“Oh, absolutely,” he said. “Love conquers all, right?”
We walked side by side to the restaurant door and stepped into the soft light of a mountain twilight. I didn’t want him to go. “Maybe we could—” I started to say, not even sure how I was going to finish the sentence. Go bowling? Walk around the lake path? Go back to my place and see what happened when you mixed a few margaritas, old memories, and a bed in the next room?
“Oh, damn,” Doug said, looking at his watch. “I’m late. Mom’s going to skin me alive.” He leaned forward, brushed his lips against my cheek, and added, “It was good to catch up, A-Faye. Sounds like you’re doing great. I wouldn’t trust my wedding to anyone else.” With a grin, he was gone, half jogging to his car.
* * *
My phone buzzed and I checked the display. Maud.
“Aren’t you coming?” she asked when I answered.
Coming? I knit my brow. Movie night! The Readaholics were watching The Maltese Falcon at Maud’s. I’d totally forgotten. “On my way,” I said. “Start the movie without me.”
“Already did,” she said and hung up without saying good-bye.
Half jogging back to my van—no mean feat in my low-heeled patent pumps—I drove to Maud’s timbered one-story on the outskirts of town. Her pickup with the boat trailer hitched up was in the yard rather than the long garage-cum-shed, making me think she had a fishing-guide gig lined up for the next day. I gave the doorbell a perfunctory ring and stepped into the small foyer with its pale moss green walls and slate floor. The whole house had the same monochromatic color scheme, and I always felt vaguely as if I’d walked into a grotto when I came over. The air was chilly—Maud kept the AC set low to protect her computers—and I wished I’d remembered to bring a sweater. I hurried into the living room, blurting apologies.
The Readaholics, minus Ivy, sat on the U-shaped charcoal sectional with its too-squashy cushions, facing the huge TV screen. The lights were dimmed, but I could still identify everyone and make my way to a seat without tripping over anything. Maud had her legs crossed under her, bony feet bare, and was leaning toward the TV, elbows on her thighs. Lola had a pillow tucked behind her back. She smiled at me. Brooke half reclined on the chaise and raised a hand when I entered. Kerry sat upright with her feet propped on an ottoman, a bowl of popcorn in her lap. “Finally,” she said.
“Work,” I replied. It wasn’t totally untrue. I’d been discussing the wedding with Doug. Knowing from experience that escaping the couch’s embrace was an awkward battle, I grabbed a throw pillow and sat on the ground between Kerry and Brooke, my back supported by the couch.
Bogie and an actress I didn’t recognize were having a tense conversation on the screen. “Who’s that?” I asked, helping myself to popcorn when Kerry passed me the bowl.
“Mary Astor,” Kerry answered. “I think she makes a good Brigid.”
The others murmured agreement and we watched the story unwind, inserting brief comments about the actors and the action. The TV’s light flickered over our faces and cast shadows around the room. We were quieter than usual, and I knew why.
“It seems strange not to have Ivy here,” Lola said during a slow moment.
I knew we’d all been thinking it. Ivy was our resident movie buff; she would’ve kept up a stream of commentary, telling us who the minor actors were, what movies the major players had made before or after Falcon, and critiquing the director’s choice of shots and backgrounds.
“People are saying it might have been suicide,” Brooke said in a low voice.
Maud muted the TV and slewed to face us. “That’s crap,” she said.
After a moment’s hesitation, I shared what I’d learned from Ham and then told them about taking the tea canister from Ivy’s office to the police department.
Maud stared at me. I knew her brows were up, even though I couldn’t see her face clearly in the dimness. “So you don’t think it was an accident or suicide,” she said. “That only leaves one thing.”
“Murder.” Kerry produced the word grimly.
“No one would want to kill Ivy,” Brooke said, at the same time Maud said, “We should figure out who’d want to kill Ivy.”
“That’s the police’s job, don’t you think?” Lola asked. Her glasses reflected the moving lights from the TV.
“Doesn’t sound to me like they’re doing it, not if they’ve already decided Ivy committed suicide,” Maud said. She blew a disgusted raspberry. “As usual, they’re taking the path of least resistance. Much easier to say that Ivy killed herself than to conduct an investigation that might lead to important city government officials.”
“What are you talking about?” Lola asked.
Maud beetled her brows, then said, “Ivy and Clay Shumer were . . . making the beast with two backs.”
Trust Maud to find the most colorful metaphor.
“I’m pretty sure it was over,” Brooke said.
We all looked at her.
“I saw Fee at Dr. Kloberdanz’s maybe a month ago. She was going in as I was coming out.”
“So?” Kerry said, expressing the confusion we all felt.
“He’s an obstetrician.”
There was a moment of silence while we took that in. “You’re saying Fee Shumer is pregnant,” Lola said.
Brooke shrugged.
“You’re not—?” A bright moment on screen washed Maud’s tanned face with light, and I could see her brows raised suggestively.
“No,” Brooke whispered.
I surreptitiously squeezed her hand, knowing she’d had a positive EPT a month ago that hadn’t been backed up by the doctor’s lab test. She’d been crushed.
“Fee didn’t look pregnant at yoga the other day,” I said. We both attended classes—me, somewhat sporadically—at the yoga studio on the third floor of the building my office was in. “She was still downward dogging with the best of ’em.”
“Yoga’s supposed to be good for pregnant women,” Lola said.
“Well,” Maud announced after a moment’s thought. “That Clay Shumer is pond scum if he was having nooners with Ivy and then getting it on with his wife after dinner. I’d cut off Joe’s private parts with a hacksaw if he did that. Not that he would.” Joe was her partner, a nationally known wildlife photographer who spent months at a time on shoots in places like the Galapágos and Papua New Guinea. I thought he was in Uruguay or Uganda right now—one of those “U” countries. Their long separations seemed to work for them.
Kerry snorted a laugh, and then we fell silent, watching Brigid O’Shaughnessy plead silently with Sam Spade on the screen. She clutched at him and he detached her. It made me wonder how Ivy had taken the breakup with Clay, if there’d been a breakup. Knowing Ivy, she wouldn’t have made it easy on him.
“You know,” I said, “all the backstabbing and double-crossing in this movie is about money, or what they all think is money—that silly falcon statue. What if Ivy’s . . . murder”—it was hard to say the word in connection with someone I knew—“is about money? Her brother inherits her house and all her stuff, I think. At least, that’s what he says. He’s practically panting to sell the house. And a woman at her office gets her job.”
“Aren’t most people killed for love or money?” Kerry asked.
“Or revenge.” Maud ticked motives off on her fingers. “Money. Love-slash-lust. Revenge. Power.” She waggled four fingers.
I shifted on my pillow, trying to keep my butt from falling asleep. Realizing I still held the popcorn, I passed it up to Brooke.
“And don’t forget wanting to keep something secret or avoid humiliation,” Lola put in softly. “Maybe Ivy knew something that her murderer didn’t want to get out.”
We pondered that for a moment, and then Maud put the volume up again, maybe to distract us. It was unsettling to speculate on what Ivy might have known that could get her k
illed. Did I know anything that could get me murdered if I revealed it? I didn’t think so. Although . . . I’d overheard one of the Ford brothers accuse the other of insider trading when I was setting up for their party two weeks ago, and I’d surprised Victor Ingersoll coming out of the Zooks’ house, shoes in hand and shirttail untucked, when I arrived early in the morning to clean up after the Zooks’ annual backyard tax-day bash. I knew Peter Zook had left for the airport before the party ended, needing to make an early meeting at his CPA firm’s headquarters in Chicago. Victor and I had mumbled embarrassed “good mornings” and never mentioned it again. My job gave me access to people’s intimate moments, sometimes, because I was in and out of their houses and interacted with them during times when emotions tended to run high, like weddings, significant birthdays, funerals, and big dos that were important to them. Still, I didn’t think my life was in danger.
Bogart’s gravelly voice grated from the screen: “I’ll be waiting for you. If they hang you, I’ll always remember you.” The credits rolled and Maud clicked on the lights with a remote. I blinked in the sudden brightness.
“We should search Ivy’s house,” Maud announced, rising with audible creaks and pops from her knees.
“Whatever for?” Brooke asked.
“The Maltese Falcon,” I quipped.
“Clues. A diary. Her computer. A calendar to tell us if she was supposed to meet anyone the morning she died.” Maud waved an all-encompassing hand, tanned, callused, and obviously used to hard work.
“She was,” I said.
They all looked at me.
“Me.”
Maud made an impatient gesture. “Besides you.”
“We shouldn’t invade her privacy like that,” Lola said. Her narrow shoulders hunched in as she leaned forward to make her point.
I put an arm around her. “Ivy’s beyond caring about that, Lo,” I said.
“I guess.” She still didn’t look happy.
“I’m sure the police have already searched her house,” Brooke said. She twisted a lock of dark brown hair around one finger, a nervous habit she’d had since we were in grade school.
I didn’t know if she meant to reconcile Lola to the idea or suggest we shouldn’t bother since the police had already covered that ground. Her next words made it clear she was arguing the latter point.
“Besides, what are we going to do—bust a window to get in? We’d end up in jail. I can just see Troy’s face if he had to come down to the jail to bail me out. Or Troy Sr. and Clarice’s faces if they turned on the news and saw me being shoved into the back of a police car. There really would be a murder then: They’d kill me.”
She shuddered and everyone laughed, but I didn’t think she was kidding. Not much, anyway.
Maud nodded reluctantly as she took in the logic of Brooke’s objections. “It was just a thought,” she said. She growled with frustration. “Seems to me like friends ought to do something for a friend who’s been murdered by some coldhearted jerk.”
Kerry, who had been silent up until now, spoke up. “I could get in,” she said with a triumphant smile, “without breaking a single window or doing anything illegal.”
The four of us goggled at Kerry.
“How?” I asked finally.
“I’m a Realtor,” she reminded us. “You said Ham wants to sell the house. I call him, offer my services, tell him I need to see the house before we can settle on an asking price, and he hands over the keys. I’ve never been one of those ambulance-chasing Realtors who are phoning the next of kin trying to get a listing before a body’s buried, but I could do it for Ivy.”
“Brilliant!” Maud slapped a hand on her thigh. “Let’s do it tomorrow.”
“I can’t let a whole herd of people tromp through the house,” Kerry said, sounding tetchy. Her arched nostrils flared. “I could lose my license. I have to do this on my own.”
“What if Ham wants to go with you?” I asked. “How will you search then?”
Kerry narrowed her eyes in thought. “Good point. You can come, Amy-Faye. I’ll keep Ham with me while you search. We can say you wanted a couple of photos of Ivy to display at the funeral or something.”
“That’s good,” I said, giving Kerry an admiring look.
“You don’t think I got to be mayor based only on my good looks and intellect, do you?” Kerry asked wryly. “A certain degree of sneakiness comes with the job.”
I was glad Maud let the comment go without saying anything.
We broke up shortly after that, without even discussing the movie. The death of our friend made cinematic murders almost distasteful. We’d have done better, I thought driving home, to delay watching the movie for a few weeks. Maybe our next book should be something lighter; I made a mental note to ask around on some online forums for a suitable title. It was my turn to choose a book since Ivy had suggested The Maltese Falcon.
A slight headache reminded me of the margaritas and happy hour with Doug. I downed a couple of aspirin, but I knew they wouldn’t alleviate the sadness I felt whenever I thought of Doug’s upcoming wedding (which I had to do a lot since I had stupidly agreed to plan it). Snap out of it, I told myself, brushing my teeth hard enough to make my gums sting. Get over him, already. WWKMD? Hm, Kinsey wasn’t much of a role model in the romance department. I’m pretty sure she last had sex twelve or fourteen books back. Okay, then, what would Stephanie Plum do if Ranger or Joe got engaged? Buy tarty lingerie. Blow up a car. Too expensive to be practical for me with my mortgage and barely solvent business.
I grimaced at my reflection in the mirror and wondered if doing something new with my hair would make me feel like a new me, a Doug-less me. I’d been Doug-less for a couple of years, of course, but my appearance hadn’t changed greatly in that time. Nothing in my life had changed greatly. I lived in the same town. I did the same work. I was still pet-less and significant other–less. I still ate with my parents on Sunday evenings. My hair was the same. Weight ditto. I was in a rut. I made a face at my reflection and resolved to do something about it.
Tomorrow I would make a list of things to do to shake up my life. I remembered I was lunching with Detective Lindell Hart and smiled. That would be item one on my list. Item two would be sneaking into Ivy’s house and searching it, definitely not a “rut”-type activity. Item three . . . I fell asleep before I came up with a third task.
Chapter 8
I managed to keep my nose to the grindstone all Friday morning, even after Kerry called to say Ham was enthusiastic about listing Ivy’s house and would meet us there at two. That would leave just enough time for my lunch with Detective Hart. By noon, I had completed preparations for Ivy’s funeral tomorrow, checked fourteen items off my to-do list for the Boy Scout picnic Sunday, resolved a minor catering crisis related to the Finkelsteins’ fiftieth, and made an appointment with Sheena to do something new with my hair. I left to meet Detective Hart feeling like I’d accomplished a lot.
We arrived at the Munchery simultaneously and exchanged greetings. His smile warmed me, as did the admiration in his eyes as they swept over me. I was glad I’d worn the moss-colored blouse that made my hazel eyes more green than brown and somehow brightened my complexion. We entered the café side by side to be greeted by the clang of cutlery and the babel of dozens of conversations from the packed room. I turned toward Hart.
“Why don’t we get sandwiches to go and take them up to Lost Alice Lake?” I suggested. “It’s a beautiful day, and if you’re hiring me to be your Heaven tour guide, I might as well start earning my pay.” I laughed.
“Your pay is a free lunch,” he said promptly. “Excellent idea. I’m hoping you can tell me where the lake got that strange name. It’s not a morbid story, I hope.”
I merely grinned and said, “I’ll tell you when we get there.”
To-go bags in hand, we got into his official Tahoe with HEAVEN POLICE DEPARTM
ENT on the sides and headed up the narrow road to Lost Alice Lake on the southern side of town. On a perfect spring day, exercisers, picnickers, and hardy sunbathers dotted the trail around the lake and the expanse of grass sweeping down to it. A lone kite flier struggled with his kite as we got out of the SUV. A strong breeze created some chop on the lake, roughing up the reflection of the mountains on the blue water. The wedding gazebo where Doug would get married in two weeks shone whitely from the left, surrounded by a copse of aspens. I turned my back on it and headed toward a picnic table occupied only by a pair of scavenging magpies. Their black wings gleamed bluely iridescent against their white chests.
“This is heaven,” Hart said, drawing in a deep breath of the pine-scented air. “I think I could live here forever and never get used to how clear the air is.”
I was pleased by his admiration for my town. “It’s a beautiful place,” I said. “I can’t imagine living anywhere else.”
Shooing the magpies off the table, I inspected the seat for debris and sat, opening my lunch. The smell of warm pastrami drifted out and I lowered my nose into the bag, making Hart laugh. He maneuvered his long legs over the bench and said, “So tell me the story behind the lake. Did someone named Alice drown here?”
I shook my head while I finished chewing the first spicy bite of my sandwich. “Nope,” I mumbled. “Nothing so depressing. For a start, Alice wasn’t a person. She was a goat.”
“A goat?”
“Uh-huh. According to local lore, the town’s founder, Walter Walters, arrived here in the late 1800s, intending to do a little prospecting. He set up camp on the lakeshore. His letters home—you can read them at the historical society—make it clear he wasn’t having much luck and was planning to move on to what’s now Nevada come the spring. Apparently, he had this goat with him—depended on her for milk, I guess—and she was in the habit of wandering off. One day, she was lost as usual, and he followed her bleating until he found her stuck in a crevice halfway up that mountain.” I nodded toward the nearest mountain peak. “Some people say there was a cougar about to pounce on her and that he fired his rifle to chase it away. At any rate, as he dug Alice out, he noticed a glint of silver and realized he’d found what he’d been looking for. They mined silver from his strike until the mid-1970s. They still give tours of the mine. It’s interesting.”
The Readaholics and the Falcon Fiasco Page 8
