Maggie also found Lily to be the perfect companion. Rediscovering their friendship had been a true joy. She only wished this morning’s topic was not so joyless.
Holding the tea out away from her, Lily spread a throw over their legs. “No. Scott and I have reached a tentative truce. Getting Aaron out of our lives is going to be part of that.”
Maggie frowned. “Does that mean you’re leaving?”
Lily stared into the cup for a moment. “Not just yet, although it won’t be too long. I’ll probably go first, open up the house in L.A. My agent thinks I’ll get that part, and I may need to go talk to the producers, convince them I’ll stay sober, among other things. And Scott needs to finish some things up.” Swirling the tea gently, Lily told Maggie about the deleted manuscripts. “So we need to get those back from Aaron’s files, too. Get them retyped.”
Maggie’s stomach tightened, and she sniffed, staring out the back glass. Her heart ached as she was torn between her loyalty to Lily and her desire to do what was right. All of her instincts told her those manuscripts had played a role in Aaron’s death and that she needed to talk to Fletcher first. Lord, she thought desperately. What’s right?
She took a deep breath as a sense of peace settled on her. Finding Aaron’s killer had to come first, and Maggie’s body and mind seemed to relax as she felt her mind shifting its priorities. Fletcher had to come first.
Fletcher.
Maggie cleared her throat. “Lily, Scott’s manuscripts are not in the filing cabinet.”
Lily put down her cup. “What?”
“They’re not there. I was looking through some of Aaron’s files to see if anything looked…odd. Scott’s files are empty.”
Lily uncurled and dropped her feet to the floor. She took a deep breath, then folded her arms over her stomach. “Scott’s going to kill me.”
Maggie set aside her tea and slid over to her sister. “No, he won’t. They’re here somewhere. No one had access to those files but Aaron and me, so it had to be Aaron. He probably took them somewhere to work on them. They’re here somewhere.”
Lily looked at the fire for a second. “You think she did it?”
Maggie hesitated, and picked up her tea again. “I honestly don’t know, Lil. I guess…I guess maybe I did before. She was pretty horrid to him at times.”
“And now?”
Maggie shook her head. “I’m just confused. It feels like half the world had a reason to kill him.”
“Even you?”
Maggie squirmed underneath the throw, thinking of all she’d found over the past three days. Before, no, no reason. Now?
“Yeah,” she said softly. “Even me. I think that’s what’s making all this so crazy, especially with Fletcher.”
“You like him, don’t you?”
Maggie shrugged, unable to meet her sister’s eyes. “Yes. But…”
“He’s not what you expected.”
Maggie shook her head. She shifted, turning to face Lily. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Did a lot of people, fans, think you were Cathy after Ramsey Place? I mean, it was your first big role and all.”
Lily set her cup on the floor and drew her knees up, wrapping her arms around her legs. She studied her sister a moment. “Some. Most people are more savvy these days than to think actors are actually their characters. I got a few crazies, but not many. Why?” She paused, a look of recognition on her face. “Oh, girl. Are you having a problem distinguishing Fletcher from Judson?”
Maggie suddenly felt hot as well as foolish. She pushed the throw aside. “I don’t think so. I don’t know. Really. I guess…”
Lily laughed. A real one, from her gut, like Maggie had not heard in a long time. Still…“Lily. Come on, now.”
The laugh settled into a few giggles hidden behind her hand. Lily’s eyes were bright with joy and tears. “You’re really falling for him, aren’t you?”
Maggie’s eyes widened. “No! I mean…no. I don’t think so.” She stood up and headed for the kitchen. “Just forget I said anything, okay?”
Lily grabbed her tea and followed her. “Absolutely not. You’ve got to be kidding.” She set her cup in the sink and grabbed her sister’s wrists. “Look. Listen to me.”
Maggie took a deep breath and tried to look composed.
Lily was still smiling. “I love you. You’re my best friend and big sister. And I know you. You’re not some weepy little girl who can’t distinguish fantasy from reality. You may have liked Judson a lot, and Aaron. But when push comes to shove, you’ll know the difference between the man in the room and the one in the book.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I know you. Trust me.” She released Maggie’s hands and stood up straighter, taking a deep breath. “I had a long talk with Fletcher last night, and I’ve been watching him. Believe me. You won’t be confused long, if at all. Fletcher is a very distinct personality.”
“Like you.” Maggie finally grinned.
“Like me. I’m not Cathy. He’s not Judson.”
Maggie shook her head. “But he is a detective. And I’m a suspect.”
Lily tilted her head to one side. “Then you just need to prove to him you’re not.”
“Obviously. Got any ideas?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Lily asked softly, “Have you prayed about this?”
Her older sister was speechless, but only for a few seconds. “You’re asking me about prayer?”
Lily scowled. “I know how important it is to you even if I’ve walked away from it.”
“Why did you?”
Lily’s casual shrug was cautiously noncommittal.
“Well, that’s a solid answer.”
Lily stepped away. “I don’t want to talk about this. Bottom-line—your faith is solid. Mine is not.”
Maggie followed her back into the main room. “Don’t walk away from me, Lily. Please. We were apart for so long, and I know we’ve taken different paths, but we came from the same place. I want to know what happened.”
The young actress turned suddenly. “Nothing happened! Okay? I had no great tragedy or epiphany that turned me away from the church. Okay? I just woke up one morning and saw that I had no place there. I moved on. So let’s drop it. I don’t want to be preached to.”
Maggie stopped. “Okay. On one condition. You do this and I’ll never mention it again.”
“It doesn’t involve Job-like suffering, does it?”
Maggie suppressed a grin. “Not exactly. It does involve a foolish husband.”
Lily perked up. “Yeah?”
“Read First Samuel, chapter twenty-five.”
Her sister was dubious. “Just one chapter?”
“Just one. Then come talk to me about the place women can have in the faith.”
“Just talk. No preaching?”
“No preaching. I promise. Then you can help me figure out how to show Fletcher I’m innocent. Any ideas?”
Lily grinned. “Ask a writer?”
The Victorian was cold, much more than when she and Fletcher had been here before. At first Maggie thought that the electricity might be off, but everything was in working order. The thermostat was set lower than usual, probably Korie’s doing before she left for New York, and the colder temps of the last two nights had settled in, ridding the house of any residual heat it may have had. Thanksgiving was only a week away, and their mild fall had ended abruptly over the past forty-eight hours. If the temperature held steady, she expected the first heavy snowfall within a few days.
Maggie shivered as she adjusted the setting, but she knew it was from more than just the cold. The house still felt hollow, surreal in its emptiness. She ached, longing to hear Aaron’s gravelly baritone call out at her from his office. She climbed the stairs slowly, feeling heavy but without the same level of grief that she’d felt at the lodge house. She still wondered why it was much stronger there—her only sense was that it was there she had been
with him the most.
Maggie bit her lip, fighting back a wave of tears. Aaron had been a presence in her life for almost ten years. Going on without him was going to be hard, even feeling the anger with him that she did. She stood in the office door a moment, reaching in to turn on the light. She was the intruder, even though he was gone.
But she had to know.
Slipping into his chair, she looked around, getting her bearings. Ask a writer, indeed, she thought, a little annoyed that her smart-aleck sister may have been more right than she had guessed. She turned on the computer, and as it booted, she closed her eyes, trying to slip into Aaron’s skin.
“I want to set a password.”
She grinned. Maggie liked being right. When he first unpacked his new computer, Maggie had told him to call her if he needed help. Nope, he’d insisted. He’d be fine. Now she held the phone with her shoulder as she sat in her office, trying not to gloat. “What kind? For online or the computer itself?”
“The computer. One that’s just me, babe. I don’t want prying eyes on my files. Tell me what to do.”
She walked him through the steps and heard him typing in his slow, deliberate way.
“No more than eight letters,” she reminded him.
“It has seven, dear Maggie. The number of perfection.”
“So it’s the perfect password?”
“Only if you know me well, babe. Only if you know my secret dreams.”
Maggie opened her eyes. “Seven. Secret dreams.” She looked around the office. Cigars, dictionaries, reference books. A poster from an Ansel Adams show in San Francisco. A poster of ancient Ireland. A stereo with a rack of CDs. Piles of manuscripts. A tray holding tumblers and an unopened bottle of Green Label.
She sighed. Nothing. No clicks, no hints. She closed her eyes again, letting memories of Aaron flash across her mind. His total lack of seriousness about anything but writing. His raving parties with Celtic musicians of all ranks and talent, in all kinds of venues, from Boston to New York.
One stood out, and she let her mind drift.
They were leaving a surprise party he’d thrown for a friend, which had been held in an apartment in lower Manhattan; Aaron could barely stand. Disgusted and angry with him, she’d poured him into a cab, but he’d grabbed her at the last minute, pulling her in. She’d resisted at first, but Aaron wrapped her in his arms, laughing and teasing her. “We need to do this more often.”
She gave up and snuggled against him. “You don’t do it enough?”
He shook his head. “Nope. Not near enough. And they come close, but no cigar.”
Maggie looked up at him, curious. “Close enough to what?”
Aaron hadn’t answered right away, and she saw the pain cross his eyes. “The real thing. County Mayo. Da. He could throw a party like no other. He was the king.” He turned away to stare out the window.
Maggie opened her eyes and stood, crossing quickly to the shelf holding his collection of Judson novels. Pulling down the second one, she flipped it open to see if her memory was correct about the dedication.
There it was. “To Da. The ceilidh king.”
Maggie smiled. Aaron, the sentimental romantic. His father had been Aaron’s greatest hero. That he had not been able to make it to Ireland when the old man died had been one of his greatest regrets, his greatest haunting.
Returning to the computer, she typed in C-E-I-L-I-D-H.
The hard drive whirled, and she saluted it. “Here’s to you, my Irish party boy.” She scanned a list of his files and clicked open one bearing her name. As she read, her color, as well as her joy, began to fade.
FIFTEEN
“Do killers often come to the funerals?” Lee asked.
“In crimes of passion, more often than not,” Judson replied. “If they haven’t already been caught.”
“Why?”
“Who knows? Remorse. Guilt. Gloating. I always have someone take pictures, especially if we have a witness. You never know what will happen.”
Fletcher stood near the back of the reception hall, not too far from the food. He’d been there since the caterers arrived, having talked to the New York Times and the New York Daily News photographers earlier in the day. They promised him copies of any pictures, and the Times reporter explained that, in a slight deference to good taste, Aaron’s coffin had been left at the funeral home, despite Korie’s insistence that it be present. Apparently, neither the Times, who was co-sponsoring the service, nor the publisher thought it appropriate, and this time Korie’s wailing-widow act had no impact. Fletcher found himself thankful for people with far more taste than his best friend’s bride.
There was a smattering of tables and chairs around the room, but most people chose to stand and mingle. The hall was classier than he’d expected, with dark, draped walls and muted lighting. Yet the one touch of kitsch still annoyed Fletcher: Stand-ups of Aaron’s most recent novels dotted the room like cardboard headstones.
The rest of the guests began arriving just after seven, showing off a glittery mix of furs, diamonds and jeans. Both sides of his personality, Fletcher decided. The celebrity versus the writer. On the writer side, Fletcher recognized and acknowledged Aaron’s editor, Bill Davis, along with a few writers and students from Aaron’s occasional stint as a writer-in-residence at a local university. He’d spoken briefly with Bill early, and now he made a mental note to talk to the editor later that evening, to get his impressions of tonight’s to-do. Edward was also there, standing off to himself.
On the celebrity side was a syndicated gossip columnist and a number of Tony-winning actors here to do readings from Aaron’s books later in the evening. And, of course, Korie and her entourage, who arrived at a fashionably appropriate 8:05 p.m. The grieving widow was wearing black, but the dress was a design and fabric that was more magnetic than mournful. The high-profile pastor on her arm had eulogized more celebrities than the evening news, and the brooding young man who followed her clearly had more on his mind than grief.
The crowd grew, people circulated and hugged. Some shed polite tears. The writers from the retreat showed up in a group, but they dispersed quickly as Fletcher counted heads. Scott and Lily were missing. Tim was there, looking awkward, underdressed and out of place. But no Maggie.
Fletcher frowned and scanned the crowd again. She wasn’t there. He paused, looking around a group of mourners, spotting a movement of auburn curls. Was that her? The height and shape were right, and as the woman turned, he took a step forward.
Then he stopped. It wasn’t Maggie, although she looked a great deal like the manager of Aaron’s retreat. His attention lingered on her as he noticed that she was carefully avoiding Korie and her group. She spoke quietly to Bill, then skirted wide around the widow’s show. She nodded at Edward, then headed for the table of champagne, glancing over her shoulder at Korie.
Fletcher cut straight through the crowd and met her just as she turned away from the table. “Friend or foe?” he asked quietly.
The woman paused and looked Fletcher over carefully. She was tall and slender, and Fletcher was again caught by how much she resembled Maggie, even more so up close. Her makeup was carefully and professionally applied, but her eyes were swollen, with red streaks that no eyedrops were going to relieve. “Are you Judson?” she asked softly.
Fletcher pursed his lips. “I’m not—” She was wearing Aaron’s cologne. “Yes,” he said. “I’m Fletcher MacAllister.”
She nodded, then looked over the crowd, her eyes lingering on Korie. “I was his—” She stopped. Her voice was low, choked. She pulled a business card out of her pocket and slipped it into his hand. “Publicist. I was hoping you’d be here. Please call me.”
“I will.” He put the card in his coat pocket without looking at it.
She stepped away, melting into the crowd.
Fletcher closed his eyes for a second, wondering if this one would have disappeared with Aaron, or would have just been another abandoned dalliance. Publicist. “You
never did stray too far from home, did you?” Fletcher murmured.
“Why should I, me boyo? The girls here are smart, sassy and beautiful.
They were holed up in Aaron’s apartment, going over the plot details of the book he wrote just before meeting Korie. They huddled over the kitchen table, surrounded by books, stacks of manuscript, cups of stale coffee, and the remains of cold and congealing reubens.
“Speaking of,” Fletcher said, without looking up from the plot template in front of him. “Where is Maggie these days?”
A gargling sound rumbled deep in Aaron’s throat. “I have no idea.”
Fletcher’s brows met in the middle as he glanced up. “She got away?”
Aaron ran his hand through his hair. “God got to her long before I could.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, please.” The pastor’s voice echoed over the room, and Fletcher scanned the crowd again as they quieted and gave the cleric their attention. Korie moaned loudly and was comforted by the dark-haired young man, whose touches were more affectionate than consoling.
Fletcher grimaced, then noticed Maggie slipping in at the back. She stayed close to the wall, her arms wrapped tightly around her body. Her hair was windblown, the curls wild, and her face was still reddened by the cold. With her makeup streaked and her eyes as bloodshot and puffy as her look-alike’s, she was the picture of misery. Something deep in Fletcher’s gut twisted, and he ached to hold her, let her cry it out on his shoulder. She saw him and quickly wiped at her eyes, succeeding only in smearing what remained of her mascara. Her face still somber, she shook her head, hugged herself a bit closer then turned her attention to the pastor.
Fletcher stood a bit straighter, a small alarm triggering in his head. This wasn’t grief. Something had happened.
“In accordance with Aaron’s wishes,” the pastor said, “there will not be a traditional funeral. In fact, I’ve been told he didn’t want anything at all, that he said he’d done enough partying for everyone when he was still alive.” A smattering of laughter interrupted the preacher, and Fletcher couldn’t tell if he was startled or pleased. He plunged gamely on. “I will turn the floor over to a few people for comments, then we will have a few readings from Aaron’s books, then close with a prayer.”
A Murder Among Friends Page 13