Fletcher had noticed. He was so used to seeing far too many perfect, rich, trophy-wife candidates on Aaron’s arm that Maggie’s difference shone—her soft but out-of-control curls, her light use of make-up. He tilted his head as he watched her walk away. There was a slight awkwardness to her gait, a faint limp that Aaron had explained was left over from a childhood accident, but the sway of her hips still made men turn and look. Nice legs.
He looked back at Aaron. “She’s not your typical airheaded beauty queen, no.”
“But she’s smart. And sasses me back like no one ever has. She’s got spunk.”
Fletcher took a sip of his coffee. “Yeah, I noticed.”
Aaron laughed, his voice muffled by his raised glass. “I like it when you two fight. I like the way she tries to defend me.”
“You would. Don’t you ever fight with her?”
“Only about one thing, my dear Fletcher, and eventually, I promise you, I will win.”
Fletcher looked at Maggie, who had taken a quick sidestep to avoid a waiter loaded down with dishes. She had to be the most determined women he’d ever met. “You may have met your match this time.”
“Never, me boyo. No woman bests Aaron Jackson.”
“You know, Aaron, your humility is one of the things I like best about you.”
Aaron had scowled. “Humility is a much overrated virtue, usually touted by those who have nothing to be humble about.”
Fletcher studied his friend’s face. “Why are you so intent on this?”
Aaron was quiet for a few moments, then said evenly, “Because if I lose this one, I lose the girl.”
And he had. Aaron and Maggie had called it quits a few months later, and Aaron had gone on to a series of lovelies, all of whom bored him within a few weeks. Korie had latched on, and Aaron had married her quickly, as he had told Fletcher shortly after the wedding, “out of attrition.” Were you still in love with him, Maggie?
Fletcher sighed. This was a mess. He still didn’t quite believe everything she had told him, and it was beginning to look as if anyone who knew Aaron had some motive to kill him. Every single resident had opportunity, including Maggie and Tim. He was also bothered by the fact that he didn’t want to consider Maggie a suspect, even though he had to. He had to eliminate her, if only to shut up the voice in his head that wanted to hold her out separate, treat her special.
He liked her too much.
He sat up straighter, forcing himself to focus on the investigation. He wanted to look at Aaron’s finances, talk to the other residents. And why kill Maggie? He squirmed in his chair. If, in fact, the shot was meant for her. He needed more evidence, especially from the woman in front of him, the woman whose blood was still on his coat.
“So what did you fight about, Maggie?” he asked aloud, not expecting an answer.
“Most likely love, religion or money,” Lily said from the doorway. Fletcher stood as she entered, carrying a small tray that held a steaming bowl of soup, crackers, a bottle of soda and a glass of ice. She pushed the door shut with her foot.
“That smells good.”
“Ciotka Cookie made it and sent it over.”
“Who’s Cookie? That name keeps coming up. And what’s a chalka?”
Lily grinned, then set the tray on the table near the bed. “It’s pronounced ‘Chot-ka.’ It’s Polish, or something, for ‘aunt’…Aunt Cookie.”
Going to the window, Lily opened the blinds a bit, and slats of dusty light sliced through the room. Fletcher looked around the room in the slightly brighter light, taking in the practical but feminine decor. Maggie’s bed was an antique, with a tall, ornately carved headboard and a mattress that was higher than usual. The matching dresser was narrow, but had a mirror that could be tilted down to check a lady’s dress hem. On the opposite wall was a low jelly cabinet, with a top that was lined with books and small photos.
The figure on the bed stirred, and Lily looked down at her, then sat on the edge of the bed, pushing Maggie’s tangled hair away from her face. “Cordelia Holokaj. She’s a trip. She has this delicious little Hansel and Gretel cottage on the other side of the woods, down a deserted logging road. She’s Maggie’s best friend, mentor, confidante, you name it.”
“Sounds like someone I want to talk to.”
“Don’t you have someone like that? I think we all should.”
Fletcher nodded. “An uncle. He got me on the force. Lives in Brooklyn now. Where would I find this cottage?”
“I’ll ask Tim to show you where it is. You’ll love it. Just don’t assume you’ll be in charge of the interview.” Lily sat on the bed, lightly stroking a strand of her sister’s hair. “Why were you asking about her fights with Aaron?”
“Why do you pretend to be drunk all the time?”
Lily grinned. “My question first.”
Fletcher sat down. “Aaron once told me they fought a lot when they were dating.”
The dark hair flowed like a silk shawl around her shoulders as Lily nodded, and Fletcher finally saw the elegance and glamour that Hollywood and much of the country had once, briefly, doted on. “That would be the love fight. She drove him crazy with her faith, but that wasn’t an all-the-time kind of fight. And she never asked him for money while they were dating. In fact, the only money he ever gave her was to run this place, and then just her salary and expenses. He tried to give her more, but she’d always refuse. She can be very stubborn.”
Fletcher snorted, almost involuntarily, and Lily laughed. “And you haven’t even run into the really bad moods yet.”
Fletcher winced but didn’t respond. “Why did they fight about their relationship? Aaron always acted like—” He hesitated, and Lily finished for him.
“Like he was a gift to the fairer sex. Aaron really did think he knew how to please a woman. For the most part, he did.” She ignored Fletcher’s arched eyebrow and continued. “And he had a hard time with women who knew how to say no.”
Fletcher absorbed this for a moment, then his eyes narrowed. “Maggie turned him down?”
“Repeatedly. She never gave in. That’s why they fought all the time.”
“I can’t believe I’m lying here with a face full of wood, and you two are discussing my love life.”
Lily and Fletcher stared at each other a moment, then at Maggie. Lily burst out laughing, a gorgeous, crystalline sound that made the room brighter. “Actually, dear sister, we’re discussing the total absence of it.”
Maggie scowled, briefly, then took her sister’s hand. And Fletcher was struck again by how different these two sisters were—and why Aaron had adored them both. Lily was always onstage—every moment was schooled and preened, as if she knew someone, somewhere, was watching her. Her voice had a coached lilt to it, and her makeup was always carefully done. Fletcher recognized now that even the slurred words of her “drunkenness” were cautiously and carefully manufactured. She was worldly and a bit jaded, yet there was a fragility and openness to her that made men desire her and women unafraid of her.
Maggie, on the other hand, with her auburn curls that were almost never completely under control, wore very little makeup and seemed defiant, secure and a bit intimidating. Yet she wasn’t as cynical as her sister, and Fletcher saw in her an innocence that was oddly endearing, as if she really believed she could take on the whole world—and win. She used her intelligence as a shield, and she was very protective of her sister and all of the residents here, yet he liked the way she’d held off Scott at dinner. She gave off the image of a lioness defending the pride, but Fletcher was beginning to wonder if that wasn’t as much a front as Lily’s self-projected image. What else are you hiding, Maggie?
Lily stood up. “Sit up, dear, and have some soup. You haven’t eaten since you lost your supper at the hospital. And it’ll break through that fog you’re meandering in.”
Maggie pushed up weakly on her elbows. “Don’t tell me you cooked.”
Lily grinned. “No. Cookie made it.”
“Does
it have cabbage in it?”
“Did the sun rise?”
Maggie let Lily plump up her pillows and stack them behind her. “I need to challenge her sometime to make an entire meal without cabbage. Think she can do it?”
“Even Cookie can buy a cookbook, Mitten.”
“But old instincts die hard. I think she buys cabbages by the truckload. If I’d been her kid, and she’d told me I’d been found under a cabbage leaf, I’d have believed her.”
Lily handed Maggie the soup. “Careful. It’s hot.”
“Probably in more ways than one.”
“Well, she did say something about clearing your sinuses.”
Fletcher watched the rapid-fire dialogue for a few more moments, as Lily straightened out the bed around Maggie, poured the soda into the glass and opened the pack of crackers. Their movements were comfortable and familiar, even when Lily reached out and peeked under one of the bandages, only to have Maggie swat at her hand.
“With this act, how can anyone not see that you two are sisters?” he asked finally.
Both women sat very still, looking at each other. Then Lily straightened and tossed her hair back over her shoulder. “Fletcher, the drunk ‘act’ wasn’t always an act. I perfected the act through experience with the real thing.” Her mouth twisted. “I don’t even have a driver’s license anymore. Maggie only lets me stay here because I promise to work on being sober more, but she knows I’ve not been able to give it up completely. It’s easier to not be her sister when I’m drunk. Or pretending to be. And, right now, that’s very important.”
He nodded. “Maggie told me.”
Maggie set the soup aside and looked questioningly at Lily, who hesitated, then nodded. Maggie took a deep breath. “We think her stalker is close by.”
Fletcher felt his face flush. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Lily stood up and went to his side. “Because we don’t know for sure. He sends me letters, to my agent. I never see them. But they keep track of them and turn them over to the police. The last two were postmarked from Portsmouth, New Hampshire.”
“So he is close.”
“It could be coincidence,” said Maggie. “He’s mailed letters from all over the country.”
Lily winced. “Usually from places where I’ve been on location. The police think he’s probably from L.A. but is following me whenever I leave.”
“Shouldn’t you be someplace more secure?” Fletcher asked.
Lily and Maggie exchanged looks again, and Lily’s voice dropped so low he almost didn’t hear her. “I was more afraid in L.A. and New York, in the crowds. No place is truly secure.”
“No one knows she’s here,” Maggie continued. “And, even if they did, we’re not exactly easy to find. There’s no mailbox or address. You have to know where that little driveway is. We always have to meet the residents in town and have them follow us here.”
“Which, of course,” Fletcher said, “makes it all the more likely that whoever killed Aaron—and tried to kill you—is still here with us.” Maggie and Lily sat in silence as he went to the door. “Tyler was here this morning, and two of his men are still out there, looking for any kind of evidence. I’m going into town to talk to him, and I’ll see if one of his men can stay here in the guest room. You two be careful. I want you here when I get back.”
“I’ll be here,” said Maggie.
“And I’ll be drunk,” answered Lily. “Sort of.”
Fletcher shook his head as he left, closing the door behind him. But the girlish laughter that echoed into the hall made him smile.
“I like her laugh,” Aaron said, as he gave Fletcher the grand tour of the new retreat, which was then two years old. Fletcher was seeing it for the first time.
“You also like Elvis, vintage Corvettes, and Chicago-style pizza. Fun, but that’s not why you hired her.”
Aaron shrugged, then led the way down to the game room. “She’s a good manager.” He paused. “And a good friend. I trust her. She’s mature for her age. She knows books and their authors. She can handle the egos that stream in here.”
“Including yours?”
Aaron responded by going to a humidor on the bar and lighting up an imported cigar, filling the air with a woodsy, slightly cherry-scented smoke. “Including mine. I have no family, so this will be my only legacy. She’s the right person to run it.” He saluted Fletcher and took a drag on the cigar. “But in terms of egos, the one Maggie should watch her back about is my lovely and dearest Korie.”
Fletcher pulled out a bar stool and half sat on it. “Tell me again why it is that you don’t divorce Korie.”
“One amazing pre-nup, my dear Judson. She leaves me, she gets nothing. I divorce her and she gets, oh, about sixty to seventy percent of everything I own.”
“And you signed this why?”
“I was drunk, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. Thought it would settle me down.”
“Did it?”
Aaron laughed and nodded at the cigar. “Well, I am trying to do this more than the Jack.” He paused. “You’re still a young man, Fletcher. You’re what? Thirty-eight?”
“Thirty-seven.”
“Whatever. On August sixteenth, I’ll be fifty-four. And I don’t have—” Aaron stopped abruptly, then came around from behind the bar and sat on the stool next to Fletcher. “I’ve been a drunk for a long time, me boyo, and that stuff will kill you faster than just about anything but a speeding bus. My liver’s swimming toward the great beyond even as we speak, and my heart’s not far behind.” He took a deep breath, looking somber. “It changes when you get older. You change. I was mostly meeting women who liked my name, my fame, my money or my bed, so I thought, why not? Korie may even be the worst of the lot, by far. But I didn’t want to die alone.”
Aaron stubbed out the cigar, then slapped the bar. “Enough self-pity. It’s boring. Let’s look at the rest of my legacy before dark sets in.”
But he had died alone, thought Fletcher, as he drove through the winding country roads into town. That meeting from two years before had been oddly prophetic: His short marriage to Korie had to be the worst of Aaron’s three, and Fletcher had finally realized how little Aaron really understood about women. Maggie had been right to keep him at arm’s distance.
He also realized that Maggie was right about one other thing: Jackson’s Retreat was not easy to find. When Aaron had first described the town to Fletcher, he thought it was one of those overphotographed hamlets with a few houses and a white church at a dead-end road. Instead, Mercer was a livable little town bordered by a tranquil mill pond at one end, a sturdy granite city hall at the other and a grid of tree-lined side streets in between that had turned into an artisans’ haven. Mercer had more artists per capita than almost any town in New Hampshire, which was part of the reason that, when Aaron had come here years ago to get away for a while, he had fallen in love with the town, the land and the honesty and good hearts of the people. There weren’t a lot of rebels here, even among the artsy crowd. The people, in turn, had adopted Aaron as their own, taking pride in his books, his love of the town and his retreat.
Fletcher slowed down as he entered the curving main street section of town, with its 250-year-old homes, clapboard stores and a history that dated back before the Revolution. Except for the cluster of “outsider” artists who’d moved in, many of the 2,500 residents were descendants of the town founders, and “change” was almost a vile word.
He understood why Maggie felt safe in hiding her sister here. The retreat was only about a mile or so out of town, but a stranger could ask for details on the retreat, or on Lily’s presence, for days, and be met only with noncommittal stares. He hoped he wouldn’t meet the same reserve as he worked on finding out who had killed Aaron.
Fletcher pulled up in front of the converted storefront that housed the police department, but he sat behind the wheel a few moments before getting out. Tyler Madison was a good man, but he was young and still somewhat inexperience
d. He was also proud, both of his town and his position. And Korie had been right—he’d treated Maggie as if she were a queen, giving her clear deference over Korie. Fletcher grinned wryly. Having seen both women in action recently, he was beginning to understand why.
Tyler had been forthcoming with his information on Aaron; it wasn’t his fault that Fletcher found room for suspicions in it that Tyler had overlooked. That was a matter of experience. Still, Fletcher wanted to tread lightly. Tyler could easily shut him out if he wanted to.
Fletcher got out and went in, nodding at the receptionist. Her name tag read Peg Madison, marking her as Tyler’s mom. She smiled. “Hey, Fletcher. He’s been expecting you. Said if you didn’t come in before lunch to call you.” She nodded toward Tyler’s office, and Fletcher knocked once before entering.
Tyler was on the phone, pacing. He pointed at Fletcher, then motioned for him to come in. “Yes,” he said into the receiver. “Yes, I got it. That’s all?” He nodded. “Good. Thanks.” He hung up and leaned forward, putting both hands on the desk. “The blood is Aaron’s type, but they still have to wait on the DNA results. And that bottle is a mass of prints, but they aren’t going to be any help. They found eight sets of prints, six they could identify. Maggie and Scott showed up from the elimination prints. A delivery guy bonded by the liquor store. Aaron, Lily, and Tim were in the system. Aaron had a DUI about twelve years ago, when he ‘borrowed’ a friend’s motorcycle and ran it into the East River. Lily, from an altercation on a show a few years ago. And Tim had that trespassing charge.”
Fletcher frowned. “So it could be any one of them or the two they are missing.”
Tyler shrugged. “Or none of them, if the killer wore gloves. The lab did say they are doing a DNA workup on anything from the mouth and the labels, just in case anything got snagged.”
Fletcher nodded. “Good. Anything else?”
Tyler sat. “Yeah. I need your help with something.”
“Name it.”
The young police chief crossed his arms. “Korie. She wanted this investigation, now she’s demanding we release the body for some fancy New York memorial service. She’s driving the M.E. crazy. He covers four counties and has seven open cases, including two murders. He doesn’t need some crazy lady screaming on his phone every two hours.”
A Murder Among Friends Page 6