Pink Balloons and Other Deadly Things (Mystery Series - Book One) (8 page)

“There was a clear thumbprint on a plastic boomerang we found near a willow tree.”

My fantasy sprang to mind. “What do you think I did? Boomeranged Erica to death with a child’s toy?”

“I didn’t say it was the murder weapon.”

“I picked it up. I told you I’d been in the yard.”

“Good you did. Because there was detritus on the floor mats of your car that matched the kind found on the grounds. There was also blood,” he said, as an afterthought.

I could barely get the word out. “Blood?”

“Not Ms. Vogel’s. You must’ve cut yourself on the brambles. Probably weren't even aware of it.”

I recalled the sharp edge of the boomerang. “How could you know...?” And then I remembered. When I had applied to teach a night course at Tenafly high school several years back, I’d had to get fingerprinted at the police station. Routine for any town employee.

“I hope you’re not planning a vacation. It’d be best if you stuck around. And I hope you took my advice and got in touch with a lawyer.”

I shook my head, not trusting my voice. How could I explain to this detective that people like me don't know criminal lawyers? We don't even know other people who know criminal lawyers. Do they list them in the yellow pages? I wondered. I could picture the ad;
Blank and Blank, experienced trial attorneys—-rapists and murderers, our specialty.

He snapped his notebook closed. “Up to you. Your car will be returned to you this evening. Need a ride home?”

High up on my list, a ride in a police car. “I’ve borrowed a car. I think I’ll stay here for a while.”

He didn’t leave right away, just stood watching me from under hooded lids.

“I’m not going to jump, if that's what you’re afraid of,” I muttered, unable to stand the scrutiny.

“Didn’t think you were the type. Take it easy now.” And he sauntered back the way we had come.

Take it easy?

I sat on the wooden bench the town provides for tourists and tried to remember what our street had looked like that afternoon. I thought about Sue Tomkins. Nothing ever escapes Sue's notice. Except, of course, I thought wryly, what time she’d decided to walk the dog last Saturday. But if there had been a car or van or truck on our street, Sue would surely remember. I knew Brodsky had questioned her, but maybe she’d been too rattled about the murder and hadn’t been thinking clearly. Making a mental note to call her, I watched the sea gulls as they floated on the wind, wishing I had their wings, wishing I could absorb by osmosis the peace they exuded.

After a while I walked back to Meg’s car and drove home.

MATT WAS SUBDUED when I walked in the door, failing to greet me with his usual hug. I kissed him on the top of the head and headed for the kitchen, calling over my shoulder that we were having lamb chops and he should go wash up and set the table. It was important for the kids to believe their lives were going on as usual.

“Mom, bunch of messages on the machine,” Allie yelled from upstairs.

“Didja remember mint jelly?” Matt shouted from the bathroom.

Well, that was normal.

One of Rich’s legacies to our children: Cranberry sauce goes with chicken, gherkins with brisket, mint jelly with lamb.
Shouldn’t take a genius to remember to buy them together, right, sweetheart?

Luckily, fortune was smiling on me and I found a jar of mint jelly nestled behind a box of Kraft’s macaroni and cheese. I put it on the table in the dining area of our combination kitchen-family room. We practically live in this one sunny room. It’s become a ritual, me cooking, Allie sprawled out on our deep-cushioned chintz couch, reading, while Matt does his homework at the table. It makes for a kind of togetherness and sharing that had eluded us in our more spacious quarters.

The small dining room serves as a home office for me. No more formal dinner parties, entertaining buyers. I don’t miss giving the parties, and I don’t miss the high-powered money talk. On occasion I admit I do miss my marble-tiled bathroom with the built-in Jacuzzi, but only when it’s been one of those days that make you want to crawl back into the womb. Like today.

I pressed the playback button on my answering machine and began cutting up vegetables for a salad.

“Carrie, honey?”

Meg was back.

“You still need my car, or have the storm troopers released yours? Give a call. I’m at your disposal day or night.”

Relief flooded through me at the sound of that comforting voice. I was about to call her when the next message played.

“Phyllis Lutz, Ms. Carlin. Just wanted you to know I was up all night with a migraine. I don’t think you’re helping me. I’m seeing Dr. Heller again today. I'll call you if I decide not to keep my Friday appointment.”

I heard the click and waited for the next message. It was Vickie, asking if she could set up another appointment; would I please get back to her. Just before the tape cut off, I was certain I heard her father’s voice, certain I heard him shouting “goddamned tramp.” I resolved to call Vickie back as soon as I’d spoken to Meg.

The minute I heard Meg’s voice, my suspicions about her and Rich vanished. “Meg?”

“Carrie, hi. How're you doing?”

“Meg, I’m going to need a—-a criminal lawyer. You know anyone who knows one?”

A pause. “They haven’t charged you, have they?”

Was there an unspoken yet in that pause?

“No, but Brodsky was asking me more questions. And he keeps advising me to get one. I’m scared. I think I should at least get some advice.”

“Lemme make some calls. I’ll get back to you.”

“Okay.” I felt like a child, dumping my mess into a competent adult’s hands. “Meg?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you’re back.” I could feel her warmth through the phone.

“Keep the faith, Kid.”

THE NEXT AFTERNOON Brodsky showed up at my office again. He was standing in front of my door when I came out of the elevator. I’d just returned from lunch at Meg's. She’d given me a pep talk and the names of two lawyers she’d obtained from a friend, and I was feeling better. Until I saw him. His shoulders were hunched inside his loose brown jacket, and there was a fine white line around his mouth that didn't look as though a smile could get past it.

“We seem to have a missing person on our hands,” he said, skipping the preliminaries.

“Excuse me?”

He moved aside as I inserted the key into the lock. “Any idea where your husband is?”

“At his house or his office, I presume.”

“When did you last see him?”

Did he know what had transpired between us? “Yesterday.”

Brodsky's face was impassive. I couldn’t read his expression.

I cleared my throat. “I thought you’re not a missing person unless you’ve been missing for at least a couple of days.”

“Under ordinary circumstances that would be true.”

Was I being accused of kidnapping now? “Maybe he had a rendezvous,” I muttered with an edge to my voice. “Not even snow, nor sleet, nor the murder of his intended will keep our Richard from his appointed bed.”

He was scowling as he held the door open for me. “This isn’t a joke.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

He followed me into my office and sat in my client chair. “Mind if I sit?”

I wondered why he bothered to ask. I shrugged. “What makes you think Rich is missing?”

He stretched out his long legs and loosened his tie. “He was supposed to be at the precinct this morning. He never showed. When we checked, it looked as though he hadn’t been home. His car’s still in the lot.”

That
was
strange. I began to feel uneasy.

“No one seems to know where he is.”

I stayed on my feet. It was a power thing. “Ask Dot Shea. She makes sure he checks in with her twenty times a day.”

“She didn’t show up for work today either. And she doesn’t answer her phone.”

I couldn’t see Rich involved with Dot, but I said it anyway. “Well, there’s your answer. Check the motels.”

“Timing’s lousy.”

“We’re talking about a man who left his family on Christmas Eve. He flunked Timing a year and a half ago.”

“Want to tell me about your meeting?”

` I hesitated. “I wanted him to talk to the kids. All this is very frightening to them. So I went to the office, and...”

“And?” he prompted.

I could tell he knew about the fight. Gus must’ve given him an earful. “We had a...disagreement.”

Something faintly related to a smile pushed its way past the white line. “I hear it was the War of the Roses.”

“I went there because I thought he might come up with something useful. Things got out of control.”

“Playing detective?”

He was amused in that damned superior male way. I wanted to punch him.

“Listen, I’m not stupid. You people think I’m guilty. If I don’t find out who killed Erica, you’ll probably throw me in jail.”

“Every time I come to this office, it’s not to arrest you, Mrs. Burn--” He glanced at my nameplate. “Which do you prefer? Burnham or Carlin?”

“Why don’t you just call me Carrie?” I said. “It works with both names.”

Method to my madness. You can’t call anyone you believe to be a murderer by their given name.

He shrugged and said awkwardly, “Well—-Carrie, it doesn’t look good, your husband disappearing just now.”

“Not good for whom?”

“He was advised to stay put. The fact that he took off...” He let the sentence hang.

From out of the corner of my eye, I watched him as he absentmindedly spun the spiral I keep on my desk for clients who don’t know what to do with their hands. “He’s probably not thinking clearly. When I saw him, he was pretty upset.”

“Aren’t you?”

“I wasn’t in love with Erica.”

The spiral spun around and around. “Did you know about the row in the minister’s study?”

“Rich had a row with the minister?”

“With his intended.”

At least all hadn't been peachy-keen in paradise. “Over what?”

“He wanted her to sign a prenuptial.”

“No kidding!” So Rich hadn’t entirely lost his marbles.

“The minister said they almost came to blows. She nearly called off the wedding.”

I was delighted to hear it. But they had apparently worked things out, because there’d been no mention of agreements, signed or unsigned, in the phone conversation I’d overheard. I said so.

“So you don’t think he did it?”

Shocked, I asked, “Do you?”

He shrugged. “I keep my options open.”

“Rich isn’t a violent man.”

“Moment of passion. In a rage.”

I shook my head. “He’s not a passionate man either.”

“Does he drink? Do drugs?”

“Not drugs.”

“But he drinks.”

“Well, yeah, sometimes.”

“Excessively?”

“He’s not an alcoholic, if that’s what you mean. He never loses control---” Then I stopped, because I recalled a night a month before Rich had moved out.

We’d gone to dinner for our anniversary at the Union Square Café on Sixteenth Street, in the city. It was a place we reserved for special occasions. I gave Rich a sleek Rado watch I’d saved up for months to buy to replace his old Seiko. He got an odd expression on his face and asked if I’d mind if he returned it, he didn’t need a watch.

“Rich, you’ve had that Seiko forever. The Rado is so---”

“This isn't my Seiko. It's a Rolex.”

Dumbstruck, I stared at his wrist. “A Rolex? Where’d you---”

“A customer I did a favor for.”

It must have been quite a favor. I should have left the restaurant then. I should have left him then. But I didn’t. I just sat there trying to believe that story, trying not to think about the emerald earrings Erica had been flashing around the office.

He handed me my gift—-a pearl pin that looked like old teeth. I gritted my teeth and said it was beautiful. Beyond that we hardly spoke. Rich was drinking heavily. Heavily into denial, I kept a smile on my face, but it felt painted on, as though I were a wooden puppet. I don’t remember what I ordered. Whatever it was, I’m sure it was delicious, and I’m equally certain I didn’t eat it.

It was snowing and very cold as we walked back to the car. Rich offhandedly dropped the news that he'd be away on business over the Christmas holidays. I stopped walking, my heart gone as cold as the snowflakes on my lashes.

“On Christmas? You have business meetings on Christmas?”

Everything came together then. The Rolex, Rich’s frequent “business” weekends, the marked change in the quality of our sex life, Erica's late-night calls needing Rich’s advice on some design or other, the time we’d gone to a party and she’d taken his arm-—very possessively I’d thought, for an employee-—to introduce him to a buyer. When I’d protested, Rich had put me off, saying Erica was a “touchy-feely” kind of person, that she did that with everyone. So on that snowy night in November, I asked Rich if he was taking touchy-feely Erica with him. When he didn’t answer, I knew. I threw myself at him, my fists pounding on his chest while tears of fury and despair gushed from my eyes. The next thing I knew I was in a snow-bank, with my head a quarter of an inch away from a lamp post.

“Remember something?”

My reverie was abruptly terminated by Brodsky’s quiet voice. “It’s not significant. He didn’t mean...it was—-brought on by unusual circumstances.”

“So are most murders. Want to tell me about it?”

Rich had accused me of murder. Why was I so reluctant to implicate him? “No,” I said. “I don’t.”

“Okay.” He got to his feet. As he passed the computer desk, he paused, fingering a set of sensors hanging off one of the hooks. “What’re these for?”

“They measure EDR-—electrodermal response. Level of stress. Kind of like a lie detector.”

“Looks like we’re kind of in the same business.”

“No. What I do
reduces
stress.”

This time he did smile. “Think about what I said. You don’t owe this man a thing anymore.”

I remained silent.

“And for the record,” he added, “while I believe you wished Ms. Vogel drawn and quartered, I don't believe you did anything about it.”