A Just Clause

by Lorna Barrett

  “Come in, come in, my darling girls,” John said in welcome. He sat at one of the upholstered chairs off to the side. Before him on the side table sat a sweating glass of amber liquid—no doubt Scotch on the rocks.

  “Should you be drinking so soon after your health scare?” Tricia asked.

  “If not now—when?”

  “When indeed,” Angelica grated, but then she strode to the little button on the wall that would alert the waiter who was to serve them. It was like she’d hit speed dial, for the man appeared in only seconds.

  “Hello, I’m Danny. How can I help you?”

  “My sister and I would like a couple of glasses of Chardonnay,” Angelica said without consulting Tricia. That she’d ordered wine meant she intended to make sure they kept their wits about them during the ensuing conversations.

  “Very good. And will you be ordering now?”

  “Not yet. We’ll need a little time.”

  “Very good,” Danny said, and backed out of the room, closing the door after him.

  The sisters turned their attention back to their father. “Daddy, you know we love you, but you can’t stay here in Stoneham,” Angelica announced with no preamble.

  “And I don’t want to,” he said and reached for his drink. “Talk about a backwater,” he mumbled into his glass.

  “But?”

  John set his glass back down. “As I told you before; I’m short of funds.”

  “How much do you need?” Angelica asked, her tone icy.

  John shrugged. “Ten or twenty thousand—”

  “What on earth for?” Angelica nearly bellowed.

  “To get established in a new locale.”

  “What’s wrong with North Haven? You’ve got friends there. You’ve got—”

  “Family? My family is all gone. The only person I know there is your mother—and she has made it clear that I am no longer welcome in her home and in her bed. And by the way, all the years we were married she made it clear that it was always her home and that I was nothing more than a boarder.”

  “Then why did you stay?” Tricia asked.

  “Where else was I going to go? I suppose it was a comfortable life. I played golf. She occasionally let me dabble in business dealings, but she always held the purse strings, making me feel like some kind of a vestigial organ.”

  Not the analogy Tricia would have chosen.

  “You do realize that the police have been looking for you?”

  “I haven’t exactly been hiding.”

  “But you haven’t exactly been accessible, either.”

  “What could they possibly want with me?”

  “A woman slapped you in front of dozens of witnesses less than thirty minutes before she was found dead. Naturally the police want to know why.”

  John again reached for his drink. “I asked if I could stay with her. She was still miffed I’d left without consulting her back in January, and she smacked me. I didn’t hold it against her.”

  “The police seem to feel otherwise,” Tricia added, but before she could say anything else, Danny had arrived with a tray and their drinks. He set the glasses on napkins on the cocktail table. “May I present you with our menu?”

  “We know where they are. We’ll call you when we’re ready to order, thank you,” Angelica said.

  Danny nodded and again backed out of the room, closing the door.

  “Now, where were we?” Angelica said, and picked up one of the glasses, taking a swig.

  “Talking about Carol—and Daddy.” Tricia turned her attention back to her father. “I found the pawn tickets in your wallet on Saturday.”

  “Pawn tickets?” he asked, his expression guileless.

  “Yes. For Fred’s father’s watch, and Carol’s wedding band and other pieces of jewelry.”

  “You should be ashamed of yourself. First you try to rope Fred into fencing stolen cold cuts—which you appropriated from me!” Angelica cried, her voice cracking, “and then you stole the man’s father’s watch.”

  “Borrowed,” John insisted. “I only needed a little cash advance. I fully intended to reclaim it at the earliest opportunity.”

  “And when would that be? When hell freezes over?” Angelica asked.

  “Ange, Ange,” Tricia chided, and guided her sister into a chair. Then she picked up her own glass and took a healthy sip. “So when did you steal Carol’s jewelry?”

  “Steal?” John repeated as though puzzled.

  “I can’t think of a better explanation,” Tricia said.

  “I borrowed it.”

  The man truly was in denial.

  “How can you borrow something from a dead person?”

  “She wasn’t using it. And I intended to make full restitution.”

  “To whom?” Tricia insisted.

  “I’m still waiting for you to make restitution to me,” Angelica grated.

  “Yes, well, that’s what I intended. However, the loan I was able to obtain—”

  “You mean from the pawn shop?”

  “Er, well, yes. It was considerably lower than I’d anticipated. It would have been an insult to offer you such a paltry sum.”

  “Believe me, I wouldn’t have been insulted.”

  “Daddy,” Tricia began, “won’t you please tell us what’s going on with you? And perhaps it might be best to come clean about the past, too.”

  “The past?” he asked innocently.

  “Yes. Tricia’s good friend—the chief of police—said you have a rap sheet as long as our arms.”

  “Why are you friendly with the law?” he asked suspiciously.

  “In case you haven’t heard, it’s Tricia’s hobby to find dead bodies and help the police solve crimes.”

  “I was wondering about that,” John admitted. “Carol did mention you seem to make a habit of it.”

  “That’s beside the point. You still haven’t told us the whole Carol story.”

  “There’s not much else to tell.”

  “How about how you entered her home?”

  “Uh, I knew where she hid the spare key.”

  “Is it still there?”

  “Unless someone else took it, it should be.”

  “Tricia!” Angelica warned.

  “I’m not planning to follow in Daddy’s footsteps,” Tricia said, but at that point she wasn’t exactly sure it was the truth.

  Angelica shook her head, turning her attention back to their father. “What are we going to do with you?”

  “You don’t have to do anything. Except perhaps buy me a bus ticket to Boston. I’ve got connections there.”

  “What kind of connections?”

  “Nothing you’d be interested in. Friends. Business associates. Colleagues.”

  “Crooks?” Angelica supplied.

  John frowned. “Nothing of the sort.”

  “That wouldn’t be a very good idea,” Tricia said, “not after that scare you gave us with the heart attack.”

  “The doctor said it was very mild. If I take care of myself, I should be one hundred percent in a couple of weeks.”

  “And how are you going to take care of yourself when you’re on the road or bumming space with these so-called business associates and colleagues?” Angelica asked.

  “Have you got another solution?” John pointedly asked.

  Tricia looked to her sister to explain.

  “We’re not willing to give you a load of money that can be frittered away, but we are open to setting you up in some kind of living arrangement.”

  John sipped his Scotch before speaking. “I’m listening.”

  “We thought some kind of retirement community.”

  “With a bunch of old fogies!” he protested.

  “Look in the mirror; you’re an old fogy,” Angel
ica said. “We’re talking about a nice place where you wouldn’t have to worry about cooking, cleaning, and doing laundry. Kind of like the arrangement you had with Mother, only without the sex.”

  “And there wasn’t nearly enough of that these past few years, either.”

  Tricia put her hands over her ears. “That’s far more information than either of us needs to know!”

  John went back to sipping his Scotch.

  “Well, what do you say?”

  “I don’t want to live in Stoneham—or even New Hampshire. There’s not much to do here.”

  “We were thinking Connecticut.”

  “North Haven?” he asked, not sounding at all pleased.

  “It’s either there or here. Those are the only choices.”

  John scowled. “Why don’t you give me ten thousand bucks and let me take my chances?”

  Angelica, the hardened businesswoman who was used to negotiating contracts, shook her head. “It’s tough love time, Daddy.”

  John scowled. “Then I don’t suppose I have much choice.”

  Again, Angelica shook her head.

  “I don’t want to be dumped in some fleabag—and I’ll need transportation. A nice Cadillac should do.”

  “We can discuss the particulars later. That is, if you aren’t arrested for murder,” Angelica accused.

  John waved an impatient hand in the air. “You worry too much.”

  “You don’t seem to worry at all,” she countered.

  “That’s because I’m innocent.”

  “And how many times have you uttered that phrase during your lifetime?” Angelica muttered.

  Tricia looked at her watch. If they were going to eat before Baker showed up for his interrogation, they had better think about ordering. She marched over to where the menus were kept, grabbed three, and handed them out. “Lunchtime.”

  They perused their choices, and then Tricia pressed the button to summon Danny.

  When he arrived, they ordered, and with a nod Danny exited.

  For a couple of long, awkward minutes, no one spoke. They sipped their drinks without making eye contact.

  It occurred to Tricia that the man she’d adored—her father—not only had feet of clay but was no longer the man she’d thought she’d known for her entire life.

  “Daddy,” she began, “you need to tell us who you are. I feel like I don’t know you. I don’t know what you love—or who. I really don’t know anything about you.”

  “Oh, Princess, you sound so disappointed.”

  “I am. I always thought my daddy was a great man, a kind man. An honest man.”

  John shook his head. “Princess, I’m the same man who read you stories. Who tucked you in at night. Who was there at your dance recitals.”

  “But what else did you do—who else were you?” Angelica queried.

  John shrugged. “I’ve always been a free spirit. I think that’s what first attracted your mother to me. I always hovered around a flame, and she found that exciting . . . until she didn’t.”

  “Do you miss her?” Angelica asked.

  John took several long moments to think about it. “Yes, I do. But she’s made it clear to me that her feelings have changed.”

  Because he had defended Tricia.

  Good grief; that made Sheila sound like a horrible excuse for a mother. And even if she was, Tricia still loved the woman and always would. She was her mother, after all. But that didn’t mean she had to like her.

  How sad.

  How terribly sad.

  And so they sat in virtual silence until their lunches arrived. And even then, they didn’t say much more.

  The three of them picked at their entrees, not hungry for food—but Tricia was hungry for something more elemental.

  Understanding.

  • • •

  Danny had cleared the dishes away and asked if they’d wanted coffee or dessert, which they’d all decided against, when another knock on the door broke the quiet.

  “Come in,” Tricia said.

  Chief Baker entered. John took in his dark blue policeman’s uniform and shot angry glances at both his daughters.

  “Daddy, this is Grant Baker—Stoneham’s chief of police,” Tricia said.

  “Your old boyfriend,” John accused.

  Baker shot an angry look at Tricia, but said nothing.

  “Do you know why I’m here?” Baker asked John.

  “Because Carol slapped me mere minutes before she died, you think I may have killed her.”

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Cop, but my feelings for the woman could be summed up in two words: easy lay.”

  “Daddy!” Angelica protested.

  John shrugged. “Carol and I were intimate when I was here back in the winter, but apparently she wasn’t interested in taking up where we left off.”

  “So she slapped you?”

  John nodded. “It’s as simple as that.”

  “Where have you been staying in Stoneham?”

  “Actually, I was in Milford until I had a heart attack on Saturday. Now I’m staying here at the inn in one of the bungalows.”

  “For how long?”

  “That’s up in the air just now.”

  “I would prefer you to stay in the area until I can corroborate your movements.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “A few days, at least.”

  John merely shrugged.

  “Where were you when Carol Talbot was murdered?” Baker asked.

  “Probably on my way to Milford. I snagged a ride.”

  “And where did you go?”

  “To an apartment building on the highway.”

  “Who lives there?”

  “Fred Pillins. He’s Pixie Poe’s fiancé,” Tricia answered.

  “I’m talking to him,” Baker said rather testily.

  “Yes, and if you didn’t sound so prissy, you might get more cooperation from everyone,” Angelica said.

  “You can leave,” Baker said.

  “No, you interrupted our lunch. You can leave,” Angelica said.

  “Would you rather I speak to your father at the police station?”

  “If you do, it won’t be without a lawyer present.”

  “I don’t need a lawyer,” John protested. “I’m innocent.”

  “There are other things you might not be innocent of.”

  “Such as?” John asked.

  “Trying to fence stolen cold cuts.”

  “Did anyone report food stolen?” Angelica asked.

  “No. But Statewide Waste Management reported a Dumpster full of rotting cold cuts at a certain apartment complex along the highway. They found it suspicious and thought the Milford Police might be interested. They shared that information with me.”

  “How very odd,” John said.

  “One of the neighbors saw a man of your description tossing the food into the Dumpster.”

  John made no comment.

  Baker glared at both Tricia and Angelica, as though daring them to say something. Neither did.

  “What else have you been up to since your return to Stoneham?” Baker demanded.

  “Mostly watching bad TV. The apartment I was staying in has a rather uninteresting cable package. And then I had the heart attack. I’m sure the hospital in Milford can attest I was there.”

  “Yes,” Baker grumbled. “Will you be staying here?”

  “For a while. My darling girls are keen to ship me back to Connecticut as fast as they can make arrangements.”

  “We are not shipping you off,” Tricia said. “We’re going to find you a nice place to live.” She turned to Baker. “I’m sure it won’t happen for several weeks.”

  “More’s the pity,”
Angelica muttered.

  “And I’m currently without funds and personal transportation—unless I walk—so I’m pretty much stuck here at the Brookview,” John lamented.

  Baker consulted his notebook before slapping it shut. “If I have more questions, I’ll look you up there or call.”

  “My phone only seems capable of calling the desk.” John shot a withering glance at his daughters. “I don’t know if incoming calls can be accommodated.”

  “Of course they can,” Angelica said. “They’ll go through the front desk.”

  “I’ll be in touch,” Baker said, before turning and exiting the room.

  Once he’d gone, John glared at his children once again. “I feel like I was set up.”

  “Not at all. We knew Chief Baker wanted to talk with you and thought it would be prudent to be here with you at the time.”

  “May I go back to my bungalow and watch more bad TV?”

  “Of course.”

  “But first”—John pulled a piece of Brookview stationery from his left pants pocket—“I need a few things. Since I’m being held hostage here against my will, perhaps one of you would be so good as to get me what I need.”

  “I’ll do it,” Tricia said. After all, Angelica had been footing the bill for just about everything else John had needed—or appropriated.

  “I’ll go pay the lunch check,” Angelica said, picking up the leather holder Danny had left earlier, and she exited the room.

  Tricia hung back and glanced at the list John had given her. The handwriting was familiar, but not as steady as it had once been. Tricia looked back at her father’s careworn face, and a pang of sadness constricted her heart. It was an old man who sat before her.

  “I’ll get these things and drop them off later today,” she promised.

  “Thank you.”

  She offered him a hand up, which he accepted.

  They caught up with Angelica, who folded her credit card receipt, stuffing it into her purse. “We’d better get going. Tricia and I both have businesses to run.”

  “We’ll walk you back to your bungalow, Daddy,” Tricia said. Angelica led the way out of the lobby and back through the inn to the back entrance. They crossed the parking lot without a word.

  “I don’t know if I’ll be back to see you again today, Daddy,” Angelica said.

  “I won’t miss you,” John muttered.