I wished she’d do some therapeutic dwelling now. Maria was concerned about her employer’s state of mind, and so was I. I crossed the lawn to where Sophie yanked the rake through the pristine grass. She’d already picked up every loose leaf and twig from yesterday’s storm. What she hoped to accomplish at this point was beyond me.
I grabbed hold of the rake, forcing her to pause. “Sophie, come on. It’s hot. You need a break.”
She looked around the large yard as if seeking something else to do. “The cats.”
“You already cleaned around the cats.” And the cats had sat still as stone while she’d done so because, well, they were carved from stone. Marble, to be precise. A pair of life-size memorial statues patiently sitting out eternity in the shade of the house and about a zillion fluffy hydrangeas. Sometime in the far distant past, a white cat and a black cat went to their maker, and their owners—aka their staff, as the old gag goes—placed these statues in honor of them.
The white cat reclined as if on a divan, licking her paw. After a century and a half or so, you’d think it would be clean by now. The black cat crouched, preparing to pounce, its gaze fixed on a hapless, invisible sparrow. The statues were lifelike enough to scare away real sparrows, as graceful and softly curved as the long-gone pets they memorialized.
I said, “And you’ve cleaned the pond, too, I see. Why didn’t you leave all this for the gardening service?”
It was close to seven in the evening, the sun still strong in the cloudless western sky. Sophie had shown up at her office in the Town Hall as usual that morning. I’m told she’d thrown herself into her work, not stopping to rest or even eat lunch. Now here she was, red-faced and sweating from exertion. I was afraid she’d keel over from a heart attack.
“All right, that’s enough.” I wrested the rake from her as gently as I could and steered her toward the patio, shaded by a striped awning. The farmhouse it was attached to was one of Crystal Harbor’s historic homes, dating from the 1830s and built for a scion of the town’s founding family. It was large, homey, and venerable enough to have a name: Nevins House. “Let’s go attack that guacamole,” I said. “Have you eaten today?”
“What? Sure. I guess.”
“Uh-huh.” A pair of padded chaise lounges occupied part of the patio, with a small side table between them. I adjusted one of the chaises to a semi-reclining position and made Sophie sit back and put her feet up. I moved the food tray to the side table and perched on the edge of the neighboring chaise.
“Here.” I handed her a paper napkin to mop her sweaty face while I poured two tall mojitos and passed one over. “Drink up.”
She did as ordered, then sank back against the chaise with an unhappy sigh. Her eyes were closed. I gave her a couple of minutes while I piled guacamole and homemade tortilla chips on a small plate. When she opened her eyes, I handed her the plate. She let it rest untouched on her lap, which more than anything indicated her state of mind.
I scooped some guacamole on a chip and shoved it into my mouth, which proceeded to have a guacgasm. Maria had not lost her touch. Sophie had hired her three months earlier after the murder of Maria’s longtime employer, Irene McAuliffe. Sophie had as much as admitted to me that Maria’s guacamole had played an outsize role in the decision.
I laid my hand over Sophie’s on the arm of her chaise. “I’ve been thinking. Isn’t it possible someone else had the same exact ring that you and Ernie did? Maybe it’s not him.”
She shook her head. “Ernie’s mom had a jewelry artist design them exclusively for us. Only two exist in the world. Besides...” She closed her eyes again. “They checked his dental records. It’s him.”
Conflicting facts bounced around my brainpan like ping-pong balls. I gave my head a little shake to clear it. “Okay, then... his suicide... ?”
“Faked, obviously.” Sophie looked from the untouched plate in her lap to her drink. She lifted the drink and took a healthy swig. “By whoever killed Ernie and shoved him in that hole thirty-two years ago.”
I shivered, though it was easily eighty degrees. A mosquito touched down on Sophie’s ankle. I batted it away. “Eat,” I said.
Sophie stared at her plate with unfocused eyes. “Massive blunt-force trauma to the cranium. Someone caved in his head.” She looked up. “This is confidential info, by the way—Bonnie’s keeping the details hush-hush for the sake of the investigation. I only found out ’cause Cliff Reddy blabbed it to me before Bonnie could muzzle him. So no spreading it around.”
“Of course.” I laid my hand on hers again. “I’m so sorry, Sophie.”
She gave a little shrug. “Happened a long time ago.”
I didn’t need to state the obvious. It’s one thing to recover from the suicide of your young husband. It’s another altogether to discover he was murdered. A thing like that was sure to trigger a renewed bout of grieving.
She said, “They found the suicide note on his boat... drifting in the ocean off Montauk the morning after he went missing. Thirty-foot cabin cruiser. We spent a lot of time on that thing...” She trailed off.
“Obviously his body never turned up,” I said.
“Cops figured he tied some kind of weight to himself.”
“Was Ernie depressed?” I asked. “Were you surprised by his supposed suicide?”
Sophie took a deep breath. She looked at me levelly. “Ernie was troubled—I found that out later—but he never showed it, and I never imagined he’d off himself. Wasn’t that kind of guy.” She shrugged. “But there was that note. No one questioned it. Except Teddy.”
“Teddy?”
“Ernie’s mom.” Sophie grimaced. “Theodora Augusta Waterfield. Mother of the freakin’ year.”
“She was suspicious?” I asked.
Sophie nodded. She finally seemed to notice the plate on her lap, and dipped a chip. “She couldn’t believe her Ernie would take his own life. We all thought she was in denial. Turns out the old witch had the right idea. Who knew?”
“What about Ernie’s dad? Did he share his wife’s suspicions?”
“He died when Ernie was two years old,” she said. “Teddy raised him as a single mother.”
I tried to swat a mosquito dive-bombing my arm, and missed. “Is she still alive?”
“Far as I know,” Sophie said.
“Where does she live?”
“Here in Crystal Harbor. Out at the edge of town on Wallings Drive.”
That surprised me. “How come I’ve never met her?”
“Keeps to herself,” Sophie said, around a mouthful of guac. “Which is fine by me.”
Maria emerged from the house. “Are you okay out here?”
Sophie turned to look at her. “We’re fine, Maria. You should have gone home hours ago.”
Maria shooed away her employer’s concern. “There’s some fried chicken and grilled veggies in the fridge, when you’re ready for them. More than enough for two. You can eat it cold or nuke it, either way. And there’s still some tres leches cake left.”
I groaned in anticipated pleasure. I’d tasted Maria’s tres leches cake.
“Thanks, hon.” Sophie looked her housekeeper in the eye. “I’m all right, really. And Jane is here. She’ll make sure I don’t waste away.” She patted her ample gut. Maria was about to take her leave when Sophie said, “You know what I could use? Cigar. Skeeters are out in force tonight.” As Maria retreated into the house, she told me, “Smoke helps keep the bugs away.”
“You smoke cigars?” I shouldn’t have been surprised.
“Only outside the house. Fella I was seeing last summer got me into the habit. Thanks, hon,” she said as Maria set a wooden humidor, heavy crystal ashtray, and cigar paraphernalia on the side table.
Sophie almost never alluded to her dating life. She knew everyone and everything going on in town, but also knew how to keep the flow of juicy information from becoming a two-way street.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” Maria said. “If you need me to come earli
er than nine, or if you can think of anything you’d like me to pick up—”
Sophie took her housekeeper’s hand and squeezed it. “I’m fine, Maria. Really. You go home and take care of that fine man of yours.”
I caught Maria’s eye and nodded, silently letting her know I’d stick around and see to Sophie’s emotional well-being. Maria smiled her thanks and bade us good-night.
Sophie set her half-full plate on the table. She flipped open the humidor and made a help-yourself gesture. I answered with a no-thanks gesture. The appealing scent of expensive tobacco competed with the green and flowering perfumes of midsummer.
She chose a midsize cigar with a dark wrapper and clipped it. “Bonnie stopped by the office today. Asked a ton of questions and, get this, requested that I not take any trips while the investigation is ongoing.”
My mouth sagged open. “She considers you a suspect?”
Sophie shrugged. “Guess so.” She placed the cigar between her lips and fired up the lighter, expertly turning the cigar as the tip started to glow.
“But... but she was there when you recognized that ring,” I said. “You were practically in shock. What, she thought you were faking it?”
Sophie sagged back on the chaise and blew a smoke ring. The smoke smelled good, like earthy incense. A fine cigar like that probably cost what I spend on a pair of shoes. Granted, I shop clearance sales, but still.
“Bonnie’s a detective working a murder case,” she said. “Detectives need suspects. Guessed she looked around and figured I’d do.”
“For starters, maybe. ‘Don’t leave town,’” I mocked. “Who does she think she’s talking to? You’re the mayor! You’re on her side!” I nodded toward Sophie’s thin gold neck chain. “For crying out loud, you still wear the wedding ring Ernie gave you.”
Sophie drew the chain out of her neckline. It was bare. No ring. “Bonnie needed it for comparison. She’ll give it back,” she added as I drew myself up to renew the rant. “Proud to have you in my corner, Delaney. Don’t go storming the police station yet. Bonnie’s only doing her job.”
I exhaled a frustrated sigh. “I suppose it can’t be easy with a thirty-year-old murder. Where do you start?”
“At the obvious place.” She spread her arms. “The deceased’s spouse.”
“Did Ernie have life insurance?”
“That was her first question.” Sophie shook her head. “We were kids. In our twenties. Didn’t think about stuff like that.”
“Well... and if you don’t want to talk about this, it’s okay—”
Sophie waved off my polite concern. “Fire away.”
“Was Ernie well off? Did you inherit big when he died?”
Despite the fact she’d just given me carte blanche to ask questions, she looked uncomfortable. “It’s complicated.” She’d drained her glass. I refilled it. Maybe a little more rum, in combination with the calming effect of the cigar, would keep her talking and keep that rake out of her hands.
“I was a poor kid from Colorado,” Sophie said. “Ernie came from old New York money. His family had been in Crystal Harbor since before the Revolution. I’m pretty sure they were on the wrong side of that one, by the way. Anyway, I met him a few months after college graduation. A Halloween party. He wore a skeleton costume.” She winced.
“Was it love at first sight?” I asked.
“For me it was. I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but I was about as naïve and innocent as they came back then. Shy as hell.”
I choked back a laugh. “You?”
She shrugged, smiling. “Late bloomer. What can I tell you? I’d had two dates before I met Ernie, both disasters. I wasn’t the glamorous sexpot you see before you today.”
“And Ernie was, what, this sophisticated, experienced hunk who showed you the ways of the world?”
Her smile softened. “Not exactly. He was... well, he was a good friend. Kind. Fun to be with. I was this dorky kid from the sticks and he introduced me to New York. Broadway. The museums. Jazz clubs. He used to take me on these walking tours of bright, beautiful Manhattan. I ate it up.”
“When did it become more serious?” I asked. “You said you were just friends at first?”
“Ernie knew how I felt about him. How could he not? I didn’t know anything about manipulating men or masking my true feelings—none of those games. I was always afraid that today would be the day we’d have The Conversation.” When I gave a quizzical look, she continued, “You know. ‘You’re a sweet kid, Sophie, but I don’t think about you that way. Have a nice life.’”
“But...” I prompted.
“But that spring, when we’d been hanging together for seven, eight months, suddenly he kisses me.” Sophie’s expression softened in reminiscence. “Wasn’t much of a kiss, but to me it was everything. I was over the moon.”
I grinned. “Little Sophie from the sticks had a boyfriend. A rich boyfriend.”
“Things moved pretty fast then. Before I knew it, we were engaged. I met his mom.”
“Did you get along with her?”
“If you call being too terrified to speak ‘getting along.’ After a while I realized it wasn’t just me. Teddy intimidated everyone. First person I met who just plain didn’t give a crap what others thought of her. I’ll say this for the old bitch—she taught me an important lesson. You don’t have to be liked by everyone. That kind of neediness keeps you from being effective, getting things done.”
“Well, maybe you didn’t learn the lesson all that well,” I said, “because I don’t know anyone who doesn’t like Sophie Halperin.”
“Didn’t say it’s bad to be liked. You treat people decently, with respect and compassion, most folks will think you’re a swell person. Teddy was smoking in the girls’ room when they covered that chapter.” Sophie raised her glass in salute. “To Theodora Augusta Waterfield. And keeping out of her crosshairs.”
“So Ernie left you well off,” I said. “I figured it had to be either husband number one or husband number two.”
Sophie looked like she’d bitten into a sour apple. “Husband number two is a deadbeat loser. Always has been. Spent his whole adult life in a series of crappy jobs. At the moment he’s selling used cars in Sandy Cove.”
I knew Sandy Cove well. I’d rented a basement apartment in that blue-collar South Shore town before inheriting Irene’s five-acre estate in Crystal Harbor.
“Why’d you marry him?” I asked.
She offered a self-deprecatory smile. “The lure of the bad boy. What can I tell you?”
“’Nuf said.” I knew all about that particular brand of attraction, thanks to Martin McAuliffe.
“Fell for Dean right after Ernie died,” she said. “Should’ve given myself more time. But I was a dumb little virgin and he knew just how to play me.”
“Uh, wait a minute.” I made a time-out T with my hands. “I assume you’re using ‘virgin’ in the figurative sense?”
“That would be ‘virgin’ in the literal sense,” Sophie said. “As in Ernie and I never did the deed. As in I had no inkling he was gay when I married him.”
“Oh boy.” I sucked air through my teeth, my expression pained. “So he didn’t even, you know, go through the motions?”
She shook her head. “I always suspected he was holding a torch for someone else. If so, it was a guy.”
“And Teddy knew her son was gay?”
Sophie nodded. “Never accepted it, though. Never accepted him. Insisted that once he found the right girl and settled down... well, you know. All that ‘the love of a good woman will cure you’ crap. Really messed him up. Anyway, since you ask, Ernie wasn’t the one who left me well off. Once he’d graduated from college, he was on his own financially. Aspiring songwriters don’t exactly rake it in. I was barely supporting us on my paralegal’s salary.” She’d worked for Sten Jakobsen’s law firm back then.
“So if you didn’t inherit from your first husband, and your second husband was a deadbeat loser...” I le
ft the sentence hanging.
Sophie looked me in the eye. “I accepted three million dollars from Teddy Waterfield to remain married to her son.”
My mouth worked, but no sound came out. Finally I managed, “Does he have a gay brother?”
She smiled. “Ernie was an only child, his mother’s little prince until he ‘decided’ to break her heart by becoming a homosexual.” She hesitated before adding, “Want you to know it wasn’t an easy decision for me. To take her money. Once I discovered my new husband was gay, I figured, hell, I had to divorce him. Not that I didn’t still love Ernie, as a friend. I loved and respected him.”
“Even though he married you under false pretenses?”
Sophie puffed her cigar. That thing was smelling better and better. “Yeah, well, that mother of his, she did a real number on him. Not that he gets a free pass or anything, but you have to look at his actions in context. Anyway, when I examined my options, it came down to either—” she raised two fingers in turn “—spend my life with my best friend and three million smackers, or divorce him and hope to find a ‘real man’ I might like half as much while spending the rest of my life scraping out a living like I’d done up till then.”
I laid my hand on hers. “Sophie, I don’t think less of you for the decision you made.”
She stared off into the distance. “Sometimes I do, but it’s done. No calling it back.”
“At least you were able to quit your job, right?”
She shrugged. “I could’ve if I’d wanted to, but I didn’t want to. Sten needed me and I liked the work. I’m not suited to filling my days with shopping and white-glove lunches. It’s not me.”
I tried to imagine Sophie Halperin donning a pair of delicate white gloves. Perhaps at gunpoint.
Back to the issue at hand. “You mentioned that Ernie was troubled?”
She hesitated. “There was a... an incident, something that happened when Ernie was in college. Didn’t know about it when I married him. Teddy hushed the whole thing up. You can do that when you have enough dough. And Ernie... I guess he was too ashamed to tell even me. It all came out after he killed himself—supposedly killed himself, I mean. The fake suicide note said that Ernie’s guilt over this incident drove him to end his life.”
Uprooting Ernie (Jane Delaney Mysteries Book 2) Page 3