Murder Among Us (A Kate Austen Mystery)

by Jonnie Jacobs

  I leafed through the portfolio a second time, pausing at a watercolor, a garden scene that had struck a familiar chord the first time through. Now, coming back to it, I recognized the view from the Burtons’ dining room. The brick patio and large oak in the foreground, fading into the sun-burnished gold of California hillsides. I chuckled to myself when I saw a horse, which looked very much like Skye’s, standing on a knoll just beyond the fence and gazing longingly back toward the house. I set that aside too, thinking Skye might enjoy it.

  On Monday I’d take the rest of the portfolio, as well as the bin of supplies, to Combs so that he could return them to the Shepherds. I approached the task with a certain reluctance, however, because I suspected that they would dispose of the entirety by way of the trash.

  By Sunday morning the rain had stopped. Anna and Faye were going to spend the day with Andy. Miniature golf, lunch in the Napa Valley, and no doubt, a hefty dose of Andy on Andy. Faye was disappointed that I wasn’t joining them.

  “I have work to do,” I told her.

  “You can do it another time,”

  I shook my head. “I have an appointment with clients.”

  “You know, Kate, maybe if you tried harder you’d find that you and Andy could make your marriage work.”

  “We did try, for almost seven years.”

  She looked at me over the rim of her cup. “The easy times are easy; it’s when problems arise that trying becomes important.”

  In truth, the easy times had not been all that easy. There’d been wonderful moments, of course. Many of them. But the tension had been there as well. We’d both stepped around it, I far more often than Andy. And then he’d decided that the good times weren’t good enough, that trying was too much effort. That, ultimately, marriage was too confining.

  I’d endeavored to explain this to Faye, more than once. But she heard only what she wanted to hear.

  “You need to make an effort,” she said.

  “We’re beyond that, Faye. We’re no longer interested in trying, either one of us. Sooner or later you’re going to have to accept that.”

  Faye set her cup on the table and leaned forward. “He loves you, Kate. I know he does.”

  Just like Frank Davis was a good boy, I thought. But I felt a certain sympathy, too, for both women. You didn’t stop being a mother just because your child was grown.

  <><><>

  Yvonne and I had agreed to meet at her house at eleven o’clock. I’d collected twenty slides, taken at various galleries in the Bay Area. They were works I thought she and Steve might like. We’d use the slides to narrow the field before looking at the actual pieces, thus saving time and effort on everyone’s part. I’d also brought with me a lithograph that I thought would be perfect for the den.

  Steve poured coffee for the three of us, and brought out a tray of bagels and fruit. I set up the projector and we went through the carousel twice. Of the twenty slides, two were a near miss and three were promising enough that both Steve and Yvonne expressed excitement. And they loved the lithograph.

  I leaned back in my chair, accepted a second cup of coffee, and relaxed into the quiet glow of success. I didn’t yet have a check in hand, but I felt reasonably certain we’d get to that point. It wasn’t only the money that buoyed my spirits, however, although I certainly could use it. I was also in need of referrals, and I was hoping the Burtons would prove to be a valuable resource in that respect.

  Skye strolled in and grabbed a bagel. She smeared it thickly with cream cheese and jam.

  “Stupid weather,” she mumbled, dropping onto the chair next to Steve.

  I looked outside. The day had dawned bright and clear, and as far as I could tell, it hadn’t changed.

  Yvonne sighed. “It’s yesterday’s weather she’s upset about. There was a fox hunt scheduled, but it was canceled because of the rain.”

  “They have one practically every month,” Steve pointed out. “Besides, it isn’t as though you need an excuse to go riding.”

  Yvonne caught his eye. “There was a little more to it than that, darling. Remember?”

  “Ah, yes,” he said dryly. “Young Brian.”

  Skye scowled and stomped out of the room.

  “He’s quite the heartthrob,” I said. “I think half the girls at school have a crush on him.”

  “Well I, for one, am just as happy that yesterday’s hunt was called off,” Yvonne announced. “Brian is much too slick for a girl like Skye.”

  “In what way?”

  “It’s his attitude more than anything. Most of the girls he’s been involved with are a lot more, uh, worldly than Skye.”

  “I understand that he put a big rush on Julie Harmon at the beginning of the year.”

  Steve’s attention had wandered, but now it pulled into focus again. His expression was dark. “I hope they catch the bastard who killed her,” Steve said with unexpected vehemence. “Catch him and fry him.”

  Yvonne turned, and a look passed between them. She gripped her coffee cup with both hands and sipped. “This murder has been very upsetting to those of us with teen- aged daughters,” she explained.

  I nodded agreement. “To those of us without teenaged daughters, as well.”

  Yvonne gave me a wan smile. “I guess it helps to remember there are worse hazards than slick, smooth-talking boys.”

  The discussion reminded me of something Libby had said the other day. I turned to Steve. “I understand you’re involved somehow in Brian’s trust.”

  He raised a brow. “Only in an administrative capacity.”

  “Did you know his family?”

  “His father was a client of mine. He died of melanoma when Brian was sixteen.”

  “What about Brian’s mother?”

  “The short of it is, she went nuts.” Steve looked grim. “Guess she always was nuts. It’s just that after Alan died, she couldn’t pretend anymore.”

  “So she’s in a ...” I searched for the right word. “... a mental facility?”

  “That would be an improvement,” Steve said bitterly. “Last I heard she was still living on the streets in Los Angeles, killing whatever brain cells she has left with heroin.”

  “How awful.”

  “You’re right.”

  “And there was no one else in the family to look after Brian?”

  “There were some distant relatives, none of them particularly eager to take Brian in. It’s a sad situation no matter how you slice it. But the boy’s done okay.”

  Skye wandered back for another bagel.

  “I almost forgot,” I told her. “I have something for you. Why don’t you come out to the car with me.”

  I boxed up my slides and projector, and Skye helped me carry them out front. I opened the rear hatch and brought out Julie’s picture. Skye looked at it, blankly at first, then with recognition.

  “Where’d you get this?”

  “Julie painted it. See, there’s your horse in the background.”

  She didn’t move.

  “I thought you’d be pleased.”

  “I’m just . . . I mean ...” Skye held her breath for a moment. She looked pale and overwrought. “Julie painted this and now she’s dead. It’s just spooky, is all.”

  Yvonne called to me from the house. “Kate, it’s Libby, for you.”

  I handed Skye the painting and darted for the door. In the fifteen or so seconds it took me to reach the phone, I’d envisioned a long sequence of disasters, each worse than the preceding. By the time I grabbed the receiver, my throat was so dry I could hardly speak.

  “Sorry to bother you,” Libby said breezily.

  I felt the constriction in my chest ease up. Not, apparently, a disaster after all.

  “A man called,” she continued. “Luke Martin. He wants you to call him, says it’s important. I wouldn’t have bothered you except that he said he’d only be at that number for another hour and I didn’t know how long you’d be out.”

  Luke Martin. The name brought wi
th it an unexpected quiver of anticipation. “It’s not a bother,” I told her. “I was just about finished here anyway.”

  Yvonne had gone back into the other room. I could hear her talking with Steve in low, soft tones. I punched in Luke’s number.

  “I guess you got my message,” he said.

  “Just now. I’m calling from a friend’s house, so I can’t talk for long.”

  “I’ve got something you might be interested in.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Another letter addressed to Julie Harmon in care of Denny.”

  “Another one came today?” And then I realized that it was Sunday; there wouldn’t have been delivery.

  “Came last week. Denny apparently tossed it into the recycle bin. Found it there today when he was setting the bins out for Monday’s pickup. He brought it over a bit ago.”

  “Is it postmarked from Minnesota?”

  For a moment there was only Luke’s breathing and the rattle of paper. “No,” he said. “It was mailed from Santa Barbara. There’s a return address, too. Someone by the name of Claudia Walker.”

  There was a flutter in my chest. Claudia Walker, a name from the list on Julie’s computer. “I’d like to come by and pick it up. Will you be there?”

  “Horses couldn’t drag me away.”

  Chapter 24

  Luke Martin was waiting by the door when I arrived. “I hope I haven’t delayed you,” I said. “I got here as soon as I could.”

  “I don’t have to leave for another thirty minutes or so, and it’s not critical anyway. You want a cup of coffee?”

  “Thanks, but I’m about coffeed out.”

  “Soda?”

  I shook my head.

  He gave me a wry smile. “In the old days I could have offered you a beer.”

  “I’d have passed on that, too,” I said with a laugh.

  He looked at me for a moment without speaking. His eyes were a soft, liquid gray. “Guess you want that letter,” he said finally. He wheeled himself to a wide oak desk in what had originally been the dining room and was now a home office. I was struck again by the ease with which he maneuvered, almost as though he and the chair were one.

  “Have you figured out yet what this is all about?” Luke asked.

  “The letters?”

  He nodded. “Do you think they’re somehow connected to the girl’s death?”

  “I don’t know what to think. Julie was apparently involved in a romantic relationship that she didn’t want people to know about, so it would make sense that she’d want to keep the correspondence secret, too. That might be all there is to it. I was hoping Mr. T. L. Wiley could clarify a few things, but I wasn’t able to find a number for him.”

  “Me neither, although I did manage to locate a Thomas R. Wiley outside of St. Paul.”

  I did a double take. “You tried to find a number for Wiley?”

  Luke shrugged, a gesture that was somewhere between sheepish and smug. “Figured if I did, it would give me an excuse to call you.” He paused. “Besides, that kind of search isn’t difficult. I used an on-line service that claims to have every listing in the country.”

  His eyes locked on mine for a moment, then he turned abruptly. “The letter’s in here.”

  Luke opened the desk drawer, grabbed the envelope, and handed it to me. Marbled blue stationery, addressed by hand. The return address was engraved on the back. I slipped a finger under the flap and pulled out a single sheet of matching paper. My eyes scanned the short message quickly, then I read it aloud.

  Dear Julie,

  I have recently learned that Ted Wiley passed away last year.

  Sorry if I’ve complicated matters further. If there’s anything more, please don’t hesitate to call on me.

  Sincerely Yours,

  Claudia Walker

  Luke frowned. “Doesn’t say much, does it?”

  “No. But now I’ve got a name, address, and with luck, a telephone number. At the very least Claudia Walker ought to be able to tell me what Julie wrote to her about in the first place.”

  “Telephone’s in the kitchen,” Luke said, nodding toward the hallway.

  “I can call when I get home.”

  “Her number’s on the scratch pad next to the phone.”

  I stared at him. “You’ve already looked up her phone number?”

  He grinned. “I got you the letter, Kate. At least allow me a peek at what comes next.”

  Unfortunately, all that came next was the brief recording of an answering machine. I left a message and turned to Luke with an apologetic shrug.

  “Not home, huh?”

  “Not answering anyway.”

  Luke scratched his cheek, propelled his chair to the center of the kitchen. “You sure you don’t want some coffee?”

  “No thanks.”

  He opened the fridge. “Orange juice?”

  I laughed. “I’m fine.”

  There was a beat of silence, then he asked, “Was that your daughter who answered when I called a bit ago?”

  The abrupt change of topic caught me off guard. “No. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious.”

  “That was Libby,” I told him, then went on to explain her presence in our household. “My daughter, Anna, is only six.”

  “Six is a good age.”

  “Sometimes.”

  Luke’s hands stroked the outer chrome wheel of his chair. “I notice you aren’t wearing a wedding ring.”

  Reflexively, I bent my thumb toward my ring finger. It was a habit I’d yet to break. “Divorced,” I said. “Well, almost.”

  “You seeing anyone? I mean, anyone in particular?” His words hung between us for a moment.

  I felt a flutter in my chest. Finally, I nodded. “Yeah, I am.”

  Luke grunted, then laughed apologetically. “Figured as much. But it’s always best to make sure. Hope you aren’t offended.”

  “Offended? I’m flattered.” Curiously, more so than I would have imagined. There was an impish but genuinely sexy quality about Luke Martin that I found very appealing.

  “Do you mind if we stay in touch? Casually. I’d like to know the outcome of this whole mystery with the letters.”

  “I’d like that. Very much.” I felt a flicker of regret, not for the path I’d taken but for the others I had to pass over. “And I really appreciate your help. I’d never have had the nerve to go next door and talk to Dennis if you hadn’t dragged me along.”

  “Remember,” Luke said as I headed down the front path, “the invitation for coffee is still open. Anytime.” He paused. “Anytime at all.”

  <><><>

  When I got home, I was surprised to find Anna and Faye already back from their outing with Andy. I hadn’t expected them until late in the afternoon.

  “You’re here early,” I said, wrestling with the bag of groceries I’d picked up on the way home from Luke’s. Since this would be Faye’s last night with us, I thought I’d fix something special.

  “Andy had to get back,” Faye said.

  “He needed to watch the football game,” Anna added.

  “Needed to?”

  “A friend of his just bought one of those big screen televisions,” Faye explained.

  It shouldn’t have surprised me. Andy often had trouble separating necessity from indulgence in matters that concerned him personally. “And what about the afternoon he promised the two of you?”

  “Anna got her game of miniature golf,” Faye said. “And we had a nice lunch.”

  “Except we didn’t have time for dessert ’cause people were expecting him.”

  “He made you rush through lunch?” My voice rose with exasperation.

  Faye brushed the air dismissively. “I had a headache anyway. In fact, I was just going to lie down when you pulled up.”

  I wondered to what degree Faye’s headache was kindled by Andy’s professed need to watch the game. “Did you take something for it?” I asked.

  “Yes, only
I’m feeling a little queasy too, so I don’t want to overdo it.”

  “Go ahead and lie down. Let me know if there’s anything I can bring you.”

  “I’ll be fine. I just need a nap.”

  Before unloading the groceries, I checked the answering machine and found a message from Michael. He was calling from the airport, on his way to Dallas. I was unaccountably irked. I’d have to wait until he called to tell him about Claudia Walker, although by then maybe I’d have some answers.

  Both Anna and Max were hovering around the grocery bag when I returned to the kitchen.

  “Did you get anything good?” Anna asked.

  “You think I’d buy something bad?”

  She sighed heavily and without a trace of humor. “You know what I mean.”

  I started putting things away. “Apples,” I told her, pulling out a plastic bag.

  She made a face of disgust.

  “For apple pie.”

  The dour expression gave way to a smile. “Did you hear that, Max? We get apple pie tonight.” Her mood much improved, she sank down in her favorite kitchen chair to watch me work.

  “I don’t want anyone picking at this pie before dinner, understood?”

  “Tell Libby and Grandma too.”

  “I will.” But I knew where the real risk lay.

  A short while later, as I was tossing the apple peelings into the garbage, I saw bits of black ribbon and a ball of rumpled wrapping paper on top of the morning’s toast crusts. It was Halloween paper, with grotesque, warty witches riding on broomsticks.

  “Where’d this come from?” I asked. “Did Daddy give you a present?”

  She shook her head. “It was for Libby.”

  “From whom?”

  A shrug. “It was by the front door when we got home. But I think there was a mistake.”

  “Oh?”

  “The tag had Libby’s name, but they must have meant the present for me. She gave it to me anyway.”

  “That’s nice.” I pushed the can back under the sink. “What was it?”

  “Doll clothes.”

  “Doll clothes?”

  Anna slid from her seat and returned a minute later with a small cardboard box from which she withdrew a pair of miniature shoes. Ladies shoes, red. With pointy toes and spike heels.