Domestic Affairs (Tiara Investigations Mystery) (3 page)

Tara touched my sleeve. “Leigh, don’t give this a single thought.”
   

Victoria was about to second this when a text message came in on her cell phone. “It’s your mother.
 
She wants to remind us they are available to help gather ‘clues or evidence.’
 
I’ll type back ‘k’.”

“K, indeed.”
 

CHAPTER 4

Continuation of statement by Leigh Reed.
 
At nine o’clock on Saturday my husband and I were still spooning. I’d gotten up much earlier to take Abby out and feed her, then I came back to bed.
 
She was taking her morning puppy-nap at the bottom of the bed when my ringing cell phone woke all three of us up.
 
It was Tara.

“Paul’s stepfather passed away.”
 

“I didn’t know he had a stepfather.”

“Neither did I. They haven’t been close since his mother passed a few years ago.
 
Anyway, the viewing is tomorrow night. Can we stop by the funeral home before dinner? I know it would mean a lot to Paul.”
 
She wasn’t violating our ‘no phone calls while my husband is in town’ rule. It was strictly a personal matter.

“Sure.” Then I realized I might have been a little hasty.
 
“Just a sec.”

I rolled over to nudge Jack, but he was wide awake and watching me. Our eyes met and I giggled, then reminded myself what I was supposed to ask him.
 
“He’s fine with it.” He’s Southern himself and knows how Southern women are about our dead people.
 
“Have fun today with Julio.”

“Uh, Leigh…. There’s something else.
 
It’s about your mother. She’s sent Victoria two more text messages.”

“What’d they say?”

“We have no idea. After the first one, which just said what each of them would be doing today in case they were needed.
 
By the way, your mother will be walking with her friends from the Senior Strider Gals, then she has her appointment at the beauty parlor, as she refers to it.
 
Anyway, Victoria responded TTFN.”

“Ta-ta for now.”

“Yeah. Now they think you can make up your own acronyms. You don’t know what AYHTDIA means, do you?”

I sat up and reached for the pen and notepad I keep by my bed.
 
“Say it again.”

I wrote it down and ….
 
“All you have to do is ask.”
 

***

Jack, Abby and I were going to be spending the day on the Chattahoochee River in, I almost said,
my
canoe.
 
In
our
canoe. The first year after I left my husband and then the first year Tiara Investigations was in business all you heard from me was my house, my dog, my boat, and on and on. We were separated not even a month before he followed me to Georgia. Our marriage was better than before, but it took longer for me to heal.
 
I had to gather up all the pieces of my personality I had let slip from my grasp during my years as a military wife.
 
You can’t replace something with nothing. Tiara Investigations made me whole again. It had the same effect on Victoria and Tara.
 
And that’s why we haven’t told our husbands, in Tara’s case––boyfriend, about our secret lives as private investigators.
 
If this is our
room of one’s own
, what would happen if our high-profile, very accomplished partners saw it? Offered opinions on it?
 
Offered advice?
 
We were not ready to take that chance.
 

The night before, we’d settled that we’d take the canoe rather than the two seater kayak. The yellow kayak was twelve feet in length and the green canoe was sixteen so we would have been comfortable in either.
 
Maybe it’s just me, but there’s something about cooler weather that says canoe.
 

Jack drove the Jeep and I drove the Toyota Highlander Hybrid, with the canoe strapped up top, to our take-out point on the river. Dog was my co-pilot for the thirteen-mile drive. We took Peachtree Industrial Boulevard to Abbott Bridge Road.
 
Less than a mile up, we turned left towards the river, then ran out of road.
 
The parking lot is about a quarter mile up the gravel drive.
 

While the Chattahoochee River runs from the north Georgia mountains to the Apalachicola Bay in Florida, the fun stuff happens in the Chattahoochee River National Recreation Area.
 
The 48 miles of the CRNRA starts at Buford Dam and ends at Peachtree Creek, near downtown Atlanta. About three million people a year canoe, kayak, tube, raft, and picnic there. I only know that from my former park ranger days and my Miss Georgia reign. Some are there to be seen; some are there to be a family. It’s good to live in Atlanta.
 

Jack paid the nominal fee while I locked up the Jeep.
 
Then we joined Abby in the Toyota for the return trip to Buford Dam, our put-in spot. Jack turned on his country music station and I liked it okay. It’s just not my favorite. What bothered me was that not listening to my world music station
was
bothering me.
 
Was that what I had to look forward to in his retirement?
 
Then, like he’d read my mind, he reached up and pressed the button for my usual station. I grinned and he reached over for my knee and we drove on.
 

When we got close to Buford Dam Road I pulled out my cell phone. “I’m trying to call the water release information line for an update but I can’t get a signal.”
 

I recited the number to Jack but he didn’t have any better luck getting a signal on his phone.
 
Before we could say ‘Can’t get a damn signal at the dam,’ the phone in my hand rang. He chuckled. “Intermittent denial of service, huh?”

“Why would you say that?” my guilty conscience lashed out.
 
That’s what Thomas Chestnut had written on the napkin. You remember the one we stole from the murder scene?
 
My phone rang again.

“Huh?” His look said, ‘What’d I do?’

I answered on the third ring.
 
“I’m sorry.”
 

“For what?” Tara asked.

“I was talking to Jack.”

“I’m going to text you the details of the viewing for tomorrow night.”

 
“I wanted to ask you something. I know this was supposed to be our first joint pre-birthday dinner, but now that doesn’t seem appropriate under the circumstances.
 
Should it just be a night out?”

Tara hesitated and I wondered if she was still there.
 
“Paul’s not exactly torn up by his death. I mean, not the way you would if it was your real father. Want to play it by ear?”

“Sure.” I hung up thinking about the shape I was in when my own father died.
 

It took both of us to get the canoe off the car and then we loaded it up with our cooler, oars, life vests, Abby and her doggie life jacket. Buford Dam is just north of river milepost 348 and Abbotts Bridge is milepost 335. The park land seemed to know my husband was only in town for a few days and the wildflowers showed off all day.
  

 
All day, off and on, we talked about his upcoming retirement from the Army. “I know I’ve said this before, but I don’t want you to retire for me, or even for us, I want you to retire for you.”

“It’s time. I can’t win this war, but I did keep my boots on necks that needed it.”

“May I remind you you’re talking to a nice liberal?”

He was the architect of the most daring night raids you never heard about. Until recently that is.
 
Lately the practice of night raids was talked about by Afghan politicians––a lot. In the Pentagon, also referred to as ‘the building,’ they say he’s better at this than anyone in the history of the US Army.
 
He holds he’s just a cop on the beat. It went without saying that he didn’t give a rat’s ass that night raids were no longer politically popular.
 

“One aspect of careerism I particularly dislike is the over-reliance on technology.” His voice traveled to me from the back of the canoe.
 

“A system focused on hardware is never going to understand what you do, or did.”

He was saying something about his guys when I slapped the water hard with my oar. “You lied to me last year when you said you were developing the plans but not going out yourself anymore!”
 

We were all three splashed with water. Abby tried to stand, but Jack hadn’t said anything. I didn’t turn around, because I didn’t want to see the look on his face. I forced myself to dial back the indignation because of not telling him about Tiara Investigations.

 
Finally he spoke. “That didn’t really last all that long.
 
I couldn’t ask anyone to do what I wasn’t doing.”

“Are you kidding me? That’s exactly what officers do. That’s what they’re supposed to do. I shouldn’t have expected you to play it safe, but I didn’t think you’d lie to me about it.”
 

“Let’s not fight about something that’s about to be OBE.” Indeed, what he did and did not do in theater, as they call the war zone, would be
overcome by the event
of his retirement.

We stopped talking as we paddled past a group of fly fishermen. The water near the dam stays at a perfect temperature for a trout habitat.

Then we paddled about five minutes longer.

 
“Baby?”

“Yeah?”

“Why do we have so much money?”

Shit. He may have been economical with the truth, but I was bankrupt of it. “Well, we don’t have a mortgage.”

“Okay.”

“Can we go over all this later?”

***

We were bone tired and hungry when we got back home. After some grilled salmon and Chardonnay, I was ready for bed and headed upstairs. I was thinking about how I’d gone for a full day without working on a case. I dabbed on a new nighttime eye cream, but before I finished flossing, it was running into my eyes, and stinging like truth in the morning. Instead of throwing it away, I’d use it as cuticle cream.
 
I tissued it off as well as I could and went to bed. I was thinking about the last beauty product I re-purposed––masque.
 
Since we go to the High Hill Day Spa for facials, I had no need of it, until I realized I could use it on my feet.
 

Jack was sitting on the loveseat positioned at the foot of the bed, petting Abby. I smiled at the happy family scene, and then my toes got tangled in something new on the floor. I went flying into Jack, and Abby ran for her life.
 

My husband caught me in his arms, “Well, hello there.”

“What did I trip over?” I checked for broken toes, thinking, what if I had to chase someone?
 

“It’s a putting matt. If I’m going to play golf with you, I’ll have to practice. Sorry.” He pointed to his putter, propped up against the dresser.
 

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw an orange light in the front yard.
 
I sprang to the window.
 
“Jack, there’s a fire in our yard!” For some reason, it’s impossible for a Southerner to say that sentence quickly. I have an Atlanta accent more than a Southern accent, but it wouldn’t come out as fast as I needed it to. I don’t know why. I yelled it again and ran downstairs and out of the house.
 
The flower bed in front of the turn in the walkway had been set alight. My husband about ran over me getting to the blaze. He took the garden hose out of my hand, and I leaned over to turn the spigot.
 
It was a small area and was extinguished in a few minutes.
 

“Nothing in there was brown or dry, so how did it catch fire?” I moved around to see the blackened ground from a different angle.
 

Jack scanned the front yard, eyes hooded. I swear, sometimes he reminds me of the poster from the seventies, “Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for I am the meanest sonofabitch in the valley.”
   

Then he went back to examining the carnage. “What’s this?” The container in the middle of the bed was too hot to touch, so he rolled it over with the nozzle of the hose. It was a drinking glass shaped like a dinosaur.
 

“Leave it right there.”
 
I still couldn’t believe we had taken something from Thomas Chestnut’s murder scene, and I didn’t intend to make a habit of it. If the glass was evidence, what was it evidence of?

CHAPTER 5

Continuation of statement by Leigh Reed.
Late Sunday morning Victoria called.
 
Good thing Jack was in the shower because she called to talk Tiara business.
 
“We need help with a plan. We’ve been sitting outside this woman’s house for two hours.”
 
During our time in business we’ve settled into a division of labor. My specialty is planning and operations. Victoria’s area of expertise is technology, since she was an executive for a dot com when we started the agency. She never looked back. Tara’s forte is interrogation and distraction. Of course, there’s lots of overlap.
 

“His car is parked three blocks from here. We know he’s in there but we didn’t get a good photograph of him going in. She had unlocked the back gate and he walked through her backyard. Tara wants to use her super hearing aid to hear inside the house.”

“Listening device, thank you. It works just like the infomercial said it would,” Tara said in the background.

“Nah, that’s not legal. You’ve got to flush him out.
 
Let me think. How are you dressed?”
  

“We both came from church.”

“It’s October; say you’re taking a survey for a ballot issue. Tell them it’s a school bond. They always have those. When that door is opened, be sure whoever stays in the car is ready with the camera. Who knows, maybe you’ll get lucky and he’ll answer it.”
 
The shower water stopped. “Good luck, gotta go. I’ll call you later. I have to tell you what happened here last night.”
 

“Alright!” Tara said.
     

Before I could correct her assumption, Jack came into the bedroom toweling off. “Tell me again how you got the window company to come out on a Sunday to re-fit the new windows.”
 

“Last week I had them installed throughout the house. Three didn’t fit right. The installers returned and they fixed two of them. I was still not happy with the bedroom window. While I was on the phone with them, Tara took the receiver out of my hand and threw such a hissy fit they gave me this appointment. They should be here any time now.”

He cooked brunch, complete with Eggs Benedict, without the Canadian bacon for me, and, natch, grits. The window installers came, worked and left. Third time was a charm, because the windows seemed to fit perfectly.
 

“Are you going to watch the Falcons game this afternoon?” I walked around him and loaded dishes into the dishwasher.

“Is that a trick question?”

“Does today’s game start at one o’clock or four-fifteen?”

“One. What do you say, Abby? Want to watch the game with me?”

“I’m going to work in the yard while you do.”

“Are you going to replant the burnt flower bed?”

“No, I’ll have someone do that for me.” Truth be told, I also wanted to leave it alone in case Detective Kent wanted to see it. “I have thirty bulbs to plant on the side of the house.”
 

I turned on the shower then went into my dressing room. From there, I called Victoria and Tara and told them about the fire and the dinosaur glass.

“Does that mean that Pop Tart’s murderer knows where you live?” Tara whispered.

 
“If someone guilty of, or connected to, Pop Tart’s murder is trying to get my attention, I’m attending.” I peeked out the door to try to tell where Jack was.
 

Tara said, “I’m glad Jack’s home, and you’re not alone.
 
If he wasn’t, I’d ask you and Abby to come over here. Vic, what do you think about all this?”

 
“Are you sure it’s Carrie Underwood who sings ‘Before He Cheats’?”

“I’m quite sure,” I answered. “Shorty’s home, right?”

“Right.” This was the Tiara Investigations’ manner of going radio silent.
 

“Should we tell Detective Kent?” I asked.

“Let’s make him admit Thomas Chestnut was poisoned first,” Tara said and we all hung up.
 

 
I headed for the garage where all things gardening, including garden clogs, could be found.

“What if I need a beer, baby?”

“Don’t talk like that unless you’re wearing Kevlar, baby.”
 

A southern summer can be as harsh on plants as a northern winter, so for good root development most bulbs start their outdoor life in cool soil. I planted salmon (Apricot Beauty and Temple of Beauty) and white (Ivory Floradale and Maureen) tulips. These different selections would spread out the blossoms next spring, some blooming early, some late.
  

I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket. “Mother, which do you divide in the fall, bearded irises or beardless?”

“Beardless in the fall and bearded in warm weather, dear.
 
When I saw it was you calling, I was hoping for another murder.”

“Mother!”

“Your Aunt Thelma is here.
 
She’d like a word.”
 

I waited while the phone was given over.
 
“Leigh, hon, where would we need to go to be involved in a double murder?”

“I really don’t know.
 
I wouldn’t want to go there.”

“I’ll give the phone back to your mother.” As odd as her request had been, I felt a familiar pang when I heard the disappointed tone in her voice. All five sisters had an astounding ability to manipulate.
 

 
I said goodbye to Mother and turned my attention to the Siberian and Japanese irises growing on the north side of the house. Carrying my spade to the flower bed, I started extracting clumps of plants. I split them, trimmed the foliage and replanted. After cleaning the spade, small tools and scissors in a zen-like manner, I returned them to my potting cabinet. I went back in to find my husband in the exact spot in front of the TV where I’d left him.
 

“I’m going to the garden center.”

“Mmm.”

When I returned with mums for container gardening, he was sitting up and cheering for the Falcons. Abby was sitting in a chair ramrod straight. She was thrilled, but had no idea why.
 

“After I retire we can go to some of the games!”

“Mmm,” I said.
 
The memory of my last visit to the Georgia Dome was not a happy one.
 

After I finished planting my thrillers, spillers and fillers in the two urns on the front porch, I ate a salad while I read some of the New York Times. I took the sports section over to him and, his eyes still on the TV, he grabbed my hand. “Why didn’t you wait until I retired to replace the windows? I can handle this kind of project, you know.”
 

He could?
 
“Do you think you’ll be bored?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you even know about home maintenance?” To diminish the harshness of this question, I sat on his lap.
 

“I can learn.
 
If I can get a truck running in the desert using piss and sand, I should be able to learn to be handy around the house. That reminds me, I noticed a door on the Jeep was squeaking. It’s halftime so I’m going to start working on it now.”

“You unsnap the straps first, okay?” Finding a project was good, right?
 
I muted the television and sat down to read little more of the newspaper.

He was back.
 
“Sweetheart, where are the tools?”

“In the first cabinet on the left wall.”

I checked my emails on my phone, with clanking of metal in the background. Then it stopped and the door to the garage banged open.
 
Jack walked in, looking at one of his phones.
 
“Just got an email.
 
I’ve been
invited
to testify before the Senate Committee on Armed Services.”
 
What his eyebrows did when he said
invited
told me what he thought of the word.
 
“They sent letters to the Army and to the Department of Defense.”

“Do they want you to testify on the draw down in Afghanistan?”

“One aspect of it.” He didn’t look at me, he was still reading. “In the future, the night raids will be approved by the Afghan Operational Coordination Committee. I think they want to get my opinion on that.”

“What do you think about it?”

“Not a fan, but it could work.” A few long, quick strides took him to the room that serves as our library and office at the front of the house, dialing as he walked. I heard him ask someone, “Whaddaya hear?”
 
He closed the door.
 

***

At a little before six o’clock, we met Vic and her husband, Shorty, and Tara and her boyfriend, Paul, in the lobby area of the Hamilton & Sons Funeral Home.
 
Tara had texted me the address. It was on Highway 20 in Hartfield Hills, so it didn’t take us long to get there.
 
I was dressed smartly in a St. John cobalt sheath dress with a matching topper, befitting a place with soft organ music in the background and thick carpet that can stand up to a pair of heels. My husband says when I wear heels and sunglasses I can make him speak in tongues.
 
He was looking mighty good himself in a black suit, white shirt, and red tie with a tiny grey stripe.

There were Queen Anne chairs everywhere you looked. Why do funeral homes always have those?

I hugged Paul and told him I was sorry for his loss.
 
He sort of hemmed and hawed, like he didn’t deserve the sentiment. He wanted to relieve me if I was upset thinking he was upset. I got the point. It was like Tara had said, he wasn’t close to his stepfather.
 

The guys shook hands all around. My husband and Paul hadn’t met, so I introduced them.
 
I had never seen Paul in a suit before. He was always dressed in scrubs, golf clothes, or casual attire when I was with Tara and him. Tonight he wore a dark brown suit, white shirt, and golf course green tie.

 
“Where is HE-E-E?” In a funeral home, everyone has a name except the deceased.
 
People you haven’t seen in twenty years come up to you, and you say, “Oh, Clara.” Or, “Here’s Joe.” The dead person, however, you must refer to as SHEEEE, or HEEEE.
 

A few groups of three and four people stood near walls, indicating they weren’t family. So who was family?
 
I mean, besides Paul.
 

“They’re ready.” Paul turned to a set of double doors on the right side of the lobby. As if on cue, the funeral director, so petite a man I’d have to refer to him as the Doogie Howser of Funeral Directors, and a young lady wearing a navy suit that hung on her small frame like a box, walked up and opened the double doors to the Room of Repose, then stood aside. Her head was bowed and his was nodding at, well, I guess anyone.
 
I waited for family members to start filing in, but no one moved. Paul imperceptibly…. I take that back. I’m telling you about it, so I must have perceived it.
 
Anyway, it was subtle.
 
He sort of leaned back and that put me in front and I was supposed to move toward the room where HE was. Didn’t protocol require Tara go ahead of me since she was Paul’s girlfriend? Still, there were all these people behind me waiting and I could feel my husband touch my elbow. You don’t have to ask me twice to go look at a dead person in a coffin. I was off like a shot.
 

First, you smell the flowers. Then you take in the coffin.
 
But I couldn’t. There were two workers doing something with HIM. They were beefy guys, and they were not wearing suits. One man wore a black leather jacket that had seen better days and the other a well-worn jean jacket. They slipped out a side door, which had been left open. I remember thinking, that’s different. It was unprofessional for them to be in there when the audience, so to speak, entered.
 
And to have a door open to the behind the scenes area? Who does that? I sensed the young assistant, I guess that’s what she was, stiffen. So I wasn’t the only one surprised by this unorthodox turn of events. I glanced back at her.
 
The black flats made the suit look even less attractive.
 
And I thought Sarah Palin had cured everyone from wearing such gargantuan glasses. Her name badge identified her as Janice Marshall.

Her boss, the one who looked like he shopped for his clothes in the boys department, waited for me to move forward, so I did.

Then like lightening I did a one-eighty. Or I tried to.
 
I hit the brick wall which was my husband. He’s a big guy and when I crashed into him at that speed I came off my feet by a few inches. He was holding both my arms and had a surprised look on his face. “Tara. Tara. Tara?” I squawked.
 

I heard this collective, ‘ohhhh.’ Paul and most of the others waiting to enter the room thought I was saddened by what I’d seen.
 
I had to get the hell away from all of them.
 

 
I seized the sleeve of Tara’s jacket and pulled her out of line straight to the farthest Queen Anne chair I could see.
 
Unfortunately this left my husband in line to see a dead guy he didn’t know from Adam. I looked back and he gave me a
puhleeze honey
look. At the last minute he was spared because someone he apparently did know from Adam started talking to him, and they moved away from the door. It was Detective Jerome Kent.
 
Do you know how many ways that was bad?