Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_02 (25 page)

“Okay, you didn’t see her after she got back with the files. And you kept out of her way Friday morning. How about Friday night?”

“We went into Nashville for dinner, then to the symphony. She hardly said a word all night. Which was odd. Because usually the world knew if Patty Kay was mad. She was real upset about something. But she was real quiet.”

“You didn’t try to find out what was bothering her?”

He shrugged. “Why stir things up?”

“How about Saturday morning?”

“That was crazy. Everything was haywire. The daughter of some of our friends died Friday.” For an instant he shifted his focus from himself. “Christ, she drowned herself in the lake!” He fell quiet. I knew that he had imagination, that he was envisioning the painful, choking finality as water clogged the desperate young girl’s throat, poured into her lungs. His body jerked. “Somebody called to tell us the next morning. Patty Kay was knocked for a loop. I was about to go to work. I asked her if she was going to cancel that dinner. She kind of huddled in her chair. I wasn’t sure she’d heard, so I asked again. She shook her head. She didn’t say anything.” He looked forlorn. “She was crying…. That’s the last time I saw her.”

“Until she was dead.” I waited, then added deliberately, “Or just before she died.”

His head jerked upward, as if I’d slapped him.

“Amy swears you left the bookstore at fifteen minutes to four.”

He stared at me with desperate, frightened, angry eyes. “No, no. It was
four
. I know it was.”

“Amy’s sure. I’ll tell you something, Craig. A jury will believe her. Not you.”

“Dammit, she’s just a kid. Just a stupid kid. It was four!” His voice was thin and reedy.

We looked at each other.

I knew he was lying.

One more time.

So what else was new.

Why a lie this time?

Because he knew how long it took to drive to the deli and from there to his house and he knew how long he spent at the deli. And he had an extra fifteen minutes he wouldn’t—or dared not—account for.

I had some ideas about it.

He could have dashed by Stevie’s apartment. Or stopped at a convenience store to call and see if his girlfriend was home. If he was innocent, he would have had no idea that it really mattered what time he got home that night with the fruit basket.

Or he killed his wife.

Either way, I’d been lied to too many times in Fair Haven.

“You found Patty Kay—and you found a bloody sweater. Tell me the truth about that sweater, Craig.”

“Sweater?”

“The sweater you wrapped the gun in. The sweater the cops found in a roadside trash bin. The bloody beige Lands’ End sweater.”

He lurched off the barstool, jammed his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “It was a sweater?”

I’ve met five-year-olds who could lie more convincingly.

“Oh, hell’s bells, Craig. Come off it. Yes, it was a sweater. A sweater that belonged to the woman with whom you’re having an affair.”

That got me a straight look.

A straight, wild, panicked look.

“What the hell are you talking about?” But the bluster ran thin and shrill.

“Stevie Costello. You know. I know. Others who worked at the bookstore know.”

He yanked his hands out of his pockets, took a step toward me. His face was bone-white with rage. “Walsh. Christ, have you told Walsh?”

I could feel my heart thudding in my chest. Had I shot off my mouth one time too many?

He took another step.

“Walsh will get there.” My voice was level. “I’m already there. Craig—it’s time you told me the truth.”

“You’ve got to
shut up
. Look—who asked you here? What the hell are you doing? Trying to get me convicted? Get out. Just get out. Okay? Get the hell out of here.” His voice cracked.

I said nothing.

“You aren’t my aunt. Just pack your—”

“It’s a little late for you to say so, isn’t it? What makes you think Walsh would even let me leave town now? Especially if you tell him we’re not related. He might begin to wonder just what kind of story we rigged. And why. No, Craig. You lied and now you’re stuck with it. I’m not going anywhere.”

His hands tightened into fists. Color flamed on his face. “Dammit, dammit, keep your mouth shut, you’ve got to.
You’ve got to!”
Then, with a last furious glare, he turned and ran out of the room.

In a moment I heard the door slam. And, faintly, the motor of the Porsche.

Interesting.

Craig got mad—and he ran.

Just as Stuart Pierce predicted.

I walked toward the kitchen. I still had to eat. I wondered if Craig was hotfooting it to Stevie Costello’s.

Not, I presumed, if he had a brain.

Because Captain Walsh surely was going to keep track of his prime suspect.

But maybe that’s exactly what Craig would do.

That might truly put the fat in the fire.

At this point, I royally didn’t give a damn what Craig Matthews did.

But I was still in the game. I wouldn’t deal out.

Not because of Craig.

Because of Margaret.

Because I don’t run.

And because of Patty Kay.

If Craig was guilty, I wanted to know. I would grieve for Margaret, but I had to know. In my mind I saw a young, graceful, vibrant woman in the peak years of her life, smiling, playing tennis, working for her community. And I saw her lying dead in her own blood.

I stopped at the telephone in the main hall.

No message lights.

Be interesting to know if Craig’d already had a call from Stevie.

I dialed Desmond’s office.

This time he answered.

“You’re working late,” I said.

“Yeah. I just got back from getting Craig out of jail.”

“I know. I talked to him.”

“Tell him to keep a low profile. Walsh is determined to pin his hide to the barn door.”

“I’ll tell him.” And so I would—eventually. “Desmond, who’s going to chair the trustees meeting tomorrow night?”

Desmond sighed heavily. “I guess I will. I’m vice president.” Papers rattled. “Brooke’s already left me three messages, something about a memorial for Patty Kay.”

Brooke certainly had an agenda.

So did I. Two, in fact. One I explained to Desmond. The other—mounting a search for the author of the letters that drove Franci Hollis to her death—would have to wait. But, in time, I would get to it. Cruelty cannot be permitted to triumph.

“Sure. Why not? Will I see you before then?”

“Yes. How about after the funeral?”

“After the funeral.” Desmond’s voice lost its buoyancy.

“Patty Kay’s guild is bringing luncheon over to Pamela’s. I’ll look for you there.” I put down the receiver.

I heated a frozen dinner. Not supermarket fare, but Patty Kay’s marvelous cooking: sesame chicken, scalloped zucchini, carrots. As soon as I finished the dishes, I headed upstairs to Patty Kay’s office.

Patty Kay’s trashed office.

I stood in the doorway.

Surely this was proof of Craig’s innocence. For he was in police custody when this office was ransacked.

But Patty Kay’s death could have triggered panic in other quarters. What if she had letters from Stuart? Present-day, passionate letters? What if Gina had fired off an angry, threatening letter about the land zoning?

I couldn’t assume this mess was made by the murderer.

But I was still glad young Dan Forrest hadn’t sought
out the source of the noise Monday afternoon. There was a viciousness to this devastation that appalled me.

I set to work. I couldn’t put everything where it went, of course, because I didn’t know. And many objects were too broken to be repaired. But I tidied up. And finally felt I had all the papers that belonged in Patty Kay’s Walden School file.

I took the material, more than a dozen folders in an expandable brown file, down to the clubroom. I didn’t want to stay in the office with the scarred desk and shattered bookcase glass.

Thursday night at bedtime Patty Kay was happy. She abruptly realized she’d forgotten some files. She drove to Walden School, returned with—presumably—the file holder I now possessed. Friday morning at breakfast, Patty Kay’s mood had altered completely. Friday afternoon she arranged a last-minute dinner for the school’s board of trustees.

I glanced at the clock.

Half past seven.

At midnight I gave up. I’d read and reread every file in the folder: Budget, Physical Plant, Personnel, Recruiting, Sports, Academic Programs, Scholarships, Endowment, Land Use, Media, Board Minutes.

If there was anything the least bit odd, unusual, or suspect in that mass of material, I couldn’t find it—and I’m damn good at finding odd, unusual, or suspect facts.

I was frustrated. Frustrated, confused, and exhausted.

I finally gave up and went to bed. After locking my door and wedging a chair beneath it. Craig had run away, true. But I couldn’t be certain he was innocent. And I knew a great deal he wouldn’t want Captain Walsh to learn.

I woke several times in the night and once was tempted to get up and have another go at the files.

Because the answer had to be there, hadn’t it?

Patty Kay was her usual self Thursday evening.

She went to the school, got those files, came home.

And Friday morning she was very upset.

Why, dammit, why?

The Episcopal burial service is swift and merciful. A silk pall covers a closed casket. The liturgy emphasizes the promise that death is swallowed up in victory. Prayer asks that the deceased, increasing in knowledge and love of the Lord, go from strength to strength in the life of perfect service in the heavenly kingdom.

Sometimes there is a eulogy, often not.

There was a eulogy for Patty Kay.

“… your servant, O Lord, who labored diligently to make this world better …”

The elderly priest quietly and lovingly recalled Patty Kay’s impact on the lives in her community. Her good works. And they were many.

It was beyond the priest’s skill to recall her gusto for life, her cocky disdain for the pretentious, her willingness to face abuse for unpopular causes.

It was odd, staring at the cross emblazoned in scarlet
on the golden silk pall, how well I felt I knew a woman I’d never met.

The church pews were full. There were folding chairs set up in the narthex.

I sat with Craig. We’d exchanged only nods that morning. He came downstairs shortly before the limousine arrived. He’d avoided looking at me, hiding behind the newspaper with his coffee.

But he never turned a page of it.

We sat alone in the first black limousine.

A haunted-looking, red-eyed Brigit rode with her father and stepmother and the Guthries in the second limousine.

But despite my irritation with Craig and despite my newly kindled suspicions of him, the funeral made me glad I’d come to Fair Haven three days ago.

Because Craig would have stood alone without me. And that shouldn’t happen to anyone. As the service began, I could feel his body shrink beside me, as if a heavy weight bowed his shoulders. He gripped the unopened prayer book so tightly, his fingers blanched.

It was almost as if an invisible wall surrounded him when we entered the church. So many eyes slid away from his glance. So few hands reached out to touch him. So many quick, covert looks followed after he passed.

As we walked out of that packed church, I could count on one hand those who even acknowledged his presence. Gina Abbott. Brigit. And yes, Stuart Pierce. And the Forrest family, Brooke, her husband David and son Dan. Cheryl and Bob Kraft.

But most eyes avoided contact. Most faces turned away.

Some of it might have been awkwardness.

How do you greet a man whose wife has been violently murdered?

It isn’t the acceptable way to die. If Patty Kay had died
of cancer, the handclasps would have come, the murmured condolences.

But this was murder, and Craig had been arrested for the crime.

And I wondered how many knowing looks had been exchanged in conversations across Fair Haven, how many silken whispers shared:
So much younger than Patty Kay … I’ve heard he and that girl, the pretty blond one, at the store … The gun came from his car…. Always thought he looked shifty
…