Murder on the Eightfold Path

by Diana Killian

  If only she wasn’t stuck flat on her back. A.J. swallowed hard as she recognized the direction her thoughts were turning. She had solemnly promised Jake not to dabble in anymore amateur sleuthing—it had nearly wrecked their relationship once. But she could hardly stand by, or even lie by, while her mother went to jail for a murder. And it was a cinch that Elysia was not going to patiently wait for Jake or anyone else to prove her innocent, in which case A.J. might be the stabilizing influence.

  Except that her own stability was a little rocky at the moment. Of all the times to injure her back! Still she could use the phone and she could use her laptop. Maybe she could do a little checking into Dicky Massri—

  She became aware that the doorbell was ringing. Monster jumped off the mattress and trotted down the hall, woofing. A.J. commenced the long and painful process of getting off the bed and on her feet. She had made it to the doorway of her bedroom when she heard a key in the front door lock. Her heart leapt thinking that it might be Jake.

  That thought was instantly dismissed as highly unlikely and replaced by relief that her mother must have already been released—although a quick glance at the bedside clock indicated Elysia would barely have had time to be booked.

  The door swung open, and the short, stout figure of Stella Borin appeared framed in the front hall.

  “A.J.?” she called tentatively.

  “Right here.”

  Stella was A.J.’s nearest neighbor. She lived about a mile down the road in the farm bequeathed to her by A.J.’s aunt. In addition to farming, she supported herself as a psychic, and although A.J. did not put a lot of stock in things like tarot cards and séances, she had to admit that Stella had, on one or two occasions, seemed to display an uncanny ability.

  According to Andy, A.J.’s ex, the most uncanny thing about Stella was her dress sense, and this afternoon was no exception. She was wearing what appeared to be polka dot pajama bottoms beneath a plaid jumper, giving her the impression of a badly dressed piggy bank. Her gray hair was bound in two fat, short braids that seemed to stick straight out of the sides of her head, confirming A.J.’s long held conviction that no woman over the age of ten should wear braids. Stella eschewed makeup, and her hands looked as battered as a potter’s.

  “Jake called and told me what happened. He thought you might need some help this evening, at least till Bradley Meagher bails your ma out.”

  Ma.

  Hard to imagine a term that less suited Elysia, but all A.J. really noticed was the kindness of Stella running to her rescue—and that Jake had been looking out for her, even if he had tossed her mum in the hoosegow.

  “Oh, you didn’t have to do that,” she said, hobbling down the hall.

  Stella raised her bushy brows but didn’t point out the obvious. It occurred to A.J., and not for the first time, that when she had lived in the big city she had barely known her neighbors, let alone relied on them in times of trouble. There was a lot to be said for small-town living—even if the cable did go out on a regular basis.

  “Did Jake say anything about . . . ?” A.J. wasn’t even sure what she was asking. She knew that Jake would hardly confide anything about the case against Elysia to Stella. She was grasping at straws, hoping that someone was going to reassure her that this was all a big misunderstanding.

  But Stella must have read her correctly, because she said in her gruff way, “Don’t you worry. Jake Oberlin is a good cop. He’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  A.J. nodded. She was leading the way, slowly, to the front parlor, ignoring Stella’s advice to return to bed.

  “I’m going crazy, lying there worrying about this.”

  A.J. stretched out on the sofa. Stella asked if she’d like a cup of tea, and she assented, staring up at the ceiling. At least it made for a change of scenery.

  Stella brought in a tea tray and A.J. sat up. Stella had found the frosted animal cookies that A.J. had been hiding from herself in the back of the pantry. A.J. took her cup of tea and sipped gratefully. There was something very comforting about a hot cup of good, brewed tea.

  Stella selected a frosted white bear and remarked, “Just like your ma. She always did like her cuppa.”

  And her glassa. But thankfully those days were in the past. Elysia had been sober for over a decade now. A.J. gave in and chose a pink elephant cookie from the plate before her.

  She asked, “Stella, can I ask you what happened between you and my mother?”

  “When what happened?” Stella chewed rapidly, her expression blank.

  A.J. clarified, “Whatever it is that happened, happened. What I mean is, I’m wondering about your history. Because I’ve sensed over the last year that there is one.”

  Stella picked up another cookie and crunched away. A.J. thought she would simply decline to answer at all, but at last she said, “You’d have to ask Elysia.”

  “I have asked her. She always brushes it off.”

  “There you go,” Stella said. “Nothing to worry about then.”

  “Was it something to do with Aunt Di? With her leaving you Little Peavy Farm?” That was hard to imagine. Elysia enjoyed her worldly goods as much as the next material girl, but her infamous acting career had left her comfortably off in addition to the bundle she had inherited from A.J.’s father, a successful business entrepreneur. But perhaps Elysia felt that Stella had somehow taken advantage of Diantha’s generosity? Or spiritual beliefs? Although that was also hard to imagine because Aunt Di had been nobody’s fool.

  “Noooo,” Stella said thoughtfully. “Nothing like that.”

  A.J. sipped her tea and frowned over it, but although it was hard to accept, perhaps it wasn’t any of her business. She changed the subject and said, “Did you happen to know this young man she’s accused of shooting?”

  “Elysia and I don’t travel in the same social circles.”

  “I’m not sure Mother and this Dicky Massri traveled in the same circles.”

  Stella made a sound somewhere between a snort and a laugh.

  “I think he was younger than me,” A.J. said. “Aunt Di did the same thing—started a relationship with someone young enough to be her son. I don’t understand it.”

  Stella eyed her thoughtfully. “That’s because you’ve never been lonely.”

  “I’ve been divorced, that’s pretty lonely.”

  “I mean years of being lonely.”

  Stella spoke so matter-of-factly that A.J. barely registered what she was saying. When she did, it was with a sharp tug of sympathy that she felt instinctively would make Stella uncomfortable. She hated to think of Stella being lonely, and she hated even more to think of her mother being lonely.

  But surely there was a medium ground between senior bingo nights and Egyptian gigolos?

  “I just don’t understand why she couldn’t have found someone more her own age. She wouldn’t be in this mess now.”

  Stella said patiently, “Because falling in love is scary. Hot sex with a man toy is just tiring.”

  A.J. blinked at the idea of Stella having hot sex with anything, let alone with tiresome man toys. She said at random, “Mr. Meagher is really worried. He seems to think the police might be able to build a strong enough case to go to trial.”

  Stella selected another cookie, crunched in that same meditative way—like a thoughtful squirrel—and said, “I guess it’s occurred to you that your ma really might have killed him?”

  Five

  A.J. inhaled cookie crumbs and spent an agonized couple of seconds coughing before she managed a hoarse, “I’m sorry?”

  Stella said, “Elysia’s got a temper when she’s riled.”

  “She’s not violent.” She closed off memories of her mother hurling glasses, plates, and, on one memorable occasion, a brass paperweight at her father during some of their livelier arguments. That had been back in the bad old days when alcohol had formed the foundation of Elysia’s daily food pyramid.

  Stella, unmoved, said, “She’s always had her own ideas abou
t the law.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Stella shrugged. “I think Elysia believes laws are for other people.”

  A.J. knew her instinctive rejection of this statement was illogical. Certainly Elysia did often behave as though the laws of the land did not apply to her. Sometimes that zany attitude was sort of charming—and sometimes it wasn’t.

  “We’re not discussing exceeding the speed limit here, we’re talking about murder. And I can’t see my mother committing cold-blooded murder. She just . . . wouldn’t.”

  “Not cold-blooded murder, I agree,” Stella said. “But if she felt threatened or she was angry enough?”

  A.J. stubbornly shook her head despite uneasy memories of the things her mother had done back when she had been drinking. Those things could be attributed to the alcohol. And while it was true that Elysia did rather live in her own world, that was still a far cry from the sort of loss of control Stella was suggesting.

  A.J. was marshaling her argument when the phone rang. Stella rose to answer it, returning a few moments later. “That was the Stillbrook Streamer. They were hoping for an interview.”

  “Yeah, well, hope springs eternal,” A.J. said shortly.

  “That’s pretty much what I told them.”

  “Why doesn’t Mr. Meagher call?”

  It was a rhetorical question, but Stella replied seriously, “It’s a homicide charge. They might not be able to get bail. Or the judge might decide to set it high, given your ma’s financial resources and nationality.”

  A.J. stared in horror. “You don’t think they’ll keep her?”

  Stella said gruffly, “I think Jake wanted me here just in case.”

  This time A.J. was less touched by Jake’s thoughtfulness.

  A.J. spent the afternoon reading through her aunt’s manuscript.

  No thinking person can deny that we live in a time of crisis. We look around and witness financial, environmental, and social upheaval. We turn on the television and see a world at war. Our ideals, our very faith in the greater good is challenged. Yet this is also a time of extraordinary spiritual opportunity. It depends on how we respond. At the core of the most painful experiences lie the seeds of philosophical awakening, of epiphany.

  A.J. reread the paragraph slowly. It was unexpectedly comforting in her particular time of trouble to read her aunt’s words. Diantha’s memoirs were almost like hearing her speak.

  The phone rang off and on, but it was always members of the press. The Stillbrook Streamer, the Star-Ledger, Chicago Sun-Times, the New York Times: the papers mounting in importance as the news of Elysia’s arrest hit the wires. Stella staunchly fended them off but it was clear that even her nerves were growing frayed as the afternoon wore on.

  It was after five o’clock when Mr. Meagher finally called, and the news was not good.

  “Well, you see, it’s complicated, me wee girl,” he began when A.J. picked up the phone.

  “What does that mean?”

  “We’re . . . eh . . . probably looking at tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? She’s going to have to spend the night in jail. But why?”

  “It’s complicated, me darlin’. There’s already a lot of media attention. Too much in the opinion of that great fascist swine of a superior court judge. There’s also the fact that your mither has considerable financial resources—as do you. They’re viewing her as a flight risk.”

  “You mean they might not let her out at all?” A.J. felt a childish and utterly disconcerting urge to burst into tears. It had to be the combination of meds and back pain.

  “Don’t fret,” Mr. Meagher reassured her quickly. “I’m pulling every bloody favor I ever did anyone in this miserable town.”

  A.J. realized then how angry Mr. Meagher was because she’d never heard him speak with anything but love for his adopted country and home. She swallowed down her anger and fear as it was clear he had plenty of his own to deal with.

  “So . . . what do we do?”

  “You just rest that back of yours and leave the rest to me. I’ll have her out by tomorrow or me name isn’t Bradley Jamieson Meagher.”

  A.J. thanked him sincerely and replaced the phone on the hook with an unsteady hand. Her anger at Jake was now sky-high even though a tiny voice in the back of her mind loyally pointed out that he probably hadn’t had a choice. Part of her wrath was based on the knowledge that he apparently really did suspect her mother capable of such a crime. And even though A.J. had also experienced an uneasy twinge or two maybe partly because of that, it seemed a severe betrayal.

  She picked at the chicken noodle casserole Stella had fixed for their dinner, listening with half an ear as the other woman talked about a séance she had conducted for a recently widowed woman.

  “I know what people say, what they think, but it brings comfort to my clients to know there’s something on the other side.”

  A.J. remembered what Stella had said earlier about being lonely. Loneliness led people into doing all kinds of dangerous and foolish things. Attending séances might even be one of the less foolhardy.

  She studied Stella’s weathered face. “Before I met you I thought all séances took place in auditoriums. Well, except the ones in movies.”

  “That’s a stage mediumship séance. I don’t have much faith in that. I prefer the personal touch myself.”

  A.J. remembered the séance they had held after Aunt Diantha’s death. It had been inconclusive—and a little scary, frankly. But she had seen all kinds of movies where people tried to solve crimes by conducting séances. She tried to picture summoning Dakarai Massri’s spirit. Did he even know who had killed him? Did people go into the afterlife as confused and misinformed as they were in the here and now?

  Stella had plenty of ideas on that topic. She was still offering her theories over coffee and creamy rice pudding (Stella being apparently unfamiliar with the concept of low carbs) when Andy, A.J.’s ex, called.

  “What the heck is going on down there? It’s all over the TV that Ellie’s been arrested for murder,” Andy demanded, uncharacteristically not even pausing for the usual civilities.

  Andy and Elysia had always been close—closer than A.J. and Elysia in fact, even after Andy had left A.J. to be with another man.

  “On TV?” gulped A.J.

  “Of course. Well, she is a cultural icon,” he added with what A.J. couldn’t help feeling was misplaced pride.

  A.J. explained about Dakarai Massri, which took some doing. Andy listened in stunned—and uncharacteristic—silence.

  “Your mother is accused of murdering a blackmailing Egyptian gigolo?” Andy repeated a little faintly when she had finished.

  A.J. pleaded, “Can we refer to him as a blackmailing Egyptian antiquities expert? It doesn’t sound quite so seedy.”

  “It doesn’t?” Andy swallowed loudly enough for A.J. to hear it clear across the New Jersey Turnpike. “So what are you going to do? Prove she’s innocent, I assume?”

  That was another reason Andy and Elysia got on so well; they both fancied themselves master detectives, with A.J. as their unwilling Watson. An unhealthy diet of TV mystery shows had persuaded them both that anyone was equipped to investigate major crime.

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” A.J. said firmly, just as though she hadn’t been contemplating that very idea most of the afternoon. “It’s Jake’s case and you know how he felt the last time—”

  Andy interrupted, “It’s Jake’s case? Jake arrested your mother? Your boyfriend arrested your—”

  “Thanks, Andy, I already know that part, and don’t tell me Nick wouldn’t do the same to your mother if his bosses at the FBI gave the order.”

  “Well, yeah, but Nick doesn’t like my mother.”

  A.J. had no response to that. Andy’s mother was hard to like, although A.J. was sort of fond of her in spite of it all.

  “It’s ridiculous,” Andy was protesting. “Ellie wouldn’t hurt a fly. So what are you going to do?”
/>   “I don’t know. I’ve hired a lawyer. Well, Mr. Meagher is hiring a top notch criminal attorney for me.”

  “An attorney? You can’t let this go to trial. You can’t just sit there and let that bastard railroad Ellie!” Since Andy actually liked Jake, his choice of epithet indicated how worked up over this he was getting.

  “I can’t do much about it at the moment.” A.J. explained about putting her back out, and Andy was appropriately sympathetic—and momentarily diverted. She took the opportunity to ask after his own health; Andy had been diagnosed with MS the previous summer. It had been a rocky time, but thanks in part to yoga he had found a delicate balance between fighting to stay as well as possible and learning to accept what couldn’t be cured.

  “I’m holding my own,” he said a little grimly.

  “How are things with Nick?”

  His voice was relaxed as he answered. “The best. The best they’ve ever been. Although it turns out he does have this freaky and totally unnecessary maternal streak.”

  A.J. chuckled. “I’m glad. I mean that things are good. You two deserve each other.”

  “I’m sure that’s not entirely a compliment. So what about you and Jake? Has he popped the question yet? I mean, before all this happened. I assume you won’t marry him if he puts Elysia in prison.”

  “No.” A.J. added quickly, “I mean no, he didn’t pop the question. Anyway it’s way too soon for that.”

  “Not necessarily. Sometimes all it takes is one look.” Andy and Nick had fallen in love at first sight, but that was still a painful memory for A.J. Her silence must have reminded him of this, for Andy said awkwardly, “But I can see how suspecting your mum of murder might put a crimp in things.”

  “A little. The scary thing is I’m sure they wouldn’t have arrested her so quickly if they didn’t have a mountain of evidence already.”

  “Circumstantial,” Andy scoffed.

  “I don’t know if it’s circumstantial or not. We haven’t heard what all the evidence is. The murder happened in her front yard. She admits she was paying this man blackmail money.”