Artful Dodger (Maggie Kean Mis-Adventures) (21 page)

It was hard to reconcile this picture she drew with that of Vacuum Nose, the fat bully I now knew beat up on women and children. Maybe he had a twin, a sweetheart of a guy who dated Lindsay, fell in love with her, and then was killed by his evil twin brother who took his place on his wedding day. As farfetched as my scenario sounded, it seemed more believable than the story of this blue-eyed Lothario she was describing now.  But, as I well knew, loneliness is a lousy companion, and sometimes anything seems better than another night wrapped in its arms.

“He brought me flowers that first night and took me to dinner at this quaint little Italian restaurant. It was situated on top of a hill, tucked back underneath the trees, overlooking the city. I thought he was so very gallant, ordering for me, tasting and approving the wine. And he was so solicitous, asking me about my life, making sure my meal was exactly what I wanted and that I wasn’t too cold.”  She shrugged her shoulders. “What can I say? I fell head over heels within an hour. At the time, my only regret was that my mother had died before she had met him.” Lindsay turned to me. “Five years later, that’s the only thing I
don’t
regret.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing that hasn’t happened to thousands of other women. And I can’t really blame him completely; it’s not like he didn’t warn me. If I’d been half-awake, I would have recognized all those romantic gestures for what they were... sheer control. Why didn’t I wonder about how often he coincidentally ran into me at the store? It wasn’t until I was married and trapped in Hell that it dawned on me that he had been stalking me from the beginning. Things went downhill the night of our wedding. I won’t bore you with the details, but sex was the first area in which he decided to establish his dominance and things only got worse. The first time he hit me it was after a particularly rough day at work.  He claimed it was my fault that he couldn’t keep his mind on the job because I put so much pressure on him to succeed. And the next time he hit me it was because he imagined I was flirting with a waiter. It got to where I didn’t even listen to the reasons anymore; I just accepted my fate as his punching bag. Then he decided to get my attention by slapping Matthew. I knew it was just a matter of time before he hit the baby. So I went to see Elizabeth.”

“Why Elizabeth?”

“I needed money.”

Chapter Thirteen

As is so typical in Colorado, the sun parted the curtain of clouds and peeked through, chasing away the looming thunderclouds and chilly air. The breeze slowly stilled. At high altitudes, it doesn’t take much sun to warm the earth, and before long my sweatshirt was sticking to my chest. Hot and impatient, I grabbed the damn thing by the hem and yanked it over my head. The thermometers in this state shoot up and down faster than bucking broncos.

A barrage of emotions threatened to overwhelm me as Lindsay told her story. I could well imagine her childhood; it was similar enough to my own that at times I wanted to pull back from hearing her recount the details. My mother’s death had occurred earlier in my life than hers, but being alone was lousy at any age, and alone I was. Her father existed in name only, and although my father was still alive, he was merely a sad, shadowy presence after my mother died. I know people manage to continue living after a spouse dies, but this didn’t happen for my father, not until he remarried long after I had left home.  He never looked upon me as a reason to live; I was something to step over or skirt around like an inconvenient mud puddle. My father never said anything, but I imagine my childhood seemed equivalent to a page of long division to him, an unpleasant task to get through. It wasn’t too long before I quit expecting him to care for me with any warmth, and once I gave up the dream of an ideal father, life stayed on an even keel and I muddled through just fine.

Of course, I never expected to run into Elizabeth who, by her very vibrant, nosy nature, turned everything upside down. Even in her death, she seemed determined to play havoc with people’s lives. I swear she was looking down from heaven and enjoying every minute of my discomfort.

“Money?” I asked. “But why would Elizabeth give you money? You said you didn’t even know her.” 

“I didn’t, but my mother knew her husband.” “I don’t understand. Was she an employee of his?”

She shook her head. “There’s only one way a poor, uneducated woman can know a tremendously wealthy man like that.  My mother was his lover.”

Lindsay could have taken a sledgehammer and slammed it over my head and I still would not have been more surprised than I was at that moment. Except when, two seconds later, understanding dawned.

“You’re Cranford Boyer’s daughter?”

“Yep. Genuine royalty in a faded dress and ripped tennis shoes.”

My mouth gaped open; my chin hit my chest. “How? I...I don’t understand,” I stuttered. “I mean, how did this happen?”

A smile twitched at the corner of Lindsay’s mouth. “Oh, I think in the usual way. Boy meets girl, and then, well, you know the story. Then baby comes along.”

Realizing how stupid I must have sounded, I tried to clarify my question.  “I guess what I was really asking about is the story behind the whole situation.  I mean, how did they even know each other? Did Elizabeth know about the affair? And why aren’t you living up at the house along with Cassie and Preston instead of with... with.. .” My voice dropped down to a whisper because I didn’t know what to call that abusive thug she was living with.

“My husband?” she said softly. “Actually, there are a lot of reasons, and most of them don’t make sense unless you’ve experienced a relationship like this yourself. And even then, it doesn’t really make sense, intellectually anyway. You find yourself making a hundred excuses for staying and maybe a hundred different plans about how you’re finally going to pack up the kids and leave. But then he comes in and looks at you like he knows exactly what you’re thinking of doing, and he either pounds the will out of you, or worse, treats you like a queen for a few hours, apologizing for every bruise and broken rib he’s ever left on your body.” She lifted her shoulders at the look of disbelief on my face. “I know it’s hard to believe, but by that time you’re so beaten down that you cling to every soft word you hear. Next thing you know, you’re pregnant again or he’s beating the crap out of you, and either way, fear sets in and it feels like you’re drowning in quicksand—the more you kick, the more the bottom sucks you down.”

I could feel Lindsay backing off into some remote corner of her mind that I’m sure she fled to every time her husband’s fists were raining blows on her. But it was hard to wear a sympathetic face when my own visions of kicking her husband right in the crotch kept intruding. Then again, diplomacy was never my strong suit.

“Several months after my mother died,” she began again, “I finally felt strong enough to go through her things and start making decisions. When I went through her desk, I made a list of people and companies I needed to call about her death and a list of outstanding bills. It was easier than I expected because Mom was so methodical and organized. But in her bottom drawer, I found a stack of envelopes tied together with string. They were old love letters from a man named Cranford. Mom never talked about any man or romantic interest, so I was really surprised, especially when I realized that the man was my father. I can’t explain all the feelings that came over me when I read the letters from a man who barely existed in my life. At first it was rather comforting to know that some man had truly loved my mother. But toward the end, the relationship had started to unravel and I knew why Mom never mentioned him.”

“Why?”

“Pretty simple. She became pregnant with me, and he wanted nothing more to do with her.”

“He sounds pretty much like the scum Elizabeth used to describe. Of course, her word choice was different, but it meant the same thing. What did your mother do then? She could have sued for paternity, at least for financial help. The guy was loaded.”

“Mom wasn’t much of a fighter; she hated confrontation. But apparently they worked out a deal. He provided a nice monthly sum of money and she kept quiet about their affair.”

And then it dawned on me. “You were blackmailing Elizabeth?”

“No,” she answered sharply. “Cranford Boyer kept his side of the deal. We were taken care of financially. Mom never even worked more than a part-time job.”

“Then what?” I asked, completely baffled.

Lindsay looked down and started fiddling nervously with a stray thread on the seam of her dress. “I asked Elizabeth to look at my artwork. I was hoping that if she knew who I was, she might be willing to help me sell it.” She took a deep breath and continued in an emotionless monotone as though she was reading from a script. “My husband was having a bad time a few weeks back and he went after me. But I felt so numb, so tired of the whole thing that I just went limp and let him do what he wanted. This infuriated him, of course, so he grabbed Matthew, knowing that I couldn’t ignore him then. He slapped Matthew so hard...I can still see the red handprint on his little face. I ran between the two of them and screamed at him to stop. Tom grabbed my hair and, well, you don’t need to hear the rest. When he left for work the next day, I went to see Elizabeth.”

“What did she say?”

“That she wasn’t surprised. She’d known about her husband’s philandering for years. She even said I had his eyes and his mouth.” Lindsay turned to me. “She looked at my bruises, listened to what I had to say, and filled in the blanks when I was too ashamed to say the words myself. Elizabeth made a deal with me right then and there. She offered to come to the house and look at my paintings, and if she liked what she saw, she would introduce me to people, people who could help me. But I had to agree to go for counseling at the Center for Domestic Violence. I knew then that I could have finger- painted all my pictures and it wouldn’t have mattered. She still would have helped me. But her offer to seriously look at my pictures kept me from feeling like a charity case.”

I couldn’t get any words past the emotions lodged in my throat.

“So she came to my house when Tom was at work.” Lindsay chuckled at the memory. “I knew that her main purpose was to help get me out of the house, so I wasn’t expecting an in-depth critique of my work. But she walked in and studied each picture like it was hanging in a museum. She kept telling me I had talent while ripping everything apart at the same time.”

“Yeah, Elizabeth had a real knack for that,” I muttered.

“But she knew what she was talking about. Even as an inexperienced painter, I knew that what she was saying was right. It made sense, and for the first time in years I was excited about something. She mentioned a teacher she could introduce me to. We talked for a long time, about all sorts of things, and I got so caught up in our conversation I didn’t hear the door open.” Lindsay hugged her legs even closer to her chest and started rocking back and forth on her heels. “Tom walked in.”

“Did he touch Elizabeth?”

“Oh, no. He was terribly polite. He introduced himself and even offered her something to drink. Of course, she handled herself perfectly, never letting on that she knew anything about his abuse. She chatted with him for a few minutes about silly stuff and then left, telling me to give her a call about the art classes we discussed.” Lindsay stretched her legs out in front of her and rubbed her palms down the length of her legs, wiping the moisture from her clammy hands. “But things changed the minute she left. Tom had a fit when she walked out the door, demanding to know who she was and why she was there. I said it was for the art classes, but he didn’t believe me. He kept questioning me and I couldn’t seem to keep things straight in my head and it wasn’t long before I didn’t know where the lies started and where they ended. And then he twisted my arm behind my back... so high...I couldn’t stand it.” She covered her face with her hands and started crying. “I caved in and told him everything.”

“Lindsay, you can’t blame yourself for that. Anyone would have done exactly the same thing.”

“You don’t understand,” she cried, her words muffled behind her hands. “I knew what would happen. I knew what he was capable of.”

Alarm pricked the back of my neck. “What are you talking about?”

Lindsey lifted her head. “He went to see Elizabeth the next day. He was going to blackmail her, tell the world about her husband’s illegitimate daughter if she didn’t pay him to stay quiet.”

“Elizabeth would never fall for that, especially knowing the kind of man your husband was... or is.”

She swallowed a sob and gazed at me with wet trails running crookedly down her face. “A week later Elizabeth is dead.”

I was pretty shook up by her story and Lindsay wasn’t faring any better. The whole sordid mess sounded surreal. It had all the makings of a good trashy mini-series: money, greed, blackmail, a murder, and an abusive husband. But this was real life and I didn’t know what to do with the story she’d just dumped in my lap, even if I had come looking for it. Given a choice, I would turn the clock back a few hours to when Cassie was drinking my coffee with that snooty little look on her face and the only thing I had to worry about was getting to my meeting with Hawthorne on time. Life was a lot simpler then.

I was clearly in over my head, and as much as it pained me to admit, I knew I had to tell Villari. He never really appreciated my investigative skills, but at this point, I was more than willing to hand all the information over to him—lock, stock, and barrel. I could already see his eyes narrow and his lips tighten in anger. He was going to yell and stomp his feet and tell me what I fool I’d been to place myself in possible jeopardy by seeing Lindsay, but if I was lucky, maybe he’d kiss me after he’d blown off some steam. The guy was an amazing kisser.  And even if he did want to postpone the bedroom scene until after the investigation was over, it didn’t mean I couldn’t try to convince him otherwise.  If I couldn’t change his mind, well, I’d just settle for getting the man all hot and bothered and then making a dramatic exit. If he was left in an uncomfortable state, well, that would put us on even ground.  I was still embarrassed by his refusal to take me up on my offer of an overnighter.  What red-blooded male turns down free sex?