by Leslie Caine
“Ooh. That last could come in handy. Do tell.”
Demonstrating with one of her V-shaped pilsner glasses, I said, “Tilt the glass at an angle so that you pour down the side, then gradually bring the glass upright when the glass reaches the half-full point. Then pour the remaining beer down the center of the glass. That gives the beer just the right amount of foam.”
“Did you learn that technique from your mom?”
My guard automatically went up. Audrey knew about my adoptive mother’s death and my semi-estranged father, but little else in my personal life. In fact, to date I’d given her only an impersonal and very brief account of the poisoning of my client’s neighbor, and nothing more. Audrey Munroe hadn’t struck me as the shoulder-to-cry-on type. “Yes, I did.” Returning to the safer topic, I quickly said, “And I also talk about how to line the rim of the margarita glass with salt . . . or daiquiri glasses with sugar.”
She managed a sincere-looking smile, despite her illness. “How do you do that?”
“To salt the glass, you spread a tablespoon or two of salt on a plate and slice a fresh lime into small sections.” Because she didn’t have margarita glasses, I grabbed her cocktail glass to demonstrate with an imaginary lime and salt plate. “Dampen the glass rim by lightly running the fruit of a lime piece around the entire rim of the glass. Place the glass facedown in the salt.” I gave my glass a twist on its virtual plate, then returned it to its upright position. “Lastly, pour your margarita into the salted glass.”
“Do you use a lime for rimming sugar on a daiquiri glass?”
I shook my head. “I use the fruit of the drink itself, such as a strawberry for a strawberry daiquiri. Yummy.”
She sneezed, then beamed at me. “Wonderful, Erin. This will be enormously helpful for both of us.” She hopped to her feet, showing a sudden burst of energy.
“Both of us?” I repeated, suspicion bringing an edge to my voice as I watched her round the island. She opened an over-the-sink cabinet that had been ajar and removed a video camera.
“Yes, dear.” She pressed a button on the camera. “I videotaped our conversation . . . as the first step toward helping you conquer your camera phobia.”
Instantly livid, I grabbed the edge of my bar stool to prevent myself from storming toward her. “So you’ve been faking sickness just to—”
“Not at all. I really am sick as a Labrador with a bad cold. I often tape my rehearsals. So when I heard you come in, I merely adjusted the position of the camera and pressed the record button.” She wagged a finger at me. “Use whatever’s going on in your life to best advantage in your performance—that’s an old acting tip.” She peered at my slack-jawed face.“You’re very photogenic, Erin, and you’ll make a terrific expert guest for occasional appearances on my show. And as I’ve told you before, it will be splendid publicity for your business, as well.”
“But . . . but . . .”
“Just wait and see.” She popped the tape out of the camera and presented it to me as though it were a trophy. “In a month or two, I’ll have molded you into the Katie Couric of interior design!”
chapter 19
Later that afternoon, Myra was, for some reason, a bundle of frayed nerves as we sat on her sofa and looked at her photo albums. With each page that I turned, she ducked her head and peered anxiously on the flip side, then relaxed momentarily. These particular pictures were from five years ago. I’d asked to see this house as it looked when she’d first moved in, which can be insightful for my designs and, in this case, might allow me to ease into asking to see pictures of myself as a newborn.
“This was at a barbeque more than four years ago,” Myra said of the current spread. “It rained, so we moved everything inside.”
“You’d never know it was that long ago. Everything looks exactly the same. You had that nice All-Clad stainless-steel teakettle back then, I see.”
“That was a housewarming present from the McBrides, just for moving across the street,” she replied. “It probably cost more than all of my cookware and utensils combined. But all you have to do to tell it was four years ago is look at how much darker my hair was. Randy forbade me to color it. Maybe now I’ll indulge myself.”
“I don’t know if you should,” I said honestly. “It looks nice.”
She primped a little. “Thank you, Erin, but white hair on a woman is just not appreciated in our society. Maybe I’ll dye it blond. I’ve always wanted to be a blonde, like Jill.”
With Myra so uneasy, I flipped through two more pages of shots from this same party, which showed the six of them—the Axelrods, McBrides, and Hendersons. Every room was identical to how it looked today—just with four or five fewer years of wear and tear on the house and all the occupants. For three couples who claimed to despise one another, there were a lot of sincere-looking smiles.
As I turned the next page, Myra snatched the album from my grasp and slammed it shut. But not before I caught a glimpse of a photograph which stunned me. It was of Myra with a black eye. She’d been holding the camera herself, at arm’s length. “We’re getting into more recent history now, which won’t do you any good as far as the house goes,” she explained.
What a bizarre picture to preserve in an album, along with vacation shots and mementos from happier times! Had Myra kept the shot in this album as some sort of passive-aggressive warning to Randy never to hit her again? I shuddered.
My thoughts raced as Myra put away her album. Myra and Kevin might have been lovers. A bottle of arsenic had been found in Kevin’s workshop. Could he have grown tired of waiting for his lover’s husband to pass away and decided to hasten things? Had he been willing to commit murder and leave his wealthy wife for Myra?
“Could I see some of your . . . earlier albums?” I asked.
She gave me a warm smile. “Of course you can.” She grabbed another album. “This is clear back from when Randy and I first got married.” She handed me the album and sank into the seat beside me.
Her nervousness was now gone as I scanned the first few pages of these pictures—wedding photos. I thought I glimpsed a little of myself now in Randy’s young face. He’d been trim then, and athletic-looking. In one shot in particular—his head was tilted and he was laughing— the resemblance was striking.
“Do you have any baby pictures of me in here? I’ve never seen pictures of myself as an infant.”
She frowned and said quietly, “Randy destroyed them. All of them that he knew about, that is. I’d hidden a couple . . . that one that you discovered in my chemistry textbook, and the one that Jeannie took with you standing by the umbrella stand. Randy must have found that one.” Her voice was thick with emotion, and her eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. “I’m so sorry, Erin! He claimed the pictures of you were too upsetting for me to have around the house.” She took the album from me. “All the while, he was the one who couldn’t stand to have photographs of a child who wasn’t—” She broke off and rose, stuffing the album back in the bookcase along with the others.
I had to have been his child; the matching blood types and facial characteristics between Randy and me were impossible to refute. What other ending could there be to that sentence —who wasn’t cute? Blond? Bilingual? Worthy? Too confused and tense to remain seated, I stood up as well. “Who wasn’t what ?”
She shook her head and said quietly, “I shouldn’t have gotten into this subject, Erin. It’s too painful.”
“Who wasn’t his? Is that what you were about to say?”
Myra frowned and nodded. She balled her fists. “I never should have married that man in the first place. But you just can’t believe how easy it is to settle for things, Erin. How you can keep telling yourself that things will improve . . . that they’re not really so bad.” She released a halting breath. “It was just a fling, but that’s what opened my eyes. I should have run away before I had you. After all, Jeannie made it as a single mom. She even managed to buck the odds and get approval to adopt you.”
Myra got that sad yearning in her eyes again as she looked at me. “You were just a baby when you were taken away from me. I thought you’d be gone forever . . . but here you are. I tried to believe that you’d remember me. You weren’t even two by the time Jeannie graduated from CU and left for New York. That’s when I lost track of you. But Jeannie and I agreed it was best kept that way—no contact whatsoever.”
“Why?”
She spread her arms. “Fear of reprisal from Randy. He forbade me to contact you, ever. At the time . . . I didn’t dare defy him. You’d recently had that accident, which gave you the scar under your chin.”
I ran my thumb along the underside of my chin. My scar there was tiny and not noticeable.
“You’d slipped on some ice and landed so hard you needed stitches, poor thing. I was hysterical—demanded they do a blood test. I guess I actually thought you might need a transfusion. Anyway, that’s when we both found out that . . . that Randy—my husband—wasn’t your real father.”
“I see,” I murmured, though none of this was making any sense. Randy’s and my blood types were the same. Myra was lying. It was impossible for blood tests to have revealed that Randy was not my biological father. She sank into the turquoise chair; shaking, I reclaimed my perch on the sofa. The slate-colored walls of this ugly room were closing in on me.
“I never told Kevin about you,” Myra said wistfully.
“Kevin?” My stomach turned. All those leering looks he’d given me! “Are you saying that Kevin McBride is my . . .”
She nodded. “Kevin was a student of mine at CU. In my Intro to Chemistry class. Randy and I were having troubles. Already. If only I’d listened to my heart then . . .” She sighed. “But Kevin was just a kid. I was the married lady. It was my fault, not his. I never even told him that he was your father.”
I rubbed at my aching temples, struggling to make sense of this, and failing. “So Randy knew all along that . . . that you’d had a child with Kevin McBride? And you lived just a couple of houses down the street from one another?”
“No. Randy never knew who your father was, just that he was a former student of mine. After I quit at CU, Kevin and I stayed away from each other for many years. He claimed it was just a coincidence that he and Jill happened to buy a house in the neighborhood some fifteen years ago.” She fidgeted with the hem of her skirt. “Kevin and I had our chance a long time ago. Despite the way it looked when you . . . saw us together, we’re simply good friends. Now he’s married and I’m alone. But I’m happy this way. It’s what’s best for everyone.”
“I suppose so,” I muttered. My stomach—and my thoughts—were topsy-turvy.
“Erin, you wouldn’t believe the excuses I had to make up to explain giving up my own child. We started telling people that it was me who was too unsound mentally to . . . to handle taking care of a child. Even though it was Randy’s fault—Randy’s violent behavior—all along. You can’t imagine how horrible it was.”
“It must have been,” I mumbled automatically. But all I could think of was how preposterous her whole story was. Surely the truth had to be the polar opposite of what she was now telling me; I had to be Randy’s daughter, and not Myra’s: the blood types proved it. Was she crazy? Had my reappearance somehow provoked her to kill my biological father?
“I hated Randy so much for forcing me to give you away. You were just a baby! You didn’t choose your parents or who you were going to live with! It was one thing to take it out on me, but I couldn’t risk his taking out his anger on you, too.”
I wanted desperately to get out of the conversation, out of this house. A matching desperation—for forgiveness—was apparent in Myra’s pleading eyes. I obliged and said, “You did the right thing, Myra. The only thing you could do.”
Myra started sobbing. She cried, “I’m so glad you understand!” She moved over to the sofa beside me, pulled me into a tight hug, and murmured, “Not a single day has gone by when I haven’t thought of you, hoped and prayed that you were all right.”
“Thanks,” I muttered hollowly.
“I’m so glad you’ve come back into my life. Whatever else Randy did to me, at least he found you and brought you back to me.”
“Yes, but . . . right now I kind of need to get going.” I needed to run from this crazy woman. “This is a work day for me, after all. . . . Christmas is coming and . . .”
“Of course.” Grabbing a tissue from her skirt pocket, she dried her eyes. In a pitiful voice, she went on. “We’re both grown women now. I’m not expecting you to fill in the gap that my husband made for me more than twentyfive years ago. You’re no longer my little girl, and you never will be.”
In a daze, I made my way to the door. Only once before had I felt this numb: when my mother had died and my body and my heart had gone on autopilot.
“Take care, Myra. I’ll be back tomorrow morning, with Steve, just as we scheduled. We’ll show you our presentation boards then.”
She was studying me with a peculiar look on her face. “Erin, I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re thinking. I would never kill him or anyone else. It had gotten simple, our lives together, finally . . . pleasant, even. His heart condition seemed to mellow him out. Life-threatening illnesses have a way of doing that. We’d ridden out the bad times. We were as happy together as we’d ever been.”
“I’m glad,” I said impassively.
“So, I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”
“Bright and early. Or at least early. It’s looking a little cloudy these days. The weather, I mean.” God, but I couldn’t think straight; my words were coming out all chop suey.
“Maybe we’ll have a white Christmas for once,” Myra said absently. “That would be so nice. Wouldn’t it? Do you like Christmas?”
“Yes. It’s my favorite holiday.” I forced a smile. “See you tomorrow.”
My heart was pounding. At least I’d finally made it out the door. I took a couple of deep breaths and steadied myself. I glanced across the street. A white four-door Impala was parked in Carl’s driveway again. Emily’s car. Emily Blaire, whom I resembled physically.
With my head spinning, I made my way across the street. It was possible that Myra was watching me, but I wasn’t about to look back to see. There was nothing to lose at this point that hadn’t already been lost; I had to talk to Emily Blaire.
Randy and Emily could have had the fling that resulted in my birth. If so, maybe the sight of me, of her husband’s out-of-wedlock child now grown up, had pushed Myra over the edge to murder her husband.
A second possibility hit me as I reached Carl’s porch. Carl had once said that his wife was having an affair with his neighbor again. What if those love letters were indeed from Randy—not to his current wife, but rather to his ex-wife? Taylor, Emily’s son, could have found those letters in her house at some point and put them in Carl’s wall for some reason. And Carl might, upon their discovery, have learned that his beloved Emily and his one-time friend Randy had been lovers.
Carl could have been incapable of hiding how greatly this news had upset him. So he’d covered his reaction by pretending that he thought the letters were from Debbie.
I rang Carl’s doorbell.
Had Carl murdered Randy? Had the letters revealed that I was the child of his ex-wife, Emily, and his now-despised neighbor? Had he become so enraged when he learned this that he’d murdered my father?
Emily opened the door. She was wearing her coat—a chocolate-brown microfiber parka. The strap of her tan Naugahyde purse was slung over one shoulder, and her keys were in her right hand. She paled a little at the sight of me, but opened the storm door as well. “Erin. Hello. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I just . . . feel a little sick to my stomach. Must have been something I ate. I’ll be fine, though. Really.”
She searched my eyes. Hers were a deep brown, just like mine. “You should take some ginger. There’s a type of ginger tea that works wonders for settling upset stomachs. I know Randy use
d to have some. Myra probably still has some of it in her kitchen.”
I forced a smile. “I’m feeling a bit better already. It’s nothing. Really.”
She gave a nervous glance over her shoulder but remained in the doorway, donning a smile. “I was just about to head home. Carl’s working at home today. In Debbie’s basement office. His mood’s finally improving. You can go on downstairs if you—”
I shook my head. “I was actually coming over to talk to you.”
She met my eyes, and the forced cheer seeped from her face. “I see. I guess . . . we’re overdue for a conversation, actually. I have some things to discuss with you as well.”
I heard footsteps on the walkway behind me, and quickly turned. Myra wasn’t wearing her cardigan sweater or a coat, and her breath was forming little clouds of condensation.
“Hello, Myra,” Emily said pleasantly.
“Emily.” Myra’s voice sounded ice cold, yet she asked, “How are you?”
“I’m fine, thanks. It’s Carl who’s not doing so well. He’s paying the price for being such a hothead. I’m sure you’ve already heard this, but he managed to fracture bones in his hand and his foot. He’s right downstairs in the office, if you need to speak to him.”
“Uh, yes. Thanks. I wanted to ask him something, and . . . I didn’t realize you were here.”
Emily shifted her vision to me. “Erin, maybe you and I could go for a stroll around the pond?”
“That sounds good,” I replied. Just to the north of the neighborhood was a pond with a surrounding jogging trail.
“On second thought,” Myra said, her voice becoming shrill, “my question for Carl can wait. Let me grab my coat and I’ll come with you. Erin, I had some more ideas about the house that we should discuss right away before I forget.”
“Emily and I were just about to have a private conversation, actually, Myra.” Despite my intention to be gentle, my need to be away from her made me curt.
“Oh.” Myra’s face fell.
“I’ll stop by before I leave, though, and we can discuss your ideas then.”