OUT ON A LIMB (17 page)
“And the night you two came home and saw Daphne…”
“Adrienne insisted that we catch a late aerobics class at the fitness center. Afterwards, we stopped at a Mexican restaurant and had margaritas. When the waiter started mopping the floor under our feet, we figured out that it was time to leave. Even though she left a tendollar tip, the manager positively glowered at us. It wasn’t even midnight, if you can believe it. Clubs in Atlanta stay open until two. This town is so provincial.”
“That it is.” I began to flip through the notebook. “Do we need eight tables with ten chairs each, or ten tables with eight chairs each?”
“I don’t think it matters. If you don’t mind, I’m going to dash upstairs and take a shower. The telephone’s been ringing off the wall. Just keep a list of everyone who calls to offer condolences. If a delivery boy shows up with a plant or arrangement, stick it in the dining room and jot down the name on the card. Tell anyone who shows up with some gawd-awful casserole that Adrienne’s resting and can’t see visitors.” She surprised me with a quick kiss on the cheek. “You are such a wonderful friend, Claire.”
What I was, I told myself as Chantilly left the kitchen, was such a wonderful hypocrite, even worse—I gulped— than that Princess of Facetiousness, Jessica Princeton. Unfortunately, it did seem that Adrienne and Chantilly had alibis for the time of the shooting. Daphne had said that she found the body, then raced outside as their car came up the driveway. The surly staff at the Mexican restaurant would be able to supply a fairly precise time for their departure, which Peter or Jorgeson would have already confirmed. The medical examiner would have been able to rule out a much earlier time of death.
I looked at the list of calls to be made. Dealing with the caterer was too daunting, so I opted for the liquor store. Adrienne’s name was enough to give me quick access to the manager, who seemed to know exactly what was expected. I then called the three florists listed and requested centerpieces rather than funereal displays. Although I could see their eyes rolling, all acquiesced. I had a feeling we might be able to grace more than eight (or ten) tables.
I was trying to find the nerve to tackle the caterer, one Jacque Chambrun, when the doorbell chimed. Most likely the reverend, I assured myself as I went to answer the door. He could be ushered to the conservatory. Wellmeaning friends would require more tact. If Mary Margaret had proposed me for Junior League and I’d gone to their boot camp, I might have felt more confident. I was well out of this league.
I pasted on a sad smile and opened the door. On the porch stood Assistant Professor Finnigan Baybergen, tweedy hat in hand.
“You?” he said, stepping back. “What are you doing here?”
“Same question. You go first.”
“I came by to offer my condolences.”
“I came by to call the caterer,” I said. “1 thought Anthony Armstrong was your avowed enemy, the despoiler of the forests, the ruination of the quasi-bucolic ambience of Farberville.”
Finnigan regarded me without much warmth. “I would like to speak to Mrs. Armstrong and assure her that the Farberville Green Party is appalled by this senseless act. Violence is in violation of our basic tenets.”
“Miss Parchester has a gun.”
“Only to protect herself. We condemn all acts of aggression that do not infringe on our civil liberties.”
“Don’t start reciting the Constitution,” I warned him as I stepped aside. “Adrienne is resting. Why don’t you come into the kitchen and have some iced tea? Your face is flushed.”
“This isn’t easy for me,” he said. “Armstrong and I were avowed enemies, as you suggested. I’ve been informed that the development will continue, despite any complications of probate. It seems Mrs. Armstrong is a full partner in Oakland Heights, Phase Two.”
“Did you come to offer condolences or to try to persuade her to call off the project?” I said as we went into the kitchen. “Which is it?”
He sat down on a stool. “Both, I guess. Today is Miss Parchester’s fifth day on the platform. We have been able to get necessities to her, but none of us can afford to keep getting arrested. Bail is one hundred dollars for the second offense, and five hundred for the third.”
“Is there anything critical that she needs?”
“By tomorrow she’ll be running low on food and water.”
I poured him a glass of tea. “Bribe Howie to look the other way. That’s what I’ve been doing.”
Finnigan gave me an embarrassed look. “Howie’s not fond of me. After our conversation three days ago, I realized I had to get the key to Miss Parchester. He objected, and I’m afraid I took a swing at him. I’m not very good at that sort of thing, as you may have guessed, but I managed to connect with the tip of his nose. He pushed me hard enough to send me sprawling in a thicket. If Mr. Constantine hadn’t been there to argue with the police officers, I might have been charged with assault.”
“Oh, dear,” I said, trying not to giggle as I envisioned the bout of playground bluster. “But you did get the key to her?”
“Yes, and was arrested shortly thereafter.” He took a swallow of tea. “Maybe we should talk her into coming down. I don’t want to be responsible for endangering her health.”
I did not point out that it was a bit late to be locking the barn door. “I saw her yesterday, and the only thing she needed was lemons for her tea. I’ll go by later and check on her.”
“If you’re as concerned about Miss Parchester as you’ve been professing for the last four days, what are you doing here? Anthony Armstrong deserves full responsibility for this situation. If he hadn’t cozied up to the planning commissioners, inviting them to watch football games from his skybox and arranging deep-sea fishing trips in Baja, do you honestly believe he would have gotten the variances? That was how he operated.”
“That was not how he operated!” said Adrienne as she came into the kitchen. “Anthony never invited anyone who was not a close personal friend. Business was never discussed. Should we have lived in a social cocoon on the off chance we might run into a city official? This is a small town, Mr. Baybergen. You and your kind may be content to sit around and whine about petty politics, but Anthony and I preferred a more sophisticated lifestyle.” She shot me an icy look. “I have no idea why Claire allowed you in my house, but I would like you to leave. I am mourning the loss of my husband, and I will not tolerate insinuations about his character.”
He stood up. “I just wanted to offer the Green Party’s condolences, Mrs. Armstrong, and assure you that we had nothing to do with this.”
“Of course you didn’t,” she said. “Anthony’s daughter shot him. I really would appreciate it if you’d leave now. Claire will show you out.” She turned her back on us and opened one of the refrigerator doors.
Finnigan and I retreated to the front door. I was going to suggest we have a few words on the porch, but it occurred to me that the police officer at the end of the walk might mention it to Peter.
“How did you get past the officer outside?” I asked him. “I have a feeling your name’s not on the list.”
“Hardly. I told the young man that it was an oversight but I was willing to accept an apology. He stammered something and waved me by.”
I wondered if I could have utilized his approach and saved myself a trip to the fitness center. At least I hadn’t been dragged into an aerobics class or dunked in a hot tub. “I’d like to ask you something, Professor Baybergen,” I began tentatively. “Someone told me that your sister was living in Oakland Heights last year and was injured in the fire. Has she recovered?”
He stared at me. “Who told you that and why is it any of your concern?”
I ignored the first half of his question and said, “I’ve always been afraid of fire. As a child, I was unable to toast marshmallows and was expelled from my Girl Scout troop. She must have been terrorized.”
“Traumatized is a more apt description. She awoke to discover her bedroom was filled with smoke. She had to stumble downstairs in the dark. The front door lock was jammed, so she had to find her way out the back. The smoke was so thick that she collapsed on the patio and had to be transported by ambulance to the emergency room. Damage to her lungs requires her to utilize an oxygen tank most of the time.”
“Claire!” called Adrienne. “Did you confirm my hair appointment?”
Although I wanted to continue talking to Baybergen, I opened the door for him. “I’m really sorry about your sister. I hope she does better.”
“I’m really sorry about Armstrong, but I hope he rots in hell,” he said, mimicking my tone of voice, then went across the porch and down the steps.
I returned to the kitchen and found Adrienne arranging a plate of fruit and cheese. “I wasn’t aware of the hair appointment,” I said. “Shall I call now?”
“That would be so sweet, but could you please carry this out to the conservatory first? Oh, and a pitcher of fresh tea and a glass for the minister. Perhaps I ought to offer him something more substantial, like sandwiches. There’s a package of smoked salmon on the bottom shelf in the refrigerator, and cucumbers in one of the drawers. Please cut the sandwiches in quarters and trim the crusts, and be sure to cover them with a damp towel so they won’t be too dry.”
“Certainly,” I said as she limped out of the room. The minister wasn’t scheduled to appear for an hour, however, and I did not want to be accountable if the sandwiches were the slightest bit stale. I perched on a stool and sipped tea, trying to determine if there was anything more to be learned from Adrienne, Chantilly, or even from the house itself. But first things first, I told myself as I found the leather address book and flipped through it until I chanced upon the caterer. Said gendeman sounded more like Brooklyn than Breton, but he decidedly knew his business and was offended when I dared to mention crab rolls. The hairdresser’s receptionist confirmed the three o’clock appointment. Between the calls, the telephone rang several times with well-wishers asking if there was anything they might do. Two floral arrangements arrived and were carried mutely to the dining room, where a botanical garden was taking shape. A woman came to the front door with a platter of cookies from, as she told me at length, the distressed office staffers. Two minutes later, a third delivery boy from a florist arrived with a four-foot-high banana tree. I wearily pointed at the dining room.
I peeked at Adrienne, who appeared to be dozing, then glanced at the staircase to the second floor. Chantilly was up there somewhere, drying her hair and applying makeup. Daphne had returned here the night of the murder, but I doubted that she had crept in to snatch a pair of pajamas or a bottle of conditioner. Could whatever she and her mother had told Joey might make them rich be just above my head?
I decided to find out.
I took the receiver off the hook, then cautiously went upstairs. No step dared to squeak in Anthony Armstrong’s custom-built house, but I had no idea where Chantilly might be. The second problem was that I had no idea what I was looking for or even which of the rooms beyond closed doors might have been Daphne’s before she had been tossed out onto the streets. It did not seem likely that she had squirreled away a chest containing the crown jewels or an Egyptian sarcophagus that would cause hearts to pound wildly at the British Museum. Scrapbooks and bald Barbie dolls seemed more probable.
The room nearest the top of the stairs was clearly the master bedroom, replete with a king-size bed, puffy satin bedspread, window treatments, inset shelves with small pieces of pottery artfully lighted, an afghan ever so casually draped on an easy chair that no one would be so presumptuous as to sit in, and depictions on the walls of Venetian canals and Tuscan landscapes. Even the silk nightgown on the bed looked as if it had been placed for effect.
Resisting an admittedly foolish impulse to turn down the bedspread and leave a chocolate on the pillow, I roamed onward. The room across the hall appeared to be Chantilly’s; clothes were heaped on all available surfaces and I could hear a hair dryer in what I supposed was a bathroom. I closed the door and tried the next, which appeared to be an uninspired but serviceable guest room. I was getting uneasy, in that someone could ring the doorbell at any moment. My absence would be conspicuous. Adrienne’s ankle problem had already shifted from left to right more than once, and I knew she would be able to come looking for me. While I was looking for whatever. Wherever.
The last door on the left opened onto a room that only a teenager could love. Posters of leering rock musicians decorated all four walls, while angelic teddy bears grinned from the canopied bed. A television, VCR, and elaborate stereo system were ensconced in a customized cabinet with shelves for many dozens of CDs and cassettes. A computer and printer were collecting dust on a desk in one corner. The top of the dresser was bereft of anything more than a small lamp and a glass vase with silk flowers that matched the prissy floral print of the wallpaper. I went into the room and looked in a closet filled with pleated skirts, blazers (school uniforms, I cleverly deduced), and modest dresses. Pairs of sensible shoes were aligned on the floor. Another door led to a bathroom with a stall shower. Pastel towels were draped over rods. No makeup or hair paraphernalia sullied the cabinet surface. The bar of soap, no doubt scented, awaited inaugural use.
Adrienne’s doing, I thought as I idly opened a drawer, definitely not Sheila’s. Sheila would have preferred gaudy beach towels and a futon in the middle of the bedroom, ringed by candles. I continued poking around, but found nothing that might be redeemable at the bank.
I was in the hallway when the doorbell rang. I scurried downstairs, hoping to beat out Adrienne. I was not surprised to see she was still in the conservatory, both feet on the stool, her head back, arms draped gracefully on throw pillows, eyes closed. A classic vignette of a mourning widow, I thought rather sourly as I opened the front door and eyed an elderly man with a bulbous nose, thin white hair, and an ill-fitting suit.
“Yes?” I said, trying to catch my breath.
