Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_02 (12 page)

Walsh agreed. Grudgingly.

“Captain, you said there were fibers in Craig’s Porsche of the beige material snagged on the murder weapon.”

“That’s correct.”

“If I were you, Captain, I’d request the help of the highway patrol and the county officers in a search of roadside trash cans between Snell and Monteagle. Obviously, they should look for something made of beige cotton. It will be bloodstained.”

The phone rang as I rinsed out the mop one last time.

The kitchen sparkled. My back ached. And I was ravenous. I’d already checked out the refrigerator and freezer. There was plenty of food. Patty Kay not only enjoyed cooking, she was an orderly and saving homemaker. I’d picked out my supper, a frozen package of homemade beef Stroganoff, neatly labeled in her looping crimson script and ready for the microwave.

I didn’t reach for the receiver with any great expectations, but I’ve learned that you can’t predict who may call or where the call may lead. In my years of reporting, I’d circled the world twice, visiting every continent, and many of those journeys grew out of a telephone summons. Right now I was standing in the kitchen of a murdered woman.

So I got it on the second peal.

I didn’t even have time to say hello.

“Craig, Craig?” The now-familiar young voice trembled with eagerness. It was astonishing how much emotion she’d
packed into saying his name. I was glad Captain Walsh wasn’t on the line to hear it.

“No. This is Henrietta Collins.”

“Who are
you?”
It was the direct, unvarnished question of a mind obsessed with its own quest.

“His aunt.”

“Oh. The aunt he went to see after he found Mother?”

“Yes.” So this was Brigit. I heard no reflection of Patty Kay’s husky, distinctive voice in her daughter’s.

“Oh.” Brigit accepted it without question, almost without interest. “Is Craig there? Is he home?”

“No. Not yet.”

“I can’t
believe
they’ve put him in jail. And Daddy won’t let me talk to the police. I could tell them. I know him better than anybody, better than Mother even. Craig wouldn’t hurt anybody. Ever.” She choked off in sobs.

“Brigit, do you want to help Craig get out of jail?” I will admit I felt a qualm. Taking advantage of children has not been a customary ploy of mine.

There was no hesitation. “Oh, yes, yes, yes.”

“Could I see you tonight? Or sometime tomorrow? I need to know more about your mother and who might have been angry with her.”

“I can tell you a lot.” The switch from tears to venom was startling. “I can …” Abruptly the sound was muffled, but I could hear some of what she said. “… Paulie … she’s got my copy of the play … home early, I promise.”

Then swift and short: “Sure, Paulie. I’ll meet you at the library. At seven. Don’t forget the play.”

The line went dead.

Slowly, I replaced the receiver. Seven o’clock. That would give me plenty of time to get back to King’s Row Road for the neighborhood meeting Cheryl had mentioned. But I was just as interested in meeting Brigit.
“Don’t forget
the play.”
An artful touch. Apparently Brigit, too, was a glib liar. Like her stepfather. But many teenagers have secret lives.

Sometimes the secrets are innocent.

Sometimes they are not.

I checked the phone book. One Fair Haven library. I called for directions. I had time for a quick supper and a shower.

It’s sweaty work, cleaning up after a murderer.

Clean and freshly dressed, I carried the plate of Stroganoff and some iced tea into the game room. It wasn’t that I was trying to make myself completely at home. I intended to work while I ate.

I slipped in the video entitled
Brigit’s Sweet 16
.

I immediately had to turn down the sound. The band played music I always make it a point to avoid on my radio at a decibel level which must have made the neighborhood dogs howl.

A patio party: The girls and women in pretty summer frocks, the boys and men in slacks and sport coats, Japanese lanterns in pink and yellow, carnation-laden bowers, table centerpieces of hurricane lamps wreathed with pink organdy bows, and loud, loud music.

“My God.” I said it out loud, the shock was so great—Patty Kay with a bulging face, double chins, and a bored, peevish expression. Then I blinked and realized my mistake as slim, dark-haired, vivacious Patty Kay greeted the woman who was her heavy doppelgänger. The resemblance was striking. The same angular face, mobile mouth, green eyes. What a difference forty pounds and an attitude made.

“Hi, sis.” Pamela Guthrie offered a carmined cheek.

The sisters lightly embraced, turned away to talk to others.

Body language is just that. It was evident in the faces of the sisters, in their lack of animation, in their barely concealed indifference. These siblings weren’t remotely interested in each other. I didn’t sense hostility so much as disengagement.

It was their only contact on the birthday video.

Patty Kay was a gracious hostess, warm, welcoming, good-humored. She smoothly moved from person to person with real interest. She was never perfunctory. Craig was a better host than I would have expected, quick to refresh a drink or make an introduction.

It was easy to spot the tennis chums and their husbands. Brooke Forrest was gorgeous in a hibiscus-patterned sarong, but one very modestly cut. I noticed that she danced only with her husband. David, wasn’t that his name? I could see why Patty Kay teased. David Forrest had a Mr. Rochester-harsh face, and his smile never reached his cold gray eyes.

I recognized another tennis player, chunky Edith. She kept pushing back her reddish curls as if she were hot. As always, she smiled. But her smile seemed automatic. I had the distinct feeling Edith wasn’t enjoying herself. Occasionally, she danced with a stocky, balding man, but he spent most of the evening buttonholing other men to talk earnestly. He never seemed to notice how quickly they moved away. Except for Craig, a good host. At one point, he clapped Edith’s husband on the back and asked, “How’s your golf game, Ed?”

Small, feisty Gina Abbott didn’t appear to have an escort. She was all over the party, refilling a punch bowl, urging young people to dance, holding a discarded beach towel like a matador’s cape as she recounted a story that
evoked peals of laughter. At one point, Gina shooed young Dan Forrest to the dance floor with an eager blond girl who looked up at Dan with adoring eyes despite his scarcely masked boredom.

Cameras film without prejudice. This video caught so many unguarded moments: Brooke’s proud smile as she watched her son on the dance floor, David Forrest’s down-turned mouth as he observed them both, the immobility of Patty Kay’s face as Craig whirled by with a deliriously happy Brigit—no braces here, so why didn’t her mother have a more recent picture in her purse?—Edith’s irritation as she shrugged away a stocky teenage girl tugging on her sleeve, Gina’s almost frantic pursuit of laughter.

I felt I was seeing the merest surface of many tangled relationships.

I reran it and saw more than I’d noticed the first time:

A cheerful red-haired boy kept trying to interest the blond girl who looked so adoringly at Dan, but he didn’t have any luck.

At his father’s nod, Dan was quick to bring a plate to his mother and to help gather up discarded wrapping paper from the presents.

The red-haired, freckled girl, whom Edith had shrugged away, bubbled with happiness throughout the party. The girl’s broad, freckled face was ecstatic when Brigit managed to blow out a final stubborn candle.

The blond girl who’d danced so happily with Dan was always at his elbow despite his indifference.

Near the party’s end, Gina, her shoulders drooping, stared bleakly toward the woods, then, whirling about at Brooke’s call, once again slipped into her frenetic party personality.

In the final frame, Patty Kay swept her daughter into a tight embrace.

But Brigit was looking over her mother’s shoulder into the eyes of her mother’s second husband. It wasn’t a look her mother would have liked.

And Craig’s face?

It gave no inkling that he realized his attraction for the teenager.

How could he have missed it?

The public library reflected the prosperity of Fair Haven, sprawling and beautifully maintained, lots of glass, an adjacent playground, and a small pond rimmed with benches.

I arrived early. Of course. Is there any reporter who isn’t compulsive about being on time?

This library had on-line capabilities. I checked the local media, calling up the file on Patty Kay Prentiss Pierce Matthews. Lots of entries. It was clear that Patty Kay had been a power in Fair Haven’s social and civic life. It was interesting that only rarely was her sister, Pamela Prentiss Guthrie, mentioned. In fact, I came upon Pamela’s name only when she married and when she was listed as a survivor in her grandparents’ and parents’ obituaries. Two sisters who didn’t sing the same song.

I had two stories on Patty Kay printed out. The second was pay dirt all the way. I scanned it, but it was nearing seven o’clock, so I tucked it in my purse for later study.

I watched the main entrance. I knew, of course, what Brigit looked like from the video, but I kept a sharp eye. The library was full of teenagers coming and going, some studying, some pursuing other interests. They appeared practically interchangeable, and it wasn’t the big-city grunge look. Not in Fair Haven. These teens looked—as they were—like young replicas of the country club set. All
wore button-down shirts and slacks, cotton wraparound skirts or floral print cotton pants and cotton pullover polos. The only common link to everyday USA teen culture were the odd hairstyles so popular now, many of the boys with their hair cut in layers, the girls with hair that looked as though it had undergone an unfortunate confrontation with an electric circuit.

Brigit’s costume was de rigueur. The dazed look in the teen’s reddened eyes was not.

I walked toward her and softly called her name.

She had a new hairstyle since the video. Her unremarkable blondish hair now frizzed around her face like coiled wires, making her narrow features seem even more waiflike. Her skin was so fair, the red-rimmed eyes jumped out at you.

“Mrs. Collins?” Her voice had more resonance in person than on the telephone. At my nod, she glanced warily around. Then she said swiftly, “Let’s go outside. I see Mrs. Galloway. European history.”

I took that as an elliptical identification of a teacher.

Privacy suited me too.

We walked halfway around the pond to a wooden bench that faced the library entrance. The lights from the library were reflected in the pond. It was cool enough outside to make my sweater welcome.

“Just in case Louise comes.” Her voice oozed disdain.

I had sense enough not to ask who Louise was. After all, as Craig’s aunt I could be expected to be familiar with most family names. I guessed Louise must be Brigit’s stepmother.

“Does she do that a lot? Follow you around?”

She looked at me sharply, but I’d kept my voice nonjudgmental.

“Craig says I imagine it. He says it’s a small town, for chrissakes, and not to take everything personally.”

I could hear the echo of his voice in hers.

She began to cry, tears rolling down her thin cheeks.

“Crying won’t help Craig.”

At that, she rubbed the sleeve of her sporty jacket across her face. She took a deep breath. “I know. But I can’t
stand
it if anything happens to him. I love him so much.”

And not, obviously from her tone, in a way appropriate for a stepfather. This was what I’d feared. If the police cottoned onto this little family complication …

I might as well know the worst.

“How does Craig feel about you?” What had he seen? A cute little girl with a crush on him? Or a sexy nymphet? And, more important, how had he responded?

Brigit lifted her hands to her cheeks. Her whole face was transformed, and I had a brief, tantalizing glimpse of the woman she would be. “He kissed me. Just on my cheek. But if Mother hadn’t been there, I know—” She broke off. She hugged her arms tightly to her slender body.