The Oldest Sin (22 page)

“There isn’t.”

Early in their marriage, she’d wanted so much for them to be happy, to be deeply in love. She’d playacted the role for years, but the reality had never materialized. The one good thing to come from their union was their son. That had become the ground on which they were finally united. At best, she thought of Hugh now as a friend. Maybe, in the end, that was the greatest gift marriage could give anyone.

She would have preferred to marry a stronger man. But then, if Hugh had been that stronger man, he might not have married her. She hadn’t been easy to live with, she knew that with absolute certainty. Sometimes, she even felt sorry for him, though that was rare. He’d made his own bed, as she had, and they were going to lie in it together until the day they died. They’d both made a bargain with the devil. While trying to serve God, they needed to please Howell Purdis. More often than not, it was a difficult — even impossible — task. But that’s die way God worked. He used human beings, fallible,

weak, even headstrong human beings. And in the end, somehow, the job got done.

Adelle rose, careful not to jar her aching head, and walked into die bathroom, where she spent a moment splashing cold water into her face. Then, grabbing a hand towel, she returned to the bedroom. “What’s wrong?” she asked, seeing die anger return to her husband’s face. “What happened at your meeting this morning?”

Hugh sat down, resting his elbows on his knees. “It’s Isaac.”

“Of course it’s Isaac. It’s always been Isaac. Tell me something I don’t already know.”

“He’s going to be the death of me.”

“You’ve got to stop protecting him, Hugh. Why you feel a sense of loyalty to someone who’s done nothing but betray you, I’ll never know.”

His eyes rose to hers, and then looked away.

“So what did he say?” she asked, stepping over to the mirror above the dresser and examining her face for signs of damage.

“He finally dropped the bomb.”

She stopped and turned around. “What?”

“Do I have to spell it out for you?”

She stared at him. “But he promised —”

“All bets are off. He wants something now. He’s like a dog with a bone. No one’s going to take it away from him.”

She ordered herself to breathe. After giving herself a moment to regroup, she said, “You’re a fool, Hugh. You always have been. God knows why you ever befriended that man. He’s done nothing but use you and abuse you from the time you were boys.”

“That’s not the way he sees it.”

“Of course not. Isaac is a selfless man,” she said sarcastically. “A loving man. What he does, he does for the good of others.”

“That’s what he thinks he’s doing now.”

“By breaking up die church? Destroying what we’ve worked so hard to build?”

“He wants me to join the new group he’s putting together.”

“Your father will destroy him! And he’ll destroy you, too.”

He got up and began to pace. “We’ve got to put a stop to all this wrangling once and for all. It’s tearing the church apart.”

“Isaac’s tearing the church apart!”

“He doesn’t see it that way. He thinks Father is being completely unreasonable because he won’t even discuss matters of doctrine. What he’s taught for years is God’s truth and that’s it. Period, the end.”

“This is news?”

“No, but the ministry is sick of it. They refuse to believe everything is set in stone. Do you know what happened yesterday when the great Howell Purdis tried to disfellowship Isaac? Isaac threatened to take seventy percent of the ministers with him if he left. And that means most of the membership. He must have scared my dad pretty good, because he backed off.”

“I wondered what he’d done. But, you mean your dad believed this insanity?”

Hugh shook his head. “It’s not insanity. That’s what the meeting was about this morning. Isaac really does have the backing of most of the top ministers.”

Feeling dazed, Adelle sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Don’t you get it?” said Hugh, sitting down next to her and dropping his head in his hands. “If I stay with Father, our son will be presiding over an empty church. But if I throw in with Isaac, there’s still a chance Joshua will one day assume the leadership role.”

She turned her head and glared at him, amazed by his ignorance. “You’re living in a dreamworld if you believe that. You’re a weak man, Hugh. You’ve only survived this far because you were Howell Purdis’s son. Without him, you’re lost.”

“I’ve never cared about power.”

“That was your first mistake.”

“Maybe. But what about all the good people out there who support our ministry? I care about
them.
And I care about our son. Think about it. If I stay with my father now, Joshua is lost. Do you want that? Do you!”

“No!”

“Then you tell me what I should do.”

As much as she hated to admit it, even to herself, he had a point. “Just give it more time, okay. Don’t give Isaac your answer right away.”

“He’s allowing me two days.”

She stared back at him, her mind racing. “All right. Then take it. Who knows? Your father’s still a player in this game. He won’t go down without a fight.”

Hugh rose and looked down at her with a coldness she found chilling. “This may surprise you, Adelle, but I’m not going down without a fight either. Don’t count me out just yet.”

He slammed the door on his way out.

Sophie spent all day Monday waiting for an official police report on Lavinia’s death. She tried to stay busy, calling real estate agents and setting up a couple of appointments. The house needed to be appraised, and since she had some free time, she decided she might as well get the ball rolling. Yet her concentration was constancy broken by the image of her friend lying silently amid the rubble of her closet.

By lunchtime, the day was really beginning to drag. Finally, around four, a Lieutenant Riley from the homicide division of the St. Paul Police Department called with an initial report. As the man spoke in his calm, almost matter-of-fact voice, Sophie sat down at the kitchen table and took notes, asking him about certain points, not wanting to forget any of the information.

“I really appreciate the call,” she said, hurrying to squeeze in one last question. She could tell he was busy and wanted to get off. “Did you find a diary when you searched through Lavinia’s belongings?”

He paused for a moment, rattling some papers. “We found a daily appointment calendar.”

“No, that’s not what I’m talking about. This would have been an actual diary — lots of personal writing. That sort of thing.”

“Can you describe it?”

“Sorry. I’ve never seen it.”

“Well, there’s no mention of a diary in this report, Ms. Greenway. Why do you ask?”

Sophie saw no point in keeping the information from him. She quickly relayed the story of Ginger’s death, and of Lavinia’s contention that the diary, one she brought with her on her trip to Minnesota, contained information that pointed to a murderer. She also mentioned that many of the people who knew Ginger back in the early Seventies were in town right now — most of them staying at the Maxfield Plaza.

“You mean to tell me Lavinia Fiore had proof of a murder?”

“No,” said Sophie. “She was careful never to say she had the actual proof — just suspicions.”

“So why would this diary — assuming there is one — be important?”

“Because it pointed to a specific person,” said Sophie, exasperated by his inability to grasp the obvious. “I may be wrong, but I think that’s why her room was ransacked. Someone was looking for it.”

“Why didn’t you tell us about this yesterday?”

“I didn’t know about the diary until after Bram and I gave our statement. If you want to follow it up, you’ll need to talk to Bunny Huffington, Adelle Purdis, and Cindy Shipman.”

Again, he rattled his notes. “You mean the same women who had a drink with the deceased on Saturday night?”

“Exactly. All five of us were old friends of Ginger’s. We lived in the same dorm the year she died.”

There was silence on the other end. She assumed he was writing it all down. “This may have nothing to do with Ms. Fiore’s murder, but we’ll check on it In the meantime, if you come up with anything else that might have a bearing on this investigation, please give me a call.” He repeated his phone number.

She copied it down, assuring him she would.

After she said goodbye, she immediately called Bram. They had to talk right away. Since it was a beautiful autumn afternoon, temperatures in the mid-seventies, they agreed to meet at a favorite restaurant on Lake Harriet in south Minneapolis.

Half an hour later Sophie was ushered to one of the Lyme House’s nicest outdoor tables. She sat down next to the wood railing, delighted by her view of the bandstand on the far shore. She’d been a restaurant reviewer for so many years, everyone knew her face and tended to pander to her well-known likes and dislikes. At least in the culinary biz, she was a local celebrity, a status she heartily enjoyed. She was also a friend of the restaurant’s owner, Jane Lawless.

Bram arrived a few minutes later, eager to talk. Over a bottle of California Merlot, Sophie recounted what the lieutenant had explained to her. Lavinia’s death had been ruled a murder. The cause of death, poisoning.

“What kind of poison?’ asked Bram, leaning into the table.

“They haven’t done an autopsy yet, but they’ve analyzed that small cheese ball nugget we found on the floor.”

“And?’

“The cream cheese had small bits of oleander flower in it.”

“So?”

“It’s highly toxic,” said Sophie, staring down into her glass. “Death was immediate.”

They both sat silently for a few minutes, digesting the information.

Finally, Bram asked, “Where would the murderer get oleander flowers?’

She shrugged. “Any garden store. Or —” She shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

“Or what?”

“Well, the Maxfield’s garden — the one between the two towers — has several pots.”

“You think the murderer used some of
that?”

“I hope not. I’d hate to think the Maxfield provided the murderer with the murder weapon. You know,” she said, swirling the wine around in her glass, “it’s surprising how many ordinary plants are poisonous. Lily of the valley. Rhododendrons. Even azaleas.”

“When did you become such a font of gardening trivia?”

“Right after Rudy was born. I never wanted any of them in the house.”

“You amaze me sometimes, Sophie. You really do.” He reached across the table and took her hand. “But let’s get back to the police report. Do they know when she died?”

Sophie checked her notes. “The medical examiner estimated the time of death at somewhere between eleven
P.M.
Saturday evening and four in the morning on Sunday.”

“She died in her hotel room?”

“That’s what they think.”

“And do they have a suspect?”

“Well, not exactly. They’ve talked to Peter twice. Once yesterday afternoon, and once again this morning.”

“That sounds kind of ominous. What’s his story?”

She squeezed her husband’s hand and then pulled away. “According to what the detective told me, he wasn’t at his parents’ house last night, but maintains he has an airtight alibi.”

“From eleven until four in the morning? What the hell was he doing?”

“That’s just it. He won’t say. If push comes to shove, he told the police he could produce a witness who would place him well away from the scene of the crime during those five hours. But for now, that’s all he’ll say.”

“You know,” said Bram, his gaze wandering to a distant dock where a lone woman stood feeding the ducks, “in a case like this, the police usually look at the husband pretty hard.”

“But why would he want to hurt Lavinia? He loved her, or at least he said he did. They both seemed genuinely happy.”

“Don’t be so naive, Soph. It could always be an act. Lavinia was a rich woman. He no doubt stands to inherit a sizable estate.”

Sophie didn’t believe it was an act, not that she was a perfect judge of character. Nevertheless, she prided herself on having a pretty good sense of people. “You really think he could do something that hideous just for money?”

“Don’t give me that scrutinizing stare,” said Bram, straightening his tie. “I didn’t say he
was
guilty, I’m just examining potential motivations.”

Sophie sat back as the waiter arrived with a basket of freshly baked bread. After handing each of them a menu, he moved on to the next table. Lowering her voice, she continued, “All right. I admit I could be wrong. But I think we should consider other motivations as well.”