Moss Hysteria (21 page)

Saturday

“L
ook who finally rolled out of bed, Seedy,” Marco said, holding out a cup of coffee for me.

I patted the dog on the head, took the steaming cup, and sat at the kitchen island in my pajamas, still groggy from sleeping past my normal waking hour. “Thanks for letting me sleep in.”

Marco poured himself some coffee and sat on a stool beside me. “I figured you needed it. You tossed and turned a lot last night.”

“I had a nightmare.”

Marco smiled. “That explains why you were muttering my mother's name.”

I forced myself to smile with him even though the dream had been anything but funny: Francesca had been at the cottage, gagged and bound, while I desperately searched for the gift bag with the address in it so we could save her.

Where
had
I put the gift bag?

In your underwear drawer, Miss Memory,
the little voice in my head whispered.

Nearly giddy with relief, I took a big drink of coffee and scalded my throat. What I needed was one of Grace's quotes about soothing a guilty conscience, but the only saying that sprang to mind was
Liar, liar, pants on fire.

Marco patted my shoulder. “I'm sure you had the dream because you're as concerned about her welfare as I am.”

“Of course I'm concerned. I wouldn't want anything to happen to her.”

That came out a lot sharper than I'd intended. Luckily, Marco didn't seem to notice. “I hope she took what I told her seriously,” he said, “and doesn't entertain any thoughts of going to Alfred's cottage alone with him.”

I suddenly couldn't swallow. Pushing my cup aside, I turned to face my husband. “Okay, Marco, I need to tell you something. Your mom came to see me yesterday.”

And then in a case of perfect timing, one of Grace's quotes popped into my mind. I could even picture her delivering it, standing with fingers locked together, posture ramrod straight, and chin up.
As William Shakespeare wrote, “The better part of valour is discretion.”

In other words, I had to keep my promise to Francesca. The only thing I could do was give Marco something to chew on.

Marco swiveled the stool toward me. “What did she want?”

“Well . . . to tell me that she
did
take what you said to heart. She questioned Alfred about the restraining order. In a nutshell, he explained that his wife was a severe alcoholic, and when he filed for divorce, she went crazy and attacked him with a knife. He took out a restraining order, so she countered with her own. You can probably find it if you search. In fact, I hope you will.”

“I've got a fellow private eye in Michigan working on Alfred right now. For all we know, he made up the story to con my mom. It happens all the time to widows. They're easy prey.”

I reached for my coffee again. There wasn't any point in arguing. Marco simply didn't want to believe anything good about Alfie.

He sat at the counter with his chin in his palm, thinking. “I'll bet she's still planning on going to the cottage with him, so we'll have to keep our eyes on her.”

“Marco, it's her life. You have to trust her to know what to do.”

“It's Alfred I don't trust.”

“No, it's your mom you don't trust to make a smart decision.”

“A woman in love doesn't think rationally.”

“Wow. I can't believe you said that.” I left him sitting there and went to get dressed.

Half an hour later, freshly showered, dressed, and groomed, I emerged from the bathroom to smell bacon frying. I walked into the kitchen and found my husband serving up a plate of eggs and turkey bacon, my favorite kind, with whole-grain toast on the side. He'd even buttered it.

He put it on the island and placed a fork and napkin beside it. “For you.”

I waited with my arms folded.

Marco came over and put his arms around me. “As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I heard how rude it sounded. Forgive me. I never meant to imply that you ever thought irrationally. Please eat. I know you're hungry.”

With an apology like that and a delicious plate of steaming hot eggs and crispy bacon in front of me, I couldn't stay angry. I sat down and dug in. “Your mom isn't irrational, either, Marco.”

“Let's not argue about it. Enjoy your breakfast. I'm going to take Seedy to the park.”

“Before you go, listen to this. One of the women from Reagan's book club came over yesterday evening to deliver a cherry pie.”

“I wondered where that came from.”

I glanced at the pie on the kitchen counter and saw a big slice missing. “Anyway, she wanted us to know that the Reynoldses, who live on the other side of Mitzi, have security cameras on their front and back yards.”

“You're kidding. Pie
and
information. When Seedy and I get back from our walk, let's pay the Reynoldses a visit.”

•   •   •

An hour later, Marco, Seedy, and I took a stroll down our street, where we spotted Mrs. Reynolds in front of her house watering her flower bed. She wore a blue visor in her permed gray hair, a sweatshirt that said
World's Best Grandma
, jeans, and white sneakers
.

Marco handed me Seedy's leash. “Do your thing, babe.”

“Let's go meet our neighbor, Seedy,” I said loudly, causing the woman to look over. I waved and started across the lawn toward her, only to have Seedy balk and try to hide behind me, just as I'd expected.

“It's okay, sweetie,” I said, crouching down. “This nice woman won't hurt you.”

Mrs. Reynolds shut off the water and walked over to where I was petting my nervous mutt. “Oh, my! The poor little thing has some issues, doesn't she?”

Marco joined me as I rose, cradling my shivering dog in my arms. “Seedy was badly abused before we rescued her. She's getting better, but she has a way to go. I'm Abby, by the way, and this is my husband, Marco.”

“Yes, I've heard all about you,” Mrs. Reynolds said, shaking Marco's hand. “You're famous in this neighborhood. I'm Deloris Reynolds. My husband, Jim, is inside watching golf. Come on in and meet him. He loves dogs.”

Marco and I exchanged glances. This was going exactly as planned.

•   •   •

An hour later we returned home with a plate of cookies and surveillance DVDs of the Reynoldses' front and back yards from the week Dirk was killed. The backyard camera angle, we were told, was wide enough to capture half of their neighbors' yards on each side of theirs. That meant we should be able to tell whether Mitzi left her house from her back door or was down by the pond that Friday evening.

“We're going to have to start refusing these desserts,” Marco said as he put the backyard disk in our DVD player. “My jeans are a little snug.”

“I'll give the cookies and the rest of the cherry pie to Lottie for her sons.”

Marco was fast-forwarding through the footage, so it took a moment for my statement to register. “Maybe not the pie.”

He stopped the recording when he saw the Friday time stamp. Then we sat on the floor in front of the television and watched the grass grow, literally, because nothing else was happening.

“There!” I pointed at the TV as Marco hit
Pause
. “Did you see that?”

He rewound the DVD so we could watch a small figure, barely visible in the dusk of the evening, hurry toward the pond then disappear from view. “Time stamp says seven o'clock,” Marco said so I could note it.

He sped forward until the figure reappeared later and headed toward a house.

“Time stamp at seven fifty-three,” Marco said.

I wrote it down then leaned back on my elbows. “Now do you believe Mitzi is the murderer?”

“It's not conclusive, Abby. She might have been leaving to go to her spa appointment.”

“Come on, Marco. She's hardly going to walk there. It's clear across town.”

“Maybe she was just going to another neighbor's house.”

“Why don't you want to believe Mitzi is guilty?”

“All I'm saying is that it's still too circumstantial to make that judgment call. We need to confront Mitzi with this information and let her explain it.” He checked his watch. “Let's give her a call to see if she's home.”

•   •   •

“Do you have to come
today
?” Mitzi whined when I phoned her. “I'm trying to clean house. My husband is due back this evening.”

“We won't take long. We just need you to verify something.”

She let out a huff. “Fine. But come now. I need to get busy.”

Ten minutes later we were seated on the white leather sofa in her living room with the DVD playing on her TV. Mitzi, wearing a short, colorful print dress and silver sandals that laced up her calves, sat on a navy chair adjacent to us. Marco held the remote control and, at the critical moments, paused the player so Mitzi could recognize the importance of what she was seeing.

As soon as she saw herself scurry up to her back door, cast a furtive glance around, and then dart inside, she stood up and began pointing her finger at us. “You tricked me! You're trying to accuse me of murder!” Then she burst into tears, covering her face with both hands as she sank into the chair. “I didn't kill Dirk. I didn't! I didn't!” She stamped her foot for emphasis.

“Then explain what you were doing heading toward the water around the time he was killed,” Marco said.

Sniffling back tears, she wiped beneath her eyes with her fingertips. “I was on my way to my friend's house on the other side of the pond.”

“Were you going to swim there?” I asked dryly.

She shot me a look of disgust. “Of course not. I circle the pond to get there. But I saw someone crouched down in the reeds and got scared, so I went another way.”

Marco and I exchanged dubious glances, and then Marco asked, “Do you know who it was?”

She shook her head, rubbing her arms as though chilled. “It was getting dark, and I don't see well at night.” She thought a moment, then said, “And his hood was up. He was wearing a gray hooded jacket.”

“Was he facing toward or away from you?” Marco asked.

“I couldn't see his face, so away. Actually, he was looking down and his arms were in the water.” Her eyes grew enormous and in a hushed voice she asked, “Do you think—I mean—is it possible I saw the
killer
?”

Cue the ominous music. I almost rolled my eyes. Mitzi's acting skills left a lot to be desired.

“Did you tell the police?” Marco asked.

She picked at her thumbnail. “I totally forgot about it until now.”

“Didn't it raise your suspicions at the time to see someone crouched in the water at dusk?” I asked.

“Sometimes people go down there to fish. We've got a lot of fish in the pond.”

“But you said he had his hands in the water,” I said.

At Mitzi's blank look, I said, “So even after you heard that Dirk was killed that night around that time, you still didn't let the cops know what you'd seen.”

She rubbed her forehead as though her head hurt. “I've got a lot on my plate. I was robbed. And betrayed. I just wanted to put it all out of my mind.”

“How are you certain it was a man if you didn't see his face?” Marco asked.

“Because of his shape. You know, bulky.”

“Could some of that bulk have been because of the sweatshirt?”

She shrugged.

“Did you notice anyone else with him?” Marco asked.

“No.”

“When you returned, did you look to see if the man was still there?”

“He was gone.”

“Did you notice any unfamiliar cars parked in front of your house that evening?”

“I wasn't paying attention.”

“Why didn't you drive to your friend's house?” I asked.

Mitzi shrugged. “It seemed silly to use my car for such a short distance.”

I wasn't buying it. A woman frightened by a strange man behind her house wouldn't risk walking alone at dark, even going in the opposite direction.

“We'll need your friend's name and contact information,” I said.

She sprang up again, her hands at her waist. “I can't give you that information. You have no right to violate my friend's privacy.”

“You're right, we don't,” Marco said, “but the police do, so who would you rather have them talk to your friend?”

Mitzi began to pace in front of the fireplace, rubbing her forehead as though thinking hard. “Couldn't I just sign a statement saying that's where I was? We could have it notarized. Or I could take a lie detector test.”

“Neither one of those will work,” I said.

She began to pace again, wringing her hands. “I can't believe this is happening to me. My life is falling apart before my eyes, and all because of that idiot Dirk. What can I do to get you to believe me?”