The Double Cross (20 page)

I winked. “I’m tougher than I look.”

“I’ll bet you are.” He laughed. “Still, if you get into any trouble, go for the knees. You can take down a two-hundred-pound man with a well-placed kick to the back of the knee.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” I was about to turn away, when I thought of a question. “You knew George pretty well. Didn’t you and Frank used to go hunting with him?”

“Just once. And only for an hour or so. George went home. He said something about Rita needing him, but I think that was an excuse. I don’t think it was his sport.”

“Frank was mad,” I said.

He nodded. “Frank likes to act tough but he spent a lot of time at the Olnhausens’ house, so I know he liked them. He’s not a nice man, certainly not my favorite, but he wouldn’t kill George, if that’s what you’re after.”

“Do you have any idea who
would
want to kill him?”

Pete frowned. “Not an idea in the world. Can’t imagine it’s Rita. A marriage has its ups and downs, but I can’t imagine anyone killing over it. Especially when you can just leave.” He smiled a sad smile.

“You seem lonely without your wife, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“I guess I am. My wife and I, we didn’t have any kids, so it was just the two of us, a couple of hunting dogs, and whatever stray cat she took to feeding. She didn’t work outside the home until a couple of months before she left, so she was always there. I guess I got used to it.”

“Have you heard from her?”

“Not a word. Don’t expect to. She changed. She was getting these headaches, didn’t want to cook or clean anymore. Didn’t even want to bake, and she used to love to bake. She got some medication for the headaches, and I thought that would help, but I don’t really know. There came a day when she didn’t want to be with me anymore,” he said. “You would think that after twenty-five years of marriage you could count on a person.” He kicked at the dirt for a moment. He seemed like the type of man who was fading from the American landscape: strong, silent, hardworking, but uncomfortable with his emotions.

“I’m sorry, Pete. I really am.”

“I perked up for a minute when I met your friend Bernie. I thought she was a nice lady, even with all the marriages she’s had, though I guess she preferred George to me.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I walked into the house the morning George died, and he was crying. He said Bernie being here had brought back so many memories. He kept saying, ‘Where has the time gone?’ He was hurting. Then I heard they went on that picnic in the woods. I have to say, I was a bit disappointed in your friend about that. I don’t agree with going after a married man.”

Barney strained at my grip on his collar. “I better put him in the house,” I said.

“And I need to get started on the last coat in the dining room,” Pete said. “I need to do a lot of manual labor to work off that lunch the ladies made yesterday. And maybe the one they’ll make today, if I’m lucky.”

“Good problem to have,” I said. “Much better than mine.” I looked at my keys and sized up the day I had ahead of me.

CHAPTER 29

The address Carrie had given me wasn’t for the daughter’s home. It was an office space in a white frame house just off the main street of Saratoga Springs. The town, on the southern tip of the Adirondacks, had been a spa when mineral springs were first developed in the area in the nineteenth century. It retains much of the elegance of that era, making it everything that Winston is not—a thriving community with plenty of tourists and a strong arts population—and exactly the sort of place that could support the kind of bed-and-breakfast / quilt-shop combo that George and Rita had envisioned. Though maybe it was too close to the daughter they didn’t seem to get along with.

I parked the car down the street and walked slowly toward the entrance. It finally hit me that I was likely to be the first person to tell this woman that her father had been murdered. It wasn’t the sort of news I was anxious to deliver.

In the window was a large, beautifully hand-painted sign that read THE HEALING ARTS, as well as several small paintings, a few clay pots, and a large quilt. There was a happy, casual, handmade look to the entrance that made me smile. I didn’t even know Joi, but I already liked her more than I liked her parents.

“Joi Olnhausen?” I asked a large, older woman who stood just inside the door.

“Not me,” she said. “Her.” She pointed toward a woman of about thirty-five, so much like Rita that I was surprised I hadn’t spotted her right away.

“I’m Joi. Not Olnhausen but Percival. Olnhausen’s my maiden name.”

“I’m Nell Fitzgerald. I need to talk to you about something personal. Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”

Joi looked at me. “I don’t keep a lot of secrets and I haven’t used Olnhausen for nearly fifteen years, so whatever you have to say can’t be that personal.”

“It’s about your father.”

“What about him?”

“Have you spoken to your mother?”

“Not recently. What’s this about?”

“I really think you should call your mother.”

“I’d rather you told me whatever it is you’re trying not to tell me,” she said.

I hesitated. It wasn’t my place to tell her, but she needed to know. “I have some bad news. He died yesterday.”

“That must be why your mother called,” the other woman said.

Joi sat down in a desk chair. “What happened?”

“I’m not exactly sure. What we know so far is that he was shot with a hunting rifle.”

“Was it an accident?”

I shook my head.

“He was murdered?”

“It looks that way.”

“Are you from the Winston Police?” Joi asked. “I heard they moved to Winston.”

“No. I’m just a friend . . . An acquaintance.” I struggled to find the most accurate description. “I know your parents.”

Joi made a weak smile. “Not the warmest people, are they?”

The other woman jumped up. “I’ll make some tea for everyone. And I think I have some cookies in back.” She directed me toward her chair. “Have a seat, Nell.”

I did as I was told and waited for Joi to speak. Though it was my nature to jump in and start talking, I was beginning to learn that it was better to sit back and let the other person lead the conversation. If I asked a lot of questions, I might get the answers I needed, but if I let Joi take the lead, she would tell me what she wanted me to know. Maybe it wouldn’t be as much direct information, but what she wanted to tell me, and in what order, would say a lot about her.

Joi sat quietly for a while. There were no tears, but the color had drained from her face. Every few minutes she would gasp slightly, as if she were taking the news in deeper and deeper, feeling the shock each time.

Finally she turned toward me. “My parents and I haven’t been close, but you seem to have figured that out or you wouldn’t have come.”

“Your mother called yesterday,” I said, referring to what her office mate had mentioned.

“I didn’t call her back. I haven’t heard from my parents for nearly three years. Maybe a Christmas card or a gift certificate when my kids had birthdays, but no visits, no calls. Then two months ago my father phoned, and yesterday my mother.” She stared off into space. Her face was a younger version of her mother’s, but her eyes were soft and kind. I could see George in her eyes.

“You said your dad called.” I was hoping to bring her back from the quiet, sad place she had retreated to. “Did he come to visit?” I suddenly remembered the gas station receipt from Saratoga Springs I’d found in Rita’s car.

She shook her head. “No. They never came to visit, either of them. I don’t even know why he called. He said he just wanted to see how we were. Richard, the kids, and me. I told him we were fine, living our quiet, peaceful life. The kind of life he and my mother hated.” She laughed a little. “I told him we just had a huge donation to the arts center and we were going to expand to include kids with disabilities.”

“What do you do here?”

“We bring the arts to at-risk children. You know, kids who are getting involved in petty crimes, for example. We work with local artists—there are tons in this area. They teach the kids pottery or painting or woodworking, whatever they can. It gives the kids something to focus on, something to get excited about. We’ve been doing it for about ten years, my husband and I and a few volunteers. We love it. We’ve even had a few kids go on to careers in the arts.”

“That’s really wonderful. It must have made your parents proud of you.”

She laughed. “They thought I’d married beneath me and moved to the backwoods. That’s what they said on my wedding day. Can you imagine? Richard is a glassblower. He makes the most beautiful bowls and vases.” She pointed to a shelf with half a dozen glass objects with art deco shapes and intricate patterns. “Once Richard became established, they came around, I guess. But when I told them we were opening an arts center, to give back to the community, they said we were wasting our lives. Helping people is wasting our lives.” She shook her head, as if still unable to believe her parents’ words.

“They must have changed their minds,” I said after a minute. “You said you got a large donation. Was it over a hundred thousand dollars?”

She took a deep breath. “Why? Are you saying they gave it?”

“I think so. They’ve made several large donations in the last few months. One was to an organization like yours. I’d have to check, but I think it’s a pretty good guess that this was the place.”

Joi sat back in her chair, tears rolling down her eyes. “I didn’t even bother to call her back,” she said.

Mary came back into the room, with tea and cookies. The three of us sat in silence. Mary and I drank our tea. Tears finally came to Joi’s face and she buried her head in her hands and cried.

Whatever Rita and George had done to alienate their daughter, she was still their daughter and her grief was painful to watch. Mary and I engaged in one of those “nice weather we’re having” conversations to give her as much privacy as we could. After about twenty minutes, Joi gulped down her tea, which had probably gotten cold, and stood up.

“I need to make a call, and then if you don’t mind, I wonder if you could drive me to my parent’s place. I’ve never been there and I’m not sure I could find it right now.”

“I’m happy to,” I said. “Would you like me to call your mother and let her know we’re coming?”

“No. I’m not sure she would want me there.”

“That can’t be true,” Mary said.

“You don’t know my mother,” Joi said quietly.

CHAPTER 30

I was afraid that I would spend the trip to Winston listening to Joi cry, but as we drove, she began telling me about her husband and kids, the work they did at the center, and life in Saratoga Springs. It was hard to believe that someone who looked so much like Rita could be so different from her, but she was everything Rita was not—warm, kind, and open. She didn’t ask me who I was or how I knew her parents, and I wasn’t anxious to fill her in, so I just listened, hoping that she would eventually stumble onto the topic I was dying to learn about. But she didn’t. When we were more than halfway to Winston and she still hadn’t brought up her childhood, I ventured in as gently as I could.

“Were you raised in the area?”

“No,” she answered. “California mostly. We lived in Napa until I was thirteen; then we moved around a bit. Two years in London, three in New York.”

“Sounds glamorous.”

“I suppose it does, but it was more lonely than anything. My parents weren’t really interested in being parents. They sort of forgot about me a lot.”

“Were they in the wine business?”

She looked confused.

“I just thought . . . because you lived in Napa,” I explained.

“Oh no. They were in lots of things. They dabbled.”

“Like what?”

Joi sighed and looked out the window. “I hope my kids look back on their childhood with happy memories. I think that’s why I got into the center. I wanted all the children I could find to look back on their childhoods with happy memories.”

I nodded. I could already tell that Joi was wishing she had reconnected with her parents while she had the chance.

“I think your father had regrets,” I said, hoping it might lead her to some insights into her parents’ marriage.

“I know he did,” was her quiet response.

And then she went back to talking about her husband and kids, the weather, the report on CNN of a tornado in the Midwest—anything not to talk about her parents. That was okay, I told myself. She was grieving. Besides, I would have other chances once we were at the inn.

At least I hoped so. The moment we arrived, Joi seemed stunned into silence. She walked around the grounds, checking out the classroom and the shop, before coming back to the car as if she were ready to go home.

“What is this place?”