A Holly, Jolly Murder (19 page)

“Ask the officers to wait at the corner,” I said. “Leaving the hospital without authorization is not a crime. I'd like to talk to her.”

Jorgeson agreed. I hung up, thanked Bea, and drove to the duplex. I knocked on Malthea's door, and when no one answered, pounded on it with my fist until my hand throbbed.

Fern opened her door. “She's gone, Claire.”

“Gone where?”

“I couldn't say.”

I hit the door one last time, then let my hand fall. “Did you pick her up at the hospital?”

“Is that against the law?”

“No,” I said. “May I have a cup of tea?”

“Yes, of course,” she said, gesturing for me to come inside. “Malthea did indeed ask me to fetch her from the hospital. It was rather exciting to wait by the door, the engine racing, my palms perspiring; I felt like I was at the wheel of the getaway car during a bank robbery. I expected her to come running out the door with security officers hot on her heels, but she strolled out to the car and suggested we go home.”

“In street clothes?”

Fern busied herself with the teapot. “Yes, I suppose so. She wasn't wearing one of those gowns that exposes one's privates to all and sundry.”

“Gilda's doing?” I persevered.

“Gilda may be a Wiccan—and what an unreliable lot they seem to be—but she has deep loyalties to the grove. I'm not saying that she provided Malthea with clothes, but it might have happened that way. In any case, I brought Malthea home. Twenty minutes later she loaded several suitcases and boxes into her car, came to the door and hugged me, and promised to keep in touch. She made me swear to see to Merlinda. Before I could question her as to her plans, she left. Just like that.”

A teacup slipped out of Fern's hand and shattered to the floor. She mumbled an apology and went into the living room. I picked up the sizable pieces, then found a broom and a dustpan and swept up the slivers. I found another teacup, fixed a tray, and took it into the living room, where I found her huddled on the sofa, a shawl around her shoulders.

“Here,” I said as I gave her a steaming cup. “Malthea's not in any trouble, and neither are you. Morning Rose and Roy are in custody. It's over.”

“What about Cosmos and Rainbow?” she asked.

“Sullivan may have suspected what was going on, but he won't be charged. You and Malthea knew, didn't you?”

“We weren't sure. We were worried that…Roy might be engaged in something beyond his years, but we couldn't ask him. It would not have been seemly for two old ladies to broach the subject. A boy his age can't believe that our generation ever experienced sexual intimacy. It makes one wonder where they think they came from, doesn't it? All this modern openness about sex, and they're clinging to storks and cabbage patches. Have they no idea what Adam and Eve did after they ate the apple?”

I paused, wondering if Caron had ever envisioned me in bed with her father. She most likely preferred to see herself as the consequence of immaculate conception.

“Why,” I asked, “were you and Malthea so worried about Roy?”

“There was no one else to worry about him except the two of us. His parents had abandoned him, and he had no one else to fall back on for support and guidance. It would have been so much better if he'd gone to Borneo. He would have been much safer among headhunters than…”

“Why did Malthea leave?” I asked bluntly.

Fern pulled the shawl more tightly around her and took a sip of tea. “I don't know.”

“Did she do it so she won't have to testify against him?”

“Testify about what?”

“Testify that she had nothing to do with Nicholas Chunder's murder,” I said. “I know she didn't, and so do you. Why did you and she lie about it, Fern? He's a punk. He may have had a tough life, but so have a lot of other kids. My daughter's made it thus far with only a scrape or two. Families aren't perfect these days; we adapt to reality and do what's necessary to get by. I could understand if Malthea was concerned about Roy, but…”

“Of course she was,” Fern said. “We both were.”

“She's his grandmother,” I said, wondering why it had taken me so long to arrive at the realization.

Fern snatched the teacup from my hand and banged it down on the tray. “That's absurd. Malthea never married, so how could she have had a child? Even if she had, the child would have been put up for adoption and that would have been the end of it. There could have been no reconciliation. If you don't mind, I'd like to go out to my greenhouse and mist the asparagus ferns. They require daily attention to maintain their vitality.” She threw aside the shawl and stood up. “I will not be able to continue to live here in the future, Claire, so this had best be good-bye.”

“Where will you go?” I asked as she literally propelled me to the front door.

“It's under control. Malthea left this for you.” She pushed a folded piece of paper into my hand. “Good night, Claire.”

The door closed in my face, and seconds later, the porch light went out. I stood there for a moment, trying to determine if I'd actually learned anything I hadn't already subconsciously suspected. Adoption papers were sealed; not even Jorgeson could ever prove that Malthea was the mother of one of Roy's parents, most likely Randall. Scrutinizing the photographs in the leather box would serve no purpose, even if it was still in the desk drawer. I knew it wasn't.

I wished Malthea had stayed around long enough to say good-bye, but I could understand her reasons for leaving. At some point, she would see an article in a newspaper that revealed the ugly plot and realize that she was no longer implicated. But perhaps by then she would have found a happier grove, where mistletoe and mead were abundant.

Something furry curled around my ankle, and I'm sorry to admit that I let out an unnecessarily loud shriek. Fern's door flew open and she came onto the porch.

“Merlinda?” she said, scooping up a bundle of black fur that resembled a cat. “Did she hurt you? Well, let's just have a nice saucer of milk.”

This time the door slammed closed.

I walked slowly to the car, then paused under the streetlight to unfold the slip of paper. The writing was unsteady but legible: “As Mumsy always said, generalizations aren't worth a damn.” Grinning despite myself, I glanced up at the moon and wished her well.

I went to the Book Depot and relieved Caron. She claimed some life-threatening need for the car. Rather than argue, I gave her the keys and went into the office, sat down, and tried to find a reason to call Jorgeson and tell him that Malthea had left town. She wasn't really a witness, I told myself—or at least not a vital one. The charges would not culminate in a trial. Plea bargains, minimal sentences, community service—and Morning Rose and Roy would be freed to resume their unhealthy alliance until she found another candidate for Horned God. Sullivan and the children would survive. I hoped Nicholas Chunder had left arrangements to have his ashes sprinkled in Wales.

“What's wrong with you?” asked my science-fiction hippie as he came into the store.

“Holiday blues,” I said. “Need another book for your new friend?”

“No,” he said, turning red in those patches of skin that were visible above his beard and below his beetlish brow. “I have something for you. I know that you think I steal books, and maybe I do, but not very often. Anyway, you don't ever embarrass me like some of the shopkeepers do. You don't snicker when I come in or trail me around like I was some sort of thief.”

“Should I?”

“Yeah, maybe. Anyway, I wanted to give this to you.” He dropped a tissue-wrapped package on the counter, then winked and went out the door.

I unwrapped the paper and found a crystal figurine of a magician, no more than an inch high (and therefore easy to slip into a pocket). I'd seen similar figurines at the gallery just across the tracks, and made a note to return it after Christmas. I would not explain.

Jorgeson came into the store late in the afternoon, the tinkle of the bell above the door a good deal livelier than his expression. “Here,” he said, handing me a package wrapped in foil. “I want you to know how much I appreciate what you went through. I was out of my league, and you saved me from making a fool of myself. We didn't always see things the same way, Mrs. Malloy. You could have told me to take a flying leap, but you didn't.”

“Jorgeson,” I said, “you didn't have to…”

“It's just a fruitcake. My wife said I should get you perfume or something, but everybody likes fruitcake. Right?”

“Absolutely,” I said, nodding forcefully. “I love fruitcake, and so does Caron.”

He turned his back and picked up a paperback from the rack. “The lieutenant called this afternoon. He's going to take a three-month leave of absence. He said he'd been under a lot of pressure and needed a break.”

“Oh, really?” I said evenly.

“I don't think it means anything,” Jorgeson said as he turned around and looked at me. “Things have been pretty hectic for the last couple of months. All of us need a break, but we need our salaries, too. The lieutenant's in a different situation.”

“Independently wealthy, for instance?”

“I suppose he is. He said he's going to call you this evening and explain things. I just thought I might warn you so you won't…”

I realized he wanted me to say something, but I picked up the package and looked at my distorted reflection. After he'd left, I took the package into my office, set it on the desk, making sure it was in the exact middle of the blotter, and went back out in hopes of selling one last book. I can offer no excuse for what I decided to do at that moment, except to say that I was somewhat lower than a pregnant sow's belly. I took out the scrap of paper on which I'd written the number of the Psychic Confidantes number and dialed it.

“Hullo?” said a squeaky voice.

“I'd like to speak to Divinia,” I said.

“As soon as I heard the phone ring, I knew that,” she said. “Can you hold on for a second?” She put her hand over the receiver and yelled, “Go vacuum in the bedroom, honey, on account of I got a call.”

“Is this Divinia?” I asked.

“No, she ain't available. We've got this deal where all her calls are transferred to me when she can't answer. Are you one of her regulars?”

“Shouldn't you know that?” I asked.

“Oh, I do. Divinia's not doing so well at the present time, but she'll be on in a few days. What can I do for you? Got problems with your boyfriend? That's my specialty.”

“What makes you think I have a boyfriend?”

“Everybody who calls Psychic Confidantes has a boyfriend. Tell me his name and I'll do a reading.”

Although I knew the meter was ticking at approximately four dollars a minute, it was beginning to amuse me. “You're a psychic. You tell
me
his name.”

“I don't got time to play games. Call Divinia when she gets back. In the meantime, don't trust what he says about other women, but don't be surprised if he shows up with a real nice Christmas present. He's real sorry about what he did.”

“What did he do?”

“You don't want to know.”

She hung up, leaving me holding the receiver against my ear and feeling foolish. I locked up and walked back to the apartment.

I had an hour before heading downstairs for a cocktail and mindless chatter, to be followed by white wine and more mindless chatter. I made a drink and took it into the bathroom, where I could find some solace in a bath and a book.

I was somewhat submerged in both when I heard the back door open and more than one pair of feet tromp into the kitchen.

“Mother?” called Caron.

“Yes, dear?” I replied without enthusiasm.

“We've got company. You'd better get dressed.”

As much as I wanted to sink beneath the water and find out how long I could hold my breath, I climbed out of the bathtub and put on my clothes. They were not what I had intended to wear to the retiree's party, but I had no desire to be spotted sprinting down the hall to my room in the wherewithal. Skyclad, so to speak.

I was not prepared for the crowd in the living room. Caron and Inez were whispering by the door. Luanne was seated on the sofa as though it were a throne and she were awaiting an audience with an endless line of courtiers. One of them might have been Ed, who was hovering near the doorway to the kitchen.

“Hey,” he said lamely.

Caron came over to my side. “Don't be mad at me, okay?”

“If I'd known we were having a party, I would have bought some eggnog.”

“It's not a party.”

Luanne looked back at me. “But it will be shortly, Claire. Come sit down next to me. Caron has something she wants to show you.”

I glanced at Ed. “Shouldn't I make coffee or something?”

“Sit,” Luanne said, slapping the cushion. “Caron has a Christmas present for you. You may be of the traditional school that believes presents can only be opened on Christmas morning, but we took it to a vote and decided that you deserve to receive it tonight.”

“We?” I said as I sat down.

Ed cleared his throat; if he'd had a forelock, he would have tugged it. “I shouldn't be here, Ms. Malloy. I'll just be on my way.”

Caron hurried across the room and poked him in the chest. “You'll do no such thing. I told you that I need a Santa Claus when I give this present to my mother. Is it asking too much for you to stay for ten or fifteen more minutes? I'll pay you for your time if that's what you want.”

“You know that's not why I said that.”

“Then let's not play Mr. Sensitive,” she said acerbically. “Would it be too much trouble for you to sit down on the sofa?”

“Maybe I should stay over here,” he said.

“Whatever.” Caron turned around and looked at me. “I borrowed a video camera from Rhonda and made a tape. I think you'll enjoy it.”