Closely Akin to Murder (2 page)

“Seventy-five dollars,” she said, peering at me over the rack to appraise my reaction. “But there's good
news, too. If I take some idiotic defensive driving class, then the violation doesn't go on my record and your insurance won't go up too much. The class only costs twenty-five dollars.”

“So playing private eye is going to cost you a hundred dollars,” I said. “How much do you have in your piggy bank these days?”

“Nowhere near that much. I was thinking you could pay for everything, and then Inez and I can work it off here next month. You're always saying how busy you are in December, and gawd knows you could use some help with the window display. What's there now is pathetic.”

“Thank you,” I said.

The conversation from this point on did not take on any overtones of jocularity. Once we'd established that I was more perturbed by the cost of the crime rather than its nature, we discussed various financial strategies. The more lucrative possibilities at the mall were summarily dismissed, in that their totalitarian demands might interfere with Christmas shopping. Babysitting was much too tedious, and house work was compared to slavery in the salt mines of Siberia.

I finally gestured at the door. “Your driving privileges are suspended until this is resolved. We'll talk about it to night.”

Caron's lower lip shot out. “But it's Friday night and there's a football game. How are we supposed to get there?”

“Don't go,” I said without sympathy. “If I remember correctly, a year ago you decided football was, and I quote, ‘nothing more than a philistine ritual in which the players' IQs are displayed on their jerseys.' ”

“That was last year,” she said, then shrugged and
started for the door. “By the way, some woman called last night while you were at the movie with Peter. She said she'd try again. Come on Inez, let's take the railroad tracks to the bridge and go up the path. If we're lucky, no one will see us and we won't be the laughingstock of the high school Monday morning.”

“Who called?” I asked.

Caron paused only long enough to say, “I think her name was Veronica Landonwood.”

Seconds later the bell above the door jangled and they were gone. And I was staring at the door, my jaw dangling and my heart beating entirely too quickly. The store was drafty, but the sudden chill that raised goosebumps on my arms came from within me.

Even though I put on a sweater and kicked the rebellious boiler into a semblance of cooperation, I was still shivering when Lieutenant Peter Rosen of the Farberville CID arrived later that afternoon. He was dressed as usual in an exquisitely tailored suit and Italian shoes, courtesy of a family trust fund; he looked as if he would be more at home in a high-powered law firm than in a squad room. Even in baggy gym shorts and a sweatshirt, he's handsome enough to merit a page in a calendar. Curly brown hair, molasses-colored eyes, an aristocratic nose, flawless white teeth, and a cute derriere constitute eligibility.

“I brought capuccinos and chocolate chip cookies,” announced my candidate for Mr. November. His smile faded as he looked more closely at me. “What's wrong, Claire? Are you coming down with the flu?”

“You probably should say that I look as though I'd seen a ghost,” I said with an unconvincing laugh, “because in a way, I have.”

“Has Mr. Grimaldi arisen from eternal rest to
demand you stop contaminating his precious bookstore with romance novels, study guides, and sorority stationery?”

“Come into the office and I'll tell you,” I said, allowing him to put his arm around me and give me a quick kiss. Peter and I have been working at a relationship for several years, and I regret to say that despite our ages, we tend to approach it with what might be described as adolescent ineptitude. We'd come perilously close to sharing bed and board to determine if we had any hope of long-range compatibility, but he'd been drawn into a sleazy drug case and the issue had been shelved. For the moment, anyway.

I sat down behind the desk and accepted a Styrofoam cup. “According to Caron, last night I had a call from Veronica Landonwood.”

“Should I recognize that name?”

“I had a cousin with that name, although everyone called her Ronnie. She was seven years older than I, so we weren't particularly close. She was always very nice to me, though, and I was in awe of her because she lived in Hollywood. Well, technically in Brentwood, but it was close to Hollywood.”

Peter took a sip of capuccino, his eyes narrowed as he watched me above the rim. “And she called last night?”

“Somebody called last night, but if it was Ronnie, I'm going to have to rethink my views on the possibility of afterlife. She died thirty years ago, Peter. I was ten at the time, and I was devastated. My only experience with death had been the loss of a nasty yellow tomcat named Colonel Mustard.”

“How did she die?”

“She and her parents were in Mexico for a vacation, and their car went off a mountain road. I'd received a
postcard from her only a few days before I was told about the wreck. I still have that postcard packed away somewhere.”

Peter came behind me and began to massage my shoulders as I blinked back tears. “Then this is just a grotesque coincidence,” he said, “or Caron wasn't paying attention and got the name wrong.”

“Maybe,” I said. Despite my efforts, my hand was shaking so violently I could barely raise the cup to my mouth. A wake-up call from the grave can do that.

I lingered at the bookstore well past closing time, trying to convince myself that trivial chores were, in reality, consequential. By seven o'clock, however, all my pencils were perfectly aligned and the plastic paper clips were sorted by size
and
color. I locked the store and drove home to the duplex across from the Farber College campus. In winter I have a view of the condemned landmark that once housed the English faculty (one of whom had been my deceased husband, Carlton, who'd had an unfortunate encounter with a chicken truck; our turbulent marriage was responsible for my current reluctance to make a commitment to Peter). The downstairs tenants moved in and out on an irregular basis. The current one was a somewhat bald, bewildered retiree from the architecture department whose wife had kicked him out of their house and taken up with her aromatherapist. Neither of us was sure what this implied.

Caron had left a note indicating that despite my hard-hearted scheme to destroy her life, she'd found a ride to the football game and would be spending the night at Inez's. I suppose I might have saved it for reference when I got around to writing my memoirs, but I tossed it in the trash and made myself a drink.

Shortly thereafter, I was in my robe and curled up on the sofa with a mystery novel. The muted strains of a Brahms concerto from the first floor mingled with the rustling of leaves outside the window and an occasional car. I was so engrossed in the wily amateur sleuth's exploration of the darkened conservatory that I let out an undignified yelp when the telephone rang.

I finally persuaded myself to pick up the receiver. “Hello?” I said with such timidity that I wasn't sure the word had been audible.

“Claire, this is Ronnie—Ronnie Landonwood.”

“If this is some kind of prank, it isn't the least bit amusing. I don't know who you are or why you're doing this, but I can have a trace put on my—”

“On your seventh birthday, I sent you a tutu that I'd worn in a dance recital. You wrote me a stiff thank you note saying you planned to be a detective when you grew up and would prefer a magnifying glass on your next birthday. When you were nine, you fell out of a tree and broke your arm. Later that summer you sent me a poem that vilified Joyce Kilmer. Shall I continue?”

“Hold on a minute, please,” I said, then put down the receiver and went into the kitchen to splash some cold water on my face and some scotch in a glass. I sat back down on the sofa and, after a couple of sips, wiped my decidedly damp palms on my robe and picked up the receiver. “Would you care to explain?”

The woman exhaled as if she'd been holding her breath all the time I'd been trying to regain my composure. “It's a complicated story. My parents and I went to Acapulco in December of 1965. My father, who was a second-rate screenwriter, was hoping to cozy up to Oliver Pickett. Oliver was one of the most influential directors in the business, and was scouting locations in
that area for his next film. He'd won an Oscar that year for a much-acclaimed medieval epic.”

“I'm familiar with the name,” I said, “but I still don't understand what's going on.”

“Perhaps I shouldn't burden you with this. I chose to disappear all these years, and I have no right to pop up out of the blue and ask for your help. I'm sure you have a busy enough life with your bookstore and your daughter. I was just hoping that your admirable accomplishments in matters of crime—”

“How do you know all that?”

“I hired a private investigator. He didn't delve into your personal affairs; but he found a few articles in the newspaper morgue.”

“You hired someone to spy on me?” I said.

“Only to find you,” she said in a reproving voice. “I need someone I can trust. Everything I fought for and attained is in danger. If you'll allow me to finish my story, I think you'll understand the gravity of my situation.”

Not at all flattered to have been the subject of a PI's report, I glanced over my shoulder to make sure the curtains were tightly drawn, then said, “I'll listen to your story, but that's all I'm promising to do.”

“My father borrowed enough money so that we could stay at the Hotel Las Floritas, where Oliver Pickett was staying. I expected to be utterly miserable all three weeks. My parents were at ease with the Hollywood types, but I was shy and gawky and sadly deficient in social skills. At seventeen, I'd never had a close girlfriend, much less a date. Like many tall girls, I slouched and wore drab clothes to blend into the background. My mother kept enrolling me in cotillions and etiquette classes, but none of them helped.”

“I always thought you were glamorous. You knew all the current slang and told risqué jokes.” I did not add that I'd never understood them, even though I'd laughed uproariously.

“Younger cousins didn't intimidate me,” she said. “To return to the story, the day we arrived, Oliver Pickett's daughter came to our bungalow and introduced herself. Fran was a year younger than I, but much more sophisticated. She had streaky blonde hair, large hazel eyes, and the body of a model. My parents urged me to accept her invitation to go to the beach. From that moment until—until the tragedy, she and I whizzed around Acapulco in her father's limousine, shopping and hanging out at the beach clubs. At night while the adults were partying in hotel bars and private homes, we'd have Jorge drive us to seedy bars in the
Sona Roja
, where we drank margaritas until we threw up in front of the pimps and prostitutes.”

“Your parents allowed this?”

“My parents did whatever Oliver said. If he'd told them to dive off the cliff at La Quebrada, they would have put on their bathing suits and started climbing. Oliver had divorced Fran's mother years earlier, and was accompanied by his so-called secretary, an aspiring actress named Debbie D'Avril. She was quite the party animal, as was Chad Warmeyer, Oliver's assistant. The five of them would start celebrating at sunset and stagger back to Las Floritas at sunrise to sleep until noon. Fran and I had virtually no supervision. Occasionally, we were deprived of the limousine when Chad was sent out to photograph a house or beach, but then we took taxis.”

I grimaced as I imagined Caron and Inez in a similar situation. “You mentioned a tragedy,” I murmured.

“On New Year's Eve, the adults went to a party. A few days earlier, Fran had decided that we should have our own party in her bungalow. She'd invited a dozen kids from the beach, and by midnight, there were three times that many. I drank too much and smoked pot, and eventually passed out in the master bedroom. When I awoke, everybody was gone. My hand and shirt were smeared with blood, and I was holding a knife. Oliver Pickett's body was on the balcony. Two days later I was arrested. Shortly after that, my parents rented a car to drive to Mexico City to get help at the American embassy. I was informed the next day that they'd been in a fatal car accident. A matron smuggled in a newspaper for me; I couldn't read Spanish, but I could tell that I was presumed to have been in the car with them.”

I was too shocked to attempt a response for a long while. The story seemed ludicrous, more suitable for low-budget movies and exploitative true crime novels. My cousin the killer? “I don't know what to say,” I said inanely.

“Few people would. I was convicted and sentenced to twelve years in prison. After serving eight, I was released, ordered to leave the country, and given enough money to take a bus to the border. I was too ashamed to make contact with any of the family, so I stayed in San Diego and worked as a waitress and maid until I'd completed my GED and put myself through college. My grades were good enough to get me into medical school. Between moonlighting and student loans, I earned a degree, did further graduate work, and went into research.”

“But how could you allow us to believe you were dead? Didn't you feel any obligation to the people who cared about you? Couldn't you have written from
prison, or at least after you were released and were back in the country?”

“I killed a man, Claire. I stabbed him in the throat, then tried to escape retribution by throwing his body off a cliff in hopes the police would believe he'd fallen to his death and cut his throat on a sharp rock. I spent eight years wishing I'd died with my parents. When I got out, I wanted nothing more than a new identity and a fresh start. A judge heard me out and allowed me to adopt my mother's maiden name.”