A Lie for a Lie (22 page)

“Not always. Advertisers pay for that, too. But we’re at the real sites now. I can add a few more words to filter stuff, but sometimes you miss the good things that way.”

“Why don’t we add ‘daughter’ and see if that helps.”

“You don’t know her name?”

“No idea.”

She added “daughter” and for good measure “Italy.” Then we waited a moment for the new results.

“Italy wasn’t a great idea,” she said. “A lot of these are in Italian.”

“Believe it or not, I can make out what they say.”

“You speak Italian?”

“No, but I can read it pretty well.” Too many years in graduate school and nothing much else to show for it.

“That’s cool.”

I basked in the unexpected approval. “Click on this one,” I told her, pointing to the fifth result. She did and the website came up. Unfortunately “O Sole Mio” was playing in the background.

“I hate it when sites have music,” Deena said. “Try sneaking on the Internet when you’re not supposed to. Then suddenly there’s loud music.”

“I haven’t personally had that experience.”

“It happened to me once at school.”

What kind of sites had Deena been checking? Were they playing stripper music in the background? I got cold chills.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, reading my mind. “I was trying to play a word game, that’s all. I was supposed to be researching a term paper on a school computer. I don’t go to
those
kind of sites.” She glanced at me. “Just because I did something I wasn’t supposed to one time, and you caught me, doesn’t mean that now I’m going to wallow in online porn.”

“Well, that’s good to hear.”

“It’s demeaning to women.”

“Indeed.”

“I still have principles.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“You probably made a mistake or two along the way yourself.”

“Some corkers.”

She waited for me to explain, but she would have to wait a very long time for that. I believe in sharing my feelings with my children, but not necessarily sharing every stupid thing I ever did. I don’t want to give them ideas.

“If you made mistakes, then why are you being so hard on me?” she demanded.

“Because you haven’t learned anything from your father’s good example.”

“And what was that? That I should stand up in front of an audience and embarrass somebody I love?”

I struggled to be calm, despite the taunt. “No, that if you make a mistake, you apologize before you move on. You’re stuck at the apology, Deena. And it’s an important thing to learn.”

“You and Daddy always talk like you’re giving sermons.”

I sat back. “That would be a good sermon,” I said carefully. “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. But I think somebody else beat your daddy to that one.”

“I wish Daddy sold cars.”

“If he did, he’d give you a great deal when you turn sixteen. Because you know, he absolutely adores you.”

I hit home with that one. She looked away.

I focused on the computer screen and began to read to myself. “Listen to this,” I said at last, translating for her. “This is a website for the town of Siena in Tuscany. Somebody had a good-bye party in the Campo—that’s a big square in the center of the historic district—for Caprice Zimboni and her daughter, Felice, because they were moving to Michigan.” I looked up at the top for a date. “Two years ago.”

“Let’s take out Italy and put in Michigan,” she said, going back to the search engine and making the alterations.

The very first result was exactly what I needed. Deena clicked on it, and a newspaper article from a Michigan weekly came on the screen. The article was dated May thirteenth of this year. For the second summer, Caprice Zimboni would be working with troubled teens in a program called Performing for Life based in a suburb outside Detroit. With the help of several charitable foundations, she and six other instructors had assembled a small circus and would teach performance as well as the nuts and bolts of putting on a show, skills designed to build self-esteem and give the kids business experience. There were testimonials, a glowing report of the first show of the season, and a blurry photo of a young woman walking a tightrope. Beneath it was the caption “Felice Zimboni, of the famous Zimboni circus family, teaches the art of the highwire.”

Grady’s
daughter
, Felice.

“Bingo,” I said. “One day’s drive.”

“What do you mean?”

“Can you print this for me?”

The eyes rolled again. “You mean turn on the printer and press Print?”

“I’d appreciate it.”

She turned on the printer and let it warm up. “Are you taking Teddy to visit this circus or something?”

“Just the opposite. I need to figure out if this particular circus ever visited Emerald Springs.” I stood and kissed the top of her head. “Thanks for your help.”

“Maybe someday you’ll learn to do this yourself.”

“Don’t count on it.” I was glad I hadn’t tried today. I thought I would remain computer challenged just as long as I needed an excuse to spend time with my daughters.

On Wednesday morning Teddy and Ed happily went off to a father-daughter softball game organized by our parks department. Deena went out to the old detached garage at the back of the parsonage property to sweep and organize the contents, although unfortunately I can’t say
she
went happily. I stayed inside to try Fred again—no luck—and chop farmer’s market vegetables for a chunky marinara sauce to simmer in the slow cooker. Vegetarians are happiest when tomatoes are in season, but this year because of the drought, everything cost a fortune.

I was just finishing the last of the Japanese eggplant when our doorbell rang. I rinsed my hands, then dried them as I went to answer it. I suspected this might be another bushel basket of zucchini. Despite the drought and heat, this had been a bumper year. If Nora’s right and global warming persists, life as we know it might end, but the planet will never lack for zucchini or cockroaches.

I opened the door to find Veronica. She had dressed down for this occasion, assuming, I suspect, that wearing designer duds to my doorstep might be a tad assertive. The black jeans and zebra-striped T-shirt probably hadn’t set her back the equivalent of a month of Ed’s salary. I silently applauded her tact.

“I brought you a check.” She held it out until I took it. “I didn’t want to make you wait.”

Since local mail delivery takes only a day, I knew there had to be more to this visit. I opened the door wider.

“I just finished my morning project. Why don’t we have a cup of coffee? I’ve got home-baked bread to go with it.”

She stepped right in, as if she’d hoped I’d ask. “I just had breakfast, so I’ll skip the bread. You bake your own?”

“Sometimes. When I have time.” And when I need something to punch.

“Then you weren’t baking it a few weeks ago.”

“My girls were happily gorging on Wonder Bread.”

She followed me back. I waved her to the table, which bisects the impossibly large room. I can only assume the first residents of this house had twelve children.

“I’ll make a fresh pot,” I said. “I’m ready for another cup myself.”

Veronica looked around, and I imagined she saw the stark contrast between her designer mansion and the parsonage, which is simply decorated with imagination, furniture we’ve purchased through the years, and the hand-me-downs Ed fondly calls Early Unitarian. Still, I’m perfectly happy with the way things look. Junie made every apartment, house, or trailer I lived in as a child feel like home, and she taught me well.

“This is really cute,” Veronica said. “I feel wrapped in warmth.”

“We don’t have air-conditioning.”

“Well, that, too, but that’s not what I mean. It feels homey, like a place where people want to spend time. No matter how many times I redecorate our house, I never get that feeling.”

“I like your house. You’ve done some beautiful things with it.”

“It is what it is. When I’m bored, I redecorate. I watched my mother do the same thing. She put up new window treatments, bought new furniture, played bridge, lunched at the country club, drank martinis, and at the end of the day she went to bed as bored as she’d been when she woke up. Nobody could understand why she was so calm when she learned she was terminally ill a few years ago, but I did.”

“Wow.”

“I’m sorry. I seem to be saying a lot of things these days before they get a chance to pass through my good-sense filter.”

She had come to talk. Now I understood, even though I was surprised she’d chosen me. Maybe because I wasn’t part of her regular circle, and she could be frank.

“You don’t need to apologize,” I said. “It’s just kind of a bleak portrait. Did your mother ever consider going to school or getting a job?”

“Job?” She sounded incredulous. “Sanderson women specialize in fluffy little lives. It’s what we know best, and Mother did it with determination and goodwill. Unfortunately I want to be more than that. I want to use my position in the community to
help
the community. It’s important to make a contribution.”

I set about making the coffee while Veronica put her purse on one chair and picked out another for herself. “There was nothing fluffy about the Idyll,” I said, when I’d finished. “At least not the reason for having it. Women have been in charge of raising money and funding important projects for centuries. I hope you’re proud of what you tried to do.”

“Tried to do. Yes.”

I rested my back against the counter and folded my arms as I waited for the pot to fill. “Veronica, it wasn’t your fault. Nobody can possibly hold you responsible for what happened.”

“Do you know how much money we have to return to ticket holders? And I just found out we have to pay Grady’s estate about 65 percent of his fee. If he’d left on his own, we would have been free and clear. But nobody can argue that he wanted to be murdered.”

“I guess not.”

“When the books are balanced, we’ll have very little for the new pediatric unit. We’ll have to start all over with a brand-new idea.” She shook her head. “And I’m not feeling all that creative. How about you?”

What I was feeling was exhaustion. I couldn’t imagine starting all this again. The pediatric unit was every bit as important as it had been, but I hoped the hospital found a different way to fund it. Robbing a bank sounded preferable to another Idyll.

“How are you doing otherwise?” I asked. “You knew Grady for a long time. He was an old friend. That wasn’t true for most of us.”

“I guess I’m in shock.”

Veronica didn’t say anything else until I’d poured coffee and brought it to the table along with a pitcher of half-and-half.

She accepted her cup with a wan smile. “I keep asking myself if I hadn’t pushed the committee to bring him here, would he still be alive.”

“You can’t blame yourself. He was murdered. Whoever did it might have tracked him down anywhere.”

“Whoever? You don’t think it was Nora Nelson?”

I might be coming to terms with being an amateur detective again, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to acquaint the world with my decision. I answered as carefully as I could. “There seem to be a lot of questions that haven’t been answered.”

“But the knife that killed him was from a collection in her house.”

“True. But that collection hangs on the wall in plain sight. I’ve seen it. If the door was unlocked for even a minute or two, anybody could have taken the murder weapon. I bet if the police had looked harder, they would have found flaws in Nora’s security system.”

She lifted a brow, as if she thought I was reaching when there was no need. I suppose I’ll be getting a lot of that if I talk openly about my doubts.

“It sounds like you’re friends with this woman.”

“We’ve met. I can’t imagine her killing anybody.”

“I don’t know . . . She was seen backstage. Those horrible letters on the wall . . .”

“Yes, well there’s a lot going against her, that’s for sure.”

She managed a smile. “Am I right in assuming you’re not going to let this rest?”

“What makes you think that?”

“Nonie says you were asking about Grady.”

“Nonie?”

“My housekeeper. She goes by Winona now, Winona Unger. But she was Nonie Wysocki when we were in school together.”

I filed away Winona’s last name, just in case. I was glad the subject was moving away from me and my doubts about the murderer. “I was just trying to reconcile what the state trooper said about Grady’s family life on the night of the accident.”

“I’m sure Nonie told you that the truth wasn’t anything he would have enjoyed recounting to the media.”

“It sounds like he had a lot to overcome.”

“Kids can be cruel, and from kindergarten on Grady was something of a misfit. I didn’t know him until high school. Then we were in choir and later drama club together. I hate to say this, but back then I was part of what they called the in crowd. And Grady, of course, wasn’t. My friends either ridiculed or pitied him. But they were blind to his talents. I saw what he had to offer.”

Over the rim of her coffee cup, I saw her eyes mist with tears. “I hated that he was teased so much, so I tried to befriend him. The music department put on
Oklahoma
in our sophomore year, and I made him try out for the part of Curly, even though sophomores never won the leads. He got it, though. He had the best voice in school, and he could act, too. And I got the part of Laurie, even though my voice was nothing special.”

“Are you saying you were a couple?”

She laughed a little and wiped her eyes with a fingertip. “Goodness, no. I wasn’t
that
much of a do-gooder. I had a reputation to maintain. I was just a friend. I cheered him on. Besides, he already had a girlfriend. Nonie.”