4 A Dead Mother

by Anna Celeste Burke

  “I’ll bet Marty Hargreaves will, too, if they catch his killer.” As she said that, she crossed herself, and then hurried out the door for Sunday Mass. She didn’t even try to convince me to come along. It probably wasn’t just the fact that I was still in jammies. When I returned to my room, I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror and my hair was standing on end. I tried unsuccessfully to mash it down and gave up.

  “Nobody’s going to see me on the phone, huh, girl?” I asked Anastasia who wagged her tail. “You love me anyway, don’t you?” She snuggled up next to me as I propped myself up in bed with my phone. I leaned back for a moment and must have dozed off. When I came to, my coffee was cold. I drank it anyway.

  “I’m getting too old to run around chasing bad guys into the wee hours of the night and then have to explain myself at the crack of dawn.” Anastasia wagged her tail in what I took as agreement.

  Then I called Paul to tell him about the information Bernadette had garnered from canvassing her network of friends doing domestic duties for those who could afford to hire help. That she’s still so intimately connected to a web of nannies, cooks, and housekeepers even though, as our household manager she hires help, is a testament to her loyalty and humility. To most people, once a housekeeper always a housekeeper even though she had long ago taken on the more demanding duties of managing the Rancho Mirage estate.

  “A dirty cop. How do you like that?” Paul was elated. “Hang on a second, will you please?” The phone went silent for a couple of minutes. Then he was back, his voice filled with an enthusiasm that’s very charismatic, especially in person when that energy animates the usually reserved man.

  He was in his office on a Sunday morning, as unbelievable as that seemed to me. That tip had come in, as Frank said it would. Paul had jumped on the news and made sure a member of his investigative team got to Jim’s Bel Air estate while the police were still walking the grounds searching for the supposed murder weapon.

  “I just passed that information along about the nanny. We’re sending someone out to speak to her. They found a chef’s steel sharpening rod in the bushes that run alongside the house. Not next to the house, but in hedges on the outer perimeter. Even if we can’t get any usable evidence from the murder weapon, along with the nanny’s testimony it ought to give us the one-two punch we need to shift the blame away from Jim. Jessica Huntington, you made my day!”

  Pitter-patter went my inconstant heart. Last night I’d brooded about the fact that Frank and I weren’t going to see each other any sooner than we were. Two weeks had seemed like a long time before spending time with the man. Was he distancing himself from me on purpose, or just overworked? What a question to ask myself while getting revved up over a little attention from Paul.

  “No jury’s going to believe Jim could have run that far, tossed the murder weapon into the bushes, and returned to the house given the shape he was in when the police found him. I doubt the DA will pursue murder charges. He won’t get off completely, will he?” I felt embarrassed by the wistful tone in my voice. Paul heard it and laughed.

  “I’m good at what I do, but not that good. Jim’s going to pay a price for the mess he’s made of his life. No jail time, but probation, fines, and if Judge Jessop has any say in the matter, anger management classes.”

  “Cassie needs those classes as much as he does.”

  “Maybe they can get a couple’s discount.” That made me laugh.

  “I wouldn’t wish that on any therapist.”

  “They won’t be a couple much longer anyway. Once the criminal case is resolved, Jim’s headed to divorce court. My contacts tell me Cassie’s not only filing for divorce, but asking for sole custody of Destiny and a ton of money in child support.”

  “Oh, ouch. She does know how to hit a man when he’s down. Are you sure she’s not the one who kicked Hargreaves while he was lying on the ground?”

  “I haven’t ruled that out as a possibility. That’s the DA’s problem, though, isn’t it? If not Jim, then who? Maybe that cop will have something to say about whodunit.”

  “The beating Jim’s going to take in the general vicinity of his wallet is going to hurt him as much as getting kicked in the head. Wait until he gets the bill for legal services.” Paul roared with laughter.

  “What else should he expect? You know that old proverb about a fool and his money. There’s no bigger fool than Jim Harper. That he let you get away is proof that would stand up in any court of law.” My heart skipped a beat.

  “We should celebrate,” he’d said. “How about I invite myself over for dinner and a movie on Friday or Saturday? I can grab take-out for us so Bernadette doesn’t have to cook.” Forget pitter-patter, my heart pounded. Then Paul paused for a moment and settled into a more reflective mood.

  “On second thought, next weekend might not be very celebratory. I’m going to be out in the desert for Beverly Windsor’s funeral. Jerry’s been keeping me in the loop about the investigation. I’m sorry about this tragedy for Leslie and for you, too. I know how much you liked Beverly.”

  “Thanks, Paul. I was fond of Beverly. I appreciate the kind words, but it’s been much harder on Leslie than on me. I’m sure she’ll be grateful to have your support.” An image of Leslie curled up on the couch in her mother’s family room slipped past me as I spoke.

  “Now that I’ve taken a minute to think about it, why don’t we wait another week to celebrate?”

  Guilt slammed into me. Beverly’s funeral had not even entered my mind when I’d invited Frank to go hiking or when I’d been stewing about the fact that he’d put me off for a couple of weeks.

  A fickle and callous heart or maybe I’m just too frigging self-centered, I thought as I sighed deeply.

  “That’s probably a good idea. Who knows what can happen by then? Maybe we’ll have another reason to celebrate if there’s been a break in the case and the police have Beverly’s killer corralled or in custody.”

  “You are an optimist! Why not? Jerry told me yesterday that you had a lead on Beverly’s missing accountant. Maybe her accountant holds the key to figuring out who killed her—if you can find him.”

  “We found him, all right.” I proceeded to catch him up on the latest developments in the case of the missing accountant and our dead client.

  “Call me if you get a breakthrough. I’ll do the same if that murder weapon gives up the identity of Hargreaves’ killer. I’m sure I’ll run into you at the services for Beverly. Maybe we can finalize our plans for our movie night. If Bernadette doesn’t have to cook, will she take the night off?” In my brain, I heard a train whistle blast as my precariously balanced relationship with Paul careened around a curve in the tracks. Derailment ahead! Then the ever-circumspect Attorney Worthington hit the brakes. “On second thought, we should discuss my other news before we decide where our friendship heads next. Make sure we have a chaperone.”

  “What’s the other news?”

  “I’ve been given the green light to create a new position for someone to oversee our satellite offices in SoCal. That means I won’t be your boss anymore.” The brakes on that train were shrieking loudly as Paul delivered that news. I babbled something in reply.

  “Sounds like a plan,” or another phrase close to that one. I’m sure I also said goodbye.

  What does this mean? I wondered as I put the phone down and leaned against the headboard. Anastasia looked up at me when I let out a groan, cocking her head to one side and then the other. A flurry of mixed emotions propelled me up onto my feet and down the hall.

  “Caffeine, I need caffeine,” I chanted repeatedly.

  “Are you talking to me or to yourself,” Bernadette asked. I jumped.

  “Myself. I thought you’d left for Mass.”

  “I did. I’m back already.”

  “I need to clear my head and get my bearings. I’m lost,” I said as I poured myself a mug of coffee.

  “More trouble with murder or men?”

  “Both. How am I sup
posed to figure out what I want to do about men with one unholy mess after another plopping down in front of me? I gave myself a year to figure out what to make of Jim’s betrayal. I don’t think I’ve given up on men, but I’m not ready to pick one. Help!”

  “Have you been practicing discernimiento like Father Martin told you to do?”

  “When?” I replied, feeling picked on—not by Bernadette—by life in general. Father Martin had indeed suggested that I try developing my capacity for discernment to make wise choices and sound decisions. By that, he meant starting with a philosophical principle that had sounded vaguely familiar—something I’d studied in a college philosophy course: the desire to choose the good. I’d replied with some cheeky comment about the fact that both Paul and Frank looked good to me was part of the problem.

  “That’s exactly what St. Ignatius’ other rules for discernment help us do—make choices from among attractive alternatives. We’ve got to take the time to examine the inner movements of our hearts in a disciplined and systematic way rather than let enthusiasm carry us this way or that way like a leaf in the wind.”

  “I’ve got a long way to go to acquire ‘the gift of the reasoning heart.’ I do need to learn to curb my enthusiasm in matters of murder and men. We’re lucky no one was shot last night. Going after David Madison seemed like such a good idea at the time.”

  “Come on. You’re not the only one. We all got carried away. All’s well that ends well. A dead accountant wouldn’t make you feel better. If you hadn’t tried to find him and convince him his hideout was too easy to find, you’d be blaming yourself if he’d been shot.”

  “Well said, oh wise woman,” I agreed as I finished my coffee and gave her a kiss. “Thank goodness you didn’t go out and buy yourself a set of army surplus camo pants since I hope we won’t ever go on a mission like that again.”

  “Not right away, anyway. I can use a few days to recover, too, Nina! We have a different kind of mission today. Your mom needs support. She’s got a tough week ahead.”

  “Yes, I know. See what I mean? How am I going to try to decide what to do about Frank or Paul when Mom needs me? The work’s piling up, too.” I was getting worked up and was about to pour more coffee when Bernadette stopped me.

  “More caffeine won’t help you curb your enthusiasm. Basta! Mothers and work take up time for most people. Stop complainin’.” I wasn’t done yet with my lament.

  “It’s worse than that! There’s a scumbag out there shooting at people. Maybe it’s the same person who killed my client, but maybe not. That well-dressed con artist and ex-Palm Beach ‘walker’ is on the loose trying to push women into fraudulent investments. Let’s not forget the Chairwoman of the ARC who wished Beverly would drop dead, her party-loving General Contractor, and a dog-hating sneak thief. It’s a crudslide! Look out below!”

  “You have a lot of worries on your mind. That’s more reason to get organized and do what Father Martin tells you to do to sort stuff out.”

  Anastasia loved it when I shouted what must have sounded like a command. She was on alert. Her tail beat frantically in anticipation of my next word or move. I shook my head and smiled.

  “Having a dog puts your life in perspective, huh? I’m ranting and she takes it as an invitation to romp.” I leaned over, rubbed her soft ears, and was rewarded with a puppy smooch.

  “I don’t know about romp, but a walk would give you time for discernimiento.”

  “You’re right. That’s as long as no creepy old looky-loo comes near me or the lovely poodle.” That came out like baby talk. Coochy coo might have followed except that Lucy Daniels’ reference to Susan Whitaker as Cruella De Vil popped into my head. “No nasty dog nappers either!” Suddenly, I stood up straight and made eye contact with Bernadette.

  “Oh, no! Could Susan Whitaker have been the crud in the Chevy Impala? Was she or whoever it was trying to grab Anastasia? Why do that?”

  “From what you said, Anastasia wasn’t going anywhere with whoever was sneakin’ around. She’s way too smart to go off with a maleante.”

  “That’s true. I need to call Kim and Peter to see if either of them has found out more about who owns that car even though it’s now toast! I suppose I should wait until tomorrow to do that. Even members of the Cat Pack deserve a day off now and then.”

  “That includes you, too. The cops are on it—Frank and Rikki won’t drop the ball. Besides, we have a visit with your mom this afternoon. She’s going to want to hear all about how successful our undercover operation was even though we had to out run a few bullets.” I shook my head.

  “Why not? A shootout might be a distraction.”

  “Telling her about Brien and Tommy in those soldier pants will be.”

  Bernadette was right, of course. When we visited Mom, she was more comfortable after settling in at the rehab center. Still, she was anxious about the chemoradiation treatment scheduled for the following day. I tried to stay positive, but it sounded grueling.

  That’s when Bernadette stepped in and took charge. She administered a dose of cookies infused with the love and concern that’s a key ingredient in any recipe Bernadette cooks up. Then, she told her hilarious rendition of our misadventure in the woods. Trust Bernadette’s resilient spirit to bring us all to tears from laughter.

  Before we left, I reminded Mom that I intended to spend the entire afternoon with her. When you’re in the middle of a crudslide, though, good intentions aren’t always enough.

  33 Strangers on a Train?

  I’d been working on a prenup Monday morning almost from the moment I’d arrived. A complicated one between members of a couple who both had lots of assets they wanted to protect should the passion between them turn from songbirds and butterflies to Komodo dragons and black mambas. Hyperbole, I know, but once a drama queen always a drama queen. I’d met them both and I knew instantly I wasn’t the only drama queen in the room. In fact, they’d loved my reference to Komodo dragons and black mambas when I used it. Kim and I had just finished going through the document together when we decided it was time for a coffee break.

  While she went to get coffee, I tried to find images of Susan Whitaker and the Chevy Impala that had been a cranberry red before it got a makeover by an arsonist. Rikki hadn’t called it arson, but what she described had been more than a typical car fire. What had brought on the sudden interest in burning the car to a crisp along with whatever evidence was in it? The owners must have caught wind of the fact that the police were looking for it.

  How did that happen? I wondered. I gave up trying to answer that question when my cell phone rang. I hoped it might be Peter with information about the owner of that car. I recognized the caller’s number. It wasn’t Peter.

  “Hello, Rikki. What’s up? Do you have news about the owner of the Chevy Impala?”

  “I do. But I’m calling because your client has asked for you.”

  “My client? If you mean David Madison, he’s an associate not a client.”

  “No. I’m talking about Leslie Windsor.” Alarm bells went off.

  “Why? Where are you?”

  “We’re at Dr. Lucy Daniels’ house in Palm Desert. The EMTs are still checking Ms. Windsor over or she would have called you herself.”

  “Oh no! What’s happened? She hasn’t been shot, has she?” The gunshots we’d heard Saturday night near that cabin ricocheted through my mind. Had the gunman gone after Leslie? Why at Lucy Daniels’ house?

  “Not shot, but assaulted. Her attacker, Susan Turner aka Susan Whitaker, got more than she bargained for. She’s not going to assault anyone ever again.”

  “Susan Turner? That’s the name of the woman who owned the twenty-year-old Mercedes I saw in Leslie Windsor’s neighborhood, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. She was driving that car today. Turner was her maiden name when she bought that car years ago and she never bothered to change it on the title and registration. Susan Whitaker is her married name. That’s the name that’s going to be on the death certi
ficate once the coroner finishes an autopsy.”

  “The dog-whisperer’s mother,” I muttered.

  “Yes, and also the owner of the burnt umber Chevy Impala, as we discovered using the VIN number.”

  “Where’s her son?”

  “We’re not sure yet. The Riverside County Sheriff’s department has issued an APB hoping to find him before he can cross a state line or into Mexico if he’s on the run.”

  “On the run? Why would Matthew Whitaker be on the run?” When I raised my eyes from where I’d been doodling nonsensically, Kim was back. She set a cup of coffee down in front of me. Then she slipped into the chair on the other side of my desk with a cup of her own. I took a sip of coffee, hoping it would help focus my scattered thoughts.

  “I’m not completely clear about any of this yet. When officers first responded to a 911 call about shots fired, they said Leslie Windsor was babbling on about strangers on a train.”

  “There’s an old movie by that name. It’s a story about an unusual murder pact.”

  “Maybe that’s what she meant. One of the uniformed officers took a brief statement from her and then asked the EMTs to examine her. When he heard what she had to say, he became concerned the blows she’d taken to her head and face had caused brain damage or sent her into shock. They called me to the scene once they realized they had a homicide on their hands. We could be looking at a double homicide. Lucy Daniels got caught up in this incident, too, and she’s in a bad way. An ambulance has taken her to the ER. How soon can you get here?” She gave me Lucy Daniels’ home address. I entered the address into the maps feature on my cell phone.

  “I’m ten or fifteen minutes away. I’ll leave as soon as I can get the situation here squared away.” I gathered my phone, purse, and jacket and dashed to the door of my office without saying more than, “I’ve got to go,” to Kim. I ran passed her, and then down the hall to the lobby and reception area.

  “Amy, I’ve got an emergency. I need you to cancel my afternoon appointments. Do you need me to tell you who I planned to see and when? Oh, of course not, you have my schedule. You made those appointments, didn’t you?” I was speaking a mile a minute. From stress, since I hadn’t had more than that first sip of the coffee Kim had brought me.