man with crisp white hair and aristocratic features stood behind the wet bar. He had that air of confidence that only power and money provide. He was used to chairing meetings in boardrooms. Genial. Unless crossed.

  “My husband, Bob.” Cheryl favored him with a bright, surprisingly sweet smile.

  Bob Kraft reached across the bar to shake my hand in a painful grip. “I’m so glad you could come, Mrs. Collins. What would you like to drink?”

  “Gin and tonic, thanks.”

  The final couple I didn’t know at all. They had the lean bodies and leathery faces of the horsey set. It was all too easy to picture them in a paddock. I suppressed a smile.

  “Carl and Mindy Jessop. They live on the other side of Patty Kay.” Cheryl clapped her thin hands together. “Everyone, come gather round the pool table.”

  Bob Kraft flicked a switch. Light flooded yet another level and a pool table.

  Cheryl led the way down five stone steps.

  Her guests obediently followed, though I saw Pamela Guthrie’s heavy shoulders move in a shrug of disdain.

  Cheryl waved us around the table and she took her place at one end. “I’ve been giving all of this a lot of thought.” With the air of a conjuror, she pointed at nine upended whiskey tumblers on the table. “See, I have them arranged. On this side”—she touched the bottom of each glass in turn—“we have the Neals, the Jessops, Patty Kay, our house, and Gina’s. On the other side of the street are”— plink, plink, plink—“the Hollises, the Forrests, and the Guthries. Over here on Pennington”—one glass sat by itself —“is Stuart’s house.” Plink. “Now, King’s Row Road is a dead end.” She glanced at me. “You remember, the street ends just past the Hollises’ house.”

  I nodded. The Cape Cod with too many cars and women bringing food.

  Cheryl’s bright eyes moved restlessly from face to face. “It’s very important for us to put our heads together. This police idea that poor, dear Craig hurt Patty Kay is absurd. We all know it.”

  It was my turn to glance swiftly about.

  Brooke Forrest crossed her arms tightly across her chest. She stared at the glasses in sick fascination.

  Brooke’s husband watched Cheryl. David’s cold gray eyes were skeptical.

  Bob Kraft’s face was thoughtful and not at all genial.

  Pamela Guthrie sipped greedily at her drink, then plunged pudgy fingers into the amber liquid to lift out a maraschino cherry. She popped it into her mouth. She gave no attention to the table or the glasses.

  Her husband’s lips curved into a tiny, unpleasant smile, then he lifted one hand to stroke his limp mustache.

  Stuart Pierce gripped the edge of the pool table. A muscle twitched in his jaw.

  Not one of them jumped to Craig’s defense.

  Only the Jessops were nodding eagerly.

  “Damn right.” Carl Jessop pounded a fist on the green felt. The whiskey tumblers quivered. “Got to get busy, find out what the hell happened, who came in here, did such a thing. Not Craig. Couldn’t have been Craig.”

  Mindy Jessop pushed back a lock of short-cropped gray hair. “So sorry I wasn’t home. I was out at the stables. Sweet Delight’s due any day now.”

  “How about you, Carl?” Cheryl asked, pointing at “their” glass.

  “God, I wish I could help. I was at the club. Playing a round with Buddy Fisher.”

  It didn’t take long. Only Brooke Forrest, her son Dan, and Pamela Guthrie appeared to have been at home on Saturday afternoon between four and five o’clock.

  Cheryl looked at them eagerly. “Oh, good, good. You see, I was in the front yard from four o’clock until the police car came screaming up—except for just a few minutes right around five! And I know that not a single car turned in while I was outside.” She turned toward Brooke. “So, if you or Pamela were outside, did either of you see a car come to Patty Kay’s?”

  Pamela shook her head. Her high voice was mildly surprised. “Why would I be outside?”

  Brooke turned her slender hands over helplessly. “I was planting sweet Williams in the backyard. I couldn’t see the street at all.”

  Cheryl tapped her fingers on the rim of the pool table. “I can’t believe this. Someone must have seen something.” She sounded slightly petulant.

  “Maybe there wasn’t anything to see.” Pamela Guthrie’s tone was bland.

  I didn’t let it pass. “No one but Craig may have driven into King’s Row Road. But let’s not forget the alley.”

  It was a fairly nice counterpoint.

  But Cheryl Kraft’s damning testimony that not a single car came into King’s Row Road during most of that critical period on Saturday afternoon would certainly delight Captain Walsh.

  9

  I woke to rain. I’d not slept well. It isn’t pleasant to dream of murder. Again and again I saw the same scene in my mind, Patty Kay backing away from her killer, one reluctant step after another. In those last desperate seconds—seconds that were forever too long and too brief—Patty Kay’s expressive mouth would have opened in shock, her vivid green eyes flared in surprised disbelief. That’s how she would have reacted—incredulous that anyone she knew intended to kill her, robbing the vigorous minutes and hours and days of her life.

  In my dream I saw gloved hands aiming the pis
tol.

  Yes, they would have been gloved because the murderer came prepared.

  Sometimes the gloved hands belonged to Brigit.

  Surely it wasn’t her young mind that had connived so murderously and cleverly. But it could be. I knew it could be. The young are so often underestimated, their pain and passions ignored.

  I quickly fixed my breakfast, pushing away thoughts of Brigit. There were other roads to go down And, irritably, I admitted to myself that I didn’t want it to be Brigit. The pain of that betrayal would have been deeper for Patty Kay than the burn of any bullet.

  Rain splashed against the kitchen windows. I turned on all the lights. As I drank my coffee, I read the article from the Fair Haven Gazette that I’d printed out at the library. It was accompanied by a picture of a smiling Patty Kay, her face crinkled in exuberant delight.

  A three-column head:

  FAIR HAVEN’S

  PATTY KAY MATTHEWS

  LEADS WITH LAUGHTER

  She’s arrived atop a circus elephant, climbed a fire ladder to plant a flag, led a Dixieland band in a mock funeral march, shouted down protesters, and engaged in a public “striptease” (of sorts).

  She is Patty Kay Prentiss Matthews, a civic and social leader in Fair Haven, who laughs as she says, “I’ll do anything for the arts. And I’m determined to prove you don’t have to be stuffy to support the art museum or the library or the playhouse.”

  Mrs. Matthews certainly could never be considered stuffy. Interviewed at her home recently, she was in a rare state of relaxation. ‘The community fund drive is done—and we earned twenty thousand dollars more than our goal!—so for me it’s downtime until we [Fair Haven Women’s Society] put on the May charity auction.’

  It was for the community fund drive that she climbed a fire truck ladder to place the Fair Haven flag on the flagpole at the Fair Haven Mall.

  Even a modest assessment of Mrs. Matthews’s many accomplishments reveals that her efforts on all fronts have earned Fair Haven’s charities and social agencies more than a half million dollars over the past decade.

  Mrs. Matthews’s late parents, Merriwether and Cornelia Prentiss, were also active in civic affairs. “Mother and Dad made giving fun. They loved to host ice cream socials and picnics for worthy causes. So I learned to have a good time while raising money. But appetites are jaded today, so I decided the best way to get everybody out is to offer irresistible bait. That’s why I came up with Catch a Ride with Dumbo for the drive for underprivileged children.”

  Three years ago Mrs. Matthews hired the lead elephant from a circus appearing in Nashville. She staged a community-wide picnic at Hickory Park and sold rides on the elephant for five hundred dollars each, earning the largest amount ever— $46,000—for the summer camp program.

  Mrs. Matthews’s efforts aren’t restricted to fund-raising. She is willing to ruffle some feathers in this conservative community by the causes she passionately espouses. The mock funeral march was in protest against the Gazette’s decision not to carry a comic strip with political overtones. Mrs. Matthews rallied support from enough advertisers to change the Gazette’s policy.

  One of Mrs. Matthews’s principal detractors is the Reverend James Holman. Pastor of Mt. Zion Revival Church, Reverend Holman opposes abortion, gay rights, and feminism. Reverend Holman and Mrs. Matthews are both members of the board of directors for the Fair Haven Public Library.

  Supporters of the minister shouted in opposition to a recent library board decision, proposed by Mrs. Matthews, to add materials on prevention of AIDS to the library’s Saturday morning reading programs for children.

  Mrs. Matthews yanked the microphone from Reverend Holman, then challenged the protesters to admit that their opposition to the dissemination of information on safe sex would result in needless suffering and deaths. “You people will do anything to prevent abortions because you want to save lives, but you are willing to see young people die rather than permit them to discuss sexual activities. For shame,” she cried.

  Mrs. Matthews has mounted an active campaign to see Reverend Holman defeated in the next library board election.

  The much-ballyhooed “striptease” was the highlight of the Revelry Dance Club’s annual Christmas ball last year. Mrs. Matthews’s “performance” was offered at an auction to raise money for Walden School and was the item bringing in the highest bid, 1,400 dollars. As promised in the auction offer, Mrs. Matthews divested to a skintone body suit at the dance to the accompaniment of drumrolls. She explained, with a laugh, that she had on more than most of her friends wore to aerobics and that raising money might as well be fun.

  Last October, Mayor Jane French presented Mrs. Matthews with an Honored Citizens Award for her fund-raising efforts over the years. “I wish we had more dedicated citizens like Patty Kay,” the mayor said.

  Oh, my, yes. Patty Kay loved to have fun—and to hell with anybody who didn’t like it—or her.

  It took only a few minutes to do the dishes and leave the newly cleaned kitchen immaculate. I had no intention of tackling the playhouse. Scrubbing would never clear away the dreadful remnants of bloody death.

  Twenty minutes later I was showered and dressed for the day. I chose a navy knit with gold buttons. I was in the main hall, walking toward the telephone desk, when I heard a key in the back door. The lock clicked, and the door swung in.

  “Mr. Matthews? It’s me. Jewel.” A small black woman in a neat gray maid’s uniform bustled inside. She ducked out of a plastic rain cap and propped a wet umbrella in the corner, then looked up and saw me.

  Jewel. Of course, the maid employed by both Patty Kay and Cheryl Kraft.

  I smiled in welcome. “Good morning, Jewel. I’m so glad to see you. I’m Henrietta Collins, Mr. Matthews’s aunt.” The lie came easily.

  She shifted a crocheted bag from one arm to another. “Oh, yes, ma’am. I did hear you was here.”

  It’s a small town, for chrissakes.

  She hesitated, then added softly, “I’m real sorry, ma’am. About the trouble.” She cleared her throat and moved toward the door into the kitchen. “I guess I’ll do my regular.”

  I followed her into the kitchen. “That will be fine. I’m going to be in and out today. I expect Mr. Matthews will be home sometime this afternoon.”

  Dark eyes slid quickly toward me, then as quickly away. She opened a broom closet, placed her bag inside.

  “Jewel, you know the police have arrested Mr. Matthews?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She continued to avoid looking at me as she closed the closet door.

  The rain was heavier now, drumming against the panes.

  “What do you think about that?”

  She walked toward the sink. “I reckon it’s harder to get out of jail than get in jail. Least, that’s true for black people. Jail is a bad place to be.”

  “Mr. Matthews is innocent.”

  Jewel bent down, opened a cabinet, began to lift out cleaning materials.

  She didn’t say a word.

  “How long had you worked for Patty Kay?”

  She picked up a pair of rubber gloves, then turned to face me, crumpling the gloves in her hand. “I worked for her mama. I was with Mrs. Patty Kay when she and Mr. Stuart lived here. I was with her when Miss Brigit was born.” Her mournful eyes glistened with tears. “No one had ought to have hurt her like that. No one.”

  “Craig didn’t do it, Jewel.”

  “You have to be for your kin,” she said quietly. “But I tell you, even nice men sometimes they goes after a pretty face and they do things they shouldn’t have.”

  She yanked on the gloves, grabbed up a plastic pail, and walked swiftly toward the hall door.

  She paused only long enough to say, “I don’t know nothing but that Mrs. Patty Kay she was upset as she could be all day Friday and if I was you I’d ask Mr. Craig about that apartment he goes to so much. My grandson Matt works the yard over there at those Sandalwood apartments, and he’s seen him there. Plenty.”

/>   It was at that moment, of course, as I listened to the tattoo of the rain and grappled with a new and chilling consideration of Craig that the telephone rang. I reached for it.

  “Hello.”

  “Henrie O, you’re there.”

  And, for God’s sake, it was Margaret.

  I gave her a crisp factual report of everything—except the disturbing encounter with Jewel.

  “Henrie O, you’re wonderful. Of course that stuff was thrown after she was dead!”

  “I’m making progress.” But not all of it positive. “How are you feeling?”

  She was, she said firmly, doing well.

  But her voice was very weak.

  “You concentrate on getting well. And don’t worry about things here. I’ll take care of everything.” Oh, Henrie O, such brave words. “I’ll keep in close touch.”

  But I wasn’t feeling cheerful when I hung up.

  If Craig had a lady love …

  Distantly I heard the growl of a vacuum.

  The grandfather clock boomed nine.

  I settled at the telephone table and found in my purse my copy of Patty Kay’s useful numbers.

  My first call was to Laverne. I was lucky. She’d had a cancellation for her ten o’clock. She could take me for a shampoo and set.

  My second call was answered promptly. “Mt. Zion Revival Church.”

  “May I speak to Reverend Holman, please?”

  “Our assistant pastor, Mr. Wickey, is taking Reverend Holman’s calls.”

  “I’m sorry. I can speak only to Reverend Holman.”

  “Reverend Holman won’t be back in the office for at least four more weeks.”

  “Where is he?”

  Her voice quivered. “In Vanderbilt hospital. He had open heart surgery last Friday.”

  “I see. The matter will wait. Thank you.”

  I checked with Vanderbilt Medical Center. The Reverend James Holman was still in intensive care.

  That answered that. I was sorry. I’d thought it might be quite interesting to talk to the reverend about Patty Kay Matthews. A pleasure I would have to forego.