“Nothing had been decided. I imagine Patty Kay would’ve settled down.”
“Brigit might not have thought so.”
A shrug.
No impassioned defense of her stepdaughter.
We reached the salmon-colored Mercedes; she opened the driver’s door.
“Did you enjoy working in Patty Kay’s bookstore?”
Louise slipped into the driver’s seat. She looked up at me: There was no trace of warmth in those huge violet eyes. “Mrs. Collins—do you really want to know the truth?”
“I’d like that.”
“No. I did not enjoy working there.” She propped the racquet carrier in the passenger seat.
I rested a hand on the car door. “Then why did you do it?”
Her eyes glowed with hostility. “You’d have to live in Fair Haven to understand, Mrs. Collins. But—ostensibly—it was a sweet gesture by Patty Kay to invite me.” A saccharine edge crept into her disciplined voice. “She was demonstrating that it didn’t matter at all to her that Stuart dumped her.”
“Did he? Dump her, I mean.”
“You bet.” Oh, how she relished saying it. “She was impossible to live with, she demanded attention all the time. It was ruining his life.”
“Is that what he told you?”
Louise Pierce glared. “Yes. He certainly did. And everybody in town knew about it. It drove Patty Kay crazy. So she wanted to show what a good sport she was by inviting me to work in the store. So I showed what a good sport I am by accepting the offer. I could afford to. Stuart is my husband. Mine.”
She turned the key in the ignition, and the motor purred.
Before the luxury car backed out of the drive, our eyes locked.
I knew that Louise Pierce knew that Stuart and Patty Kay were lovers.
But her triumphant smile never wavered.
Artists and architects reveal themselves to the world by the surroundings they fashion.
Light cascaded through floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the oak furniture of Stuart Pierce’s office a glistening gold. Beautifully detailed models of office buildings and homes were displayed in deep shelves along one wall. Everywhere there was light and the color of light, as rich and luminous as a Vermeer painting.
The tall, handsome architect rose and came around his desk to greet me.
Patty Kay’s great love.
It was certainly easy to understand why. I had the same sense I’d had upon meeting Stuart Pierce Monday evening at the Kraft house. Here was a compelling man, a man you wanted to know, a man most women would certainly find irresistible.
“You wanted to see me?” Unexpectedly, he was brusque. A tight frown pulled his face into flat, hostile lines.
I immediately understood. “You’re very angry, aren’t you? And helpless to change it. Which makes you even angrier.”
“It shouldn’t have happened.” He spoke harshly. “Patty Kay should be walking onto a tennis court right now.” His face might have been scored out of stone. “If Craig—”
“He didn’t. You know Craig. Let me tell you more of what happened, more than was in the papers. Then you can judge.”
We sat on an oversize white sofa.
His blazing eyes never left my face.
I was keenly aware of his bitter anger.
But when I finished describing the scenes I had found in Patty Kay’s home, Stuart’s headshake was abrupt and final. “No. That’s not Craig. If he were angry, he’d run away.” He pushed up from the couch and began to pace, head down. “Patty Kay knew her murderer. That’s obvious. But she must have been taken by surprise. She didn’t realize she was in danger. Why not? She was smart, plenty smart.” He stopped and stared down at me. “But sometimes she wasn’t smart about people’s feelings. You know how she was—funny, quick, bright, kind in her own way. But she had a blind spot.” Restlessly, he began to pace again. “She saw things the way she saw them. She must not have realized she had somebody on the raw.
“Okay, why the playroom? It’s private. Somebody wanted to talk to her about something in complete privacy. Or maybe that was the excuse to go out there. Because the murderer must have planned to trash the kitchen. He couldn’t shoot her”—a spasm of pain briefly tightened his handsome face, then disappeared—“in the kitchen and then throw that stuff around. It would have been obvious it happened after she died. And, if you’re right—and I think you are—the entire stage was set to trap Craig. But why?” he demanded wearily. “For God’s sake, why?”
His hopeless grief was painful to see.
“Do you know of a quarrel with anyone? Anything Patty Kay planned to do that someone would kill to prevent?”
He flung himself down on the couch beside me. “Christ, what could possibly be worth killing her? She and Pamela fought all the time. If it wasn’t the land use, it would be something else. So that was nothing new. And Pamela doesn’t really need any more money.”
“Pamela will never have enough money.”
“But not murder. Not even Pamela.” He scowled. “But Patty Kay’s dead….”
“Patty Kay wanted you to send Brigit away to school.”
Slowly he turned to face me, his handsome face both incredulous and outraged. “Oh, now, wait a minute. Wait a goddamn minute. That’s crazy!”
It was definitely a new thought and not a welcome one.
“Sure, Brigit and her mom tangled. That’s no big deal. A teenage girl and her mother. But Brigit’s a nice kid. No.”
“It is a new development. We’re hunting for something that happened recently.”
“No. Never.”
“Why did Brigit live with you? And not with her mother?” I waited a little tensely. Craig’s aunt might be expected to know the answer to this.
But Stuart Pierce was focused on protecting his young daughter. “It seemed like a good idea last summer. Girls need to feel like their dads care. And she and Patty Kay— well, it was just that Brigit was growing up, wanting more independence. It wasn’t a big deal. She spent a lot of time with Patty Kay.”
I let it drop.
But I wasn’t finished with Stuart. Or Brigit. Not by a long shot.
There was no graceful way to say it. “When did you and Patty Kay last—meet?” There could be no mistaking my meaning.
For a moment Stuart was utterly still. His voice was gruff when he demanded, “Does Craig know?”
“I don’t know,” I replied honestly.
“If he doesn’t, I’d like to keep it that way. Because—” His eyes met mine gravely but without apology. He shook his head and broke off. “You won’t understand.”
“I might.”
It was hard for him. The words came reluctantly, but with a painful raw intensity. “We didn’t mean harm. We weren’t going to mess things up for anybody. Craig depended on Patty Kay. And Louise and I—I love Louise. She’s gentle and sweet. She helps me keep it all together. Patty Kay and I—it was always wild and a little insane. We were up and down but not at the same time. We couldn’t live together. We tore at each other. We couldn’t—we never could get a balance.” Bleakly, he stared down at his interlocked hands. Then he added fiercely: “But I loved her the way I’ll never love anyone else in the world.”
I believed him.
I also knew that this kind of affair had to have brutal ramifications.
“Did you want Patty Kay to divorce Craig and marry you?”
“No. That was never a possibility.” His deep voice was dismissive.
“Patty Kay wasn’t pushing you to divorce Louise?”
“No.” He looked startled.
“Did Louise know?”
“Absolutely not.”
“How can you be sure?”
“She would’ve walked out.”
Maybe. Maybe not. If she knew, Louise Pierce might have figured Patty Kay’s death could solve her marital problem. Permanently.
Of course, every word Stuart Pierce said was suspect. Discovered as an adulterer, he could be putt
ing on a clever performance designed to convince any interested parties that certainly neither he nor Louise had any motive to murder Patty Kay.
“When were you and Patty Kay last together?”
“Thursday. Thursday afternoon.”
“How was she?”
“She was just like always.” Anguish burned in his eyes. “It was so perfect. God, it was so perfect. And now, now—”
The cry came from his heart.
As it so understandably could, whether he was innocent or guilty.
But I wasn’t concerned about that just now.
I thought about what it meant.
On Thursday afternoon Patty Kay’s world was full of happiness. Stolen happiness.
She then had two more days to live.
“Why?” her lover cried. “Why?”
14
David Forrest’s law office was not so much mortician gray as marine dress blue. Blue everywhere. The walls, the carpet, the chairs. Varying shades, of course. But the overall effect was similar to being encapsulated in a Norwegian fjord. The late afternoon sunlight streaming through a west window merely emphasized the chill of the room.
He rose and gestured for me to take one of the leather chairs that faced his desk. Blue leather.
“Mrs. Collins.” He placed my card facedown on his desk. On it I’d written: May I have a few minutes of your time? We met at your neighbor’s home last night Henrietta Collins. “What may I do for you?”
He regarded me gravely. He was muscular, trim, fit. Forrest hadn’t lost his Corps shape. His black hair was cut so short, he looked like he’d been scraped. But nobody would have picked him for a recruiting ad. His long, saturnine face had a zealot’s eyes and a taskmaster’s stern mouth.
“I’d like to talk with you for a moment about Patty Kay. My nephew did not shoot his wife. I’m looking for the person who did.”
He tapped the edge of my card against the polished surface of his desk. “That is the duty of the police.”
“It is the duty of everyone who knew Patty Kay to provide information about who might have been angry with her. Or jealous of her.”
He gave a final tap with the card, then tossed it down. “Certainly. But I’m afraid I know nothing that would be helpful to you, Mrs. Collins. I rarely saw Patty Kay.”
“But you knew her.”
“Of course. Fair Haven is a small town.”
“When did you see her?”
“At social occasions. Usually for charity.”
“Patty Kay was certainly active in promoting the arts. And extremely successful at it.”
His face was a study in distaste. “She had no dignity. I’m glad my mother didn’t live to see how Patty Kay cheapened the Revelry Club’s annual Christmas dance.”
“But it was all in fun—”
Cold gray eyes stared at me.
“—and it did earn a substantial amount for the scholarship program.”
He glared at me. “It was merely an excuse for Patty Kay to parade her body in front of every man in Fair Haven. It was unseemly. Not befitting her position. I’m surprised her husband didn’t take steps to stop it.”
Now those icy eyes challenged me. Apparently, as Craig’s aunt, I was to be held responsible for this flaunting of social mores by a member of the Matthews clan.
“Husbands aren’t czars anymore, are they, Mr. Forrest?”
“A man with the proper kind of wife doesn’t have to instruct her how to behave.” The thin mouth closed tightly.
I recalled the tennis video and Patty Kay’s teasing of Brooke. No wonder Brooke told Patty Kay not to joke about the tennis pro. Her husband David sure as hell wouldn’t think it was funny.
But I doubted that beautiful, socially attuned Brooke Forrest engaged in any kind of improper behavior. According to Gina, Brooke had designed every aspect of her life to achieve social prominence. Did she ever question whether it had all been worth it?
Yet perhaps noblesse oblige was instinctive to Brooke. Certainly her overriding preoccupation this morning at Walden School had been to establish the proper memorial for Patty Kay.
“Your wife was a good friend of Patty Kay’s.”
“Brooke is extremely active—and properly so—in this community. She takes her duties as a Forrest quite seriously. This is, as I’m sure you are learning, a very small community—”
It’s a small town, for chrissakes.
“—and the women who preside over our social and artistic endeavors form an elite group. Brooke, of course, maintains cordial relationships with everyone.”
“So you wouldn’t say your wife was especially close to Patty Kay?”
“No. They were social peers. And she and Patty Kay enjoyed playing tennis. Patty Kay,” he added grudgingly, “was an excellent tennis player.”
“And cook?”
“Yes. Yes, she certainly was that.” Finally, a note of approval.
If Patty Kay’s spirit lurked near earth, I could imagine her thumbing her nose and chanting, Frigging stuffed shirt.
“Did you like her cheesecake?”
“I never eat dessert.”
“What did you think of Craig’s limericks, the ones he composed the night you played poker?”
He shook his narrow head firmly. “As I told Brooke, it was a disgusting display of disloyalty.”
“You didn’t think—”
The phone rang.
“Excuse me, please, Mrs. Collins.”
He lifted the receiver. “Hello.” He picked up a pen and began to mark on a notepad. “That’s no excuse, Dan.” He made a series of thick, dark Xs—XXXXXX—on the sheet. “A Forrest never quits. You are to engage in the competition. And I expect you to do your best.”
He didn’t wait for a response. He didn’t say good-bye. He simply replaced the receiver and looked at me.
I finished my question. “—think Craig’s limericks were funny?”
“Most certainly not.”
Willis Guthrie kept glancing at his watch.
To an accountant, time is money, but not when spent talking to a fellow poker-player’s aunt.
“… may have mentioned the cheesecake jokes to Pamela.” He gave a quick, sniggering little laugh, then smoothed his wispy ginger mustache. “Or I may not. I don’t recall.”
His tight, spare face wasn’t improved by that kind of laughter. Abruptly, he was serious again.
“I know this is a difficult time for you and Pamela.”
The blankness in his pale blue eyes was so revealing. Finally, he got it. “Oh, yes, yes, of course. Such a loss.” His voice was fairly high for a man.
Over the telephone, could it be mistaken for a woman’s?
“You were shopping for a movie when the murder occurred?”
“I suppose so. I was out sometime that afternoon.”
“Would you have any ideas about who might have shot your sister-in-law?”
“Not really.” Those pale eyes slipped toward the clock on the wall.
I decided to shake his indifference. “How much money will your wife get from Patty Kay’s estate?”
Instead of outrage, Willis Guthrie looked at me with suddenly alive and shining eyes. “A substantial amount, Mrs. Collins.” Then he realized how callous it sounded. He added hastily, “Of course, my wife was already a wealthy woman.”
“But now,” I said softly, “she will be a very wealthy woman.”
I found a pay phone on the ground floor of Guthrie’s office building. It was almost five. I called Desmond’s office. A recorded message came on. I hung up.
I called the Matthews house. Another recorded message, the husky, unmistakable voice I’d heard on the tennis and birthday videos. Patty Kay’s voice.
“You have reached 555-0892. We aren’t here. We may be on the Amazon or around the corner at the soccer field. We’ll call back if you leave a number—and a good reason.” A ripple of laughter, the buzz signifying other messages, and finally a beep.
I hung up the ph
one.
So Craig wasn’t out of jail yet. Or, if he was, he wasn’t home. My guess was that he would hurry to the house for a shower and fresh clothes, trying to put the feel and smell of a cell as far behind him as possible.
I wanted to talk with my honorary nephew as soon as possible. I had, in fact, some sharp questions to ask.
I redialed the Matthews number, listened again to Patty Kay’s voice, so alive and vibrant and untroubled. This time I left a message. “Craig, please remain home until I get back. I should be there by six. I must talk to you.” My own voice was crisp and, if I do say so, compelling. I can sound like a city editor when need be. Unless I was completely wrong in my estimation of Margaret’s nephew—so unlike Margaret—he would dutifully stay put.
Of course, all things considered, perhaps I should be wondering if I hadn’t misread Craig altogether.
Was he quite the innocent, hapless victim I’d thought him to be?
I drove again to King’s Row Road. Craig wasn’t at the house. I hesitated in the hallway for a moment, then went out the front door and walked swiftly down the drive, retracing my steps of the evening before.
Cheryl Kraft’s black silk slacks hung on her bony hips. Not even the brilliant brocade of a mandarin jacket made her emaciated frame substantial. She brushed back that silver-blond hair. “Mrs. Collins—I’m so glad you’ve come. I’ve been dying to know what’s happening. Come on in.”
Once again we descended into the man-made rain forest. Cheryl headed straight for the wet bar. “A gin and tonic?”
I had to give her good marks for a noticing eye.
“That will be fine.” And it was, tart yet sweet.
For herself, she fixed a martini as dry as the Sahara.
We settled on opposite redwood benches.
The high collar of the brocade jacket emphasized the reedlike thinness of her throat, the product of a sustenance-deprived body reduced to an almost skeletal frame. It’s interesting how our society defines beauty. Heavy gold earrings glittered against scalpel-tightened skin.
“What have you found out?”
I took a sip of the gin. “That Patty Kay’s life was quite complex.”
She nodded approvingly. “Yes, oh, yes. That’s certainly true. Stuart. And Louise. And poor, dear Craig. Of course, I’ve known Patty Kay for a million years….”
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