The Readaholics and the Falcon Fiasco (21 page)

I
replayed my conversation with Fee several times throughout the afternoon and hadn’t reached a decision by the time I needed to leave to meet Doug and Madison to choose a band. Ironically, I found myself actually looking forward to hooking up with the happy couple because it would enable me to put off making a decision for a few more hours. As far as I could see, if I decided to pursue the investigation, I’d have to talk to Troy Widefield Sr., since Fee was sure Clay had warned him about Ivy having the ledger page, and I knew Brooke would hear about it and feel like I’d lied to her. Frankly, the thought of confronting Senior intimidated me, too. If he’d killed Ivy and tried to sabotage my business and discourage me from investigating with the beehive incident, who knows what he might do if I showed up in his office and told him I knew about the gambling. I frowned. I had a lot of trouble envisioning the patrician Troy Widefield lugging a stolen beehive to the park, and an even harder time matching him up with the “mind your
beeswax” language in the threatening letter. I tried to put it out of my mind and left to meet my clients.

The first band Doug and Madison and I were going to listen to was set up in the basement of the New Way Church, a nondenominational wannabe megachurch that would have a much better chance of reaching mega status if it were located in a town with more than ten thousand people. I arrived ten minutes early and heard the clash of cymbals before I even entered the building. Doug and Madison weren’t here yet. I glanced into a worship space with enough pews for every man, woman, and child in the county, a bank of choir stalls, strategically placed speakers, and large TV screens overhead.
For instant replay on the sermon?
Despite the trappings of entertainment, it was a peaceful space and I lingered in the doorway, not thinking much about anything, until I heard Doug’s voice behind me.

“Getting religion in your old age, A-Faye?”

I wasn’t sure if I was more annoyed about the age jab or the implication that I wasn’t religious. I might not be a regular churchgoer—I got to St. Luke’s once or twice a month—but God and I talked almost daily. I disguised my irritation with a smile and turned. Before I could respond, he added, “Hey, Madison tells me you’ve got a new guy. We’ll meet him at the wedding, right? He’s a cop?”

Dang.
I hadn’t thought that Madison might mention our conversation to Doug. How to get out of this? I knew: keep lying. Would God strike me dead for lying in his holy place? I edged away from the sanctuary door. “That’s right.” I smiled.
“Lindell Hart. He’s excited about attending the wedding and said to pass along his congratulations.” To forestall more questions about Hart and our imaginary relationship, I asked, “Where’s Madison?”

A shadow passed over Doug’s face. “Where is she always? Working. She has a brief she has to e-mail by COB New York time, and she’s crashing on that. She told me to come ahead and choose a band, since the music is really my thing anyway.”

That was true. It had been Doug who insisted on actually seeing their top two bands in person after I gave them CDs of several area bands to listen to. He was a music geek from way back. The thrum of an electric bass vibrated up from the floor below, and I said, “Let’s get to it.”

We descended the stairs and found the band in a large open room that was probably used for church suppers if the tables and chairs stacked on dollies were any indication. The band had set up on a small dais at the far end of the room and the drummer hailed us with a rim shot when we came in. I’d worked with them a couple of times before, and I introduced them to Doug. He and the lead singer immediately got into a discussion about the guitar he was playing. I rolled my eyes good-humoredly and pulled a couple of folding chairs off a dolly for us to sit in. Doug joined me in a moment.

“Give us one minute,” the bandleader said, stepping over wires to talk to the keyboard player.

We sat side by side in our cold metal chairs, the only audience members waiting for a concert to begin. I’d done this numerous times with other
brides and grooms, but today it felt awkward. Maybe because Madison wasn’t there and I sensed Doug’s anger or disappointment about her defection. Maybe because I was still unsettled from the spat, if you could call it that, with Brooke.
Maybe because Doug’s getting married in a week and it makes me sad.
Mostly to break the silence, I asked, “Did you see the article in today’s
Herald
?”

Doug furrowed his brow. “Yeah. I have to talk to the police tomorrow, when I’ve got more time.”

I raised my brows at him. “About what?”

He hesitated. “I suppose it doesn’t matter if I tell you since I have to tell the police anyway. Now that they’re calling Ivy’s death murder, I need to tell them she hired me a few days before she died to draw up a will.”

“Really?” All my and Flavia’s imaginings about Ivy talking to him about protecting herself from libel charges or prosecution vanished. It was nothing so interesting. She wanted a will, like millions of other people.

“When she called me, the Wednesday before she died, I thought maybe she was ill and that had prompted it.”

“You did? Why?”

“I don’t remember her exact wording, but I got the impression she thought she might die soon. She didn’t actually say she had cancer or anything, but that’s where I went. She wanted the will quickly and I gave her the draft on Friday—it was simple, mostly boilerplate, a couple bequests, a request for spreading her cremains. Now that the police are saying she was killed, I can see that she might have
meant something else, which is why I’ve got to talk to the detective. Your new sweetie.” Despite the somberness of the topic, he grinned.

Uh-oh
. I sent up a quick prayer that my name would not come up when Doug talked to Hart. I had a sinking feeling that God’s answer was
You got yourself into this, so you can get yourself out.

“So she left everything to Ham,” I said.

“No. She was leaving half to Heaven Animal Haven and half to her college.”

“But Ham’s already made arrangements to sell her house!”

“That’s because she didn’t sign the will. Without a will, a person’s estate goes to their nearest living relatives, a spouse if married, then children, parents, or siblings.”

I guessed that made sense. Before I could think about it, the band launched into its first number, a Def Leppard cover, obviously requested by Doug.

I leaned in to speak in his ear. “You’re kidding, right? People want to hear ‘YMCA’ and ‘Shout’ at a wedding, maybe a little Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole, and ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ for the older crowd.”

Doug grinned and my heart skipped a beat. “Yeah, but they’re good.”

When the band brought the number to a close, Doug applauded and said, “You know any Nat King Cole?”

“Of course, man.” The lead singer counted out a slow three-count and the band eased into “Unforgettable.”

“C’mon.” Doug grabbed my hand and pulled me up.

“Wha—”

“Got to practice my dancing. Don’t want to embarrass my bride by trampling her feet.”

Before I could object—which I was absolutely going to do—he pulled me against his chest and led me into a haphazard waltz. His hand clasped mine firmly and his other hand wrapped around my waist. The scent of his familiar aftershave brought back memories of slow dancing in the high school gym with crepe paper streamers and chaperones; of making out in his car, afraid to go too far and prevented from it by the stick shift and bucket seats; of the first time we made love, both of us virgins, in his college dorm room. I nestled closer and felt his arm tighten around my waist. After a few more bars of the smoky tune, both his hands went to my waist and my arms went around his neck and we moved in slow circles. When I closed my eyes, the church’s linoleum flooring became the polished wood of the gym floor. All that was missing were the delinquents trying to dump vodka in the punch bowl, and the gaggle of girls talking animatedly on the sidelines, trying to pretend they didn’t care they didn’t have anyone to slow-dance with. Doug bent his head so his cheek rested against mine and I could feel his breath on my ear. If I turned my head a fraction our lips would meet.

“Just like old times, eh, A-Faye?” His voice was husky.

“Pretty much,” I agreed weakly. The melty lassitude of desire made my limbs heavy. My body ached with warmth, and I was ultrasensitive at every point where we touched. A day’s growth of
beard rasped my cheek. His hair was crisp at his collar where my fingers laced. I was light-headed. I could tell by the way his breathing deepened and slowed that he was feeling the same tug of desire.

The song ended and the band clapped for us, laughing. I pulled away, face flaming. What was I thinking? He was getting married in just over a week. This trip down memory lane was dangerous and wrong.

“A-Faye—”

“I think they’re good, don’t you?” My voice was brittle. I was mad at him for playing these games with me, and mad at myself for getting sucked in.

“Yes.” He clipped the word short, obviously not interested in discussing the band. The fluorescent lights gleamed off the wheat-colored streaks in his dark blond hair. His green eyes searched mine and I thought I read concern and confusion in them. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have— I didn’t mean— It started out as just a dance.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.
We
shouldn’t have.” Clarity broke over me, like a gallon of cold water dumped on my head. “I don’t think I’m the one to plan your wedding, Doug. I appreciate that you and Madison were trying to push some business my way, but I’m backing out. I’m sure Madison can take over from here, or your mom. I’ll pass along all my notes and details about the arrangements I’ve already made. No charge.”

“Don’t do this.”

Doug looked stricken, and I knew it was about more than having his wedding planner flake out a
week before the big day. His face said he knew our friendship would never be the same.

The band started in on a soft version of “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’,” and I shot them a dirty look.

“I have to.” I leaned forward and kissed the corner of his mouth. “I truly hope you and Madison will be very happy. I’m sure you will be.”

His hand came up to my shoulder—to draw me closer or push me away?—but I stepped back and it fell to his side. Without waiting to see his reaction, I fled from the basement.

“—now it’s gone, gone, gone, woh-oh, woh-oh,” the lead singer crooned behind me.
Ass.

I made it to the parking lot before I noticed I wasn’t crying. I blinked my eyes a couple of times to be sure. Nope. Dry. I inhaled deeply and realized that although I was sad, my uppermost emotion was relief. I’d finally done the smart thing, the right thing, what I should have done the moment Madison told me she was marrying Doug. Pleased that I hadn’t mentally stuck a “my” in front of “Doug,” I got in the van and fiddled with the tuner. I didn’t need sappy country songs right now. Finding a station that played pop music, I drove away singing along with “What Does the Fox Say?” perhaps the most inane song produced this decade. It fit my mood perfectly.

I
considered calling Lola, or dropping in on my folks, but I really just wanted to be alone and wallow. So I bought some brownie mix at the City Market on my way home and whipped up a batch of chocolatey goodness while watching
An Affair to Remember
. The aroma of baking brownies was the perfect complement to Cary Grant’s suavity and banter. I ate a couple of warm brownies with a glass of cold milk and made it a double feature with
Sleepless in Seattle
. It wasn’t as masochistic as it sounds. I let myself get weepy, and it felt cathartic. Before going to bed, I ground the rest of the brownie batch in the garbage disposal and washed them away to keep from finishing them off for breakfast.

Friday morning I awoke feeling refreshed. A little sad, but basically okay. My eyes were puffy, but concealer and a darker eye shadow than usual covered that up. I went to yoga and was not surprised to find that Fee was absent. The hour of stretching made me feel limber and relaxed, and I was feeling
good enough to tackle any task that came down the pike by the time I changed and started working. The first thing I did was forward all my notes and e-mails about the wedding to Doug and Madison. The stuff that wasn’t e-mailable I stuck in an envelope; I scribbled their names on it and popped it into the mail. When Al came in, I told him that we were no longer working the Taylor-Elvaston wedding.

“Thank God,” he said with an expressive eye roll.

“What?”

“I always thought your taking on that wedding was stupider than sticking your finger in a light socket,” he said, sitting at his desk and sifting through his files.

“You did? Why didn’t you say so?”

“Right. Like it would have done any good.”

Was this Al? My Al? The one who blurted every thought? “Who are you and what have you done with Al Frink?” I asked.

He gave me an affronted look. “It’s not like I say everything that comes to mind, you know. I do have some tact.”

Could have fooled me. I let it go. “Give me a rundown of your events for this weekend. Do you need my help with anything?”

When he told me he had everything under control, I found myself at loose ends. The wedding had been my big project, and now I had time on my hands. I spent half an hour sorting paper clips, changing printer cartridges, and deleting old e-mails, but then shoved back from my desk. Maybe my lack
of occupation was a sign, a sign that I should get off my fanny and go talk to Troy Widefield Sr. The thought of Brooke’s reaction, if she heard, stopped me. I didn’t want to be precipitate. Yes, Fee had said Clay told Widefield that Ivy was going to out their gambling connection, but he surely wasn’t the only one.

I started thinking about the timing. I’d been assuming that Troy Jr. had told his dad about me having the ledger page, but I hadn’t told Brooke and Troy about it until after the bee incident. So either Senior hadn’t been involved in relocating the beehive and leaving the threatening message, or someone else had told him about the ledger page. I got out an unused notebook. I needed a timeline. It all had to revolve around the ledger page, because nothing else made sense. The ledger page could send people to prison; it was worth killing for, moving beehives for, threatening for.

I wrote:

• Ivy calls Flavia, tells her she has a big story, criminal scandal, etc. (Tues before she dies)
  
• Ivy calls Doug, tells him she needs a will because she realizes she might be in danger? (Wed before she dies)
  
• Ivy copies ledger page (when?) and mails it to herself (to avoid being caught with it?)
  
• Clay finds duplicate copy in machine, confronts Ivy (find out when from Fee)
  
• Ivy tells Clay she’s going to give the page to a reporter; he warns a few clients (including Widefield)
  
• Oleander put in Ivy’s tea stash (when?)
  
• Ivy dies (Tuesday)
  
• Doug, Fee, and Clay go to her house, seen by Flavia (Wed)
  
• House is searched (late Tues/Wed/Thurs/early Fri)
  
• Ledger page arrives at Ivy’s/I find (Fri)
  

I pondered that last item. Where had the ledger page been between when Ivy copied it and when the mail carrier delivered it to her house? Clearly, she hadn’t popped it into the nearest mailbox. I visualized the envelope in my mind. It hadn’t had a regular postage stamp stuck in the corner. It had been through one of those metering machines. I tried to put myself in Ivy’s place.
I’m Ivy. I’ve decided to skewer my former lover by publicizing his illegal bookie biz. I contact a reporter. She tells me she needs proof. I know where Clay keeps his ledger, but I can’t get caught copying it. The weekend! I go to the office on Saturday or Sunday—Sunday would be better—to get the proof. I jimmy Clay’s bottom drawer—or maybe I know where he keeps the key—and copy a page from the ledger. I’m putting the ledger back when I hear a noise. Someone’s coming!

I paused in my reconstruction. Who would be there on a Sunday? A janitor? A security guard? Clay? No matter.
I only have a second. My purse is in the other room. I pop the page into an envelope and scribble my name on it. Then I drop the envelope in an out-box, greet the janitor or security guard, and stroll casually out of city hall.

Hm. It could have happened that way. Then maybe
the envelope sits in an out-box for a day or two before it gets down to city hall’s mailroom. Government efficiency being what it is, it’s another day before it gets sorted, weighed, fed through the metering machine, and handed over to the U.S. Postal Service. It goes to some sorting center—Grand Junction?—and comes back to Heaven, getting delivered on Friday. I tapped my pencil on the pad, pleased with my reconstruction. I called Fee.

When she answered I asked her when Clay confronted Ivy about the copied ledger page. “Monday. The day before she died,” Fee said. She sounded more with it than she had yesterday. “Are you looking into it? Have you found out anything?”

“Just doing some thinking,” I said, and hung up before she could press me further.

I entered “Monday” onto my timeline and stared at it. It made sense. If Ivy copied the page on Sunday, Clay could have found it on Monday. She was taking a personal day, but he probably hotfooted it over to her place. If Clay and Ivy had it out at her house on Monday, that didn’t leave much time for him to decide to kill her, come up with the oleander plan, collect a few leaves and introduce them into her tea canister by Tuesday. Actually, by Monday evening, I realized, because Ivy had poisoned tea with her when she came to the Readaholics meeting. The more I considered the timing, the more I realized how unlikely it was that Clay had killed Ivy. Fee was right.

The phone rang twice, but Al picked it up. I went back to my timeline, but Al appeared in the doorway.

“Hamilton Donner on the phone. Says it’s about spreading ashes?” Al quirked an eyebrow at me.

“Oh.” I’d almost forgotten about promising to spread Ivy’s ashes with Ham. I picked up and greeted Ham.

“Hey, Amy-Faye, I was thinking about spreading Ivy’s ashes today on my lunch hour, in about forty-five minutes. Does that work for you?”

It seemed borderline disrespectful to squeeze it in over a lunch break, but I didn’t argue. I’d told him I’d go with him. I was happy to do this for Ivy. “Sure. Meet you at the tree house.”

I hung up slowly. His voice had triggered a disturbing thought. I read through my timeline again, focusing on the Wednesday before her death when Ivy contacted Doug about a will. I drew a box around the word “will.” Doug said she hadn’t left Ham a penny, and yet here he was, selling her house, making plans for spending her money, and all because she had died before she had the opportunity to sign the will. I licked my lips with a suddenly dry tongue. Could Ham have known? Had Ivy told him about the will, or had he seen it somehow? He had a chip the size of Mount Rushmore on his shoulder about his family not believing in him, not investing in his projects . . . How would he have reacted to discovering that his sister was leaving her money not to him, but to a bunch of animals and a college?

Had I gotten so caught up in the Clay scenario, with its codes and criminality, that I overlooked the statistically more likely possibility, that Ivy had been killed for her money? By Ham. The two
circumstances were connected, of course; Ivy wouldn’t have made a will if she hadn’t been worried about the repercussions of exposing Clay. I brought myself up short. This was Ham I was thinking about. Kind of a jerk, sure, but one I’d actually gone on a date with, someone I’d known for fifteen years. Did I really think he was capable of slipping oleander into his sister’s tea canister? If she’d been whacked over the head or pushed off a convenient cliff, okay, maybe. But oleander? It didn’t seem very Ham-ish. On the other hand, I’d thought a couple of times over the past few days that we knew less than we thought about even close friends and family members . . .

I shook my head. All in all, Ham wasn’t a very likely candidate, despite the money, but I could take advantage of meeting him at the tree house to figure out if he’d known anything about the will. I felt a moment’s pause about being alone with him but felt too silly to call Hart or anyone to go along as a bodyguard. Then I remembered Brooke and Lola saying they wanted to be in on spreading Ivy’s ashes. Relieved to have a good reason to ask them to come, I called them, leaving a voice mail for Brooke and agreeing to stop by Bloomin’ Wonderful to pick up Lola on the way.

I flipped my steno pad closed and tucked it into my purse. Telling Al I was taking an early lunch, I left the office and drove to Bloomin’ Wonderful, where Lola supplied me with a bouquet of sprightly daisies to leave with Ivy’s ashes but said she couldn’t go after all.

“Wish I could come with you and pay my last
respects,” she said, “but my delivery guy just called to say he’ll be here any minute now.” She looked distressed. “If he unloads quickly, I could get there before you’re done, maybe.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, putting a hand on her arm. “I’ll tell Ivy these are from both of us.”

Lola smiled sadly and waved as I drove off. I had to wait for a semi to make the turn into her driveway before I could get onto the main road. As a result, I was running a few minutes late when I got to Ivy’s old address and parked in front of the house with its virulent pink flamingos. I wondered if they glowed in the dark. Ham’s truck was already there, and he got out when I pulled up, holding a wooden urn in the crook of his arm. He wore jeans and a white shirt with his name over the pocket, and his hair was neatly slicked back with some gel.

“You said you’re on your lunch break—where are you working?” I greeted him.

“Delivering product for vending machines,” he said, leaning in to kiss my cheek.

I allowed it, given the occasion, and even refrained from wrinkling my nose at the odor of cigarettes that hung around him. I found myself thinking he ought to smell differently but couldn’t figure out why. My brain niggled at it as we turned and made our way toward the woods.

“Brooke said she wanted to come,” I said, hesitating at the tree line. “And Lola. We could wait for them.”

“I’ve got to get back,” Ham said impatiently. “My boss is a real whip cracker. Docks my pay if I’m thirty seconds late.” He plunged ahead.

Somewhat reluctantly, I followed him into the woods.

“Damn, I haven’t been here in ten years, I’ll bet,” Ham said. “Not since a couple years before my folks bought it in that car crash. We weren’t getting along too well that last year or so. No one in my family ever had any faith in me.” The weight of grievances long held dragged down the corners of his mouth.

I took his words to mean no one would give him money for his harebrained get-rich-quick schemes.

“I like those flamingos,” he added. “They add something to the old place. They’re cheery.”

We continued down the overgrown path in silence, only the crunch of leaves under our feet marking our progress. When we came within sight of the old tree house, Ham quickened his step. “Damn, it’s still here,” he said.

He walked beneath it, studying it from all angles. “We did a good job, Pop and me. Who’da thought it’d still be here after all this time? You know, A-Faye, working on this with my pop, it’s one of the best memories I have of him. We built it that summer we moved here. I was pissed about leaving Des Moines and all my friends, but my folks said Walter’s Ford would be a fresh start. When we bought this house, my pop promised we’d build a tree house together. I didn’t think we really would, but damn if he didn’t tell the truth, for once.” Ham placed a hand on a ladder rung, seeming to test it for solidity. “We did good.”

“It’s a great tree house, Ham. It’s too bad there
aren’t any kids in the neighborhood to use it anymore. Ivy and I had good times up there.”

At the mention of Ivy’s name, Ham looked at the urn he carried. “Well, I suppose we should get it done. From up there?” He jerked his chin up.

“Sure. You first.” I did not want Ham Donner admiring my rear view all the way up the ladder.

“Hold this.” He thrust the urn into my hands. It was warm from being held against his chest, and I found that distasteful. I held it at arm’s length while he climbed, and then passed it up to him. When I reached the opening, he was looking in the cupboard like I had when I came here a couple days after Ivy died. The urn sat on the floor.

“Nothin’ in here,” he said, smacking the door closed with a backward flip of his hand. “My pals and I used to smoke the occasional doobie up here”—he mimed holding a toke to his lips with thumb and forefinger—“and I thought there might be a hit or two left. You and Ivy must have finished them off.”

That’s what I’d been expecting him to smell like, I realized—marijuana. But why? “Not me,” I said. “Ivy maybe.” She’d tried once or twice to get me to try marijuana, and I’d taken a single puff once to appease her, but it had tasted nasty, made me cough, and I’d been worried about what my folks would do if they ever found out, so I’d steadfastly refused to give it another try. Ivy had laughed at me, not unkindly, and had never lit up again in my presence. Actually, looking back, I thought she’d been a bit relieved, like my refusal made it okay for her not to do it, either.