Death of an Irish Diva (23 page)

Annie was working on deadline. The first draft of her book on the NMO was due next week. Files and papers were scattered all over her bed.
Taxes, taxes,
she thought.
Where did I put the tax file?
She searched all over her bed and finally found the folder she was looking for. Okay the NMO was a nonprofit and tax exempt. She scanned down the forms in front. Suddenly the word
Alicorn
leapt off the page.

“What?” she said out loud, even though she was completely alone in the house.

The name John Reilly was listed with the other board members.

She dialed Bryant.

“Yeah?” he said into the phone. “What's up, Annie?”

“I can't believe I overlooked this. I have evidence of a link between Alicorn and the NMO.”

“We knew that was the case,” he said. Suddenly his voice was crisper, more alert. “Nothing wrong with that. I mean, nothing illegal about it.” But then he grew quiet on the other end of the line. “Do me a favor and copy that for me,” he said, then breathed into the phone.

“Have you checked out Reilly?” Annie asked.

“Yep,” he said.

“And?”

“Annie, this part doesn't concern you,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I can't tell you a thing about what I'm finding out these days. It's all conjecture at this point. What I have is hunches. Scattered pieces of information and evidence. I'm looking for that moment when everything comes together. Or that moment when something clicks. Right now I feel like we are building a strong case, but I have no idea where it's leading,” he said.

“You can't tell me about Reilly?” she asked.

“No, I can't. But feel free to dig around yourself. Well, knowing you . . . you'll do that, anyway. I'm surprised you haven't,” he said.

“Well, I have found out that he was on the board of the lab. The same time as Emily McGlashen was on the board of the foundation,” she said, looking at the papers scattered all over her bed, which was her makeshift office. She was met with silence. “I'll try to get you a copy of this soon.”

“Good,” he said and hung up.

Bryant was not behaving in a copacetic manner. He wasn't his usual prickly self, nor was he coming on to her with sweet and sexy words, for which she was grateful. But he seemed reticent, and it troubled Annie. Her gut told her he was hiding something, but she didn't have the time to follow up, with her deadline closing in on her. It was all she could do to feed and bathe her boys. And forget about cleaning. As soon as she finished this book, she was going to clean her house. Top to bottom.

Annie eyes scanned farther down.

Was J. W. Reilly John W. Reilly? She clicked on the article. No photo. But the bio stated he was a professor of business. It must be him. She read over the article.

He wrote about literature, art, and so on and sort of poked fun at the idea of any one group of people being referred to as superior, even though the Irish clearly had their act together, according to him.

Well, that was a relief.

Just then her doorbell rang.

When she answered the door, half expecting to see the postman, she was surprised to find the Greenbergs.

“Hi. Come on in,” Annie said, embarrassed that her house was such a mess. Toys were scattered about; books and papers were piled on tables and in corners. At least the kitchen table was relatively clear.

“Thank you,” Rachel said.

“Please sit down,” Annie said. “Can I get you something?”

“No thanks,” Rachel said, sitting on the couch. “We just came by to thank you for helping us out a few weeks back. We're getting ready to leave.”

“Today?” Annie said.

“No,” Donald replied. “Probably by the end of the week.”

“Do you know if the police have any leads?” Rachel asked.

“Not really,” Annie said. “But I do know they are working on the case. Have you found anything else in Emily's papers?”

They looked at one another and shifted in their seats.

“We found another hidden journal,” Donald said.

“We'd rather not talk about it,” Rachel said, taking a deep sigh. “Emily was never an easy child, and she grew into a complicated woman. She was hard on us. She was hard on everybody. We wonder as her parents . . . what we could have done differently . . . but there comes a time . . . when you just have to accept that people are people, and there's not much you can do, even as a parent.”

Where was this conversation going?

“But we loved her and would have continued loving her if she had given us a chance. We would have been more a part of her life. She assumed that we couldn't deal with it,” Rachel said.

“I don't understand,” Annie said.

“Evidently, Emily was gay,” he said.

“Gay? But I thought you said she was involved with a married man?”

“We assumed it was a man. It turns out that it was a woman,” Donald said.

“She was involved with a married woman?”

They nodded.

“Do you know who?”

“We think so,” said Rachel. “That's why we're here.”

Annie slipped the letter back into her bag as she approached Vera's old house. Sad. The Reillys were not really keeping it up. The shrubs were overgrown, and the flower beds needed weeding.

She rang the doorbell, and Leola answered.

“Thanks for agreeing to see me,” Annie said.

“No problem. I've got a few minutes to spare, though I do have an appointment in a bit,” Leola said. “Please come in. Can I get you anything?”

Inside the house was exactly as Vera had left it. It was as though Leola and her family were not even living there.

“Temporary quarters,” Leola said, observing Annie looking around in shock. “What's the point in redecorating? Not really my thing, anyway. Please sit down.”

Annie sat down on Vera's old, beautiful plush blue couch. Leola sat in the chair across from it.

“What can I help you with?” Leola said, perched on the edge of the chair, folding her hands over her knees. White knuckles. Ruby-red nail polish.

“I'd like to chat with you about Emily McGlashen,” Annie said.

Leola's eyes lowered to the floor. She nodded. “What can I tell you about her?”

“I understand your husband was on the board at Alicorn with her,” Annie said.

“Oh, that.” She waved her hand. “Yes. They were both so into that place.”

“Why?”

“Well, Emily was adopted, you know, and so these matters were important to her,” Leola said.

“And your husband?”

“An old friend of ours got him involved. He needed to be on a board for his résumé. Once he was on the board, he liked it. And he and Emily saw eye to eye on many things,” Leola said, sitting back in her chair, relaxing just a bit. Then she crossed her legs. “They were both into Irish music, for one thing,” Leola added and smiled.

“Well, yes, I know that,” Annie said. “But let me be clear here. What was their involvement together on the board?”

“Hell, I don't know. We never talked about that kind of stuff. Didn't interest me in the least.”

“Do you know if they ever disagreed about anything?” Annie asked.

“Let me think,” Leola said. “There was something about some funding that John didn't like. Funding from some group . . . oh yes. Emily hired that Luther to do some research for her. Turns out he was a member of that group, the New Mountain Order. When he found out she was on their board, they gave it some money. John didn't like it. He said it was stepping on the toes of another project or something.... I don't remember exactly.”

“Nice suit,” Annie said.

“Thanks,” Leola said. “As I said, I've an appointment soon.” She looked at her watch.

“Yeah, usually you don't dress like this,” Annie said and smiled. “What is it with all the women around here dressing in long jean skirts? Long jumpers and stuff?”

Leola shrugged. “Modesty,” she said. “The church we go to is really into it. I don't dress like it for work, though.”

Annie nodded.
Modesty? Hmmm.
There sat Leola, made up to the hilt, in a beautiful formfitting suit and a low-cut silk blouse.

“Are you sure I can't get you something?” Leola asked during the awkward silence.

“I'm fine,” Annie said. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Leola said, leaning forward, white knuckles no more. Yes, she felt much more at ease with Annie. Her body language told her that. So now was the time to zoom in on her. Annie felt a little sympathy, but she set it aside.

“How long had you and Emily been lovers?” She looked Leola squarely in the eye.

Leola's jaw grew firm, and her face flamed red. “What are you talking about?” she spat.

Annie reached into her bag and pulled out the letter that Emily's family had given her.

“This is what I'm talking about,” Annie said. “I've not gone to the cops about this. But if I did, I'm sure a handwriting analysis would tell us exactly who wrote this. I'm sure it was you.”

Leola just looked at her. Her mouth hung open slightly and her eyes were moving back and forth, as if she was trying to find the right words.

“Besides that,” Annie said, “this is extremely personal. I don't know what purpose it would serve. Unless it has to do with her murder. I don't think you killed her. You loved her. That much is clear.”

Leola lost her composure as she looked into Annie eyes. She began to unravel with a shudder. She bit her lip.

“What do you want from me?” Leola said at last.

“I want to find out who killed her. I'm betting that you do, too. Maybe we can figure this out together,” Annie said.

Leola sighed. “I'll do anything I can.”

When Vera woke up, she was standing next to her mother's bed with something in her hand. Something sharp, metallic, gleaming.

Beatrice wasn't stirring.

The moonlight shone through her lace curtains onto Beatrice's wrinkled skin.

“Mama?” Vera whispered. What had she done?

Beatrice didn't stir.

Vera gingerly reached for her mother's shoulder and shook her.

“Mama?”

Beatrice sat straight up. “What's wrong, girl?” She switched on her light. “Vera?”

Vera stood in her nightgown, perplexed. What was she doing here?

She had gone to bed early. She had been thinking about Detective Bryant. She had fallen asleep quickly. What was she doing here?

“I . . .” She held up the object she'd been carrying.

“What are you doing with a pie slicer?” Beatrice said.

Vera shrugged.

“Are you sleepwalking again?” Beatrice said, sitting up farther on her bed, reaching for her glasses. “Oh!”

It was then that Vera noticed the blood on the sleeves of her pink nightgown.

“What!” she exclaimed. “What have I done?”

“Now, now, just calm down,” Beatrice said, getting up from the bed.

Vera scanned herself. . . . A burning, stinging pain came from her lower arm.

Beatrice grabbed her wrist. “You cut yourself. That's all,” Beatrice said. “That thing is sharp.”

“Yes,” Vera managed to say as Jon entered the room.

“What is happening?” he asked, bleary-eyed.

“She cut herself,” Beatrice said. “Go back to bed, Jon. I'll take care of this.”

He shrugged. “She cut herself at one thirty in the morning?” He looked at both women. “Very well. Good night.”

Beatrice looked frazzled.

“Please, Vera, sit down over there and I'll get you cleaned up.”

After Vera was cleaned up and a bandage was placed on her wrist, a wave of weariness overcame her. “I'm so tired, Mama.”

“Listen, Vera,” Beatrice said, “we need to get to the bottom of this. You can't live your life like this.”

“I know, Mama.”

“We'll call the doctor in the morning and see if he can adjust your medicine, okay?”

Vera nodded. “I can't remember coming into your room.”

She looked around at her mom's room. The quilt-covered bed. The stacks of hand-crocheted and knitted afghans. The books. The doily-covered tables. The paintings. Her jewelry box, one that she had had since Vera was a girl. It had held such magic then. In fact, this whole room had. Her mother's closet, most of all. She used to find such comfort here.

“I realize that,” Beatrice said. “Do you remember anything at all?”

“I just remember thinking about something before I went to sleep. Bill and Kelsey, for one thing. And I thought about Leola.”

“Well,” Beatrice said, sitting down on her bed, “I imagine that was quite a confrontation. I don't reckon you'd be dropping those charges.”

“Hell no, Mama,” Vera said. “And the more I think about it, the thing that disturbs me the most is that night she was in Elizabeth's room. What was she doing there? And then for Bill—” Her voice cracked. “And then for Bill, the man I lived with most of my life, the father of my daughter, to approach me about it . . . the way he did.”

“It's another heartbreak,” Beatrice said.

Both women sat quietly with their own thoughts.

“Bah, that thing between Bill and Kelsey won't last. You know that, don't you?”

“It doesn't really matter to me, Mama. I think what my gut is telling me is that I don't want my daughter around him as long as she is in his life.”

“Vera—”

“I mean it, Mama,” Vera said. “I hate to take her from her father. But Bill is making bad decisions. I don't want Elizabeth caught up in it.”

Beatrice's lips gathered, as if she was trying not to speak.

“I know she loves her daddy. The way I loved mine. It hurts. But I think I'm going to need to talk to another lawyer about this.”

“What made you come to this conclusion?”

“My whole life has brought me to this conclusion,” Vera said, rising from her chair, listening for the same old creaks in the floorboards that had been there since she was a girl. She stopped. “You need to get those floorboards fixed.”

Beatrice waved her off. “Go to bed, Vera. I like my creaks.” She sank into her bed as Vera walked out of her room.

Of course, Vera stopped in Elizabeth's room to gaze at her as she lay in her bed.

Only the bed was completely empty.

Vera blinked her eyes. Was she seeing things? Dreaming? Still sleepwalking?

She blinked again. No. Elizabeth was gone.

“Mama! Jon!” she screamed into the night.

Both came stumbling into the room.

“Where's Elizabeth?” Beatrice said.

“The window is open,” Jon pointed out. “Someone has taken the child.”

“I'll call the police,” Beatrice said.

Jon reached for Vera, who was swooning. The room was swaying. She was trying to keep her footing. She leaned on Jon, whose eyes were wide, hair standing straight up. Jon. What a good guy.

“Find my baby,” she found the strength to say before it all went black.