“Not my favorite kind of gathering. Besides, don’t know anyone. I’d thought it would help to be around others who— But just as lonely, you know?” He opened the door of a Chevy pickup truck with a dent in the hood. He pulled out a CD and handed it to me. “Just be sure to get it back to me.”
I was surprised he remembered. “Do you mind if I ask you some questions before you leave?”
He leaned back against his truck. “I guess not.”
Answering questions like mine were not easy, but I realized it might help ease just a little of that loneliness.
“You did tell me that Amy loved to dance, didn’t you?”
He smiled. “Oh, yeah.”
“That’s what I thought. And that her favorite music was jazz.”
“Definitely. That music lived inside her.”
“What about food? What did she like to eat and drink?”
Daniel laughed at that one. “Cheeseburgers with grilled onions. Nothing she liked better. And ice cold beer.”
She’d definitely moved up on the sophistication scale since marrying into the Morrison clan.
“What gifts did she give you?”
“Gifts?” He rubbed his nose on the back of his hand before smiling. “Music, CD’s of my favorites, Satchmo, Ella, Billie. Jo Stafford. Sometimes she’d give me a book. And chocolate. She was always buying me my favorite chocolate, you know, those giant slabs of Ghiradelli’s. She even brought me flowers sometimes.”
“A romantic.”
“Oh, yeah, definitely a romantic, my—she was. I don’t get it. What are you trying to figure out here?”
“I’ll let you know when I figure it out. I get the feeling though, that Amy knew how to adapt to her circumstances, her financial situation.”
“I wouldn’t know. I never saw her after she remarried.”
He had told me that before. Was it my imagination, or was he trying to imprint that information on my brain?
“But I’ll bet she never changed from a beer and burger girl.”
I smiled and motioned toward the Morrison mansion. “I bet you would lose.”
He seemed saddened by that information. More than sadness, there was a look of guilt in his eyes. Or was it my imagination? I liked Daniel. But I couldn’t let that get in the way of this investigation. And if I did, Charlie wouldn’t.
“How did Amy’s mother’s breakdown affect her, Daniel?”
It took him longer to answer that question than I would have thought. But that was not out of character. He did not like to answer something unless he was sure of the answer. “It made her more determined than ever to survive.”
“What frightened her more than anything?”
This one he answered quickly. “Loss.”
“Loss?”
“Yeah. Loss.” He turned and opened the door to his truck. “If you don’t mind, I really need to get going now. You know where to send that.” He pointed at the tape.
“Yes.”
“Thanks for telling me about the service.”
“You’re welcome.”
He climbed into his weary truck and drove off, not shy of polluting the air. As if reading my thoughts, he screeched to a halt, opened his window and called out to me, “Don’t worry, I’m getting that fixed next week.”
I laughed. Yep, I liked this man, Daniel Walters, Amy’s first love. I just wondered what had happened between Amy’s marriage to him and her marriage to Scott that had taken the joy out of her. Was it her mother’s break down? According to Daniel, it didn’t sound like it. Not if it had turned her into a survivor. But then, what did that mean exactly? That she would do whatever it took to survive, including adapting to a lifestyle that did not suit her? But if that was true, if she was the survivor her first husband had portrayed her to be, one thing was clear. Amy Morrison had not intended to die that day.
Charlie found me before I reached the house. “Been looking for you, luv.”
“I was talking to Daniel Walters.”
“Find out anything?”
“Not really, but I’m more convinced than ever that it wasn’t suicide. How about you? Find out anything?”
“I got a sense of the inter workings of the Morrison family and law firm.”
“And?”
“And Jerry got a call from the station.”
“The evidence he was talking about? Did he tell you what—?”
Charlie nodded. “Aye. They’ve identified the car that hit Jake.”
“Whose is it? Please tell me it’s not Scott’s.”
“Close.”
“Whose, Charlie? Tell me.”
“None other than Amy Morrison’s.”
My mind spun in circles, searching for an explanation to this news. There were only two possible explanations that I seemed able to find at that moment, and one was that Scott had used Amy’s car that day. The other was that Amy had killed Jake.
If Scott had switched cars with her, that was the end to this case. If he could prove he hadn’t, that meant one thing, one thing that made no sense whatsoever. Witnesses to the sound of screeching tires had convinced the police that the hit was intentional. That didn’t prove it so. But if it had been, that meant Amy had intentionally killed the man she was supposedly having an affair with.
A myriad of thoughts ran through my mind at that point. Was he blackmailing her? Had he threatened to tell Scott of their affair? An unintentional accident made more sense, but would Amy have fled the scene of the crime? Would she not have stopped to care for her lover? And if she hadn’t, had remorse hit her so deeply that she had taken her own life? And of course, one question that affected both of these possibilities. Had Amy been a good enough actress to convince me that she didn’t know of Jake’s death before I arrived at her doorstep?
Chapter 13
“Are they going to arrest Scott?” I asked Charlie when he dropped us home. Joe had said a polite good-bye and gone into the house.
“Jerry said he’d wait until morning.”
“With an undercover detective parked across the street from Scott’s house?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“So at this point, the burden is on Scott to prove he wasn’t the one driving Amy’s car at the time.”
“Let’s hope he can.”
“Do you want to come in for a bit?”
“No thanks, luv. I’ve a lot of work to do. And I think you need to get some rest. It’s been quite a couple of days, eh?”
“The understatement of the year, Charlie.”
But I wasn’t soon to bed. I kissed Joe goodnight and headed for the video store. Then I curled up with a large bowl of divinity fudge ice cream, two CD’s, and A Man and A Woman. Now I knew why I’d drunk so much coffee at the funeral. There was a reason I needed to stay awake.
I just hadn’t expected it to be until three o’clock in the morning. But when you listen to two full CD’s all the way through, and watch a movie twice, time seems to get away from you.
The sad part was, I didn’t know any more than when I had shoved Amy’s jazz CD into the player for the first time. If I did, I wasn’t conscious of it. But something kept me shifting back and forth between the classical CD she had made for her second husband and the jazz CD she had made for her first husband. It was there. Something was there. I just didn’t know what it was. The same was true of the movie, a beautiful French love story of tragic loss, suicidal death, and love. If I had even a minuscule sense that Amy had killed herself, I might have seen the connection to the film.
When the phone awoke me bright and early the following morning, I thought I had just nodded off. “I’m sorry to wake you, Jenny, but I thought you’d want to go with me.”
“Where, Charlie?”
“To Scott’s. Before Jerry gets there.”
I sprang out of bed, noticing that Joe’s side was empty. “What time is it?”
“Eight. Shall I pick you up?”
“I’ll be ready.”
I hung up the telephon
e, jumped in and out of the shower in under four minutes, pulled on a pair of jeans and an off-white cotton sweater, jammed a toothbrush into my gums here and there, and trotted down the stairs.
A pot of coffee was brewing, thanks to my thoughtful husband, but I opted for a glass of orange juice. I’d had enough caffeine to last me a week. Joe’s note was attached to the refrigerator via a basset hound magnet. “Went to the office for an early meeting. I’ll be home in time for dinner. Love you, Joe.”
Warmth spread through my body, in all directions from my heart, and I said a quick prayer of gratitude for my family.
When Charlie and I arrived at Scott’s, he was dressed in sweats, sitting in the one comfortable chair in his living room, and staring into the cold and empty fireplace. His sandy brown hair was disheveled, his face unshaven, and his brown eyes had lost all vibrancy.
“Did you get any sleep?” Charlie asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Why are you here so early? Has something happened? Did you find out something?”
“The police have identified the car that hit Jake Holbrook.” Charlie took a deep breath before finishing. “It belonged to Amy.”
“Oh, my God! Amy was the one who killed Jake?” He shook his head as if this gesture would null and void Charlie’s information. “It must have been an accident. She’d never have, in—intentionally killed— No, she wouldn’t ever hurt— Oh, my God, she must have been so distressed that she killed herself. No, she could never— She must have tranquilized herself, trying to calm down. It was an accident. I’m sure, it was. She’d never take her own—” He buried his face in his hands, his body convulsing with sobs. Neither Charlie nor I spoke until the tears had subsided and his body had calmed to somewhat normal breathing.
I let Charlie do the dirty work. “That’s not the only possibility,” Charlie told him. “Someone else may have been driving her car.”
“Who?”
Charlie didn’t answer. It took Scott a few moments to break through the fuzziness that was surrounding his exhausted brain. “Oh, my God, the police think I was the one driving her car!”
Charlie nodded.
“But I wasn’t.”
“Do you ever drive it?”
“Sure. Of course. When we go out in the evening together. Why?”
Charlie shook his head as if it weren’t important. But I knew what he was thinking. If they looked, the police would find hair samples in the driver’s seat and fingerprints on the steering wheel, some of which would prove to be Scott’s.
“Can you prove that you weren’t driving it that day?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I—” His fingers found their way through his hair and rubbed, as if trying to massage his memory alive. “The attendants at our office parking lot know my car. One of them is sure to remember.”
“Good. Then you’re okay,” Charlie said. He went into the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee for Scott.
I sat down in one of the modern chairs that did not fit in with the cozy craftsman house. But then, neither did the enormous Steinway piano that protruded into the sitting area. I thought of Daniel’s upright piano, the one he had given Amy as a gift. Her first piano. Her first love. What had gone wrong, I wondered. And why, if she had loved that piano so much, had she not taken it with her?
Maybe the change in Amy from jazz fanatic to classical aficionado had not been the result of her new upscale life. Perhaps it was the result of something that had happened earlier. Maybe the question wasn’t what had happened to Amy between the two marriages, but rather what had happened to her during her first marriage that had caused it to end.
“You’d best get dressed, lad,” Charlie said as he handed Scott the mug of coffee. “The police are sure to be here soon.”
“Where’s the baby?” I asked.
It took Scott a moment to clear his thoughts enough to answer. “At my parents’ house.” He took a couple sips of his coffee, then stood up. “Will you wait with me until they get here?”
“Aye, lad. Of course. But there is something I must ask you.”
Scott set his cup down on the glass coffee table and faced Charlie square on. I liked a man who could look you in the eyes, even when he knew the question you were about to ask was one he’d rather not hear.
“Did you kill Jake Holbrook?”
Scott shook his head. “No, Charlie.”
“Did you kill your wife?”
Scott gasped before answering this one. “God, no! I loved her.”
Not one cell in my body revolted in reaction to his answer.
“Do you believe him?” Charlie asked me after Scott had left the room.
“Totally, assuming I dare trust my intuition. How about you?”
“I do, lass. Now all we need do is hope that one of the parking lot attendants on duty that day has a decent memory.”
* * *
Jerry Bridges arrived at Scott Morrison’s house at nine o’clock sharp. He was willing to listen to Scott’s side of the story. He was also willing to detour by the law office parking lot on the way to the police station. I wondered if he was always this indulgent.
“Can I borrow your car?” I asked Charlie.
“Aye, I can ride with Jerry and have him drop me at the office afterwards. Why, luv, don’t you want to come with us?”
“I’ve got some things to do, Charlie. I’ll catch up with you at the office later, okay?”
Having no idea why, except that my intuition told me to, I did a U-turn and headed straight to Anthony and Rosemary Morrison’s house. The maid opened the door and showed me into the living room and went to fetch Rosemary. “She’s with the baby, I believe.”
I wandered around the room, admiring the art work, no doubt original. It was practically a gallery with the paintings and sculptures. I recognized a Karen MacIntyre. I knew her art well, from the Edinburgh Gallery in Scotland. Would have liked to have some hanging on my own walls. They were stories, each of her paintings, interactive. But they did not appeal to Joe. Too personal perhaps?
“Jenny, how lovely of you to call,” Rosemary greeted me, grandson in arms.
I walked across the room to her. “Hello, Rosemary.”
“My precious grandson, have you seen him?”
“Yes, I have.” I looked from her face to the innocent baby who was ignorant to all that was going on around him, but for the warmth of his grandmother’s arms. When would he understand that he was a motherless child? When would abandonment become an issue? Or had it already?
“He’s beautiful,” I told Rosemary. He was a beautiful baby, his soft blue eyes and his black hair, so like his mother’s. Even his cheekbones were Amy’s. I wondered if his resemblance to his mother would be of comfort to Scott, or if it would haunt him.
Rosemary reluctantly handed him to the maid, instructing her to put him down for his morning nap. Then, taking my hand, she escorted me to the couch where we sat together. “Angela, after you put Danny down, would you ask Isabella to bring us some tea?”
“Of course, Maam.”
“How are you doing, Rosemary?”
“Oh, I’m doing okay. Trying to keep busy. It helps, you know. I’m glad to have the baby here to look after.” She laughed lightly. “I’ve even taken to cooking some meals. Made breakfast this morning, and I think I’ll make Anthony’s favorite veal piccata for lunch today.”
“He comes home for lunch?” Maybe there was more to this marriage than I’d realized.
“Oh, yes, quite often. Especially when baby Danny is here. He adores that child.”
“Yes, I saw him with him at the garden party, and at—” There was no need to bring up the funeral. “It’s nice to see men doting on babies, isn’t it?” It seemed to work every other generation in the Morrison family, although, Anthony’s recent support of Scott had me convinced that despite his high expectations of his son, he did love him. Unless it was all for show.
“Yes, it is wonderful,” Rosemary said.
�
�And it’s good that Scott has you to help out with the baby.”
“It’s our pleasure. Believe me. Nothing gives us more joy than that little child. I would have liked to have more children myself, you know, but—”
“But?”
“It just wasn’t meant to be. Oh, here’s the tea. Thank you, Isabella.”
“The maid set the tray down on the table in front of us. The setting was straight out of an English tea room, laden with delicate tea cups and saucers, miniature spoons, fresh cream, sugar, lemon curd and several choices of sweets—raspberry, lemon, chocolate. I opted for a raisin scone. Too early in the day for the hard stuff.
Rosemary and I sipped and nibbled in silence for a moment, before I asked her, “Have you talked to Scott this morning?”
“Yes. I called him. I don’t think he’d gotten much sleep.” She didn’t mention the new information about Amy’s car. Either Scott had decided not to worry her or she had talked to him before he was privy to that information. Either way, I wasn’t about to add worry to her day. She would know about it soon enough, hopefully after Scott had proven himself innocent of being the driver, if indeed he was.
“Scott really loved Amy, didn’t he?” I said.
“Oh, he did. It tears me apart to think of him alone. I wish I could take the pain away.” She laughed self-consciously. “You know how we mothers are. It’s harder to see our children in pain than to be in pain ourselves. But I’m afraid I’m guiltier of coddling my son than most. At least, that’s what Anthony says. I can’t help it. I’m just overly-protective, I suppose. I’ve always been that way. It was hard for me to let him go off to kindergarten. And oh, my goodness, if he got into a fight at school or was picked on, I wanted to go in there and punch that bully right in the nose.”
Rosemary’s hands shook nervously, her tea spilling onto the saucer. She set it down on the table, as if it would bite her. As though realizing she was rambling, she quickly said, “It’s kind of you to stop by, Jenny, really, it is.”
“I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am about Amy. I know how busy you were yesterday, and I didn’t really get a chance.”
Unlawfull Alliances Page 16