Virtue Falls (22 page)

Margaret snapped her mouth shut.

Garik raised his glass to her. He knew Elizabeth; he knew she would feel better trying to untangle the mystery of her father’s rage and her mother’s murder.

Margaret realized it now, too. “Everything about your parents surprised me. He was so much older and not sophisticated. Your mother was a Disney princess Barbie, shedding glamour like stardust wherever she went. She didn’t even try to charm, she simply did. I mean, I liked her, and I don’t normally like younger, taller, beautiful women.” She gave her toothy, patented Margaret-smile.

“Did you think my father…?” Elizabeth’s voice trailed off as if she couldn’t quite finish the thought.

“Did you think Charles Banner was the jealous type?” Garik asked for her.

“Not at all. I would swear it never occurred to him to think anything but the best of Misty. I admit, that summer when rumors started to swirl, I wondered what he would do. But I never thought what did occur … would occur.”

“Back up.” Garik wanted the chain of events laid out in order. “You met Charles and Misty when?”

“The year they moved here. In the spring, before the tourist season really hit, I had the scientific team to dinner. Misty was pregnant. Charles was proud. They seemed happy. Really happy.” Margaret sipped her whiskey. “It’s always a surprise and a pleasure to see that kind of affection between man and wife. It felt like … like they’d rescued each other.”

“Rescued each other?” Elizabeth put down her drink. “From what?”

“I don’t know,” Margaret said. “It was just an impression, anyway. Then the tourist season hit, and I didn’t see them again until after Elizabeth was born. I sent a gift, of course, a silver christening cup engraved with her name and date of birth.”

“Did you?” Elizabeth looked delighted. “Thank you! My aunt kept it for me, one of the few things I have from … when I lived here.”

“You’re welcome. Every precious girl should have a gift to commemorate her birth.” Margaret looked toward the door where Miklós stood dressed in a waiter’s clothing. “Ah. Dinner is served. Shall we?”

Elizabeth got to Margaret before Garik could put down his glass.

Margaret smirked at him as Elizabeth helped her to her feet. “Some young people have manners,” she told him. “I wish you had brought your wife to visit earlier, when I was younger and more spry.”

He got to his feet. “When you were only ninety?”

Appalled, Elizabeth said, “Garik!”

Margaret leaned heavily on Elizabeth’s arm and in a pitiful voice said, “He has always been cruel to this old woman.”

Elizabeth thought about it for a minute, looked between Garik and Margaret. “You are joking. You don’t care if he makes fun of your age.”

“Well.” Margaret put her hands on her walker. “The difference between ninety and ninety-one is about the same as the difference between passing gas and farting. It’s semantics, and it all stinks.”

Garik laughed at the expression on Elizabeth’s face. Putting his arm around her, he said, “Margaret is known for her plain speaking.” He smiled at Margaret. “And the older she gets, the plainer it is.”

“Who’s going to tell me no?” Margaret asked.

“Not me.” Garik walked ahead of them into the dining room, held Margaret’s chair.

As always, the dining room was immaculate, but rather than the usual white linen tablecloth, lit candles, and expensive place settings, the table was plainly set. For beneath Margaret’s carefully acquired polish, she was an Irish chambermaid, practical to the bone, and Garik guessed that whatever remained of her crystal had been packed away until all the aftershocks had ceased and the resort could reopen.

Margaret groaned as she seated herself. “Earthquakes and old bones don’t go together.”

Garik pushed her chair in, then knelt beside her until she looked at him. “You’ll tell me if there’s something wrong with you, right?”

Margaret brushed his damp hair off his forehead. “You can’t cure what’s wrong with me, boy. Only the Grim Reaper can do that.”

“And on that cheerful note,” Harold said from the doorway, “Miklós will serve dinner.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

While Miklós served gazpacho and Garik poured wine, Margaret instructed Harold to pull up a chair and give her a report.

He seated himself. He stretched out his bad leg, rubbed his thigh, and informed her of the town’s progress.

She told him to make sure none of her people took unnecessary risks or did too much, and when she said it, she sternly looked at
him
.

“I’m fine,” Harold said with irritation. “If I didn’t kill myself all those years ago with the drugs, I’m not going to die from a little hard work.”

“I’ll take it amiss if you do.” For all that Margaret was a despot who expected perfection of her staff, she treated them as family, and fiercely protected them from harm.

Garik was proud to be part of her family.

“Have you received word of Kateri via the ham radio?” Harold asked.

“The doctors put her into an induced coma to keep her from moving, and to try and stop the internal bleeding,” Margaret informed him.

Elizabeth’s mouth trembled with anguish.

“We’re praying for her.” Harold put a bell beside Margaret’s elbow, said, “Ring when you’re ready for the entrée,” herded Miklós out, and shut the door.

“I don’t know what I’d do without that man.” Margaret picked up her soup spoon. “He always handles everything, but he shines brightest during a disaster.”

“Disaster seems life-changing. For me, it seems as if the earthquake broke me apart, and perhaps … when I put myself back together, this time all the pieces will be there.” Elizabeth’s gaze skated over Garik, dutifully eating the gazpacho, then returned to Margaret. “Please tell me more about your memories of my parents. I want to know how it all looked from the outside looking in.”

Garik was glad she asked; when Foster said he hadn’t reported all the evidence, that had reopened the investigation, and Garik needed as much insight as he could gain.

Margaret was warmly pleased. “Of course, dear girl. Glad to. Back then, Betsy, you were the apple of everyone’s eye—smiling, outgoing, a chatterbox. The dinner with the scientific team became an annual event, and Charles and Misty were always there and seemed happy. I don’t mean that everything was perfect. They were married. They argued. They completed each other’s sentences and interrupted each other’s stories. It was very
real
, if you know what I mean.”

“Aunt Sandy said before my mother met my father, she was an actress.” Elizabeth stroked the napkin in her lap, and stroked it again as if it couldn’t be flat enough. “Maybe she was acting.”

“Have you ever seen someone
act
happy? Eventually they slip. They
overact.”
Margaret rang the bell. “No, I flatter myself I can tell the difference.”

Harold and Miklós whisked in, removed the bowls, and replaced them with the main course. Harold told them, “Miso-glazed salmon, rice pilaf, and roasted kale. Simple and delicious, so please enjoy, because with Chef dividing his time between the shelter and resort, he is fussing about the preparation.”

“Tell him it looks wonderful,” Elizabeth said warmly.

Garik tried to choke out some praise, but the words stuck in his throat.

“I know, Mr. Garik. You hate kale.” Harold accepted a bowl of salad from Miklós and placed it beside Garik. “Here you go.”

“Thank you!” Garik piled his kale onto Margaret’s plate.

Margaret viewed the operation with a critical eye. “They spoil you, boy.”

“Yes,” Garik said. “I had forgotten how good it is to be Margaret’s son.”

“I never knew when I adopted him how much trouble he would be,” Margaret said to Elizabeth.

“Then you weren’t paying attention,” Elizabeth answered.

Margaret looked startled, then laughed long and loud. “We’ll get along fine, Elizabeth Banner Jacobsen.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth to correct her on the last name, then shut her mouth again. She wasn’t going to win this fight.

Harold shooed Miklós out and once again shut the door behind him.

Margaret, Garik, and Elizabeth ate in a companionable silence, and when they were done, Garik returned to the conversation. “Margaret, what happened to the marriage?”

Margaret pointedly looked over her eyeglasses at first him, then at Elizabeth. “That’s what I’ve been wondering.”

“The
Banner
marriage,” Garik said in a deadpan voice.

Margaret faked surprise. “Oh, Charles and Misty’s marriage … I don’t know. That summer, rumors started to whirl that she had taken a lover.” She spoke more softly, “Then she was dead.”

With her fork, Elizabeth pushed what remained of her food around her plate. “My father was always assumed to be the killer. Did no one suspect the lover?”

Margaret shook her head. “No one knew who the lover was.”

“Elizabeth’s got a point, and a good one,” Garik said. “Was there no attempt to discover his identity?”

“Before the murder? Everyone watched and wondered. After the murder … whoever it was slipped away.” With a clink, Margaret put her fork down. “You have to realize what the photo did to the case. It was so visually damning. In those days, not everybody had a camera on them all the time. But the Banners’ postman was an amateur photographer. While he made his rounds, he kept an expensive camera with him. He took arty coastline photos and sold them to tourists, and made a good amount on the side. As Charles walked out of the house, the postman drove up. Charles was holding Betsy and the scissors, and both he and the child were covered in blood. The postman took the picture.”

Elizabeth looked as if she was holding her breath, hoping for a different resolution.

“Bad luck for Charles,” Garik said.

“That picture was so visceral it made the front page of every national paper and the cover of every news magazine. When the country saw it, it made its decision. Without a good lawyer, which Charles did not have, he never stood a chance with a jury. Personally, Charles was the last man I would have ever thought could murder anyone, much less his wife.” Margaret looked back and forth between Garik and Elizabeth. “But I know Garik would tell us the neighbors say that about every serial killer and child pornographer.”

“Not all of them. Some serial killers are damned weird.” Something niggled at Garik. “What did the postal worker do after he snapped the photo?”

“He drove to the nearest neighbor’s and called nine-one-one,” Margaret said.

Garik’s mouth curled with disdain. “He thought Charles had murdered his wife and was going to kill his daughter, and he ran away.”

“I didn’t say he was an admirable man, only that he took the photo.” Margaret rang her bell.

Dessert and coffee arrived via Harold, and to a grim silence.

Garik stood and took the tray. “We’ll manage. You go and eat, and rest.”

“The staff is back, so we’ve had our dinner.” Harold gave his report to Margaret. “They tell me that in Virtue Falls, the chaos is coming under control.”

“Thank you, Harold.” Margaret took her tea from Garik. “And thank the staff for me.”

“Right now, they’re grateful to have a place to stay,” Harold said.

“Then we’re helping each other.” Margaret nodded at him.

He nodded back, and left.

Garik poured himself and Elizabeth coffee, put the pastries in the center of the table—

“Frozen,” Margaret sniffed.

—and rummaged in the drawer in the antique buffet until he found a small, battered spiral notebook. “Are we sure there was a lover?” he asked.

“I was sure at the time. For those summer months, Misty had that shiny
I’m in love
look about her.” Margaret’s hand had a tremor as she poured her tea. “Top on my list for the candidates? Andrew Marrero.”

Elizabeth’s intake of breath was shocked and audible.

Margaret’s eyebrows rose. “Surely you realized he fancies himself a ladies’ man?”

“No, but I don’t hang with him,” Elizabeth said. “I see him on site.”

Garik found a battered pen advertising the resort, seated himself, and started his list. “Andrew Marrero … Elizabeth, he’s never put the moves on you?”

“Please understand, I’m good at what I do. But he always seems annoyed with me.” Elizabeth spread her hands in puzzlement.

Good. He can live.
But Garik said nothing, merely sat with pen poised.

“Write down Dr. Frownfelter,” Margaret said.

“He … really?” Elizabeth seemed astonished. “I met him yesterday morning at the Memory Care Facility. He seemed really old.” Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. “Older than my father, so definitely too old for Misty.”

Margaret added cream and sugar to her tea and stirred gently. “Not long after Misty’s murder, his wife of twenty-five years divorced him, citing infidelity. Dr. Frownfelter let her have whatever she wanted, and he moved away. Then I heard he was working at the penitentiary where Charles Banner was imprisoned.”

“Now,
that’s
interesting.” Garik filed the information away as something that warranted investigation.

Elizabeth cleared her throat. “He said he was my mother’s doctor, and he delivered me. That was weird. Sort of TMI, although I don’t know why.”

“The doctor made you uneasy.” Garik made a note. “Margaret, anyone else on the list of potential lovers?”

Margaret said testily, “Misty Banner was a woman that every man wanted. It’s not a question of who wanted her. It would be easier to ask who didn’t.”

“Okay.” Garik could go at it in that direction, too. “Who didn’t want her?”

“Dennis Foster.”

Garik turned to Elizabeth. “I told you. No sex drive at all.”

“I believed you!” Elizabeth said.

“Foster hadn’t been elected sheriff yet, and he was trying to impress the constituency as an upright law officer, a man who cared for his ailing mother, never drank, and didn’t cavort with the wild women. Or even the tame ones.” Margaret lowered her eyelids to hide her scornful gleam. “A man should have a few vices. If he doesn’t, either he’s a saint, or he’s hiding something.”