“Like your art.”
“Right, something to nurture the soul.”
I’d have to invite her to join my artist group. “I always thought you and Hugh were happy.”
“So did I. But apparently I wasn’t speaking for both of us.”
“Do you think there is someone else?”
She grabbed a tissue from the quilted holder on the coffee table. Pressing it against her eyes, she said, “I shouldn’t get emotional about this. I’ve cried about it enough.”
“How long have you suspected something?”
“A few months.”
“Do you know who it is?”
She shook her head.
“Why do you think there’s someone else?”
Her hand flew through the air as she gulped back her tears. “The usual signs. You know, late nights at the office.”
“Joe says he’s working on a tough case.”
“No case is a twelve midnight, two times a week case.”
“Oh.”
“The scent of women’s perfume on his clothes.”
“Have you confronted him?”
“Of course. He says I’m being ridiculous and insecure. And that there’s no one else he would even want to be with.”
“The late nights?”
“Work. Working with Joe and Jane. They’ve been helping him out, that sort of thing.”
“That’s very possible. Joe has had some late nights too.”
“Twice a week like clock work?”
“Well, maybe not. What does he say about the perfume?”
“He claims it’s Jane’s, you know from working in close quarters, or his secretary, Mabel’s. But it is definitely not the kind Mabel would wear, unless she’s on the prowl for a younger man.”
“In his seventies?”
She smiled. “He said that if he had a lover, he’d be damned sure she didn’t wear any perfume.”
“Good point.”
“Whose side are you on?”
I laughed. “I could put Charlie on the job.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“For what it’s worth, Joe thinks Hugh is one of the most ethical people he knows.”
“As well as he knows him,” she muttered under her breath.
Did Joe really not know Hugh as well as he thought? Or was Meredith completely mistaken in her suspicions? There was another option that I did not like at all, but I did have to consider, and that was the possibility that my husband was covering up for my friend’s husband.
“Let’s go punch some more clay,” Meredith said.
This time we worked in silence, each of us drifting off into private thoughts. How little I knew about Meredith’s life. We’re such egotistical beings, really. We stay wrapped in our private cocoons. What was Amy’s cocoon like, I wondered. Most likely lonely, steeped in the process of protection, hiding in the illusion of romance novels, building walls around her heart. A master at pretense, the perfect hostess, always saying the right, though sparse words, dressed in elegance, hair set in place as if the wind never came within a violin’s length of her. I smiled at the image Amy’s high school music teacher, Mr. Warren, had created.
Anyone viewing her life from a distance would have thought it was perfect. Adoring husband, adorable son, beautiful home, membership to the elite country club. She was the perfect porcelain doll living the perfect unbreakable life. Only it did break. In one brief moment, it had shattered.
“Jenny! What are you doing?” Meredith’s voice brought my attention back to the present and the clay bowl that I had squished and pounded into a blob.
I looked up, wiping the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing. I was thinking about Amy, how perfect her life seemed, and suddenly I’m destroying the bowl I made.”
“It’s a shame. It was really beautiful.”
“But it wasn’t perfect.”
“Does it have to be?”
I looked on the shelf where I had set the other two bowls I had thrown. One had a tiny dent on the lip, the other, a flaw where my thumb had run awry. I looked back at Meredith. “In striving for perfection, you must be able to let go, to destroy that which isn’t perfect,” I said. “Maybe that’s why I’m not better at this.”
Chapter 16
After leaving Meredith’s studio, I stopped off at the Southpoint Police Department to pick up the case notes from Jerry.
“This case is closed, Jenny.”
“I know, but there are still some things that are bothering me.”
“I really shouldn’t give them to you.”
“I know that too,” I said, and with more confidence than I was feeling, “but you will.”
“Only for you and Charlie,” he said. I didn’t tell him that Charlie had nothing to do with this, and had moved on to another case. Why clutter the issue?
I was sipping a cup of Earl Grey and reading over Jerry’s meticulous notes when the telephone rang. I set down my cup and shoved the papers back into the file, and the file back into my briefcase. What was this, some left over reaction from childhood, in the form of fear at being caught reading a magazine instead of my history textbook? These thoughts raced through my mind in the time it took me to pick up the portable receiver, hit the talk button, and say hello.
“McNair?”
“MacGregor, is that you?” Not that I wouldn’t have recognized his voice and his accent, but he was the only one who had ever called me by my last name—my maiden name at that. It must have been a remnant left over from his days as my professor.
“Aye, it is. How are you?”
“Fair to middling. It’s been a rough couple of weeks, but I’m doing okay now. Are you back in Seattle?”
“Soon. Two weeks, to be precise.” Not quite in time for Holly’s graduation.
“So, to what do I owe this overseas call?”
“Just wanting to say hello, and to see how you are, is all.”
“You just hung up talking to Charlie, didn’t you?”
He laughed. It was a warm laugh. “He’s worried about you. Thought I could cheer you up a bit.”
“I don’t need cheering up, MacGregor. But it is wonderful to hear your voice.”
“Promise you’ll have dinner with me when I get back in town.”
“Anything in particular?”
“I miss you, McNair, that’s all. It’s been a while and we’ve a lot to catch up on, I’m sure.”
“You’re right about that.”
“This latest case got to you, eh?”
“A bit. Charlie told you about it?”
“Aye, and you can tell me more when I see you.”
I hung up with a smile on my face. Thanks, Charlie. Maybe I did need cheering up after all.
I shoved the briefcase into the cabinet. I could pick up where I left off later. I needed a break. Not only was it depressing, reading each and every detail of Amy’s death, but it was strange seeing my own interview printed on paper. Seemed upset, as if crying. Wasn’t feeling well, wanted to lie down. Witness concerned so returned. No answer, noticed car was still there, walked around to back of house.
“Mom?” Holly’s voice called out from the kitchen.
“In here,” I yelled back.
Before I could get out of my chair, she was through the house and in the den.
“What’s got you so excited?”
“Look!” She held up two tickets. “Phantom! Tonight.”
“You’re kidding. Where did you get them?”
“Jill gave them to me. She and her mom had planned to go but her brother is flying in tonight from Boston. Can we go? Do you have time?”
I laughed and hugged my daughter. “I’ll even dress up.”
A perfect ending to a healing day. It was several hours before I could get to sleep that night, the music from Phantom of the Opera, spinning in my head. But as I lay there in bed, my eyes wide open, I realized it was no longer Phantom music. It w
as the music from an old movie that I had seen many years ago, about a dancer, much like one of the obsessed artists Mr. Warren, Amy’s high school music teacher, had described.
I could see the heroine whirling around in her ballet slippers, dancing despite the warnings that her heart would not survive it. The doctors did not realize that despite her heart’s weakness, she could not live without dance. My sigh was louder than I realized, causing Joe to stir beside me.
“Jenny? Are you home?”
“Mmm, go back to sleep.” I rolled over and pushed myself up on my elbow to kiss him on the cheek.
He smiled and mumbled, “Thank you. Love you.”
I kissed him again, and easily slipped into a peaceful sleep.
Unfortunately the peace did not last beyond my awakening the following morning. Hoping to see Joe before he left for the office, I tumbled out of bed and on down the stairs. I found him in the den, my briefcase in his hand.
“I thought you had stopped this nonsense.”
“What are you doing going through my briefcase?”
“I was looking for some file folders.”
“In my briefcase?”
“Well, there aren’t any in the file drawer.” Said in an accusatory tone.
“They’re on the bottom shelf of the bookcase.”
“Interesting place for them.” Sarcasm oozed.
Only one way to confront passive aggressiveness, and that was head on. “Why does it bother you so much that I’m trying to find out who murdered Amy Morrison?”
“Because she wasn’t murdered. And the case is closed.”
“You were upset that I was involved before Jerry closed the case.”
“You think I want my wife mixed up with someone who murders people?”
“You said it wasn’t murder.”
“I didn’t know that back then.”
“And now you do.”
“Right.”
“So, if it’s not about murder, then what’s the problem?”
“Obviously you still think it is about murder.”
“But you don’t.”
“But you do. So, in case you’re right, I’d just as soon you didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“And if I do?”
He tossed the file down on the desk and sighed as if the end of the world had already happened. “I guess I’ll have to hold my breath.”
I didn’t tell him not to worry about it, and that I could take care of myself. That had only made things worse. The truth was, I was hoping he was worried about me. I wanted this issue to be about that, and not about his male ego not being able to handle his wife’s recent inner strength and independent nature. I really didn’t want it to be about that.
I could tell already that today was not going to be the same kind of peaceful day that yesterday had been.
I went to see Scott Morrison. He had not yet returned to work, so I met him at the house. Ten minutes into the conversation, he realized why I was there.
“You’re still investigating Amy’s death, aren’t you?”
“There are some pieces to the puzzle that are bothering me. Do you have any idea who she was seeing, Scott?”
“I thought you figured out it was Jake Holbrook.”
“The evidence pointed toward Jake, but I’m not sure. Tell me about your relationship with her.”
Scott leaned back in the overstuffed chair that had apparently become his favorite—or maybe always had been. “I tried so hard to be loving to her. It seemed that the more I did, the further I pushed her away. It was painful for me, Jenny.”
“It’s very painful not being able to be yourself in relationship with someone.”
“Yes, that’s how it felt, that I had to hold back my feelings. I think she thought I was weak. It was as if she had created her own image of what a man should be. She didn’t have a father there to show her that all men have strengths and weaknesses, so she built her image of a man on a fantasy. He was supposed to be strong, perfect, never emotional. It repelled her when I expressed any kind of feelings, like when Danny was born. I was so excited, I was jumping for joy, and she—” He slouched down in his chair, defeated by the memories. “I’ll never forget how she lay there in the hospital bed, just staring at me like I was some kind of idiot. The nurse said it was common for women to get depressed after giving birth, and not to worry about it.”
“But it never seemed to wear off.”
“No.”
“Did you know she had a miscarriage when she was married to Daniel Walters?”
“What!?” He sat upright and stared at me.
“It’s what split them up. She couldn’t get over it. She was devastated.”
“My God, she never told me.”
“Apparently, it wasn’t something she could talk about.”
“But I was her husband. My God. This is unbelievable. Do you think that’s why she was so strange with Danny?”
I slid my arms out of the sleeves of my sweater and shrugged it onto the back of my chair. “I suspect it is. I think it brought up her feelings of mourning all over again. And guilt. She may have felt responsible somehow for losing her baby.”
“This is so bizarre—I was married to this woman and I know so little about her.”
“Scott, tell me something, is her mother provided for, even in the event of Amy’s death?”
“Actually, no. We had talked about it, just recently in fact. Amy wanted me to make a codicil to our wills, to be sure that no matter what happened to either or both of us, there would be money for Leia to stay in the home where she is. I just hadn’t gotten around to it.”
“Did Amy know that?”
“Yes. We talked about it a few days before— I told her I’d take care of it as soon as I had some time.”
“Did you?”
“No. But I will. Why are you asking me about that?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure, but I seriously doubt that Amy would take her own life without being certain her mother was provided for.”
“So, you think she was murdered. But who? And why? My God. Do you have any idea?”
“Not really, but something tells me I’m getting close.”
“Tell me what you do know.”
“It’s just a lot of illusive puzzle pieces floating around in my head. Nothing’s clear, but with just the right tweak, it will all come into focus.”
“Have you talked to the police about this?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I put this idea in their heads, the person they’re most likely to suspect is—”
“Me.”
“Right.”
“So, why don’t you?”
“I don’t know. I just trust you, I guess.”
“Thanks, Jenny, that means a lot to me.”
I only hoped this wasn’t one of those times when my intuition was going flaky on me, like the time I predicted the floods in Ashland, Oregon—seven years early.
After I left Scott, I drove straight to the building that housed my husband’s law firm and the law firm of Morrison, Gimble, Stratton, and Morrison. Someone knew more than they were saying, and I intended to find out what it was.
This was not a good place to come if you were looking for relaxation. I don’t suppose any law office offers that. But I was tempted to ride the elevator back down to the first floor and pop into the Network chiropractor’s office I had noticed as I came in. Maybe I would stop on my way out so they could help me get rid of the tension that was building in my shoulders.
Sally Jenkins, receptionist for Morrison, Gimble, Stratton, and Morrison, peered over the reception desk at me. My reason for being here aside, Sally Jenkins was enough to cause need for a lengthy session at the chiropractor’s. She slammed her fist down on the stapler twice, then scooted her chair along the desk to the file drawer. Back to the stapler, slam two times, and back to the file drawer. This procedure lasted a good five minutes, then she looked nervously a
round for her next chore.
Saved by the bell. She answered two phone calls, put them through to the correct parties. Satisfied with a job well done, she again searched her desk frantically. She sighed, then, talking to herself, yanked open the file drawer, pulled out the papers she had just filed, checked them over once more for errors. I could have told her there were none.
Reluctantly, but somehow frantically, she refiled them. Spotting a stack of papers on her desk, she scooped them up, shuffled them, thumbed through them, stacked them again, then once more began the shuffling. The woman was skinny as all get out, despite the box of donuts I had noticed her dip into between shufflings, staplings, scootings, and filings. There are benefits to living with nervous energy running constantly through your body. All the while she was moving here and there, the foot of the leg that was crossed on top of the other was jiggling up and down, flexing, pointing, flexing.
Suddenly her cheeks turned pink, and I wondered if I’d been caught staring, but quickly realized that she was not looking at me. She was instead, looking off down the corridor. I casually walked over to the table with magazines, grabbed one with Julia Roberts on the cover, turned, and spotted Richard Stratton winking at the receptionist. He was too preoccupied to notice my observation of his unadulterated flirtation. Still, I did not feel comfortable staring, and took a seat and opened the magazine. Thumbing through the pages, I saw little, if anything, as my mind wandered back to my recent conversation with Erica Stratton. She had told me the truth about one thing. She was not the only unfaithful spouse in that marriage.
“Mr. Gimble will see you now.”
Startled out of my reverie, I stood up and muttered, “Thank you.”
“Down this hall, third door on your right.”
I nodded, automatically running my hand down my jeans as if to straighten them. After deciding to come here from Scott’s, I had not bothered to go home to change. It wasn’t against the law to wear jeans to a law office, was it?
Dispensing with formalities, Jim Gimble neither stood nor said hello as I entered his office. But what did I expect? He did motion for me to sit down, no doubt so that I would choose the chair of his choice.
“So, what is it today?” he asked. “It can’t be to help Scotty. He’s off the hook, case closed.”
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