Pink Balloons and Other Deadly Things (Mystery Series - Book One) (14 page)

“We're not shooting for psychedelic, Jerry.”

“Who needs it?” he muttered sulkily and turned off, turning all the lights red. No amount of discussion could entice him to focus, so I removed the sensors and sent him out to the reception area to wait for his mother, with a note to have her call me.

Jerry and Vickie back to back are enough to send me shrieking to Meg’s Place for my chamomile fix.

Not tonight, though. I didn’t want to see Meg tonight. I didn’t want to see Meg ever.

Vickie came promptly at eight, looking like Isadora Duncan, all legs and flowing chiffon. I forced myself to concentrate on preparing her for the interview. We spent part of the session working on relaxation exercises. Then I hooked her up to the computer for some alpha-theta training, while I gave her positive affirmations to build self-confidence. Alpha-theta is the dreamy meditative brain state in which the person training becomes somewhat suggestible. Vickie closed her eyes, and while she listened to the beeps from the software and the soft music in the background, I began talking.

“While you’re relaxing, Vickie, say to yourself, ‘I feel confident. I’m intelligent, attractive, clever and determined. I can accomplish whatever I set out to do. I’m in control of my life. I can make good things happen to me. I can overcome any obstacle and defeat any problem. I am a winner and I am taking charge of my life.’” I stopped as I saw Vickie smile and mouth the words
“I am a winner, I’m taking charge of my life.”
I allowed her to sit there for fifteen minutes repeating the positive “self-talk” over and over. Then I took off the sensors, and for the final few minutes, guided her into a visualization of herself dressed in a smart black suit, wowing the powers that be with her expertise. When we finished, she hugged me. It was one of those experiences that make me feel really good about what I do.

I didn’t check my phone messages till I was ready to leave. When I did, I wished I hadn’t. There were two messages from television reporters and one from the
Phoenix
reporter, all wanting to know if I knew where Rich was, asking me to get back to them before talking to anyone else, and hinting at vague rewards if I would be cooperative. It had gotten out that I was the one who found Dot's body, and the vultures had begun to smell a sensational story.

There were also two hang-ups and a terse message from Meg.

“Carrie, please stop by after work. The chamomile's brewing.”

What was she trying to pull?

It was dark when I locked up and crept out of the building. My cloak of numbness had dissipated. I no longer felt anesthetized, and as I walked to my car I kept looking over my shoulder, expecting a TV crew or a killer—-I wasn't sure which would be worse--to come crashing through the bushes. Every footstep, every shadow, caused heart palpitations. As I passed Meg's Place I saw her standing behind the counter, laughing with her customers. I started to run, putting distance between us.

Bits and pieces tumbled around in my head, jogged loose by my pounding feet. Rich...Meg...Brodsky’s hand on mine, making me shiver when I wasn't cold. And Meg. My
friend
Meg, who had turned out to be as great a liar and cheat as my husband. My fury grew as I remembered the names she’d invented for him.

“Lock up your daughters, your wives, your goats,” she’d giggle, when Rich came to pick up the kids. “Here comes Dick the Prick,” or “Mighty Louse,” or her favorite, “Superphallus.” She, who probably knew as well as I, the size and shape of that organ. How could she have looked me in the eye!

Why hadn’t I asked Brodsky when I had the chance what the fraud was that Meg's husband had been convicted of, and what Meg’s part in it had been? I’d been so stunned, my brain had shut down. But now it made sense, her knowing criminal lawyers. And the logical conclusion, if Meg had lied about her past and about knowing Rich, what else had she lied about? And why?

I arrived breathless at my car and fumbled with the lock. A throbbing pain began in my temples and spread over my eyes.
Stop!
I told myself as I tried to breathe it away. But the pain and the thoughts that were causing it wouldn’t let up. What could Erica or Dot possibly have had on Meg? Nude photos, maybe? Not worth killing over. Meg didn’t have the kind of career or relationship with a man that could be affected by that type of exposure. What, then? Was there some sinister connection between Meg and Rich? Had Erica and Dot known something so terrible they’d been murdered for it? Could blackmail have been the motive? In spite of what I’d told Brodsky about Rich being nonviolent, I was having second thoughts. Rich is a coward, and like most cowards he can be a bully. A cornered bully is a dangerous animal.

I got in the car and pressed the button that locked all the doors.

Maybe they'd known something that could incriminate Meg in her husband’s illegal activities. Maybe Rich had been trying to protect her. Against his own fiancée? Improbable. Maybe he'd been involved in something with her and her husband.
But Rich isn't a killer,
my mind kept insisting. After living with him for eighteen years, I’d know that about him. Wouldn't I?

Something that had happened months before Rich left came back to me.

He'd come home late. Nothing unusual, at that particular juncture in our marriage. I'd quit hassling him about it.

I was already in bed, absorbed in the newest Janet Evanovich. The cats were curled up against me. Horty lay at my feet, gnawing happily on a rawhide chew stick. When he heard Rich’s footsteps, he slunk off the bed and retreated to a safe position behind the TV set.

Rich was in a bad mood. “Get those stinking cats off the bed!” was his affectionate greeting as he grabbed a handful of comforter and shook it. Lucie and Placido streaked off the bed and out of the room. José stood his ground—-or rather, his bed—-and spit.

“Don't you dare!” I grabbed the cat just before Rich’s hand came down. “Don’t you ever hit one of my animals!”

“I’ve told you, I don't want them on the bed,” he snarled. “Goddamned cats're more important to you than I am.”

“It’s not a competition,” I shot back, provoked into equal nastiness. I stroked José’s ruffled coat, got up and put him outside the room. Horty followed, tail between his legs. I shut the door, determined to make peace.

“What’s the matter, Rich? The cats never used to bother you. What’s going on?”

I thought he wasn’t going to answer. He unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it onto the chair. “Lot on my mind.”

“Can't you tell me?”

He crawled into bed then and laid his head on my breast. I stroked his hair, grateful for the rare moment of intimacy.

“Problem at the plant. I’ll handle it.”

“What kind of problem?”

“Somebody hacked into our system. Industrial espionage. Happens all the time. Never happened to me before, though.”

“Who?” I asked, horrified. “It would have to be somebody on the inside, wouldn’t it?”

I could feel the heat of his anger through his scalp and his voice sounded raspy, almost unrecognizable.

“
Maybe, maybe not. Lots of hackers around today. But if it was somebody on the inside, I'll find out. And when I do, you can bet your life the bastard won't be in a condition to ever do it again!”

At the time it sounded like an idle threat, the kind we all make at one time or another. And I never heard the end of the story, although on several occasions I’d asked. If Rich ever found out if someone in his own company had sabotaged him, he never told me about it.

Recalling his words now, though, I felt chilled. Was it possible Rich could be involved in these horrible killings? And Meg—-was I seriously considering that Meg and Rich were in some sort of conspiracy? Meg, who had been a loving, loyal friend, there for me through the worst crisis of my life. How could I believe she could be involved in something so hideous as murder?

Against my will answers came to me. Meg had lied on more than one occasion. She’d tried to stop me from searching Dot’s apartment. And when I’d insisted, she'd stayed downstairs with the doorman, making sure I went up to the apartment alone.

TINA MOSCONE HAD just dropped off the kids as I pulled into the driveway. She waved when she saw me and drove off. Allie didn’t give me my customary peck on the cheek when I walked in. Horty did, though. Standing on his hind legs, he planted slurpy kisses over my entire face. It was a measure of my sense of abandonment that I was grateful for them.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Allie's tone was accusatory.

“What didn’t I tell you?”

“About Dot.”

I was at a loss. “What’s the matter with you? Meg told you.”

“She didn’t tell us you were the one found her!”

“Well I guess she didn’t think--” I stopped, helpless in the face of her anger.

“Everybody in school was asking us about it. We felt like geeks.”

Meg had said she hadn’t told the kids the worst of it, but why hadn’t she told them my finding the body was the reason I was so upset? Was she trying to shield them, or was there another reason? I was too weary to figure it out. I put my briefcase on the coffee table and sank down on the couch. Placido crawled onto my lap and revved up his motor.

“I'm sorry. I thought she had.”

“How come you went to Dot’s anyway? You couldn't stand her.”

I lied to my daughter. “I thought maybe Dad might be there.” Just what I needed. The third degree in my own living room. She might as well have been Brodsky. “Where's Matt?”

“Upstairs.”

“What’s with him tonight? He’s usually howling for a second dinner when I get home this late.”

No reply.

I dumped Placido onto the floor and got to my feet. The cat stalked away in a manner that would have done his namesake proud. I went to the bar, poured myself a glass of wine, and took a big gulp. “Allie?”

“He got in a fight,” she muttered.

I choked on the wine. “A fight? Matt?” My Mattie’s the least pugnacious ten-year-old male I’ve ever met. He’s a natural born mediator. “Is he okay?”

“Yeah, Mrs. Randolph broke it up.”

“What was it over?”

“I don't know. I—-I think somebody said something...”

About what?” I dreaded the answer. “About what, Allie?”

She squirmed. “Doesn't matter. The kid he was fighting with’s a dork.”

“It matters to me. What was the fight over?”

From the foot of the stairs came Matt’s high childish voice. “He said you did it. ‘Cause you were the only one had a motive.”

I lost the ability to speak or move.

“You didn’t do it, did you, Mom?” Matt’s voice cracked as he spoke, but I heard him loud and clear.

The glass fell from my fingers and shattered on the edge of the bar. I stared at my child who, because of me, had two nasty red bruises just beginning to swell on his cheek and who was asking me this outrageous question. “Mattie,” I gasped. “Oh, Mattie...no!”

He looked at me, then looked at his feet. Allie’s eyes darted from one to the other of us. She started to cry.

“Sorry,” Matt mumbled finally, “I didn't mean---” But as I reached out for him, he backed away. “Where’s Dad? I want Dad to be here!”

I couldn’t take anymore. I made a dash for the stairs. When I got to my room, I locked the door and leaned against it, so totally bereft, I couldn’t stop shivering. I think—-and this includes the day Rich left—-I think seeing the look of doubt and shame in Matt’s eyes was the very lowest point of my entire life.

I heard the doorbell ring, but I didn't have the strength or the will to change position.

“Who is it?” I heard Allie call out.

“It’s Meg, Allie. I want to talk to your mom.”

I wished I were a witch like the Elizabeth Montgomery character in that old sitcom, so I could wiggle my nose and send her to Mars. I opened my door a crack. Horty pushed past it and lay with his nose on my feet.

“I don’t want to see anyone, Allie,” I called in a stage whisper.

Shocked silence. Then: “But Mom, it’s Meg.”

“I know who it is. Tell her to go away!” And I sank down on the floor and buried my face in Horty’s comforting body.

Somehow we all got to bed. I hope the children slept.

I didn’t.

BREAKFAST WAS A SILENT ordeal. I saw the anxiety and confusion etched on those two small faces, but there was nothing I could do to erase it. Serendipitously, both children were going to be away for the week-end, Allie performing with the chorus at a multi-school concert in Boston, and Matt at his friend Jeff’s country place in Putnam Valley. I handed them their overnight bags, hugged them hard, told them to have a wonderful time, and smiled and waved as the car pool pulled away. Then I wandered into the living room and sat at my desk. Life went on, bills had to be paid. I wrote checks for the mortgage and the electricity bill, then sorted through the rest, deciding which could be postponed. My eyes fell on Arthur’s bill, and I grimaced as I wrote a check for two hundred dollars, appending a note that I thought Mirimar's charges were an outrage, that it was his job to call them to task, but that I would agree to part of it if I could pay it off in installments.

Mirimar. Meg and I had never followed through on that. Events had intervened, and I’d forgotten about our plan. Now, whatever investigating was going to get done, was going to get done by me alone.

I glanced at my watch, then back to Mirimar’s itemized bill. Their office was in Fort Lee, about half an hour's drive. The investigator's initials were P.R.

If I rushed, I could get to their office by nine, talk to this guy, and be at my office for my eleven o’clock. Maybe if I could find out what kind of car had been cruising in front of the house that day, I could trace the killer.

When I was combing my hair, the phone rang, but I let the machine get it.

“Carrie, you can’t avoid me forever. Please pick up if you’re there.” Meg’s voice, disturbed, pained. I remembered her performance with the doorman, tears arriving on cue. Boy, had she missed her calling. What an actor!