She’d come back to the bookstore after lunch with her father, and asked for my help. Part of the reason for their lunch together was to bring Thursday her lime green Volkswagen and to discuss her future. “I’m all for moving ahead and making a new start, but I can’t leave these loose ends hanging. I just want to talk to Jonah’s father and clear the air.”
I asked her again if she was sure she didn’t want to talk to her parents about it or have them accompany her, but she was insistent she wanted to do it this way.
“You’re an impartial bystander. My father would want to handle the whole thing, and my mother—she’s still so upset that Jackson Kingsley insisted the police detain her. You get the picture?”
I could see her point. Though I wasn’t totally impartial, either. I was curious to see what I could find out. She drove along Wells Drive past the turnoff for my house. I was glad she knew the way because as she turned from one twisty street to another, I lost track of where we were.
Finally she pulled into a steep driveway and cut the engine. I followed her up to a house that sat on a finger of land above Corbin Canyon.
The Kingsleys were expecting her and seemed surprised and not altogether pleased that she wasn’t alone. I checked out the house as they led us into the living room. It seemed to be all windows with a fabulous view of the valley. The furnishings were elegant without being gaudy, but it was a little too perfect for my taste. It didn’t look lived in.
Jackson Kingsley was a little too perfect for my taste, too. He somehow managed to make a pair of jeans look stiff and formal. Maybe it was the tucked-in dress shirt or the belt. His wife, who introduced herself to me as Margo, was friendlier, but then Jonah wasn’t her son, so there was less baggage.
“Why don’t you entertain Molly,” Jackson said to his wife, gesturing toward the living room. “Thursday and I can go into my office.” It was hard to read his voice, other than to notice how nice the deep quality was. He seemed cordial, but not kind. I looked to Thursday to see if she wanted me to stick with her.
“It’s a good idea for us to talk alone,” she said as she followed Jackson across the house. I had to admire the way she handled herself. She seemed to be ready to face him head-on.
Margo and I sat down in the living room. She poured herself a glass of red wine and offered me one. I declined, but noticed that she dropped several ice cubes in it. She saw me staring.
“It’s a habit I picked up from Jackson. He absolutely insists on ice in his wine.” She sat back down and glanced in the direction Thursday and her husband had gone. “He’s doing a good job of keeping it together, but he’s still broken up. Jonah was his only child,” she said.
“What about you? You’re Jonah’s stepmother?” I said, and she made a face.
“Stepmother sounds so awful. I never really thought of myself that way. I never thought of being any kind of mother to him. And Jonah wasn’t looking for a replacement. In case you didn’t know, his mother died when he was small. Jackson and I have only been married for five years. Jonah never lived with us.” She moved closer to me. “Jonah and I never really hit it off. He tried to bust things up with his father and me.” She suddenly realized what she’d said. “I didn’t mean that. Please forget I said it. What I really meant to say was that Jonah and I had a polite relationship. He was a wonderful young man.”
It was hard not to laugh when she called him a young man since I was pretty sure she was only ten years or so older than he was.
She drank some of her wine and quickly changed the subject to the bad job the police were doing. “Jackson is pretty upset with the police work. He’s pretty upset with everything. He’s being okay to Thursday right now, but I have to tell you, he blames her and her family for what happened to Jonah.”
“You mean he thinks that Thursday and her mother were involved in his son’s death?” I asked, and Margo nodded.
I asked her what she remembered from that night. She started to recite it as though she’d repeated the same thing many times. Someone had just replaced Jackson’s boutonniere. He had a glass of merlot and asked one of the servers for some ice cubes. The clumsy server put the ice in his glass, and then as Jackson was about to drink it, knocked it out of his hand, spilling the red wine all over their shirt and gloves.
“Then what happened?” I asked.
“Jackson got another glass of merlot and a few minutes later all the screaming started.”
I asked if she knew who had put the fresh flowers in the lapel of Jackson’s jacket and she shrugged. “I wasn’t really paying attention,” she said, “and all those people looked the same anyway.” She thought a moment. “It was probably the same person who put the first boutonniere in his lapel before the ceremony.” I looked at her expectantly. “It was whoever did all the flowers.”
I wanted to ask her about Jonah’s job, but before I figured out how to segue into it, Thursday and Jackson returned. Neither of their expressions revealed how things had gone. Thursday just thanked him, and he gave her a wooden hug.
“What happened?” I said when we got into her car.
“I went there to tell him how sorry I was about everything. And to talk to him about returning the wedding gifts. I don’t know what the proper etiquette is in a situation like this, but it feels wrong to keep them. I let him know that I didn’t expect anything from Jonah’s estate.”
“That must have smoothed things over.”
Thursday drove on toward the bookstore. “I don’t think it really helped. He didn’t come right out and say it, but I think he believes that my mother and I plotted to kill Jonah and that my walking away from Jonah’s estate is just a ploy to throw everyone off the track.” She let out a heavy breath. “And we talked about Jonah’s funeral. Well, he talked about it. I have no say in it,” she said.
She drove me back to my car and followed me home. We both pulled into the driveway and parked so we wouldn’t block each other. “At least he said he’d have someone from his office handle returning the wedding gifts. I just don’t think I could deal with that right now.”
When we went inside, she took over the care of the animals, and I looked in the refrigerator for something to make for dinner.
“Let me help,” she said as she came to stand next to me. She was about my height and her demeanor had changed completely from when she’d picked me up. Then she had seemed hopeful somehow, but now she looked discouraged.
“I think we need comfort food,” I said. Her eyes brightened as she nodded in agreement. We finally made tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches.
“Please don’t tell my dad about tonight,” she said. “He told me not to talk to Jackson Kingsley. He was afraid I might make things worse with him, and I’m afraid I have.”
CHAPTER 9
WHEN I CAME HOME THE NEXT NIGHT, MY LIVING ROOM was buzzing with activity. Mason, Thursday, Barry and another guy were gathered around something on the coffee table.
“What’s up,” I said, relieved to see that my animals were loose.
When I got closer, I saw that the new guy had on rubber gloves and was swabbing an envelope sitting on the table.
“I told you it wasn’t sealed,” Thursday said. There was some kind of greeting card sitting next to it. I sucked in my breath when I got close enough to see the artwork.
“Lots of people gave me envelopes at the reception,” Thursday explained. “I didn’t open any of them. I just stuffed them all in my bag.” Her voice cracked. “I started looking through things, so I could begin returning the gifts.” Thursday glanced at me, and when no one was looking, she put her finger to her lips in a gesture that clearly meant for me to be quiet about her trip to the Kingsleys’.
The card was handmade with a layer of patterned paper glued to the card stock. The skeleton bride and groom were a collage created out of layers of glued-together magazine photos. The wedding cake had been drawn in
and colored in black and decorated with bloodred roses. The overall impression was jarring. And when I saw the inside, it was worse. The message had been created out of cutouts of words and letters. It read simply: “Time to pay for what you did.”
“Was it just guests who handed you the envelopes?” I asked. Thursday took a moment to think back.
“I don’t know,” she said. “There was so much going on. It just didn’t register who was handing me things.”
The man who I now realized was a CSI technician took pictures of the card. Barry cleared his throat. “It obviously was meant as a message, and the fact that they gave it to Thursday makes it look like your family was the target of revenge.” He looked at Mason.
Thursday’s face clouded over. “That’s ridiculous. Nobody wants revenge against my father. Who? Most of his cases are things like celebrities hitting stop signs and driving away. Maybe it was just given to me because other people were handing me cards.”
The technician was packing up his equipment. “It’s doubtful there’s any evidence on it. You have to assume that if it was intended as a calling card, the person who made it wore gloves. The fact the envelope wasn’t sealed means they probably knew about leaving DNA and trace evidence.”
“Would you have even called me about the card if I hadn’t stopped over?” Barry said to Mason and Thursday before turning back to me. “I brought some more photographs for Thursday to go through.”
Mason and his daughter looked at each other, and some silent communication passed between them before they both denied what Barry had said.
“I hope you’re spending as much time talking to the Kingsleys. If there is revenge involved, it seems more likely it would be aimed at Jonah, no matter what Jackson Kingsley says,” Mason said in a terse tone.
It got more awkward after that. Barry insisted that they were checking everything and everyone. I got an uncomfortable feeling when it seemed like he was looking at Thursday as he said it.
Each man appeared to be waiting for the other to leave. Samuel came home with a bunch of friends, and they headed for the kitchen. I’d been through all this before, so I handled it in my own way. I left.
“Come in,” Dinah said when I landed at her doorstep. She laughed when she heard about the chaos at my house. “You could just tell all of them to leave. Including Thursday. She isn’t your responsibility.” Dinah knew how to handle an awkward situation better than I did. But then she’d had years of experience with difficult students.
“But she seems so vulnerable, and when I taught her how to crochet, she kind of got to me. You saw how nice she was at the group. She even offered to help with the party. And it’s only temporary. She’ll be going back to work soon and she’s going to find her own place.”
“So you’ve adopted her,” Dinah said. “The daughter you never had.”
“Maybe a little,” I said.
Dinah’s face grew serious. “Just be sure that she isn’t playing you. The crocheting and her offer of help are all very nice, but it could just be part of a plan to win you over.” She mentioned students she’d had who were oh-so-friendly, brought her cups of coffee, and complimented her on the long scarves she always wore. “And expected an A, despite the fact that their class work stunk.”
I didn’t even want to think about it. “Let’s talk about something else.” I told her about my trip to Caitlyn’s and the possibility of another party. But then the conversation came right back to the wedding reception when I told her about Emerson doing the flowers for the event and being there.
“I wonder if she saw anything,” Dinah said.
“I’m going to ask her about it.” I was going to tell Dinah about the creepy card, but there was a knock at her door.
“It’s Sheila,” Dinah said as she got up to answer. Sheila was juggling fewer jobs these days, but she was still renting a room in a house. A house that had a whole family of kids and no peace. “She’s seeking asylum, too,” Dinah added on her way to the door.
Sheila was still going to school to study costume design, but most of her time was spent at Luxe, the lifestyle store on Ventura Boulevard near the bookstore. The owner had turned over more and more of the responsibility to her. It had also become a place for her to sell the scarves, shawls and blankets she made that resembled Impressionist paintings with their mixtures of blues, greens and lavenders.
“We can have our own little Hooker gathering,” Dinah said after letting Sheila in.
“Okay by me,” Sheila said, sitting on Dinah’s chartreuse sofa. We all pulled out some yarn, hooks and works in progress, and started to crochet. The silence lasted about thirty seconds, and I remembered that I hadn’t told Dinah about the card.
Both Dinah and Sheila shuddered when they heard what it looked like. “Mason is upset because the Kingsleys keep insisting the revenge motive is aimed at him.”
“They’re probably crazy with grief,” Dinah said. “What could be worse than having your son killed?”
“It’s not really they,” I said, before explaining about the current Mrs. Kingsley. “Maybe they are, but they’re being horrible to Thursday,” I said. Dinah turned to Sheila.
“Molly has adopted a daughter,” she said with a grin.
“I have not,” I said. “Well, not exactly, anyway.” Then I told them about accompanying Thursday to the Kingsleys’. “I don’t know if I should refer to them as her in-laws or what. She’s grieving, too. It was her husband who was murdered. Just because she’s keeping it all inside doesn’t mean she isn’t hurting.”
“You’d think they would want to be close to her after what happened to Jonah,” Sheila said. She’d been brought up by her grandmother who’d died recently, leaving her alone in the world, so she was particularly sensitive.
“Close? No way. If anything, it seems like the opposite. I think Jackson Kingsley wants to cut the tie. He sent a lawyer to talk to her. She’s the one that made the move to go to the Kingsleys and discuss things face-to-face,” I said.
“It sounds to me like he’s blaming Thursday for what happened to his son,” Sheila said.
“But you have to remember that Jaimee Fields was holding the bloody knife, and Thursday was next to the body,” Dinah added. Her point was well taken. Their fingerprints were probably all over the knife, and the killer’s probably weren’t, if they’d worn the white gloves. Would Jackson Kingsley buy Jaimee’s shapewear alibi? Probably not.
“Someone could think they worked as a murder team,” Sheila said.
“Okay, I can see how they might think that. The shapewear story did seem rather far-fetched, even though the cops supposedly tested trying to lift one of her arms and as soon as they let go, it snapped back against her side.” I paused after that. I didn’t want to say anything about Thursday, but the truth was she had been next to the body with blood on her hands and dress.
Dinah picked up on my silence. “And why is it that you’re not considering the possibility that Thursday had anything to do with it?”
“She just couldn’t,” I said a little too quickly. My real reason was that I liked her too much. After living in a house full of men and then being around Barry and Mason—well, the most I got was an occasional “you look nice” with no details. Thursday had noticed that I’d added a summer-weight cowl to my usual bookstore outfit of khakis and a shirt. She’d noticed that instead of the usual white, I’d worn a turquoise shirt. And she’d said it looked nice with my hair color. A murderer wouldn’t say that, would they?
Sheila looked up from her work quickly. “I forgot. I know something strange about the groom.”
“Spill,” I said, quickly, realizing I still knew very little about him. In one of Barry’s more candid moments, he’d admitted that who a person was had a lot to do with who had killed them. It was all related to the idea that most victims knew their killer.
Sheila wasn’t used to bein
g the one in the know, and she was a little stunned by my command. And it immediately turned into an attack of nerves. She pulled out the string and hook she used as a portable tranquilizer and began to make a long line of chain stitches and went back over them with single crochets. She didn’t even look at the stitches or seem to care that they were all over the place. This was just about the rhythmic activity rather than the end product.
Dinah countered my abrupt order by asking Sheila in a soothing manner to tell us about it. Sheila’s chin-length brown hair had fallen forward to block her round face, and she pushed it behind her ears and took a few deep breaths.
“Okay, here it is,” she said. “Jonah Kingsley bought his groomsmen’s gifts at Luxe and something special for his best man. Only,” Sheila stopped and took a deep breath. “About a week ago, he came in and wanted to change the engraving on the best man’s gift.”
I asked what he was like.
“He was clean-cut and very nice-looking. And polite. He apologized for the last-minute request.” It seemed like she was finished, but then she remembered something else. “Oh, he also bought an antique armoire.”
“He bought it without consulting Thursday?” Dinah said. I looked at Dinah and got her point. It was kind of overbearing. Then I remembered that Thursday had said the condo really belonged to the Kingsleys’ business, and I told Dinah and Sheila.
“It doesn’t sound like it was their place as much as it was his place,” Dinah said. “I don’t think I would like that.”
“I wasn’t trying to tell you that he bought a piece of furniture. It was about the best man’s gift.”
“I think we got it,” I said. “He wanted to change what he wrote on it.”
“I didn’t explain it right,” Sheila said, getting into a tizzy. “He wanted to change the name on it. So that means at the last minute he changed who his best man was.” Once that was out, Sheila went off into how she’d had to tell him it was too late to stop the order. “He ended up getting something else entirely with no engraving.”
For Better or Worsted Page 7
