Dead at Breakfast (28 page)

Sarah met her eyes again. “That was a mistake, wasn't it? Mentioning Crete.”

“Yes. And you worried, after you said it.”

“I did. I didn't think it would do any harm, but then I saw something in your face.”

“And you thought about taking off?”

“I'm all packed. I was leaving in the morning. Don't tell Gabe.” She was still more than half in her old life.

“Start with Chania.”

“We met in a café on the lagoon. He wanted to practice his English. I had planned to go on to Turkey but I never left. He was . . . well. It was a magical summer and we didn't want it to end. We were both alone in the world. Both orphans, both only children. By September, I was pregnant and in love. He was in love, at least I thought so, and he wanted to come to America. End of story.”

“Beginning of story,” said Toby. “You have another child?”

“No. I lost the baby. I lost two, before we had Jenny. She was such a wanted child. And Alexander was enchanted with America. To him, everything seemed so big and rich. Even my poor little farm seemed rich. At first.

“We lived in the house I grew up in. He got a job in construction in WashPaw, and on weekends fixed all the parts of the house that were falling apart. I raised chickens and gave voice lessons.”

“So it was true,” said Maggie, “that you were a singer?”

Sarah looked at her and showed just a glimmer of irritation. “You don't miss much, do you?”

“I try not to.”

“So Jenny got it from you, the music,” said Maggie.

And Sarah's eyes suddenly shone with tears, though her expression remained stony. Finally she said, “She sure didn't get it from her father.”

Toby said, “Go on.”

“We were both so happy when Jenny was born. We'd had lonely childhoods. Everything seemed to be going well. Alex was clever about design and systems, and he got a job with a bigger firm, developers, in Pittsburgh. He hadn't traveled much; to him it was Athens or Paris. It was sweet. He was good with clients, and they had him working in the front office. He was meeting fancy people. Doing some business travel. Going to lunch at the Duquesne Club. He was beginning to understand what rich really looked like.

“Then he started taking golf lessons at a public course in WashPaw. That annoyed me; I was alone with the baby all week and suddenly on the weekends too. She missed him and so did I. He said the company wanted him to be able to play golf with clients and he was doing it for us. He spent hours in the evenings at the driving range; at least that's where he said he was. Then one night he announced he was spending the weekend at the Rolling Rock
Club in Ligonier with his boss and some other people. I asked if their wives were going along, and he said he thought so. I asked if I was invited and he said that I couldn't go because of the baby. I pushed; I wanted to hear that at least I'd been invited.”

She fell silent. Some moments of pain retain their power to hurt, even after decades.

Maggie said gently, “He hadn't told them he was married.”

Sarah threw her hands in the air, whether at what that moment had meant in her marriage or at Maggie's seeing it coming, was not clear.

“We had a terrible fight. He claimed it didn't mean anything, he was just more useful to them as a bachelor. He could flirt with the clients' wives, escort a daughter. Wasn't I pleased with how fast he was rising? I hit the ceiling at that but I think I knew it was pointless. He was ambitious beyond anything I'd ever imagined. He was looking for a rich wife who could help him get where he wanted to go. I wasn't ever going to be that; I didn't even want to be. But I thought at least I'd always have Jenny.”

She poured herself more wine and handed the bottle to Toby, who poured for the others.

“Do I have to go on?” she said. “Or can Maggie just tell you the rest?”

“Go on, please,” said Buster.

“He moved into Pittsburgh. I had custody of Jenny. One Saturday he picked her up for his scheduled visit and I never saw her again. Well, except once.”

“You tried?”

“Of course. I tried everything. I taught, and I worked for a couple of caterers to earn money for detectives, but I couldn't afford very good ones. And we weren't looking in the right places. Then one day I had coffee with a friend whose kids were watching the Disney Channel, and there she was. My Jenny. There she was.”

Tears were near again.

Maggie said, “We know you sold your house in 1990.”

Sarah nodded. “By then I knew everything. Where she lived, what their new name was. I went out there. Jenny was scheduled to perform on some morning TV show. I went to the studio, and stood in line outside with all these ten-year-olds dressed like her character on the show. I was so filled with happiness I could hardly keep from crying. When it was my turn I handed her a picture for her to autograph and I said, ‘JennyKoukla,' so only she could hear. She looked right at me and smiled, and I thought she'd say ‘Mama' . . . I waited for her face to light up, I thought the whole nightmare was finally over. I'd imagined that moment so many thousand times.” Sarah had to stop speaking. Her lips were trembling. They gave her the time she needed.

Sarah picked up where she had stopped, in that scene she'd relived in despair, so many times, of which she knew every nanosecond. “But what Jenny said was, ‘You read that article. Who shall I sign this to?' I was close enough to see the tiny scar below her lip where she'd cut herself falling off a swing.”

“No recognition.”

“None. Then I went to Alexander . . . Oh you've heard enough.”

“All right,” said Buster. “But about the night of the fire.”

She shifted heavily in her chair. It was as if she'd forgotten where all this was heading. It was a very long time since she'd told anyone her real story.

“Did you intend to kill him?”

“Of course not. I wanted to scare the living shit out of him. I wanted him to know there was no forgiveness, ever, for what he did to our daughter. And me.”

“So you went to Mr. Rexroth's room.”

“It just started with that coincidence. I was sick—I'd had a migraine for days—and I went to see Clarence. Animals are a com
fort when everything's wrong, they really are. Clarence always knew when I was sick or sad; he'd come put his head in my lap and stare up as if he could fix me with his eyes.

“I was disappointed when no one was in the room. But then I noticed the closet door was open, and I saw the snake equipment, lying up on the shelf, like it had been put there for me.”

“You knew what it was.”

“I knew. There were copperheads on our farm. Garter snakes and milk snakes we handled ourselves because they're not poisonous. When it was copperheads, we called the snake man.”

“So you put on the gloves and took the bag and tongs. And then . . . ?”

“Then I went next door. I knew Earl was down in the kitchen having his dinner, and Alexander was in the dining room. Stuffing himself. I picked Grommet up and dropped him into the bag, easy-peasy. Then I went down to Alexander's room. Housekeeping had already turned his bed down, so all I had to do was slip Grommet in under the covers. Snakes like a dark burrow. I figured he'd go down to the foot of the bed, and when Alexander got into it, he'd feel Grommet or see him, and I hoped he'd have a heart attack, or a stroke.”

She breathed deeply, then drank a slug of wine.

“The kitchen knew I had a migraine; no one was looking for me. I went down the back stairs, hid the bag and tongs in the storage pantry, and went back to bed. All the while I lay there in the dark, I was thinking about Alexander finding a snake in his bed. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted him to know it was me. To know how much I hate him. Hated him.”

“What did you do?”

“When everything was quiet, I went back to his room. The light was on and I could hear the TV was playing. I opened the door with my key. Alexander was lying against the pillows with a burning
cigar in his hand and the ashtray beside him. He wasn't wearing pajamas. Just boxers, I think. Fat people are often hot, why is that? It was a disgusting sight. He stared at me, but otherwise he didn't move. I walked very slowly toward him. I could see the absolute terror in his eyes. It was very satisfying.

“I waited for him to speak but he didn't. He only looked at me, as if his worst nightmare had just come true.

“And that was what I'd come for. I had thought about finding the snake and taking it back to Earl, but it was too complicated. Besides, if I left it, Alexander wouldn't be able to get out of bed the whole night for fear he'd step on it. So I turned around and left.”

There was a long silence. Finally Buster said, “Paula Jackson, I am placing you under arrest for the felony murder of Alexander Kouklakis a.k.a. Antippas.”

Sarah looked at him. Then she picked up her wineglass and drained it.

Toby rode with Buster in the patrol car, with Sarah in the backseat in handcuffs. Hope and Maggie followed in Hope's car. All four of them walked Sarah into the state police barracks in Ainsley. It was quiet; the dinner hour. The first officer to see them and stop in her tracks was Carly Leo, the woman who claimed Cherry had confessed to her in the bathroom the night she was arrested.

“Now what?” she said to Buster with exasperation.

“This is Paula Jackson, the cook at the Oquossoc Mountain Inn.”

“Executive chef,” said Sarah.

“She has made a full confession to the assault on Alexander Antippas that resulted in his death.”

Officer Leo was speechless. After a pause she said, “For god's sake, Buster. What have you done this time?”

“I suggest you call Detective Gordon,” said Buster, holding up his phone. “He's going to want to hear this.”

There ensued a period of pandemonium in the department as Shep Gordon was called, and Carson Bailey was called, and the sheriff was called to please explain the behavior of his deputy. Maggie, Hope, and Toby retired to the Chowder Bowl for some supper. They were just being served when a state police cruiser went steaming down State Street with siren whooping and blue lights revolving.

“Shep Gordon's in some kind of red hot hurry,” said their waitress, who had just delivered their shrimp rolls and coleslaw. “Wonder what that's all about.” She went back to the kitchen for the fries they had ordered for the table.

They were just finishing their coffee when the text dinger on Hope's phone went off.

“Carson Bailey has arrived,” she said. They paid their check, picked up the takeout bag with Buster's supper that was waiting for them at the register, and went back to the state police barracks.

Shep Gordon, a mountain of a man at the best of times, looked more like Krakatoa than they had ever seen him. He was waiting for them in a conference room. His face was red, and he was pacing. Buster by contrast was sitting peacefully on his side of the table, texting Brianna. His phone and Toby's had both been recharged during the wait. Carson Bailey, standing by himself and fiddling with a clicker designed for use in dog training that he'd found in his pocket, had apparently been interrupted in the midst of a festive evening. He was wearing an unbecoming pair of plaid slacks and smelled of beer.

After everyone in the room had been introduced, Shep took the chair at the head of the table, with Carson beside him. He signaled the others to sit down. Carly Leo came in just as Shep said to Buster, “Let's hear this thing.”

“Not yet,” said Carson.

“Why? Who are we waiting for?”

Carson paused, as if embarrassed, then said, “The attorney general.”

Shep swung his vast bulk around in his chair and looked at Carson. He was grasping both arms of his chair, as if he could pick himself up and throw himself at someone, a portrait of simmering aggression.

“Frannie Ober is coming here?
Tonight
?”

For a moment Carson looked a little frightened. He said, “It's a big case. I had to keep her looped. When I called her to say that . . . Deputy Babbin . . . she said not to start until she gets here.”

The door opened and a strongly built woman with keen, dark eyes and expensively cut red hair strode in along with an officer in uniform, evidently her driver.

“Hope I haven't kept you waiting.” She extended her hand to each person in the room, introducing herself to those she hadn't met, except for Carson, to whom she gave a friendly slap on the back. It wasn't hard to see what had gotten her elected. She took a seat. “Sorry for the way I'm dressed. Town-and-gown hoops game. Okay, let's do this thing.”

Buster started the recording.

Detective Gordon seemed to have ants in his pants throughout the session. He'd cross and uncross his legs, and occasionally seemed to be controlling noises of derision. Carson kept his head down, making eye contact with no one, and taking notes.

When it was over, there was a long silence in the room. Finally Shep said, “Well, we seem to have had some amateur detective work here, haven't we?” He stared at Maggie and at Hope, as if expecting an apology for their interference. When no one answered, he went on, “Of course, this leaves a lot of questions. And I don't see that it changes the case on the arson that actually killed the guy. We—”

But he was interrupted by the sound of the attorney general laughing. The AG was shaking her head and looking at Shep, and from time to time at Carson Bailey, who was staring at his notes
and blushing painfully. Then the AG suddenly stopped laughing and slapped the table.

“Detective Gordon,” she said. “Here you have a full and credible confession from a suspect with a powerful motive and every opportunity. Your case against Cherry Weaver was always full of holes and to my mind, malice.”

“Now wait a minute,” said Shep, inflating like a vast puff adder. “Wait a minute. She had motive and opportunity, and she's a firebug for sure, our pictures of fire scenes—”