by Maggie King
“What do you write?” Vince asked.
“I’m working on a thriller. It’s based on Crash.” I recalled the movie from 2005. Well made. And dark.
Before leaving the café, Andy and I exchanged e-mail addresses. In the parking lot we hugged but made no mention of seeing each other again.
That was fine with me. I reckoned it was fine with Vince as well.
TWENTY-FOUR
“DO YOU THINK Marcie really left her estate to Rox? It’s odd to leave everything to a friend. Even if she was a really good friend.”
“Sometimes friends are closer than family,” Vince said. “It doesn’t sound to me like Marcie was close to her cousins. And if Rox was her POA, her primary caregiver—”
“And former lover,” I completed the list of reasons. “That’s an important consideration. I wouldn’t be surprised if Rox persuaded Marcie to leave everything to her. Andy said that Marcie never got over Rox and would do anything for her. Even let her go and have relationships with men, to the point of marrying them. Even Marcie’s own cousin.”
“So it doesn’t sound like Marcie would’ve needed much persuasion to leave the bulk of her fortune to Rox.”
“No.”
Vince and I sat on the porch, reviewing our discussion with Andy. Morris settled on Vince’s lap while Olive draped herself on his shoulder like a fur stole.
“But Andy wasn’t sure if she’d left everything to Rox.” Vince stroked Olive’s silky tail.
“Yeah, well, apparently she didn’t leave anything to him. Unless he’s gone through it already.”
“You can always get a copy of Marcie’s will. It would have gone through probate long before now.”
“Yeah, maybe I will. I don’t know that it would help us, though. If Marcie left her fortune to Rox, that gives Brad, and maybe Nina, a motive to kill Rox. But it still doesn’t give us proof that they actually did.”
After a pause I said, “You know, stockbrokers are a rough, tough lot. It’s a cutthroat business and requires a lot of strength. Especially for a woman who started back in the ‘70s or early ‘80s like Marcie did. I know, I worked in the securities industry for years in IT. But she doesn’t sound strong in her dealings with Rox.”
“But she might have operated differently in business than in her personal life. That’s not the first time I’ve seen or heard of that sort of thing.”
“You’re right.” I flashed to a couple of examples I’d come across in the past. Like a former co-worker who swore a blue streak at work but wouldn’t utter so much as a “damn” in her husband’s presence.
“I wonder if Patty and Paul have left town yet,” Vince said.
“They were supposed to leave today. Speaking of Patty and Paul, I can’t believe Rox expected them to take Marcie in. And as for Paul and Patty’s financial problems—well, it doesn’t surprise me. It explains the teeny apartment, the one vehicle. And maybe their moving back to Pittsburgh is driven more by their own financial need than from wanting to take care of dear old mom. Mom might provide free room and board.” I shook my head. “And to think of all the income they must have had from their years of teaching.”
“That’s what gambling can do—your income goes up in smoke.”
“I’ll send an e-mail to the group. I guess we won’t be Skyping tomorrow. There’s really nothing to talk about—the most exciting thing we found out tonight is that Andy’s the lunatic. But that excitement’s already fizzled out for me.”
“There’s the will.”
“Yes, but that’s not exciting. It’s not even that unexpected.”
We stopped talking, and for the next half hour the only sounds were the cats purring and the tree frogs singing. At eleven we went back in the house, gave the cats treats, and went through the various rituals of preparing for sleep.
•••
The next morning, I sent out the e-mail. To my surprise, Sarah still wanted to get together, as did Lucy and Trudy. “We can’t lose our momentum,” they said. Only Eileen begged off, saying her mother was wringing every last drop of energy out of her.
“Lucy installed Skype on my computer and I’ve been visiting by video with my sister,” Sarah said. “I really like it.” I felt happy to have had even a small part in Sarah’s technological progress.
I also sent an e-mail to Kat, updating her on what happened after leaving her the previous evening. She responded, “Well, finding out he was the lunatic is one mystery solved. Let me know if I can help out in any other way.”
Once we all connected on Skype I gave a more detailed account of the meeting with Andy.
“You’re right, Hazel,” Lucy said. “It’s interesting but also . . . I don’t know . . . it’s so-what stuff. It doesn’t get us anywhere. But I wonder if Rox did get Marcie’s estate.”
“Vince checked with Dennis. Rox made significant deposits into various accounts from the estate. Millions of dollars.”
“One thing’s for sure,” Sarah said. “Eileen’s mother may be a trial but at least Eileen doesn’t have to endure conflicts with siblings and other relatives. I was laughing when you described Patty and Paul’s dealings with Rox. I’ve heard so many stories like that.”
We all had stories to share of family conflicts. Once we exhausted our supply of them, Trudy said, “I was thinking about Pamela: what if she carried a torch for Foster and resented Rox, especially when it looked like she and Foster were seeing each other again?”
I groaned. “Pamela was in Boston and she had an alibi. Let’s not pile on more suspects, please.”
“Didn’t Foster tell Lucy he saw Rox with an elderly woman, presumably headed for an appointment with an attorney? Do you think that was Marcie?”
“Interesting question, Sarah,” Lucy said.
I thought of that group picture I’d seen in Patty’s apartment. Marcie did look old, the cancer having ravaged her looks. And Foster was still young enough to deem anyone over fifty as old. Were Rox and Marcie having their wills done together? Marcie was reputedly disorganized, but if Rox wanted her former lover’s estate, she’d lose no time in getting Marcie to a lawyer. Had Rox had her will done that day as well?
When I presented this scenario, everyone agreed that it rang true. “Do you have a picture of Marcie?” Lucy asked.
“I might. Let me check my phone.” After my usual fumbling around and hitting the wrong buttons, I located the picture I sought. It was the one from Patty’s bookcase, showing Patty, Paul, Nina, Andy, and a turbaned Marcie. “Here it is. I’m texting it to all of you.”
“Oh,” Trudy said. “I almost forgot—Brad asked me and Eileen to go through Nina’s books. He says we can donate them to the library.”
“When are you doing this?” I asked.
“Sunday. They just lifted the crime scene today and Brad’s having the place cleaned up.”
“Poor Marcie,” Lucy sounded sad. “She looks quite elderly in this picture. How old was she?”
“She was sixty-nine when she died. But the cancer probably aged her considerably.”
“I just texted this to Foster to see if it’s the same woman he saw that day in the parking lot.”
“How did you do that so fast? You and Trudy have lightning fingers.”
“Lightning thumbs,” Lucy laughed.
“Next on my to-do list is honing my phone skills so I don’t look like a stereotypical technophobic old person.”
“Don’t feel bad, Hazel,” Sarah assured me. “I’m much worse.”
“Getting back to Brad,” I said, “will he be there on Sunday?”
“I’m not sure. He’ll let us in the house, but I don’t know if he’ll stick around.” Trudy laughed. “Probably you should stay home, Hazel.”
“Be careful of him,” I warned.
“We will. I’m taking Millie with me.” I wasn’t sure how ferocious Trudy’s dog could be, but maybe she, like some people, showed their strength when necessary. And only then.
“There’s my phone,” Lucy said.
“Foster says he can’t tell if the woman in the picture is the same one he saw in the parking lot. He didn’t take particular notice of her anyway. He was more focused on Rox.”
“It was a long shot, anyway,” I said.
“So,” Trudy began, “Where are we as far as suspects?”
For what seemed the hundredth time, we reviewed our circle of suspects and pondered the identity of the women in the Florida car. We didn’t whittle down the list but at least we didn’t add to it.
“The field still looms large,” Sarah intoned.
In reality, the field was quite small—the answer was right under our noses.
TWENTY-FIVE
“WE FOUND A play at Nina’s! A very interesting play. Come on over, you just have to see it.”
“Did she write it?”
“Looks like it.”
“But what about Brad? Is he around?”
“Don’t worry about him. He gave us a key and said to lock up and leave the key in the soil around the bird bath. I’m back home now, anyway.”
For the past few days I’d found myself at sixes and sevens. I knew I should work on my writing but I was into this investigation—this stalled investigation. Maybe this play would revive my spirits.
Trudy continued. “Eileen had to leave. Her mother’s acting up again. She kicked a nurse aide in the shins.”
“Oh, dear. I don’t envy Eileen. She’s going to have to do something about her mother.”
“And quickly,” Trudy said. “I don’t know how long they’ll keep her there. Feisty senior citizens.”
I thought of Evangeline’s mother taking her cane to Brad. Is that what I had to look forward to, taking power where I could get it, even if I had to resort to physical violence?
“Anyway, come on over.”
When I got there no one answered except for Millie barking inside. Figuring that Trudy might have gone back to Nina’s house for something, I walked to the end of the driveway. I recognized Trudy first by her walk. It was funny how distinctive walks could be. I remembered a myopic friend who wouldn’t wear her glasses out of vanity, claiming that she recognized people by their walks.
Nina had said the guy in the parking lot at the Moonshine Inn looked familiar. Or did she say seemed familiar? She said the lot wasn’t well lit but she’d seen a glint of metal. But did she see his face? Is that when she thought he looked familiar? How clearly could she have seen it? Was it his walk she recognized? I wished I’d recorded the conversation.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. I left my phone at Nina’s.” Trudy had dressed for the hot weather in a cotton shirt and jean shorts, hair scraped back in a ponytail.
A rush of cool air greeted me when we entered Trudy’s house. Millie leaped up on me, overwhelming me with enthusiasm. By contrast, the imperious Sammy greeted me from his favorite chair with only a baleful look.
“Want some carrot juice?” Trudy offered.
“Okay.”
“Look through those boxes while I make a copy of this play.” Trudy pointed to a couple of boxes stacked by the computer that occupied a corner of her den. I found an assortment of books, VHS cassettes, and DVDs. Nina favored self-help titles from the ‘80s and ‘90s—I’m OK, You’re OK, Men Are Just Desserts, that sort of thing. At one time I had practically devoured this genre but they no longer held my interest. Not that I was beyond help—I just felt like I’d read enough of the stuff. The tapes and DVDs offered self-help as well.
Nina liked Susan Howatch, judging from the number of titles in the box penned by the British author. Years earlier I’d enjoyed her family saga tales. The remaining volumes related to marketing and personal finance subjects. The how-to book on rug hooking make me smile. Why would anyone need a manual for that? I’d once hooked a rug and never once felt the need for a book on the craft.
“What are you going to do with all this stuff?” I asked Trudy.
“Either sell it or donate it to the prison system. If all else fails, we’ll recycle them.”
“Self-help might appeal to prisoners. At least the ones who want to rehabilitate themselves. I don’t see any plays here.”
“No. I thought about that, too. But here’s a copy of the one I found upstairs in her bedroom.” Trudy handed me a sheaf of papers. “I printed one for each of us. And I scanned it to my hard drive and e-mailed you a copy. I’ll send one to that detective in charge of the case, what’s his name?”
“Fischella. Thomas Fischella.”
I chose an uncomfortable chair—even Sammy eschewed it. Was that a smug look he gave me from his own comfortable seat? I wouldn’t doubt it. I sipped my carrot juice as I read Nina’s play. It only had one act, so it didn’t take long to get through it. I was astounded at her subject matter: a woman who’s stabbed to death in a parking lot. Only, this parking lot accommodated members and guests of a Richmond-area country club. A person who seemed familiar to her walked through the lot and got into the passenger side of a dark car.
When I finished reading, I looked up at Trudy. She was re-reading the play. “Interesting,” I said. “This is the same story she told me, just with an upscale venue. Complete with the person who seemed familiar to her.”
“Who could this person be? And who wrote these notes in the margins? They’re not in Nina’s writing. I compared the writing to notes I saw around her house—shopping list on the fridge, a few other things. Her writing is much larger and loopier. Funny thing, I didn’t find a calendar. And I looked for one.”
“Hmm. Maybe she carried it in the purse that was stolen. As for the notes, it looks to me like notes a teacher would make.”
I glanced at the notes. The small, cramped handwriting was difficult to decipher. Why is your character telling this story? You have no stage directions. Dialog is stiff. If she’s talking to a friend, she wouldn’t be so formal. More critical comments filled the margins. The last one made me laugh: Interesting concept. Interesting often served as an intentionally ambiguous word, or a euphemism.
“Why did Nina write this? Was it cathartic?”
“I’d say so.”
“I guess she was trying to work out who her sister’s killer was—maybe she thought that if she reconstructed the scene, something buried in her subconscious would surface in her conscious mind.”
“Did she succeed? Did she identify the familiar person in the parking lot? We need to find this teacher.”
Trudy and I continued to talk it through. “Let’s call Mary Anne,” I suggested. “She was in the class and might know something.”
“Good idea. I’ll e-mail the play to the group. Maybe they’ll have some thoughts about it. While I’m doing that, you can call Mary Anne.”
It made sense that I would be the one to call Mary Anne Branch. I’d met her at a James River Writers event a couple of months earlier when I’d served on a panel for romantic fiction. She expressed interest in the book group and started attending. But I sensed that her interest had waned. She was more interested in reading plays than fiction. Despite being in her forties, Mary Anne had an innocent outlook and lack of worldliness that made me wonder what sort of play she’d write. Maybe she’d surprise us and turn out something about serial killers, psychopaths, or axe murderers.
“Do you have her number?” Trudy opened a desk drawer and grabbed a list of book group names. I tapped the number on my keypad as she recited it.
I rushed through the usual pleasantries with Mary Anne and got right to the purpose of my call: the playwriting class. “I’d like to ask you about Nina. We’re all just sick about what happened to her.” I injected as much anguish as I could.
“Oh, that was so sad! Frankly I’m worried that something about her play caused her death and that I might be in danger. The others in the class as well. The whole thing gives me the willies.”
“Really? You think there was something about the play? What do you think it could have been?”
“Well, it was about this woman who was stabbed to death in a parking lot. Wasn’
t Nina’s sister stabbed in a parking lot?”
“Yes, she was.”
“Nina read the play with great drama and emotion. Maybe it was—what’s that word?”
“Cathartic?”
“Yes. Cathartic for her. Creepy for me.”
“Who was in your class?”
“Well, um . . . there was this really sweet blonde woman. She wrote a beautiful play. A romantic comedy. She couldn’t have done it—killed Nina, I mean.”
Why? I thought with amusement. Because she wrote a beautiful romance? Because she was funny?
“Oh, gosh, Hazel, I shouldn’t be telling you about the people in the class.” Mary Anne’s voice took on a note of alarm. “What if one of them did it and comes after me? Or you? I did give names to the police.”
“Take it easy, Mary Anne. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just thought someone I knew might have been in the class.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—look, I have to go. I’ll call you back tomorrow.” And she ended the call.
“Trudy, did Nina or Mary Anne ever say where the playwriting class was?”
Trudy sat at her computer. “I don’t think so. Let me look up playwriting classes in Richmond.”
“Don’t spend too much time on it. Vince might know, or he could find out.”
A moment later Trudy said, “There are two possibilities: The Visual Arts Center and River City Writing Center. They both started playwriting classes on May 7 and ended on June 11.”
“Okay, thanks. I’m going to hold Mary Anne to her promise about calling me. If I don’t hear from her by ten tomorrow I’m calling her. I’ll bribe her, offer to treat her to one of those healthy smoothies she likes so much at Ellwood Thompson.”
“Speaking of healthy food, want to go out for pizza?”
“Okay. Can Vince come?”
“Sure.”
•••
Vince met us at Italian Delight. As it was Sunday and not Monday, we figured we weren’t apt to run into Evangeline and Nichole as we had a few weeks before. Avila, our waitperson, remembered us and asked if our friends would be joining us. Maybe she craved the excitement of crying, angry customers.