18 Deader Homes and Gardens (10 page)

Terry glared at me. “You don’t believe me?”

“I do,” I said hastily. “I’ve met Nattie, Pandora Butterfly, and Moses—who, by the way, has been sampling his way through your wine cabinet. None of them struck me as cold-blooded. Do you have any proof?”

His glare intensified until I felt a distinct pang of panic. “How could I have any proof? I was out of the country at the time. The police wouldn’t have bothered to examine the fishing pole and bottles for fingerprints. They had a nice, neat explanation for all the evidence. They weren’t going to waste any time investigating it.”

I had to agree. “You believe that all of the Hollow family members were in on Winston’s murder?”

“Maybe not,” he said. To my relief, he gave me a less hostile look. “Nattie doesn’t seem like the type, but she did tell me all that garbage about Winston’s grand depression. No one would trust Moses to keep a secret. As for the hippie chick, she’s been stoned since I met her. I tried to buy some pot from her, but she swore she was high on nature. Winston and I talked Nattie into giving us a tour of the nursery, but we didn’t spot any suspicious plants. We even searched around all the outdoor plants and trees, just in case there might be a little patch concealed by the foliage. We subsequently found a dealer through a friend, so we stopped bothering. A nursery would make a good cover, though.”

“That occurred to me, but sometimes a nursery is just a nursery, to misquote Freud. Aunt Margaret Louise doesn’t sound like a suspect. That leaves Ethan, Charles, and Felicia. Still, it doesn’t explain why they murdered Winston three years after you and he moved here.”

Terry wiggled his eyebrows at me. “Well, if Winston announced that we were going to build cabins in the meadow for a summer retreat for gays and lesbians…”

“He didn’t, though.”

He took a gulp of wine. “I don’t know why they decided to murder him when they did. I just know that they did.”

I waited for a moment, preparing myself to bring up the issue of a lease, when I realized he was asleep. I covered him with a quilt and tiptoed out the front door. I was disappointed, but tomorrow was another day.

5

It took me much longer to drive home. Caron was not back, and it was too late to call Peter. Terry’s belief that Winston had been murdered was worrisome, to put it mildly. I made a cup of tea while I mulled over his assertions. It was clear that he had loved Winston, and grief can addle one’s mind. Although I’d claimed to believe him, I’d done so partly out of diplomacy. If he’d cast me as an adherent of the enemy’s position, I would have no chance of cajoling him into a sale or lease. Nattie was convinced that Winston had been deeply depressed. Terry might have omitted mentioning a spousal spat before he left to go to Italy. He’d dismissed it as trivial, but Winston might have blown it into a major conflagration with the potential for divorce. Both Nattie and Terry had talked about Winston’s sensitivity. Maybe he had taken a walk to escape the painful scene and then replayed it over and over again.

I could think of other reasons as well. Winston might have suspected infidelity; Terry had not been there to defend himself. Nattie had mentioned Winston’s health. Since there had been no autopsy, there was no way to determine if he’d received devastating news about a medical condition. He might have wanted to spare Terry from the relentless drudgery of taking care of a spouse with a multisyllabic terminal disease. Or, I thought as I went out to the balcony, he was ravaged by the rift with the family, despite all the therapy. Suicide was more likely than murder.

Either way, there wasn’t much I could do about it. Peter would not have cases reopened on unsubstantiated allegations. That I knew from experience, which was why I’d been obliged to investigate them on my own. The police, including my beloved husband, are not big on imagination. Luckily for them, I am, but in this particular case, I was more interested in obtaining the house than in ferreting out all the dirty little secrets to determine the truth.

Caron arrived an hour later. If I’d expected an attentive audience, I was in the throes of self-delusion. I repeated what I’d heard, including the two scenarios, and waited for her to offer insights and point out discrepancies. She yawned several times, assured me that I would sort it out, and wafted away to her room. I bit back the urge to call Peter, put my teacup in the sink, and went to bed.

*   *   *

I was making coffee the next morning when I heard a knock at the front door. As mentioned previously, my immeasurably rich imagination kicked in despite the lack of caffeine. Angela, with a souvenir from Vegas. Peter, home from the conference with nary a dueling scar. Terry, bearing a ninety-nine-year lease. Nattie, with fragrant cinnamon rolls and freshly churned butter.

It proved to be Joel, who looked at me with a leery expression. “Good morning, Ms. Malloy. Caron wants to go to the lake for the day. Am I too early? Do you want me to wait downstairs? I don’t mind, really.” He stuck out the newspaper he’d picked up on my porch before he could be accused of petty theft.

What he wanted to know was if Peter was looming behind the door, ready to interrogate him about his skill as a lifeguard, the amount of gas in his car, the precise time of arrival back home, etc. The fact that Joel made straight A’s, was president of the honor society, and had been accepted to an Ivy League school had no bearing on his character, nor did his neat appearance and manners. Peter does not take his role of stepfather lightly.

“It’s safe, Joel,” I said as I gestured for him to come inside. “I’ll tell Caron that you’re here.”

Said child was dressed and in the bathroom. I was impressed, since I’d heard her snoring when I got up. During my postpubescent years, I’d avoided the juvenile palpitations resulting from hormonal inundation, but I sympathized with her. I reported back to Joel, who had not moved since stepping inside, and offered him orange juice. He politely declined. At least Caron hadn’t fallen for a football hulk who aspired to become a reality show celebrity. My sympathy extends only so far.

Caron emerged in white shorts (mine) and a yellow shirt (also mine), carrying a canvas gym bag (Peter’s). They assured me that they had ample sunscreen, towels, hats, and bottled water and would be home before dark. I sent them along, then sat down with coffee and called Peter. His phone went to voice mail, which implied that he was already in a meeting and wasn’t disposed to talk to me. I opened the newspaper to find out what twaddle had been spewed in Congress the previous day, as well as whatever dire news was crammed on the front page. I was grousing over the editorials when I heard another knock on the door. My imagination quickly added state troopers to the list of possible visitors.

I was relieved when it proved to be Inez. She was as mousy as ever, but now she looked like the sole survivor of a shipwreck. “Is Caron up? I thought we might go to the mall. There’s a big sale on swimsuits.”

I broke the news, which was harsher than anything in the newspaper. Inez’s mouth drooped, and her hair seemed to lose what minimal curl it had. “That’s okay,” she said stoically. “I’ll just go to the library and read. My little brother is messing around with his chemistry set, so the house reeks of rotten meat. I’m halfway through next year’s AP World Lit reading list. I didn’t have any trouble with
The Brothers Karamazov,
but Kafka’s hard. Have you read
The Metamorphosis,
Ms. Malloy? It’s way creepy. I mean, imagine if you woke up and you were an enormous, gruesome bug. Do you think there’s something symbolic about him having six legs? With fewer legs, he had more freedom, but he couldn’t adhere to the ceiling. Is that analogous to the glass ceiling experienced by women executives?”

Half a cup of coffee had not armed me adequately for a discussion of anything involving symbols or analogies. “Hey, Inez, if you want to skip the library, you can go out to Hollow Valley with me to see the house. While I talk to the owner, you can explore the orchard and the meadow.”

Behind thick glasses, her eyes widened. “Are you sure I won’t be in the way, Ms. Malloy? I was reading an article on the Internet about indigenous plants and herbal remedies. St. John’s wort, black cohosh, evening primrose, and ginseng are good for menopausal symptoms.”

“Do you think I’m experiencing menopausal symptoms?”

“Gosh, no, Ms. Malloy,” she said, blinking earnestly. “They’re also good for depression—not that you look depressed—and anxiety and all kinds of things. I never for a minute thought you’re old enough to be going through—”

“Let me finish my coffee, and then we’ll go.”

Inez babbled about each and every Karamazov brother as I drove to Hollow Valley and turned onto the blacktop road. Pandora Butterfly was flitting elsewhere, thank goodness. Explaining her to Inez (or to anybody, for that matter) would be a waste of oxygen. I was annoyed that Terry’s rental car was not parked out front. Inez, in contrast, was thrilled about every detail of the setting.

“Oh wow! It’s fantastic!” she said. “It’s classy and unique, and it somehow fits right into all the grass and trees and everything. The shingles look like scallop shells. My grandmother had a porch like that, with rocking chairs and a swing. I loved sitting out there on summer nights, watching the lightning bugs and listening to the cicadas.” She scrambled out of the car and ran up to the porch. “This is so cool, Ms. Malloy. Way cool.”

If Caron didn’t physically resemble me, I’d have wondered if there might have been a mix-up in the hospital neonatal ward. I was eager to show Inez the interior as soon as the house was mine (and Peter’s and Caron’s, I amended grudgingly). “The owner must have gone to see his attorney, but surely he’ll be back soon,” I said. “Go have a look at the pool while I try to find out if he’s spoken to any of the neighbors.”

Inez zipped around the corner of the house as I got into the car. The only resident who might have information was Nattie, so I continued up the road and parked near the statue. I didn’t notice Jordan until I walked up the path to the Old Tavern. She was hunkered under a shrub by the door, her arms wrapped around her knees.

“Hey,” she said.

“Good morning,” I responded with a polite smile. “Is Nattie here?”

“She went into town to buy groceries. I asked her to get me a pack of cigarettes, and she bawled me out for fifteen minutes. You’d think that I’d asked for a stick of dynamite and a box of matches.”

“Do you smoke?”

She disengaged branches and crawled out onto the lawn. “No, but I was really, really bored. It’s impossible to get a reaction from Aunt Margaret Louise. When I told her that back home I made money by stripping in the boys’ locker room, she made this weird gurgly sound and put on the teakettle. I tried it on Aunt Felicia, but she just looked at me. Pandora wants me to go on some vegan cleansing regime and meditate in the moonlight. Like I’m going to subsist on grass and tofu!”

I looked at her for the first time. Under the piercings and Mohawk, I could see a fourteen-year-old girl with a lot of emotional problems. Her body had not yet begun to mature; she could easily pass as a prepubescent boy. I had a feeling that Jordan was not popular with peers of either gender. My pragmatic inclination was to dismiss her, but my maternal side butted in. “My daughter couldn’t come with me today, but one of her friends volunteered. She’s out behind Winston’s house, hunting for herbs. You’re welcome to join her.”

Jordan sneered. “Like I want to hang out with some botany nerd? I can take care of myself.”

“As you wish,” I murmured. I was not surprised when she put her hands in her pockets and ambled ever so casually toward the mill, then faded into the woods in the direction of Winston’s house. At the end of the day, Inez would have much more interesting stories to tell than who had the worst sunburn at the lake.

I was increasingly annoyed by people’s inability to remain where I wanted them to be. First Angela, then Terry, and now Nattie had taken it upon themselves to complicate my agenda. All I wanted was the house. Once I succeeded, they were free to trek to Nepal or hole up in a resort. Or even go to interminable task force conferences in Atlanta. I sat down on the bench under Colonel Hollow’s evil eye and called Peter. Voice mail. I brooded for a moment, then called the police department and asked to speak to my lone contact. Jorgeson had been Peter’s minion since I’d first encountered them during a sticky situation involving the death of a local romance writer. Peter had behaved abominably, but Jorgeson had been detached and professional. Over the years, he had remained patient when dealing with me, albeit in a long-suffering manner emphasized by his drooping jowls and bulbous nose.

“Ms. Malloy,” he said when he came on the line. “What can I do for you this beautiful morning?”

“A teeny-tiny favor, if you have a minute. Is there an update on Angela Delmond?”

“This came across my desk a few minutes ago. The sheriff’s department is conducting a search of the area, but they haven’t found anything. No body, blood, purse, shoe, anything like that. The dogs couldn’t pick up a trail. The sheriff’s going to find out who owns the aircraft that use the strip. It’s their case, since her car was discovered in their jurisdiction.”

“You don’t sound as though you have much faith in the sheriff.”

“It’s not for me to comment, Ms. Malloy. Maybe they’ll have something in a few days. The husband didn’t file a missing persons report until yesterday afternoon.”

I was impressed that Danny had gone to that much trouble. “As long as I have you on the line, Lieutenant Jorgeson, would you mind looking up an old case file for me?”

“You know I can’t do that,” he said with a martyred groan, as if he expected to be pelted with pleas and entreaties. I had no idea why.

“You’re so clever that I’m sure you can steal a quick peek. Winston Hollow Martinson died in early March. It was ruled an accident.”

“Then that’s what will be in the case file, Ms. Malloy.”

“Yes, but did the forensics people look for fingerprints on the wine bottles or the fishing equipment?”