Virtue Falls (23 page)

“What’s he hiding?” Elizabeth asked.

Garik noted she didn’t for a moment consider that Foster could be a saint.

“I never have figured it out,” Margaret said, “but I know if you turned over the rock that hides his soul, you’d find it crawling with worms.”

To Garik, Elizabeth said matter-of-factly, “You might add Rainbow … who likes me a little too much. It’s interesting. She protects me like I’m a chick to her hen.” She saw that Margaret and Garik gaped at her. “I’m not saying she killed my mother, only that she should be on the list for possible lovers.”

Garik made a note, and took a pastry that oozed cheesecake filling. “She’s a tall woman with broad shoulders, capable of overwhelming another woman.”

“The Native American, Stag Denali. He’s rich, he’s powerful, he’s ruthless. But … he likes women. He likes me, and while I know it’s hard to believe, some men don’t value an outspoken woman.” Margaret’s eyes gleamed with humor.

“Some men need quiet, submissive women to make them feel important.” Elizabeth took a bite of her lemon tartlet.

“I like quiet, submissive women—or I would if I knew any.” Garik poured himself another cup of coffee. Later, when he was awake all night, he would be sorry. But right now, sugar slid through his veins, caffeine percolated in his brain, and he felt as if he had found the Garik Jacobsen who solved crimes like crossword puzzles …

He had found himself again.

“Misty’s lover had to have a flexible schedule.” Margaret drummed the table. “No eight-to-five job would do it, because Charles worked during the daytime hours, and the rest of the time, he was a homebody. So … Bradley Hoff.”

“The artist. Yes.” Elizabeth nodded. “I’ve met him. He told me he knew my mother. She and my father took his art class.”

Garik went on alert. “Why would Bradley Hoff give an art class? He’s rich.”

“Not in those days. In those days, his paintings were intense, deep, unnerving. Powerful stuff. Compelling work. I urged him to continue, to delve into men’s souls, to take the more difficult road to fame. But he opted for instant money.” Margaret smiled. “I’m not judging him. I did whatever it took to get ahead, too, and if you look into his background, you’ll discover he was an only child of wealthy parents. Art commanded no respect from his family. He bucked a lot of pressure, got cut out of the will for being an artist.”

“Poor baby,” Garik said sarcastically.

“It takes strength of will to progress, knowing you’re going to lose your family.” Margaret clearly admired Hoff. “He was very handsome, which made his art class more popular than one might expect.”

Elizabeth broke into a smile. “In my scrapbook, I have some of my parents’ drawings. They both were very good.”

“Okay, fine,” Garik said. “Why would
Charles
take an art class?”

“To make his wife happy,” Margaret said promptly.

Elizabeth gave a different answer. “In the past, before cameras and cell phones, when field researchers came across a plant or a rock formation that warranted documentation, sketching was the only way to capture the evidence. Sketching is still much valued in the scientific community. It has cachet.”

“But nonetheless I think Charles did it to indulge Misty. Her mother died that winter.” Margaret’s mouth drooped. “Misty came back from the funeral restless and wounded. For a long time afterward, Charles was assiduous, but Misty worked hard to present him with the appearance of being fine—”

“Why?” Garik asked. “Why lie?”

“She wasn’t lying. Sometimes not saying what you feel is easier than trying to explain.” When Elizabeth realized what she’d revealed, and to who, her eyes opened wide, and her mouth snapped shut.

But Margaret drove the point home. “Women are like that. Sometimes it’s hard to explain emotions. And sometimes
men
”—she said the word like an insult—“who really don’t have a clue, will scoff, and that hurts.”

Garik knew Margaret was talking about him, and that pissed him off, because maybe he wasn’t at fault for every damned thing that ever went wrong between a man and a woman in every marriage that ever existed. “Got it. Charles drifted back to his dig. It was summer, he worked long hours. Misty was alone and in emotional turmoil. Even I, Mr. Insensitive, can see the setup for tragedy.”

The conversation went dead. Margaret and Elizabeth looked away.

Garik supposed he should apologize. But he
wasn’t
a jerk. He
would
have been understanding if Elizabeth had told him what she felt. He would have. If she’d told him. And he was pretty sure all she’d said was that she wanted Garik to talk about his tortured past.

Yeah. Like that was going to happen.

This past year, he had suffered, too. Maybe these women who valued emotions and shit should realize he had put a fucking gun in his mouth, and the only thing that had stopped him from shooting his brains out was the earthquake and the compulsion to care for Margaret and Elizabeth, the same two women who were now making him miserable.

Nervously Elizabeth tapped her spoon against the table. She watched it intently, finally cleared her throat and said, “My aunt said their mother went crazy after Misty married my father, and killed herself with drugs and alcohol.”

Okay. They were going to talk about the case again. Good.

“Sometimes a woman experiences more grief over a bad mother than a good one.” When both Garik and Elizabeth would have objected, Margaret held up one hand. “Mothers, good and bad, wield a mighty influence. With the death of a bad mother, a woman swallows a potent cocktail of guilt and unhappiness that is straight poison.”

“So you think Misty had an affair because her mother’s death screwed her up?” Garik knew a parent could totally ruin a kid’s life. Look at him—exhibit A. “Then it follows that someone realized she was vulnerable—”

Margaret interrupted, “And that Charles was oblivious.”

“—and her lover moved in to claim what he wanted.” Elizabeth rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. Rubbed her forehead as if the brief confrontation with Garik had given her a headache.

“We have a personality type—the predator.” Garik stood and made his way to the liquors. “Could be Bradley Hoff.”

“But if Hoff killed my mother,” Elizabeth said, “it seems odd to tell me that he knew her.”

Garik unwrapped the brandy from the towel that protected it from aftershocks. “Not if there are people who know he knew her.”

“There’s one other person who can shed insight into the case.” Margaret turned to Elizabeth. “What does your father remember? Has he talked about the past at all?”

“He told me about meeting my mother. His memories seemed realistic.”

“Any information he could give us would be helpful.” Garik brought snifters to the table, placed one in front of Margaret and one in front of Elizabeth, and seated himself again. “Does he remember in bits and pieces, or in chunks?”

“I’ve only visited him twice, so I really haven’t…” Elizabeth’s voice trailed off, and with careful precision she folded her napkin and placed it on the table.

“I thought that was why you moved up here. To get to know him and figure out what happened and why.” Garik had thought it was a dumb idea, but when she made her decision, the divorce had been very, very final and she hadn’t asked his opinion.

“Not … exactly. Well, yes. But he…” Elizabeth swallowed. “It’s difficult.”

“Difficult?” Margaret exploded with vibrant, Irish indignation. “When are relatives not difficult? He’s your father. This is your only chance to get to know him. He has Alzheimer’s, and you haven’t got much time to do it!”

“He thinks I’m my mother. When he doesn’t think that, he talks to the
ghost
of my mother.” Elizabeth spoke too fast, too defensively. “And he scares me … I remember him with those scissors.”

“You remember? I thought you didn’t remember at all,” Garik said.

“It might be the photo. The one in the paper. Maybe I’ve seen it so often that’s what I remember. I don’t know. Sometimes I wish I knew the truth, but most of the time I wish I had never started this. What difference does it make why Charles Banner killed my mother? She’s still dead. Nothing can change any of that.” Elizabeth was magnificently defiant …

… For all the good it did her in Margaret’s eyes. “Suck it up, girl!” Margaret said. “When you came to Virtue Falls, you as good as told everyone that you intended to find out the truth behind Misty Banner’s murder.”

“I did not!” Elizabeth sniffed. “I know it’s a surprise to a lot of people in Virtue Falls, but my father’s study is important, and it’s an honor to work on it.”

“An honor you were willing to forego until Charles Banner was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and sent here to live out the rest of his life! But you’re too afraid to visit him.” Margaret didn’t
look
over the top of her glasses at Elizabeth—she
glared.
“I expected better of you, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth squared her jaw. “I do the best I can, Margaret, but sometimes I feel I’m lacking certain social skills.” She stood. “Now I am exhausted. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to bed.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Garik stood, too, and remained on his feet as Elizabeth left the room.

Margaret pursed her lips. “I may have been a little rough on her. After the day she had, I mean.”

“I think so. Yeah.” Garik sat down again. “But you made a good point. If Charles Banner is not Misty Banner’s murderer, and the guilty party is still around, then the one reason Elizabeth has remained safe is that she hasn’t visited her father and asked questions.”

Margaret absorbed the information. “We’re fooked no matter what we do.”

“Succinctly put,” Garik said.

“But she needs to go before it’s too late. Charles hasn’t got a lot of time before his mind is gone. I’ve seen it before, lost friends this way. Lost them … when they were sitting right in front of me.” Sorrow echoed in Margaret’s voice. Then she sounded brisker. “As long as you’re here, Elizabeth’s safe.”

“If I stay with her every second.”

“Yes,” Margaret said with satisfaction. “Do that. Do we have any real reason to believe that Charles
wasn’t
the murderer?”

“No. Foster ran a flawed investigation, but that doesn’t mean the conclusions were wrong.” Garik waved a hand that encompassed the day, the dining room, and their discussion.

“What’s your gut tell you?”

“Absolutely nothing.” He put his hand on his belly to quiet any rumblings. “Last time I listened to my gut, I got thrown out of the FBI.”

Margaret’s smile faded. “But your gut wasn’t wrong then.”

She believed he had done the right thing, God bless her. “If only I had thought it through … But I was so angry…” His eyes burned with anguish.

Margaret touched his cheek. “Don’t let the guilt eat you up.”

“Why not? I deserve every drop of guilt.” He knew what she was going to say next. She would urge him to go to confession, to seek an absolution he didn’t deserve. So he stood again. “I’ll take you up to your room.”

She watched him with troubled eyes as he helped her to her feet, swung her into his arms, and headed toward the stairs, up, and into her bedroom.

She pointed at the chair. “There. Vicky will help me get ready for bed.”

“In a minute.” He placed her, then seated himself on the ottoman. “Did Bradley ever paint Misty?”

“Not that I know of. In those days, he was deeply involved with Vivian. She had money, and an art gallery—he needed both—but she didn’t want to leave New Orleans, and he had to be here to paint.”

“Whether or not he was involved with Vivian, he still could have had an affair with Misty.”

“Yes, but Bradley was brooding. Intense. He didn’t seem a fit for Misty. She always smiled. She always made you feel better. She was like … sunshine.” Margaret looked uncomfortable. “I really did like her. And it’s possible that Charles did kill her. I didn’t want to say so in front of Elizabeth, but I was there when that bitch Louisa Foster told him about the affair.”

“Louisa Foster … Dennis Foster’s mother?”

“She was—is—one of those holier-than-thou women, pillar of her church, mean little eyes that watch and judge. She didn’t get married until she was well into her thirties, and her husband died when Foster was a little boy. I figured the husband dropped dead to get away from her.”

“I remember her.” And not fondly.

“That scene … I’ll never forget it.” Margaret bunched her bony fists in her lap. “It was lunchtime. She walked into the Oceanview Café where Charles was talking to his team. She stood on the other end of the table, and announced he was the laughingstock of Virtue Falls. He looked bewildered, which made her madder, so she got louder. She told him his wife was running around on him, and when he couldn’t seem to comprehend, she got into his face and said that Misty had taken a lover, someone younger and handsomer than Charles, and Misty was spending all the time Charles was at work having disgusting sex.”

“It sounds as if she knew who Misty’s lover was.” And if she knew, Garik could find out.

But Margaret quashed that hope. “If she had, she would have outed them both. When she saw sin, she took it upon herself to repair the situation.”

“So was Louisa after Charles in particular?”

“Not Charles. Misty. Misty treated Louisa kindly. As if Louisa was someone to feel sorry for. Which Louisa liked because the woman is a world-class hypochondriac. Until!” Margaret raised a finger. “One time, Louisa was railing against this young tourist couple who got caught doing the wild thing in a car—railing at them to their poor, mortified faces—and Misty defended them.
Then
Louisa’s minister agreed with Misty and chided Louisa in public. I think the man despised her and welcomed the chance to knock her down a few notches. It rebounded on him, of course—within a year, Louisa got him ousted from the job and he and his family had to leave Virtue Falls. And Misty’s actions rebounded on Charles, because after that, Louisa was gunning for them both. Louisa told Charles his wife was a whore who corrupted their young child and daily betrayed him, and if he was a real man he would go home and kill her, and then kill himself for being so weak and gullible. Nasty old harridan.”