Wreath of Deception

by Mary Ellen Hughes

  Deirdre wiped at her green-smudged fingers, and held her hand up, smiling as she looked at it. “Not too new. I probably haven’t worn it to the workshops before. Alden picked it up on one of his trips.”

  “He has very good taste.”

  “I think so too.” Deirdre looked pleased.

  “My mother had a lovely collection of jewelry, some of it rings,” Loralee said. “Before she died she divided it up among the daughters. I have some nice pieces with amethyst that I haven’t worn for years. I should bring them out.”

  “Oh, I love old jewelry,” Mindy cried. “If I could afford it I’d have scads of things. Billy’s afraid to let me anywhere near an antique shop.”

  The ladies chatted on, but Jo had tuned out. She moved over to Deirdre’s scrapbook which had been pushed aside during the clean-up, and flipped back a few pages until she found what she was looking for. So absorbed was she, that she apparently didn’t hear Deirdre speak to her the first time.

  “Jo!”

  Startled, Jo looked up. “What?”

  “I said, did my book survive?”

  “Yes.” Jo flipped through several pages. “I don’t see any ink splotches, Deirdre.” She held the scrapbook out to her.

  “Well, good. Wasn’t that lucky?”

  Jo nodded. “Yes. Very lucky.”

  Jo felt her head throb painfully, and, thinking about what she had just seen, wished she hadn’t left her prescription pills at home.

  CHAPTER 27

  Jo drove up the country club’s drive, past maple trees whose red fall leaves shone like glowing embers in the sunlight. It was Wednesday, Jo’s day off, and the one day of the week she closed the shop. Though she was dressed in jeans and a light sweater, topped with her red cap, she wasn’t coming for a round of golf. Jo had murder on her mind.

  She had spent a restless night tossing and turning between her sheets as worrying images jostled about her head, all including Deirdre and Alden Patterson. Jo had hidden her observations last night at the workshop, hoping somehow she was wrong. It could all simply be coincidence, and Jo could be jumping to the worst possible conclusions. On that chance, she was coming to the club with questions for Tracy. The answers she got could settle her mind, one way or the other.

  Jo thought about the ring Deirdre was wearing, which she said had come from Alden. It was a beautiful design that was simple as well as elegant, and Jo had recognized it immediately as a Roberta Sawyer – the same woman who designed Bethanne’s pendant. Coincidence? Certainly possible. Except for the man Jo had passed in the hallway of Bethanne’s apartment. He had seemed so familiar, but she couldn’t think why until Deirdre’s ring stirred up the memory.

  Jo had never seen Alden in the flesh, but she had seen photos of him. A check through Deirdre’s scrapbook had confirmed his identity. There he had been, posing side by side in several shots with Deirdre, often with an arm around her, smiling. Alden Patterson was definitely the man in Bethanne’s apartment building. Was it too much of a stretch to assume he had been at Bethanne’s apartment, as well as that Bethanne’s pendant had come from him? Though not long stretches, they were painful ones, and if correct, the worst was yet to come.

  Jo parked, and headed up the walk to the tennis shop. Several courts were occupied on this perfect tennis day, and the thunk of racquet against ball reverberated. One yellow missile flew over the green fencing, landing near Jo, and she picked it up to toss back to the player, who waved gratefully. As Jo approached the shop’s door, two people pushed their way out, a woman in a blue warm-up suit and a man carrying racquets and a basket of balls. Was this Bethanne’s temporary replacement pro, Jo wondered? They smiled at Jo, the man holding the door open for her before moving on.

  Walking in, Jo found Tracy occupied with a customer at the front counter, and Jo caught her eye as she moved past toward the clothing racks. She thought she caught a glimpse of Ryan in the back employee area, and was glad. Of the two, Ryan was definitely the more forthcoming, and Jo needed straightforward answers today. She waited, biding her time among the T-shirts and hats, then came over to Tracy’s counter as soon as her customer left.

  “I have some important things to ask you,” Jo said, getting straight to the point.

  “Okay,” Tracy said, her eyes blinking somewhat nervously.

  “Is that Ryan back there?” Jo asked. “I’d like him to be in on this too.”

  Tracy, obviously sensing Jo’s gravity, turned and called, “Ryan, can you come out here?”

  Jo heard the sound of boxes being set down, then Ryan, dressed in shorts and the country club’s signature green polo came through the doorway.

  “Yeah?”

  “Mrs. McAllister wants to talk to the two of us. About Kyle, I think.”

  Jo nodded. “That’s right. And about Bethanne.”

  “Bethanne?” Ryan asked, his eyebrows going up. “She hasn’t been in for a while.”

  “I know. I’ve been to talk to her.”

  “You have?” Tracy said. “How is she?”

  “Hanging in there. But this is what I need to know. I have reason to think Bethanne has been involved with Alden Patterson. Can you confirm that for me?”

  Tracy’s face flushed pink, and she and Ryan exchanged looks.

  “I’m not asking for frivolous reasons, believe me. This could be very important. You told me before that Kyle had been watching people here at the club, and speculating on affairs between them. Were Bethanne and Alden two of those people?”

  Tracy looked unhappy, but Ryan smirked. Tracy spoke first.

  “Kyle never actually said that to me.”

  “Yeah, me neither. But I wouldn’t have been surprised if he did.”

  “Ryan!”

  “Oh, come on. You don’t think there was something going on? You knew about all those extra lessons. You’ve seen the way they always look at each other.”

  “It didn’t necessarily mean anything. Mr. Patterson was always nice to me. He wasn’t a flirt, or anything.”

  “He’s smart enough to pick the ones he knows will flirt back.”

  Tracy frowned, but didn’t argue.

  “Those extra lessons,” Jo asked, “did they happen to be late at night?”

  “Uh-huh,” Tracy admitted. “The courts are lighted. Bethanne explained to me that Mr. Patterson had a very busy schedule, but that she didn’t mind staying late. She said he took his game very seriously.” She grimaced, as though realizing how lame that was.

  “Who was on duty here at the shop when the lessons were going on?”

  “Probably Kyle, right?” Ryan said. “He liked being the only one around here.”

  Tracy agreed. “I think it was usually Kyle.”

  Jo nodded. “Thanks. I guess that’s all I need to know. I appreciate your help, but keep this to yourselves for now, okay?”

  As Tracy was nodding, the shop door opened and two players walked in, mopping at their sweaty faces. Jo turned to leave, and Tracy asked, “Did Bethanne say when she might be back?”

  “No, she didn’t.” She paused. “But I have a feeling it won’t be soon.”

  <><><>

  Jo headed back toward her car, so deep in thought over what Tracy and Ryan had said that she nearly missed hearing her name called. It was the woman with the half glasses from the front desk. She had run outside, eager to catch Jo before she left.

  “Mr. Gordon saw your car here. He wonders if you could stop in and discuss a few things about the craft show.”

  Jo winced. Right now she felt she had far heavier things to deal with than the craft show. However, she doubted she should say, "Don’t bother me now; I have a murder to deal with," so she followed the woman back toward the main entrance of the club. On the way, Jo caught sight of Hank Schroder’s white pick-up coming in their direction. She wasn’t sure if he saw her or not, but his truck made what looked like a sudden right turn onto one of the drive’s off-shoots.

  Bob Gordon popped up from his desk as Jo entered his off
ice, his usual, bouncy self.

  “Mrs. McAllister,” he cried, jovially, “great to see you.” He then peppered her with a variety of questions on the status of the craft show which Jo answered as best she could without her notes at hand, all the while trying not to stare at the framed photo hanging on the wall beyond his head of Gordon and his wife, Alden and Deirdre, and Bethanne.

  “So we’re unsure of Betsy Davis at this point?” Gordon asked, referring to the basket maker who had called Jo yesterday. Jo had only been able to reach her this morning.

  “I’m afraid so. She’s had some problems with her supplier, plus a recent flare-up of arthritis in her hands. She’s not a hundred percent sure she’ll have enough items to set up a good table.”

  “That’s unfortunate.” Gordon frowned. “Her baskets have come to be a big draw over the years.”

  “She sounded like a person who would not consider showing up with less than her best presentation.”

  Gordon nodded. “That’s her, though most of her customers, I’d say, would be thrilled with her rejects.” Gordon brightened. “Well, if she doesn’t pan out, I’m sure you could fill the gap with your own craft items.”

  Jo gulped, she hoped not visibly. In the past days she’d barely spared a thought for what she would bring to the show. “Certainly!” she said, in as sincere a tone as she could manage. Did Carrie have some needlework projects to contribute, she wondered? Preferably an eight by ten foot afghan, or a quilt or two? She could only hope.

  Gordon escorted her through the halls of the club, chatting on about finer details of the show, stopping to introduce her to various people, until Jo managed to tear herself away. She left Gordon at the door and trotted back to her car, eager to head for home. It was time to put her thoughts together.

  As she drove, Jo wished she could talk to Carrie. But Carrie had told her she would be busy at Amanda’s soccer game that evening, in charge of refreshments for the team. Jo was on her own.

  She pulled into her garage and went through the side door into her kitchen, tossed her keys on the counter and plopped on the sofa, carefully avoiding the broken-spring cushion. It was dinnertime, by the clock, but Jo had no desire for food. She should be celebrating, she reflected grimly. She may had finally discovered who murdered Kyle. Once she laid all the facts before Lieutenant Morgan, she would likely be off his hook. Unfortunately, it wasn’t turning out to be that simple.

  But life never was simple, was it? Jo sighed. Long term plans went awry, people you thought you could trust let you down. Deirdre’s husband, the man who had appeared so lovingly thoughtful by gifting his wife with a beautiful ring, had in fact been cheating on her. Bad enough, certainly, but as things often do, one wrongdoing led to another to cover up the first, and a young man ended up dead, and then an innocent young woman.

  Now more lives were poised to be destroyed, this time through Jo. Could she, should she do it? Was she certain enough of her conclusions to set in motion things that would send a person to prison?

  CHAPTER 28

  Jo didn’t know how long she had been sitting on her couch, staring sightlessly at the drab wallpaper across the room, but she realized the once bright daylight beyond her windows had faded to dusk. She had been going over and over all that she knew about the murders. Was there something she had missed?

  Alden Patterson had a strong motive for murder – to protect his career. But would he actually kill Kyle and Genna. It seemed unlikely. For one thing, he probably wouldn't mistake Genna for Bethanne, dog or no dog. Then, his visit to Bethanne that day Jo encountered him, suggested he had no murderous intentions toward her and that he wasn’t terribly concerned about hiding their relationship.

  On the other hand, Deirdre’s stake in covering up Alden’s affair was in holding on to her own way of life which she liked quite well. Jo had seen that in her scrapbook. Instead of a record of Alden’s successes that Deirdre had claimed it to be, it had become in fact a testament to the distinction of her own life. Every photo included herself. Every record of Alden’s step up the political ladder featured Deirdre front and center. Even her prized dogs had taken precedence over Alden, dogs that – according to Mindy Blevins – she had admitted he didn’t much like but that symbolized, with their uniqueness and expense, Deirdre’s own status.

  Did that prove her to be a murderer, though? After all, Deirdre had been so helpful with Jo’s investigation. On closer examination, though, Deirdre’s “help” had always directed Jo away from the truth. She continually pointed Jo away from the clubhouse and toward the playhouse and Pete Tober.

  Jo could see Deirdre, who knew neither of the women well, mistaking Genna for Bethanne But could she see her committing such violence? Pushing a young woman to her death? Stabbing a young man dressed as a clown? Jo didn’t know.

  Jo sighed, and pulled herself off the sofa, heading toward her bedroom. The phone rang as she walked in, and she reached for the extension on her night table. Her voice came out in a hoarse, “Hello?”

  “Jo, sweetie, it’s me.”

  “Mom? Hi, how are you?” Jo sank down onto her bed.

  “I’m fine, dear. It’s been too long, hasn’t it? I’ve meant to call at least a dozen times. How are you doing there, in that little town you’ve settled in? What is it called? I keep forgetting.”

  “Abbotsville.”

  “Yes, that’s right. Is your shop all set up now?”

  Jo thought back. It seemed like a million years since her grand opening. How excited she had been that day. How quickly it had all fallen apart. But her mother, she knew, hadn’t called to hear about problems. She didn’t want any specks whatsoever on her rose-colored glasses.

  “Yes, the shop’s up and running, Mom.”

  “Wonderful! I’m going to tell all my friends here to stop in when they’re in the area.”

  Jo couldn’t picture anyone wanting to detour to Abbotsville on a trip to Washington D.C. or Baltimore, just for Jo’s particular craft supplies, but the thought was there. Carol Wagner did what she could for her daughter, and her daughter accepted, knowing her mother’s limits.

  Jo heard the clink of glassware on the line, and pictured her mother standing in the kitchen of her little house, designed for senior citizens who might have mobility problems, although Carol Wagner had no concerns in that department. Possibly the youngest member of her small, central Florida community, Jo sensed that her mother enjoyed her position of relative youth, as well as the ease of the maintenance-free situation and effortless sociability. She had moved down there shortly after Jo’s father died of heart trouble, and seemed to have never looked back, except for the occasional contact with her daughter.

  “So, when will you be able to come down here for a nice vacation? We have a lovely pool you can swim in as my guest.”

  “It might be a while, Mom.”

  “Oh, I do hope not too long.” Jo’s mother began telling Jo about the almost daily swims she had been taking since she moved into her home, and which neighbors she usually encountered, a tale Jo had heard a few times before. She began to tune out, and when the story expanded to descriptions of recent ailments of said neighbors, Jo barely listened, simply filling in any pause with automatic, “uh-huhs”. At one point Jo thought she heard a noise from the area of her back door and she cocked one ear to listen. Some little night creature, perhaps, looking for crumbs? The noise didn’t continue, and she tuned back in to her mother’s chatter, just in time to hear the finale on Harriet Kreitner’s knee replacement.

  “Uh, Mom?” she broke in, when Mrs. Wagner took a breath.

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Remember when we lived in Larksdale? On Rosewood Lane?”

  “Of course. You were in elementary school then, weren’t you?”

  “Uh-huh. Remember the Milburn brothers? They went around one summer bashing mailboxes.”

  “Oh, yes. Why do you mention it?”

  Jo heard the tinge of annoyance creep into her mother’s voice. Why do you ment
ion things I’d rather not think about? she might as well have asked.

  “I was just wondering. Nobody knew for a long time who was doing the bashing. But then you happened to see them one night, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it hard turning them in? I mean, you and Dad were friends with the family and all. But somebody had to stop them. Was it very difficult?”

  “Oh, I sent your father to talk to that policeman we knew. I told him to make sure we were kept out of it. I think they kept an eye on the boys and caught them in the act a couple nights later.”

  Jo should have known. Dad was sent to take care of it, and Mom, as usual, sidestepped the issue. Jo wouldn’t have that luxury, however. No sidestepping possible here, only a straightforward march to Russ Morgan’s grey steel desk.

  “Why do you ask, dear? Has someone been damaging mailboxes there?”

  “No, Mom.” A murder or two, but our mailboxes are just fine.

  “Well good. I want everything to be well for you, Jo. Especially after, you know.”

  Yes, Jo knew. That little unmentionable incident up in New York. “Everything’s okay here,” she assured her mother. Jo had long stopped crossing her fingers when she said such things to her mother. They didn’t qualify as lies, she reasoned, when they were exactly what Carol Wagner wanted to hear. They always made her mother a little happier, and Jo was just as glad to cooperate. Unfortunately, they always left Jo feeling a little lonelier.

  “I guess I’d better let you go, Jo. You probably have a lot of things to do.”

  Jo didn’t argue. She promised to pass on her mother’s best to Carrie, and to think seriously about driving down to Florida. They finished with a breezy “love you” on each side, and ended the call, Jo’s hand lingering on the phone as it rested in its cradle. What if, she wondered, she had taken up her mother’s invitation after Mike’s accident to move somewhere near her? Would she have been better off? Would it have been worth it to live a life of pretend happiness in year-round sunshine in order to avoid the troubles that had rained down on her where she was?