Kitty Litter Killer (17 page)

“Really?”

“You’d better believe it.” I leaned toward her. “So did June at first, and she’s his mother. I think she suspected you’d feel all of this, which is why she didn’t want to tell you herself.”

Abbie blinked as tears filled her eyes again. “I’m a wreck. A total emotional basket case. I go from one emotion to the other in a matter of seconds.”

“I know,” I said. “Do you want me to tell Eric?”

“No. I’ll tell him.” She pulled another tissue from her purse.

Our food arrived, and Abbie turned her head so the server wouldn’t notice her tears. After the server left, I reached over and patted Abbie’s arm.

“I’m so sorry. I knew this would be hard. Will you be able to eat?”

She blew her nose and smiled valiantly. “How could I waste the best lasagna on the East Coast? I’m going to try.” She managed to eat half her meal, and I did the same.

To give her time to recover, I did most of the talking— about the kids and Max. I told her I wanted to go back to work.

“That doesn’t surprise me,” she said. “You’ve never been able to be at home and settle. Even when you were a kid.”

We chatted about a few more things and avoided the topic of Philip altogether. When we were done, I paid our bill and we both stood. I pulled her into a tight hug.

“I love you. This will work out. You wait and see.”

“I want to believe that,” she said.

So did I.

“Oh,” said Abbie, reaching into her purse, “I forgot to give you this.” She pulled the smashed button I’d found in the parking lot from her pocket. “This isn’t mine.”

I took it from her and dropped it into my purse. Perhaps it just belonged to a church member.

We exchanged good-byes, and I watched her leave, shoulders slumped. I ached for her.

I went to the bathroom before I left. That’s when I realized I’d left my sunglasses on the table. I went back to get them and noticed a couple walking into another room of the restaurant. I would recognize Linda anywhere. I also recognized the man with her. Leighton Whitmore. Hayley’s husband! Why were they together?

And that’s when I remembered there were two other people who’d had gold buttons on their jackets. Linda Faye King and Hayley Whitmore.

I’d brought my headset with me, so I was free to make all the calls I needed to as I drove.

First, I called Clark’s mother, Eunice Matthews, to ask if I could come by and deliver her bookplate. She seemed eager for the visit and explained how to get to her house. Then I called April to see if she wanted to come with me to visit Eunice, but April informed me that she was, like, way over Clark and that Linda could have him. But did Linda want Clark? Or did she have her sights on a wealthier man—Leighton Whitmore?

As I drove to Eunice’s house, I called Corporal Fletcher. I needed to update him while everything was fresh in my mind.

“Fletcher,” he snapped into the receiver.

“This is Trish Cunningham. Is this a good time to talk?”

“Mrs. C.” His tone lightened. “I’m on the road, so yeah. You have news for me?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Well, just shoot. I’ll ask questions if I have them.”

I told him everything I’d learned so far. Several times, he grunted. I even mentioned Leighton and Linda. Then I told him about my visit with June and everything we’d talked about, including Philip’s change of heart.

“You gotta be kidding me,” Fletcher said.

“Kidding?” I asked. “Kidding about what?”

“Philip got religion?”

I could hear the derision in his voice, and I felt defensive for June’s sake. “Well, that’s what his mother said. And she would know. She is his mother.”

Fletcher snorted.

“Hey, why so cynical?” I asked. “Why don’t you believe it?”

“His mommy said so?” After a bark of laughter, Fletcher sighed. “Sorry, Mrs. C., but you wouldn’t believe how many people’s mothers cover for them. And how many people claim religious conversion. Or lie to get something. Now, granted, he probably didn’t have anything to gain from this, so it’s possible. But. . .”

“I’m sorry, too,” I said.

“Sorry for what?”

“I’m sorry that you’re so cynical. Really, Corporal Fletcher. What a horrible way to live.”

He laughed again, and this time it sounded genuine. “That’s what I like about you. You tell me exactly what you’re thinking.” He sighed again. “You’re right. About the cynicism. It’s my job that does it. I see the bad side of people all the time. You wouldn’t believe the stupid stuff people lie about.”

“I can imagine.” And I really could understand, given my brief foray into crime. Especially since I’d lied one time, too.

“I’ll tell you what.” He chuckled. “Since Philip is so tragically dead, I’ll believe his mommy and give him the benefit of the doubt.”

“That’s just slightly insensitive,” I said primly. “I think it must be a form of cop humor. A lot of people wouldn’t find that very funny, you know. Still, I’m glad you can make an exception to the way you usually think and believe a dead man, but don’t strain yourself.”

That just made him laugh harder, and I joined him. “You, Mrs. C., are exactly what I needed at the moment. And while we’re at it—how about you call me Nick? Seeing as how we’re working together and are going to be related by friendship.”

I felt warm inside. “That is probably one of the nicest things you’ve ever said to me. And I’d be honored. You can call me Trish.”

“I can try, but I think Mrs. C. suits you better.”

I heard his car radio in the background. “Listen, gotta go. And the other things you told me today? Good stuff. Keep me posted, okay? Anything you hear. It might not seem like much, but you never know.”

“You got it,” I said and clicked my phone off.

How true a statement was that? Sometimes it was the smallest detail, the quirkiest turn of events that led to a killer.

Shortly after, bookplate in hand, I showed up at Eunice Matthews’ doublewide.

She must have been waiting for me, because she opened the door before I could knock.

“Trish Cunningham?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Eunice. You made it here quickly. Please come in.” The tiny birdlike woman stepped back for me to walk by. Her dark hair was tightly permed and curled close to her scalp. I could see a very faint resemblance to her son in her nose and mouth, but they both looked a lot better on him than they did on her. And she didn’t look sick to me, but what did I know?

Inside, I was immediately overwhelmed by the smell of floral air freshener. She pointed to a small living area just next to the foyer. I looked around and felt like I had stepped into a peach-orchard explosion. The couch was a floral peach pattern, the carpet a darker shade of the color. Even the flowers in the large print hanging above the sofa were peach. The only relief came in the little bits of brown and green accent colors and the wood of the other furniture, including a glass case standing in a prominent corner of the room. That was filled with a collection of angels, mostly fat little winged babies—with peach-tinted skin.

I dropped onto the sofa and took the bookplate from my purse. As Eunice passed me and headed for a peach-colored lounge chair, I handed it to her with Abbie’s regards.

She took it from my hand and sat with a smile.

“Oh my,” she said. “How exciting! This is very thoughtful. Clark told me that he’d asked you for it. He’s such a good boy. Always thinking of his mama.”

So Clark had told her it was his idea? I eyed my hostess. Her blue cotton pants had a knife-edge crease in them, and the sleeves on her matching blue-checked shirt had the same. She wore white socks and black loafers. Everything about her screamed “neat and tidy.”

“He went to that book signing to get me an autographed copy of the book, but he said there was a line and then he had to leave because someone he knew needed help changing a tire.” She smiled. “He’s such a thoughtful boy. He bought me all this when he was working in New York, you know.” She lifted her hand and pointed at everything in the room.

I wondered which of them was the interior designer. Still, I had to admit the decor somehow suited her.

“Well now, look at me. Look at my manners. Let me get you some coffee.” She stood and walked to the tidy kitchen where the peach decor was continued in the accents and wall color.

My mind had gone totally blank. I wondered if it was shock, perhaps as a result of the color detonation surrounding me.

“Clark loves my coffee. He thinks it’s better than anything, including the coffee at Doris’s Doughnuts, and you know everyone loves hers, me included.”

I remembered how Clark had complimented my mother’s coffee, and I wondered if Eunice knew that I was Doris’s daughter. I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t ask.

She asked me how I wanted my coffee, fixed it for me, and brought it to me. The peach-colored mug said
Tomorrow Is Another Day
on the side.

“Clark gave me these mugs.”

I made the appropriate complimentary noises and took a sip of the coffee. It was bad. Like dishwater.

“Good, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Mmm,” I said so I wouldn’t have to lie outright. “So I understand that Clark only recently moved here?”

A smile lit her face. “Yes. I was never so glad in my life. I wanted him to get away from the city. Now he’s here to be near me.”

She seemed fine to me.

“So Clark lived in New York City, then?”

“Oh yes.” She took a deep breath and clasped her hands together. “I suppose you’ve heard what he was doing there.”

“You mean. . .modeling work?” I wasn’t sure exactly how to say what I’d heard his job was.

“Yes.” She beamed. “He was a successful model. Always sending me money.”

“Did you, um, see his work?”

She waved a hand. “I’ve seen some pictures in his portfolio. He said those were the best.”

I thought about what Angelica had said a few days ago. Something about how long it takes mothers to see the truth about their children.

“He’s settling in nicely,” Eunice said. “Making nice friends. Better than some of the people he knew in the city.” Her mouth pursed in disapproval. “I know he always adopts people and tries to take care of them. He’d bring them with him to visit me, but I didn’t like them.”

I murmured something sympathetic to encourage her to talk. Not that she needed much encouragement.

She hopped up from her chair, once again reminding me of a little bird. She snatched a framed picture from a shelf in the corner and held it out to me. Somehow I must have missed it in the peach overload.

“That’s one of his best shots.”

“Very nice.” At last, I was telling the truth, because Clark did look good. Classic movie-star kind of looks. In the image of Cary Grant and Clark Gable. I handed the picture to her, and she put it back on the shelf. Then she perched on the edge of her chair again.

“I was so glad he moved here to get away from the city and be near me.”

I put my cup on the end table after several brave attempts to drink the coffee. “Well, I’m happy for you that he’s living here.”

“Yes, but I’m worried about him. He’s having problems with complaints at work.”