Murder Among Us (A Kate Austen Mystery)

by Jonnie Jacobs

  “That’s all?” I asked, poking through the papers in the trash. Nothing but wrapping paper and ribbon and a small tag with Libby’s name on it. “That’s the whole present?”

  Anna nodded, and then added graciously, “The important thing is the thought, not the present.”

  That was my feeling too, and the very reason that my heart was suddenly pounding in my chest.

  “Where’s Libby now?”

  “With Brian,” Anna replied. “She said she’d be back in time for dinner.”

  I could feel panic rise up and grab me by the throat. “Where did they go?”

  Anna shrugged.

  “Did he call her?”

  Another shrug.

  Was the timing a coincidence? “Why Brian?” I asked aloud, talking as much to myself as to Anna. But this time she had an answer.

  “I think Libby likes him.”

  I tried to quell the sense of dread. Brian was, after all, a boy she’d been out with before. A boy, as Anna pointed out, she was eager to spend time with. What possible reason would he have to hurt her? Looking at it rationally, there was nothing about Brian Walker to make me nervous except for an overly cocky attitude.

  The shoes were what put me on edge. They weren’t a present, I felt certain. They were meant as a threat. Like the plastic skeleton in our mailbox days earlier.

  I picked up the phone and dialed Brian’s number. Nothing, not even the message machine.

  I forced myself to finish making the pie, chatting with Anna while I rolled out the dough and sliced the apples. But as soon as I’d put it in the oven, I tried Brian again, and then Michael’s number at work, on the off chance one of the other detectives might answer. I left a message asking Michael to call me, but I knew he’d do that anyway. I checked on Faye, straightened the kitchen, washed lettuce for the salad.

  There was nothing to do but wait.

  By four o’clock I was pacing in front of the living room window, holding my breath with every passing car, willing Libby’s return. My mind was so ensnared with worry about Libby that I’d forgotten my earlier message to Claudia Walker. When she returned my call, it took me a moment to sort out the two Walkers, Brian and Claudia.

  “I was calling about Julie Harmon,” I told her finally.

  “I hope she’s finding what she needs.”

  I hesitated. “Unfortunately there’s some bad news.” With Libby’s safety in doubt, the words were raw in my throat. “Julie was killed about a week and a half ago.”

  “Killed? How?”

  “She was murdered.”

  “My God, how terrible.”

  I explained how I’d come upon her letter to Julie, how I’d been trying to make sense of the puzzling fragments of Julie’s last few weeks. “I was hoping you’d be able to enlighten me,” I told her.

  “I wish I could. I’m afraid I can’t be of much help, though. I barely knew Julie.”

  “Maybe you could start by telling me why she wrote to you.”

  “She wanted to know about her mother.”

  “Know about her? In what way?”

  “As a person,” Claudia said. “At least that’s the impression I got. She wanted to know what Leslie’s life had been like, what Leslie herself was like when she was younger. I was grown when my own mother died, but I felt the same need to talk to her friends, to hear the stories that would fill in the gaps of my memory.”

  “You were a friend of Leslie Harmon?”

  “I worked with her.”

  “Recently?” I remembered Libby saying she thought Julie’s journalism project might have been related in some way to her mother. Could Julie have picked up on an issue her mother had been exploring before her death?

  “We worked together on a freelance assignment last year,” Claudia replied. “But I’ve known Leslie since she first started out in broadcasting. We were at KSFK together in San Francisco. That’s why Julie wrote to me, because I’d known Leslie for so long.”

  “Were you personal friends as well?”

  “We were friends, yes. But not close friends. That’s what I told Julie. She really needed someone who knew her mother better than I did.”

  I sat back a bit. “Can you remember what, in particular, Julie was interested in knowing? Assignments her mother was involved with? Or maybe . . .” I paused, wondered why I hadn’t thought of this before . . . or maybe something having to do with the boating accident that caused Leslie’s death?”

  Claudia was quiet with thought. “I didn’t keep Julie’s letter, but as I recall, it wasn’t so much projects or events as people who’d known Leslie when she was younger. I gave Julie a few names. I thought that if nothing else, they could at least give her other names.”

  “Was T. L. Wiley one of those names?”

  “Yes. Ted was the station manager when we first worked together. I knew he’d retired to the north somewhere, but I didn’t have his address. He and Leslie stayed in touch, though, even after she left San Francisco. She told me about his retirement when we worked together last year.”

  “What were the other names you gave her?”

  “Well, there was Marianne Bailey. She’s another reporter who’d known Leslie for years. And Jill Morely, the film editor on our most recent project. She worked with Leslie in New York as well. And then there was Dulcey Haggerty. She and Leslie shared a house for a number of years before Julie was born.”

  “Could you give me the addresses you gave Julie?”

  There was a pause. “I suppose so. Just a minute.”

  She set the phone down and returned with a rustle of pages. “I’m not sure any of them are current, but Jill’s was correct as of last year.”

  Marianne Bailey lived in Paris, Jill Morley outside Chicago, and Dulcey Haggerty in Berkeley. The leads might turn out to be as ephemeral as morning mist, but they were at least somewhere to start.

  “I appreciate your calling me back so promptly,” I told her. “You’ve been a big help.”

  “Let me know if there’s anything else.”

  My eyes fell again on the pair of miniature shoes that had been delivered to Libby. And again I felt the swell of uneasiness in my chest. Brian had said he didn’t know anyone named Claudia Walker, but that didn’t necessarily mean it was true.

  I approached the question in reverse. “Do you by any chance know a Brian Walker?” I asked Claudia.

  She hesitated for a moment before answering. “No, I don’t believe I do.”

  Two for two. Not that it changed a damn thing. Julie’s clandestine correspondence hadn’t proved to be the key piece to the puzzle I’d hoped it would.

  Chapter 25

  After checking on Faye, who was sleeping fitfully, I tried Chicago information for Jill Morley. No listing under that name, or for any Morley at the address Claudia Walker had given me. I had similar luck with Dulcey Haggerty. At least she lived close enough that I could visit in person.

  I penned a quick note to Jill Morley explaining the situation and asking her to call me, then I walked to the mailbox at the corner and deposited it. Dulcey would have to wait until tomorrow.

  While I continued my vigil by the front window waiting for Libby’s return, I tried again to find a pattern in Julie’s behavior. It was almost as though I’d collected a handful of snapshots, each capturing Julie from a different perspective. But the girl herself, someone I thought I’d known, was becoming more of an enigma each day.

  And so was the reason for her murder.

  It was almost five-thirty by the time Libby came through the door, looking flushed and animated. She dropped her sweater and backpack in the corner of the hallway, then ran a hand through her tousled curls.

  “Where have you been?” I screeched from my spot by the window.

  Her face registered surprise. “With Brian. I told Anna and Faye. Didn’t they give you the message?”

  “Yes, but ‘with Brian’ didn’t tell me much. Like where you were going and why.”

  Libby looked at me
, surprise giving way to a tight scowl. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I crossed my arms. “Where did you go?” Despite my best intentions, the words came out as though barked by a drill sergeant.

  “The reservoir.”

  “The reservoir?” This time I didn’t even try to fight the shrill edge in my tone. “Don’t you think that was pretty stupid?”

  Libby shook her head, more in confusion than denial. “It was a nice day. Brian wanted me to help him with Spanish. What’s the big deal?”

  “Haven’t we talked about being careful?”

  “It’s the middle of the day, Kate. And I wasn’t alone.”

  I folded my arms. “How come Brian’s answering machine wasn’t picking up?”

  “I don’t know, maybe he didn’t turn it on.” Libby’s expression grew wary. “What were you doing, checking up on me?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. That’s exactly what I was doing.”

  Libby scowled. Her face flushed with indignation. “You sound just like my dad, you know that? Like you’re dictator of the world.”

  “I’m dictator of this house, and don’t you forget it.”

  She stepped back. “You’ve no right to treat me this way. I left word that I’d gone with Brian and would be home by dinner. I didn’t do anything wrong.” She spit out the words with contempt, but I could see her eyes were glistening with tears.

  I dropped down into a chair, feeling suddenly deflated. Libby was right. I’d worked myself into such a state of alarm that her safe return had only opened the floodgates of worry.

  “I’m sorry,” I told her. “I was concerned. I guess I got a little worked up about it.”

  “A little?”

  “Okay, a lot.” I gave an apologetic smile, which she ignored.

  “Geez,” Libby huffed, “you act like I threw a wild party and trashed your house or something.”

  I held up my hands in surrender. “I was way out of line. But it’s only because I was worried about you.”

  I tried another smile and got a halfhearted one in return. If not absolved, I was at least working my way back in her good graces.

  “I still don’t see the problem,” Libby said after a moment.

  “That Halloween present you found by the door—”

  She brushed the air with her hand in a gesture of dismissal. “It was nothing, I gave it to Anna. Either it was a mistake or somebody’s got a weird sense of humor. What would I want with doll clothes?”

  “Not clothes, honey, shoes.”

  She shrugged. “Okay, shoes.”

  I hesitated. “Both Julie and the other girl, Cindy Purcell, their shoes were missing. The killer seems to have a thing about feet.”

  “So?” Libby turned away and then swung back slowly. I watched the color drain from her face as the connection dawned. “Oh, my God, I never even thought of that. Oh, Kate ...” She was breathing hard. “And the skeleton in our mailbox. They were meant as warnings, weren’t they?” Her voice cracked. “Oh, my God. I’m next. Someone wants to kill me.”

  Good going, I told myself. You couldn’t have handled this any worse if you’d tried. First you jump on her without cause, then you scare her half to death.

  I went to Libby and hugged her. “It may be nothing. I’m probably letting my imagination get the better of me.”

  “But what if you aren’t?”

  “I’ll call Detective Luce. He’s a friend of Michael’s. He’ll know what to do.”

  “Why me? What did I ever do?” She was breathing hard.

  “I could easily be overreacting, honey. Let’s wait and see what Luce says.”

  “I’d rather ask Michael,” Libby said shakily.

  “He’s in Texas looking into Cindy Purcell’s death. I’m hoping he’ll call soon.”

  Libby brushed her cheek with the back of her hand. Although the look of terror had left her face, I could tell she was upset. “You thought it was Brian, didn’t you? That’s why you jumped on me so hard.”

  “I was worried, Libby. I don’t know what I thought.”

  “It couldn’t be. I mean, why? It makes no sense.”

  “None of it makes any sense. But someone has killed two girls in the last three weeks.”

  “And now he has his eye on me.” She wrapped her arms across her chest and drew in a deep breath. “I can’t believe Brian had anything to do with it.”

  “Still, I think you shouldn’t go off alone with him, or with anyone, until the police have a better handle on these murders.”

  “I know the way he acts, all cool and stuff. But that’s not really the way he is.” Her face had regained some of the love-struck radiance I’d seen when she first came through the door.

  “Did you have a nice time with him this afternoon?”

  She nodded. “Brian was glad it rained yesterday. He hates horses.”

  “Then why did he agree to go riding in the first place?”

  She gave me a look, exasperation tinged with a modicum of uncertainty, and then a shrug. “You know Skye. Sometimes it’s just easier to go along with what she wants.”

  As soon as Libby left to put her things away, I went into the kitchen and called Don Luce at home with apologies for bothering him on a Sunday afternoon. I explained the situation, hoping he’d laugh at my worries and dismiss then as meaningless. But I also braced myself for the alternative—an intense and solemn official visit and the dinner-hour disruption that would ensue. Luce’s response, however, fell squarely in the middle.

  “Could be coincidence,” he said. “Or a prank of some sort. Maybe even an honest, if misguided, gift. I don’t recall a similar pattern of gifts with either of the other victims.”

  “But it could be for real,” I argued.

  “Could be. I’d be nuts to tell you otherwise. And as a friend, I gotta say I can understand why you’re nervous. But to be honest, there’s not a whole lot we can do.”

  “Can’t you run a forensics test or something? Look for fingerprints or fibers or . . . or whatever it is you look for.”

  There was a pause. “We could, but I doubt we’d find anything. The best advice I can give you is to stay alert and be careful. And keep me posted. You get an actual threat, or someone trying to intimidate you, you call me right away.”

  I sighed. Why were things rarely as clear cut as I expected? “I don’t suppose you know where Michael’s staying in Dallas.”

  “No. I could find out tomorrow if you’d like.”

  “That’s okay, I’m sure he’ll call by then anyway.”

  “Michael’s involvement in this case is more personal than mine,” Don said gently. “And I’m sure he’ll share your concern for Libby. But he’s going to tell you the same thing I did. There’s not much you can do but be careful.”

  I could see the logic of his position, but I didn’t like it. I stuck the pair of doll shoes in the drawer where I wouldn’t have to look at them and took out my frustration by chopping the broccoli into pieces the size of peas.

  When I went to wake Faye for dinner, she begged off, saying she didn’t feel like eating. She wasn’t interested in the late-night snack I offered, either. And by the next morning it was clear she would not be catching her plane that afternoon. She’d developed a fever and chills in addition to the relentless headache.

  The doctor, who took his sweet time returning my call, told me to make sure she got plenty of fluids and suggested Motrin to bring down the fever. For that, it took a medical degree?

  I thought about skipping class, but there was little I could do to help Faye, who seemed to want nothing but quiet. Still, with everything else that was going on, my mind was not on teaching. I gave the students a simple assignment and set them to work. When the bell rang, I hurried them out the door and then followed quickly in their footsteps. I headed into Berkeley in the hopes of finding Dulcey Haggerty.

  Half an hour later, I pulled up in front of a spacious home in one of Berkeley’s more desirable neighborhoods near
the Claremont Hotel. From the street, I took a stone walkway, planted with rhododendrons and ferns. A thick-stemmed and undoubtedly very old wisteria climbed the posts of the porch overhang, and a huge redwood towered over the roof from the rear. I rang the bell, hoping Dulcey still lived there.

  The door was opened by a tall, bearded gentleman of mature, but indeterminate, age. He held a half-wound spindle of red yarn. The remaining yarn was looped over his forearm.

  “I’m looking for Dulcey Haggerty,” I told him.

  He smiled. “It’s Dulcey St. John now. I’ll get her for you.” Before he had a chance, however, a woman appeared from the room to his left. “Dulcey,” he said, turning toward her, “there’s a woman here for you.”

  Dulcey Haggerty St. John was almost as tall as her companion, with a wide, flat face and silver hair that she wore pinned loosely in a knot atop her head. She was dressed in an oversized peasant blouse, a batik print skirt, and Birkenstocks.

  I introduced myself and explained how I’d gotten her name. “I’m sorry to show up at your door without phoning first, but I couldn’t find a listing in the book.”

  “Not if you were looking under Haggerty,” she said amiably. “Bill and I have been married for almost three years now.” She opened the door wider and stood back. “Why don’t you come in and I’ll tell you what I can, but I’m afraid it won’t be much.”

  “I’m grateful for any information you can give me.”

  “Would you like some tea? I have only herbal brews.”

  “Tea would be lovely.”

  While Dulcey headed for the kitchen, Bill ushered me into the living room, where a grand piano, a harp, and a large loom vied for space.

  He saw me look around the room and smiled. “It’s a little tight, I know. But when you combine two households, space is always a problem.”

  Like his wife, Bill St. John was casually dressed. A black turtleneck, baggy corduroy pants, argyle socks with his Birkenstocks. He sat on the edge of a wooden chair and worked the yarn from skein to spindle.

  “I read about the murder,” Dulcey said when she returned with our tea. “It was a shock, I’ll tell you that. And a real tragedy. It wasn’t but a month or so ago that she sat right where you’re sitting now talking to me about her mother.”