It took only an occasional murmur to keep the flow going. I felt like a gold hunter with a sluice pan, hoping for a nugget, getting mostly gravel.
“… known each other forever. Patty Kay was so upset when Stuart moved out. She couldn’t believe he’d leave her. She was absolutely furious when he married Louise. She married Craig just six weeks later. Eloped to the Virgin Islands.” A spurt of laughter. “I thought that was so funny. But it all seems to have worked. And then to have both Patty Kay and Stuart serving as Walden trustees! But they treat each other very politely at board meetings. Actually, I was looking forward to seeing Stuart at Patty Kay’s house for dinner … that night. So far as I know, it would be the first time he’d set foot in that house since he walked out. But lately, it seems to me like they were almost too polite at board meetings.”
Cheryl couldn’t know that she was hot and getting hotter. But this was no longer a puzzle to solve.
“… Patty Kay and Pamela never could get along. Pamela’s such a pig, you know. About everything. So grossly fat.” The throaty voice dripped disdain. “But she had enough of the Prentiss spunk that you can’t count Pam out. None of them ever like to lose. Their great-grandfather was in a duel and everybody always said he shot before the count was up. But it couldn’t be Willis.” A moue of contempt. “He’d do anything for money, but Willis Guthrie was no match for Patty Kay. He was terrified of her and of course that’s why I’m sure Craig didn’t—” She clapped a hand to her crimson mouth.
I smiled. “That’s quite all right. And very perceptive of you.”
She downed half the martini. “Oh, of course, I suppose in a family things are understood, though I wouldn’t for the world say the wrong thing.” She leaned toward me, gesturing with her drink. “The truth is, Craig’s very nice but he’s not rugged. Not the kind of man to shoot anyone. Or anything, for that matter. My husband hunts.” Quiet pride underlined the declaration. “And I told Brooke when she described that mess in the kitchen to me …”
It’s a small town, for chrissakes.
“… that it certainly didn’t sound like the Craig Matthews I know.” She finished her first martini, popped up, and poured another.
I nodded, but I had the thought that though Craig might not be rugged, he was intelligent, and if he planned a murder, he might well set it up to look like something he would never have done….
She plopped back on the bench and leaned toward me. “Of course, there is one thing I’ve wondered about.”
I caught the faintly smutty tone to her voice. The gin was definitely loosening her tongue.
So I encouraged her. “It’s better if all the truth comes out.”
“Of course, since I work at the bookstore, I couldn’t help noticing how well Craig and Stevie—she’s our dear, cute little assistant manager—how well they get along.” Her eyes gleamed.
Women notice a lot. Especially what goes on between men and other women.
If Cheryl had noticed, so might have others.
I was certain Craig and Stevie thought no one knew.
They were wrong.
Now I had my nugget.
Cheryl had picked up on Craig and Stevie. Other women who knew Patty Kay and Craig worked at the bookstore—Pamela Guthrie, Brooke Forrest, Edith Hollis, Louise Pierce. Women notice. And women talk.
It’s a small town, for chrissakes.
And everyone who was anyone in Fair Haven shopped at Books, Books, Books. So the murderer could easily have taken Stevie’s sweater, deliberately planted it beside Patty Kay’s body, and hoped it would implicate Stevie or panic Craig.
As it had.
“Do you think Patty Kay knew?”
Cheryl considered it, turned the idea over and over, then rejected it, reluctantly. “No. I saw Patty Kay at the store when I was there last Thursday. She treated Stevie just as always.”
I definitely caught a faint note of regret in her voice.
It was almost six when we started back up the atrium stairs, Cheryl, a little unsteady, using the handrail for support.
She said farewell, her thin frame leaning against the huge teak door. “Now, you be sure to come back, Mrs. Collins, if I can do anything else to help. And do give dear Craig my love. Such a blow.”
I smelled cinnamon aftershave. His blue and white striped pincord slacks and yellow linen sport shirt were crisp and fresh.
But Craig’s weakly handsome face was haggard.
And his glare sullen.
“Jesus, why do I have to answer your questions? All I’ve done is answer questions, talk, talk, talk about it. I’m sick of talking about it.”
His hand flung out, struck the flank of a black carousel horse. The tinny music started, stopped.
“Stupid goddamn horse!” Craig snarled.
I opened the small refrigerator in the wet bar, grabbed a handful of ice for my glass. Plain soda this time. “Until Patty Kay’s murder is solved, you’re going to have to talk— and talk a lot.” My voice was sharp. I was tired. A squabble with Craig was just one more problem. His temper tantrums were another. I was already dreading a call to Margaret.
Craig walked to the mantel, put out his hand, gripped it hard. He was dangerously close to exploding.
Maybe it was time to go easy. “Simmer down, Craig. I just want you to think about last week. Did Patty Kay say anything, do anything out of the ordinary?”
He shrugged impatiently. “Christ, I don’t know.”
I wondered abruptly just how much attention—real attention—Craig had paid to his wife’s actions.
“How often did Patty Kay do things on the spur of the moment?”
He pushed off the mantel, walked to a barstool, and straddled it. His face was resigned. “All the time. She always said she wasn’t a prisoner of a schedule, anybody’s schedule. One time she saw a story in The Tennessean about white-water rafting in Idaho and we had reservations to go the next morning.”
“What about her commitments? Like the class? Or parties?”
“Oh,” he said vaguely, “I think that was in the summer sometime. But she’d just get a substitute or call and say we weren’t coming.”
It must have made Patty Kay a popular guest.
But as a hostess?
“So this last-minute dinner for the trustees wasn’t that unusual?”
He shook his head. “One time she decided to have a New Year’s Eve party and sent telegrams inviting everybody just the day before. But generally, she planned dinners ahead. Because she really loved to cook and she liked to think about the dinner and work on it and order special foods and things. Like reindeer meat for a Twelfth Night party.”
Maybe the timing of that night’s dinner didn’t really matter. But there were regularly scheduled board meetings. If Patty Kay had something to present to the trustees as trustees, why not do it at a regular meeting?
I got my notebook out of my purse. “I copied down Patty Kay’s appointments for Friday and Saturday. Does this suggest anything to you?” I handed it to him.
He scanned the notes, then pointed at Friday - 9 a.m. Class. “I don’t know if it matters, but she left for school earlier than usual. Usually she left about a quarter to nine. Friday morning she left earlier. About eight, I think.”
“Did she say anything?”
“No. She was in a real hurry. She looked grim, so I kept my mouth shut. That was the best thing to do when Patty Kay was frosted about something. She looked like she was spoiling for a fight.” His brows drew down in a puzzled frown. “Hey, you know what’s funny? The night before, she was fine. We played tennis, took a swim together. Everything was great.” His eyes widened. “Hey, wait a minute, wait a minute. Okay, late Thursday night, we’d just turned off the TV and started upstairs and she said, ‘Oh, damn, I forgot the files.’ And she decided to run out to school and pick them up.”
“What files?”
The eagerness seeped away. He shrugged.
“Did you see her after she went out to the schoo
l?”
“No. I didn’t even hear her car. I went right to sleep.”
“Do you know when she came to bed?”
“No.”
“Okay, you didn’t see her after she got back with the files. And you kept out of her way Friday morning. How about Friday night?”
“We went into Nashville for dinner, then to the symphony. She hardly said a word all night. Which was odd. Because usually the world knew if Patty Kay was mad. She was real upset about something. But she was real quiet.”
“You didn’t try to find out what was bothering her?”
He shrugged. “Why stir things up?”
“How about Saturday morning?”
“That was crazy. Everything was haywire. The daughter of some of our friends died Friday.” For an instant he shifted his focus from himself. “Christ, she drowned herself in the lake!” He fell quiet. I knew that he had imagination, that he was envisioning the painful, choking finality as water clogged the desperate young girl’s throat, poured into her lungs. His body jerked. “Somebody called to tell us the next morning. Patty Kay was knocked for a loop. I was about to go to work. I asked her if she was going to cancel that dinner. She kind of huddled in her chair. I wasn’t sure she’d heard, so I asked again. She shook her head. She didn’t say anything.” He looked forlorn. “She was crying…. That’s the last time I saw her.”
“Until she was dead.” I waited, then added deliberately, “Or just before she died.”
His head jerked upward, as if I’d slapped him.
“Amy swears you left the bookstore at fifteen minutes to four.”
He stared at me with desperate, frightened, angry eyes. “No, no. It was four. I know it was.”
“Amy’s sure. I’ll tell you something, Craig. A jury will believe her. Not you.”
“Dammit, she’s just a kid. Just a stupid kid. It was four!” His voice was thin and reedy.
We looked at each other.
I knew he was lying.
One more time.
So what else was new.
Why a lie this time?
Because he knew how long it took to drive to the deli and from there to his house and he knew how long he spent at the deli. And he had an extra fifteen minutes he wouldn’t—or dared not—account for.
I had some ideas about it.
He could have dashed by Stevie’s apartment. Or stopped at a convenience store to call and see if his girlfriend was home. If he was innocent, he would have had no idea that it really mattered what time he got home that night with the fruit basket.
Or he killed his wife.
Either way, I’d been lied to too many times in Fair Haven.
“You found Patty Kay—and you found a bloody sweater. Tell me the truth about that sweater, Craig.”
“Sweater?”
“The sweater you wrapped the gun in. The sweater the cops found in a roadside trash bin. The bloody beige Lands’ End sweater.”
He lurched off the barstool, jammed his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “It was a sweater?”
I’ve met five-year-olds who could lie more convincingly.
“Oh, hell’s bells, Craig. Come off it. Yes, it was a sweater. A sweater that belonged to the woman with whom you’re having an affair.”
That got me a straight look.
A straight, wild, panicked look.
“What the hell are you talking about?” But the bluster ran thin and shrill.
“Stevie Costello. You know. I know. Others who worked at the bookstore know.”
He yanked his hands out of his pockets, took a step toward me. His face was bone-white with rage. “Walsh. Christ, have you told Walsh?”
I could feel my heart thudding in my chest. Had I shot off my mouth one time too many?
He took another step.
“Walsh will get there.” My voice was level. “I’m already there. Craig—it’s time you told me the truth.”
“You’ve got to shut up. Look—who asked you here? What the hell are you doing? Trying to get me convicted? Get out. Just get out. Okay? Get the hell out of here.” His voice cracked.
I said nothing.
“You aren’t my aunt. Just pack your—”
“It’s a little late for you to say so, isn’t it? What makes you think Walsh would even let me leave town now? Especially if you tell him we’re not related. He might begin to wonder just what kind of story we rigged. And why. No, Craig. You lied and now you’re stuck with it. I’m not going anywhere.”
His hands tightened into fists. Color flamed on his face. “Dammit, dammit, keep your mouth shut, you’ve got to. You’ve got to!” Then, with a last furious glare, he turned and ran out of the room.
In a moment I heard the door slam. And, faintly, the motor of the Porsche.
Interesting.
Craig got mad—and he ran.
Just as Stuart Pierce predicted.
I walked toward the kitchen. I still had to eat. I wondered if Craig was hotfooting it to Stevie Costello’s.
Not, I presumed, if he had a brain.
Because Captain Walsh surely was going to keep track of his prime suspect.
But maybe that’s exactly what Craig would do.
That might truly put the fat in the fire.
At this point, I royally didn’t give a damn what Craig Matthews did.
But I was still in the game. I wouldn’t deal out.
Not because of Craig.
Because of Margaret.
Because I don’t run.
And because of Patty Kay.
If Craig was guilty, I wanted to know. I would grieve for Margaret, but I had to know. In my mind I saw a young, graceful, vibrant woman in the peak years of her life, smiling, playing tennis, working for her community. And I saw her lying dead in her own blood.
I stopped at the telephone in the main hall.
No message lights.
Be interesting to know if Craig’d already had a call from Stevie.
I dialed Desmond’s office.
This time he answered.
“You’re working late,” I said.
“Yeah. I just got back from getting Craig out of jail.”
“I know. I talked to him.”
“Tell him to keep a low profile. Walsh is determined to pin his hide to the barn door.”
“I’ll tell him.” And so I would—eventually. “Desmond, who’s going to chair the trustees meeting tomorrow night?”
Desmond sighed heavily. “I guess I will. I’m vice president.” Papers rattled. “Brooke’s already left me three messages, something about a memorial for Patty Kay.”
Brooke certainly had an agenda.
So did I. Two, in fact. One I explained to Desmond. The other—mounting a search for the author of the letters that drove Franci Hollis to her death—would have to wait. But, in time, I would get to it. Cruelty cannot be permitted to triumph.
“Sure. Why not? Will I see you before then?”
“Yes. How about after the funeral?”
“After the funeral.” Desmond’s voice lost its buoyancy.
“Patty Kay’s guild is bringing luncheon over to Pamela’s. I’ll look for you there.” I put down the receiver.
I heated a frozen dinner. Not supermarket fare, but Patty Kay’s marvelous cooking: sesame chicken, scalloped zucchini, carrots. As soon as I finished the dishes, I headed upstairs to Patty Kay’s office.
Patty Kay’s trashed office.
I stood in the doorway.
Surely this was proof of Craig’s innocence. For he was in police custody when this office was ransacked.
But Patty Kay’s death could have triggered panic in other quarters. What if she had letters from Stuart? Present-day, passionate letters? What if Gina had fired off an angry, threatening letter about the land zoning?
I couldn’t assume this mess was made by the murderer.
But I was still glad young Dan Forrest hadn’t sought out the source of the noise Monday afternoon. There was a vicious
ness to this devastation that appalled me.
I set to work. I couldn’t put everything where it went, of course, because I didn’t know. And many objects were too broken to be repaired. But I tidied up. And finally felt I had all the papers that belonged in Patty Kay’s Walden School file.
I took the material, more than a dozen folders in an expandable brown file, down to the clubroom. I didn’t want to stay in the office with the scarred desk and shattered bookcase glass.
Thursday night at bedtime Patty Kay was happy. She abruptly realized she’d forgotten some files. She drove to Walden School, returned with—presumably—the file holder I now possessed. Friday morning at breakfast, Patty Kay’s mood had altered completely. Friday afternoon she arranged a last-minute dinner for the school’s board of trustees.
I glanced at the clock.
Half past seven.
At midnight I gave up. I’d read and reread every file in the folder: Budget, Physical Plant, Personnel, Recruiting, Sports, Academic Programs, Scholarships, Endowment, Land Use, Media, Board Minutes.
If there was anything the least bit odd, unusual, or suspect in that mass of material, I couldn’t find it—and I’m damn good at finding odd, unusual, or suspect facts.
I was frustrated. Frustrated, confused, and exhausted.
I finally gave up and went to bed. After locking my door and wedging a chair beneath it. Craig had run away, true. But I couldn’t be certain he was innocent. And I knew a great deal he wouldn’t want Captain Walsh to learn.
I woke several times in the night and once was tempted to get up and have another go at the files.
Because the answer had to be there, hadn’t it?
Patty Kay was her usual self Thursday evening.
She went to the school, got those files, came home.
And Friday morning she was very upset.
Why, dammit, why?
15
The Episcopal burial service is swift and merciful. A silk pall covers a closed casket. The liturgy emphasizes the promise that death is swallowed up in victory. Prayer asks that the deceased, increasing in knowledge and love of the Lord, go from strength to strength in the life of perfect service in the heavenly kingdom.
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