The Double Cross (24 page)

“Did you know that Bernie and my father were an item?” Joi asked.

“I’d heard something about that,” I said. “What’s she been telling you?”

“She said they were practically engaged.”

I looked at Bernie. That was the first time I’d heard that.

“We were young. We were romantic,” Bernie said, blushing. “It was foolish to take it seriously, but you take everything seriously at seventeen.”

Joi smiled. “I remember. It’s amazing how we think our lives are going to turn out.”

“Your father was going to be an actor. I was going to be a dancer.” Bernie laughed. “That didn’t happen.”

“And Rita?” I asked.

“All she wanted was glamour, excitement, and lots of money,” Bernie said.

I could see Joi’s face fill with sadness. “I guess she got what she wanted,” she said, and took a sip of wine.

I looked around the room. It had been cleaned and painted, the hunting lodge feeling was gone, and the drop cloths had been taken off the furniture. It was a significant improvement from earlier in the week but it was still a long way from glamour and excitement. How did someone Joi described as getting everything she wanted end up here?

It was a question that seemed, at least for the moment, not to trouble her daughter.

Joi was more interested in Bernie. “Why did you lose touch with them?” she asked.

I waited. Bernie blinked her eyes slowly, as if thinking of the answer. “Life,” she said quietly. “Life just happened.” She got up. “Excuse me, dears, but I think I need to lie down for a bit. I don’t party into the night the way I used to.”

“Unless there’s a quilt that has to be finished,” I said.

She smiled. “That’s different. That’s not to be missed.” She patted Joi on the head and walked into the entryway, up the stairs, and out of view.

Joi turned to me. “She’s the nicest person. I can completely see my dad falling for her.”

“But you can’t see him falling for your mom,” I said, finishing what I assumed was her thought.

“I suppose you never know what goes on between two people,” she said.

“Were your parents in love?” It was none of my business, but from the little time I’d had to get to know Joi, I figured she wouldn’t mind.

“Desperately,” she said. “They couldn’t bear to be apart.”

I was really walking out of bounds with my next question but I had to ask. “Then why does your mother seem so indifferent to his death?”

Joi seemed to be angry for a flicker of a second, but the look was enough to make it clear that she was Rita’s daughter. I thought she was about to tell me off, until she looked away and I slowly realized the anger was directed at her mother. “She must have changed,” she said quietly. “My mother used to be terrified that she’d lose my father. Almost irrationally. She was jealous of every woman he spoke to.”

“Did she have reason to be? I mean . . .” As the words came out of my mouth, I realized what I was about to say. How do you ask someone if her father, her recently murdered father, had cheated on his wife?

I didn’t have to finish the thought. Joi clearly knew what I meant and seemed to take no offense. “I never once saw my father be anything but solicitous toward my mother, but if her feelings for him have changed, then maybe . . .”

When she didn’t finish, I looked to where she was looking and saw Rita enter the room with Frank at her side. She seemed a little unsteady on her feet but she came over to Joi and me, smiling. Frank stood there, watching for a moment, then turned and left the room.

“Nell, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your interfering the way you have.” Rita stopped and looked suddenly stricken. “Oh dear, I hope that didn’t sound mean. I didn’t want it to sound mean.”

“It didn’t.” I gestured for her to sit down and she did.

“Joi and Bernie and I had a lovely talk this afternoon, didn’t we, Joi?”

“We did. Bernie told me wonderful stories about when she and Mom were small children, about how Grandma taught them how to quilt.”

I turned to Rita, surprised. “So you do know how to quilt.”

“Heavens, no! I was absolutely the worst at it. My mother got so annoyed with me. She tried to teach me to make a dress, then an apron, then a pillow. Quilting was her last shot at teaching me how to sew.” She laughed, and for the first time seemed relaxed. “The next year she tried, and failed, to teach me how to cook.”

“But Bernie must have enjoyed it,” I said. “She’s a wonderful quilter now.”

Rita grabbed my hand and held it tight. Her hand was cold but her personality was the warmest it had been since we’d met, so I tried to focus on that. “Bernie took to quilting like she was born to it,” she said. “I think my mother wanted to adopt her. I was always such a disappointment to her. I couldn’t wait to get out of the house.”

“Grandma was wonderful,” said Joi, sounding defensive.

Rita nodded. “Everything you are you got from your grandmother,” she said. She looked at her daughter. “Thank God you didn’t take after me.”

Suddenly I felt like an intruder. I excused myself and walked toward the kitchen, hoping to locate Frank, but he was nowhere to be found. Helen was arranging crackers in a circle around the edge of a plate so that each one was equally overlapped by the next. It was painstaking, precise, and, to me, silly work, but she appeared to take pleasure in it.

“I haven’t seen much of Frank this evening,” I said, trying to restrain myself from taking a cracker and completely ruining her display.

“I never know where he goes.” She reached into the box and grabbed another handful of crackers, discarding any that were slightly chipped.

“You must enjoy doing some things together. After all, you did take the class as a couple.”

She shrugged. “Frank took the class because George asked him to. At least that’s what Frank told me. I took the class because . . .” She paused. “I took it because I enjoy helping others and George seemed so concerned about having enough students.”

“At least it gives you a chance to take a walk in the woods with your husband once in a while,” I said.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Susanne sends you all out scouting for items. Like she did the other day . . .”

“The day George was killed? Yes, I suppose we were all out getting embellishments for our quilts. I stayed close to the inn. I don’t like to walk too far. Bad knees.” She pointed to her knees as if offering some kind of proof. “I have no idea where Frank walked. He isn’t the type to stay by his wife’s side.”

“So he wasn’t with you?”

“As I’ve said, I don’t know who he was with.” She picked up the plate of crackers, which, despite her hard work, slid into a jumble in the middle of the plate as she lifted it. “People are hungry,” she said, and walked out of the kitchen.

“Interesting,” I said to myself.

“What’s interesting?” Joi walked in just as the word came out of my mouth.

“The characters your parents got to take the class. Not one of them is a quilter.”

“They all seem to like it now,” she said. “I was talking to the neighbor . . .”

“Pete.”

“Yes. He said he’s enjoyed himself. He thinks it’s a wonderful way for a woman to spend her time.”

“He said that?” It was almost word for word what George said the day we arrived.

“Strange, when you consider that he took Susanne’s class,” Joi added. “He’s harmless in an old-fashioned sort of way, I suppose. Not like Frank.”

I laughed because, for a second, I thought she was kidding. “Frank’s not really a modern guy.”

She seemed genuinely surprised by my assessment. “He went on and on about how my mother could do anything. Those words exactly. Just because my dad is gone doesn’t mean my mother can’t do whatever she needs to do. Sweet, really.”

“Which kind was George? Old-fashioned or sweet?”

She smiled. “Both, in his own way. He and my mother were business partners, so I suppose he felt there was no such thing as woman’s work.”

“What business was that?”

Joi ignored my question and instead grabbed a bottle of wine. “I promised my mother I’d bring her a glass.”

“You seem to be getting along.”

She nodded. “Bernie helped a lot. Talking about my dad helped.”

“Maybe she’s realizing what you’ve accomplished by raising your family and running your own business. As you say, your parents did the same, so maybe she appreciates how hard it is for you.”

“Maybe.”

“But of course yours is not-for-profit,” I tried again, “and they were in business to make money. Real estate, right?”

“What does it matter now?”

She left me standing in the kitchen with no wine, no crackers, and lots of questions.

CHAPTER 37

The next morning I got up early and walked through the house. A few remnants of last night’s party still remained—paper cups on the dining room table and a bowl of stale chips next to a half-finished bottle of wine. Unlike my grandmother, I thought there was something very loving about throwing George a farewell party. Even though I hadn’t known him well, it seemed to me like the sort of thing he would have liked. I could see Eleanor’s point about the timing, however. George was still lying in a morgue, and his killer was still on the loose.

I made myself some coffee and was trying to figure out what to do next when my answer came walking into the kitchen.

“You’re up early,” Bernie said cheerfully, a little too cheerfully.

“Too much on my mind to sleep, I guess.”

“You’re trying to get me off the hook for George’s murder,” she said. Then she kissed me on the cheek. “I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. You really are a good friend.”

“You’re not.”

She seemed stunned. “What did I do?”

“You haven’t told me everything. And if I’m going to help you, then you have to tell me everything that has happened between you and George.”

She smiled. “He and I knew each other for more than fifty years.”

“Not entirely true, Bernie. You knew him almost fifty years ago. A lot has happened to you both since then,” I said. “I think you’ve gotten caught up in some romantic fairy tale, and it’s getting you in a lot of trouble. I adore you, you know that, but if you don’t start telling the whole truth, I won’t be able to help you.”

She nodded. “Let’s go for a walk.”

The woods were even quieter than the house. Bernie linked her arm in mine as we walked. We talked about the fresh country air, the deer that occasionally crossed our path, and the sound of birds chirping in the early spring morning. I knew if I let her direct the conversation, we’d get nowhere.

“McIntyre found blood on one of your blouses,” I finally said.

She nodded. “I knew he was searching the room, so I thought if he were any kind of a good investigator he’d find it.”

“He’s also going to find out whose blood is on it.”

“He will,” she said calmly.

“Bernie.” I stopped and looked at her. “It’s George’s blood, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Which brings me to another question.”

“I know it does, Nell, but I promise you I did not kill George.”

“It doesn’t look good. At least it won’t to McIntyre.”

“I can see that.”

She took a deep breath and seemed almost defeated. She found a large rock nearby and sat. I waited because I could see that whatever she was going to tell me was difficult and I knew, whether she did or not, that she would have to tell the story to McIntyre before this mess was behind her.

“I know everyone thinks I’m foolish for believing in my intuition, but I really had a feeling something was wrong with George.”

“I guess you were right about that.”

“No.” She seemed stressed by the idea that she might have predicted George’s death. “No, I didn’t see him dying. I saw something. I don’t know,” she said. “It’s like the feeling I have, watching you standing against that tree, that you shouldn’t go into the woods. I don’t think it’s safe.”