With nourishment, Fee seemed to recover herself a little. Squeezing the empty take-out bowl between her hands, she exhaled heavily and said, “I have screwed things up beyond comprehension. I mean, look at us.” She waved a hand between us. “I don’t even like you, and I know you don’t like me, and yet I’m here looking for help.”
I didn’t bother to contradict her about the liking thing. It was true.
When I didn’t respond, she huffed a broken laugh and went on. “You’re the only one who can help me straighten out this mess. Lord knows I can’t go to the police. They’ve arrested Clay, and it’s my fault.”
I stiffened. Was she confessing to Ivy’s murder?
She must have felt my reaction, because she looked at me, startled. “That’s not my fault, although if she’d been standing in front of me when I found out she was sleeping with my husband, I might have strangled her. No, it’s my fault the police think Clay did it. I should start at the beginning.
“A couple of months ago, I started to think Clay was fooling around on me. The wife is always the last to know, right? I should have picked up on the clues earlier, but I was too dumb . . . or too complacent. I mean, I’m not exactly a dog.” She seemed to realize she wasn’t looking her best and self-consciously smoothed her hair. “Well, not in the normal course of things, anyway.”
“You’re beautiful, Fee.”
A grateful smile slipped out, but then she turned waspish. “Don’t patronize me, please. Anyway, I hired a private investigator—a man from Grand Junction because I didn’t want anyone in Heaven knowing that Clay was cheating on me—and it didn’t take him more than two days to get photos of Clay and Ivy Donner. Screwing.” Rage flushed her face and her fingers picked at the soup bowl, tearing away bits of foam that drifted like stiff snow to the grass. When she had herself under control again, she went on. “I stewed over it all day, waiting for him to get home from the office. We ate dinner like usual and opened a bottle of wine, and I waited for bedtime. When Clay went upstairs, he saw the photos. I had taped them up all over our bedroom. You should have seen his face. He literally turned green. I lost it then, asked him if they’d done it in our bed, asked him how long it had been going on, told him I would never, ever forgive him. Finally, I told him I was pregnant. I got the test results the same day the PI gave me his report.” She smiled bitterly. “Clay was stunned by all of it. He asked me over and over again if I was sure, until I gave him the lab report. He started crying then.”
I sat motionless, overwhelmed by her misery and by the evidence of the damage Ivy had done. The fact that I didn’t much like Fee didn’t keep me from feeling sorry for her. “That’s awful,” I murmured.
“‘Awful’ doesn’t begin to describe it. We talked and shouted at each other all night. I’ll spare you the gory details. In the end, we agreed that we would try again—for the baby. He said he’d break up with Ivy, that he’d manage it so he wasn’t working with her anymore. I was hoping he’d fire her, but he got her promoted. We were making it day to day, until Ivy died.”
“I don’t understand.”
“When she died, Clay lost it. Broke down. Said he’d killed her. He meant he’d driven her to suicide by breaking up with her. I saw then what I’d never let myself understand. It wasn’t just about the sex—he loved her. I . . . I wanted to punish him. When it seemed as if she had killed herself, well, his guilt was punishment enough. When it began to look like the police were investigating her death as a homicide, he was actually happy. It meant she hadn’t poisoned herself over him. I couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t get off so easy. So I sent the police a picture. Of Ivy and Clay.” She gave me a sidelong look.
I knew what she was talking about because of what Hart had told me. I nodded.
“I thought it would embarrass him, being grilled by the police. That’s all I wanted. I didn’t mean for him to get arrested or go on trial! I didn’t know when I sent it about the gambling.” She cut herself off.
“But you do now?”
“Yes. He told me all of it yesterday, after we got home from the police station. He told me he’d been running this side business”—she said it as casually as if he had a paper route—“for almost ten years. He told me that after he broke up with Ivy, he found a page from his ledger, the one he keeps all his transactions in, in the copy machine tray. Someone had made two copies by mistake. It scared the crap out of him. He confronted Ivy at her house. She’d worked with him for so long that she had figured it out, she told him. She’d only kept quiet because she loved him. Now that he’d ditched her, she was going to make him sorry.”
“What did he do?”
“There was nothing he could do. He warned a few of his best clients that there might be an investigation.”
“Troy Widefield?”
After a brief hesitation, Fee nodded. “Among others.”
“Junior or Senior?”
“Senior, I think. I’m not sure. Clay just said ‘Widefield.’ He said he felt like he was living on top of a time bomb, waiting for it to go off. And then Ivy died.”
I studied her face, which had a hint of color in it now. “I don’t understand, Fee—what do you want from me?”
She gave me a look that said I was being dense. “I want you to find out who really killed her, of course. Everyone knows you’ve been asking questions about Ivy’s death, that you never believed she killed herself. When I sent the photo, I didn’t mean for Clay to get in this much trouble. It never crossed my mind that he’d actually be arrested or have to stand trial. I thought he’d just get a taste of humiliation. But because of the bookie stuff and that stupid ledger page Ivy stole, the police think he had a real motive. For obvious reasons, he can’t confess to the betting thing, can’t tell the police one of his clients must have killed Ivy to keep from being exposed, so you’ll have to figure out which one of them did it. Have you found anything out already? Do you have any idea who it might have been?” Fee looked at me hopefully.
I asked slowly, “What makes you so sure it wasn’t Clay? He had motive and opportunity, and I don’t imagine he’d find it hard to come by a few oleander leaves.”
She swallowed hard. “You didn’t see him when he heard she was dead. He loved her, truly loved her.” Her voice was no more than a whisper. “There’s no way he killed her.”
The admission had cost her a lot, and she suddenly stood. She swayed and I put out a hand to steady her. She shook it off. “Look, I know you don’t like me, Amy-Faye, but you were Ivy’s friend—you must want to know what really happened to her.”
The blatant attempt to manipulate me made me say, “I don’t know if I can.”
Her nostrils flared. “You can’t hate me that much, to refuse to help keep an innocent man out of jail—”
I wasn’t wholly convinced of Clay’s innocence in any context, but I said, “It’s not that, Fee. I sort of told someone I’d drop it. I don’t know—”
“I’ll pay you.”
“I don’t want money.” A squirrel that had approached, hoping the take-out container crumbs were edible, fled up a tree at the sharpness of my tone.
“Then, what?”
I was torn. I’d told Brooke I’d drop it, but I found myself believing Fee when she said Clay didn’t kill Ivy. If not, then the real murderer was walking the streets of Heaven, as pleased as punch that the police had arrested Clay. I could tell the police what Fee had told me, about Clay warning his clients, including Troy Widefield, but I didn’t think they’d be able to get a search warrant or even question him based on my thirdhand information. Frustration built in me. “I’ll think about it,” I told Fee.
“Thank you.” She paused, as if going to say more, and then walked away.
I looked up at the squirrel, frisking his tail on the branch above me. “You think I should do it, right? Look into it some more?”
He chittered.
“But what about Brooke?”
The squirrel scampered to the crook where the branch met the trunk and scratched his ear briskly. “You’re right. The truth is more important. And we can’t have a murderer running around loose in Heaven.”
“Talking to yourself, boss?” Al’s voice came from the office doorway behind me. I turned to see him lounging against the jamb, arms crossed over his sweater-vested chest. “They say that’s a sign of senility. Or just plain crazy.” He made looping motions beside his ear.
I didn’t think it would improve matters to tell him I’d been talking to the squirrel, so I said I’d been thinking out loud and herded him in front of me into the office, asking for status updates on his events.
Chapter 26
I replayed my conversation with Fee several times throughout the afternoon and hadn’t reached a decision by the time I needed to leave to meet Doug and Madison to choose a band. Ironically, I found myself actually looking forward to hooking up with the happy couple because it would enable me to put off making a decision for a few more hours. As far as I could see, if I decided to pursue the investigation, I’d have to talk to Troy Widefield Sr., since Fee was sure Clay had warned him about Ivy having the ledger page, and I knew Brooke would hear about it and feel like I’d lied to her. Frankly, the thought of confronting Senior intimidated me, too. If he’d killed Ivy and tried to sabotage my business and discourage me from investigating with the beehive incident, who knows what he might do if I showed up in his office and told him I knew about the gambling. I frowned. I had a lot of trouble envisioning the patrician Troy Widefield lugging a stolen beehive to the park, and an even harder time matching him up with the “mind your beeswax” language in the threatening letter. I tried to put it out of my mind and left to meet my clients.
The first band Doug and Madison and I were going to listen to was set up in the basement of the New Way Church, a nondenominational wannabe megachurch that would have a much better chance of reaching mega status if it were located in a town with more than ten thousand people. I arrived ten minutes early and heard the clash of cymbals before I even entered the building. Doug and Madison weren’t here yet. I glanced into a worship space with enough pews for every man, woman, and child in the county, a bank of choir stalls, strategically placed speakers, and large TV screens overhead. For instant replay on the sermon? Despite the trappings of entertainment, it was a peaceful space and I lingered in the doorway, not thinking much about anything, until I heard Doug’s voice behind me.
“Getting religion in your old age, A-Faye?”
I wasn’t sure if I was more annoyed about the age jab or the implication that I wasn’t religious. I might not be a regular churchgoer—I got to St. Luke’s once or twice a month—but God and I talked almost daily. I disguised my irritation with a smile and turned. Before I could respond, he added, “Hey, Madison tells me you’ve got a new guy. We’ll meet him at the wedding, right? He’s a cop?”
Dang. I hadn’t thought that Madison might mention our conversation to Doug. How to get out of this? I knew: keep lying. Would God strike me dead for lying in his holy place? I edged away from the sanctuary door. “That’s right.” I smiled. “Lindell Hart. He’s excited about attending the wedding and said to pass along his congratulations.” To forestall more questions about Hart and our imaginary relationship, I asked, “Where’s Madison?”
A shadow passed over Doug’s face. “Where is she always? Working. She has a brief she has to e-mail by COB New York time, and she’s crashing on that. She told me to come ahead and choose a band, since the music is really my thing anyway.”
That was true. It had been Doug who insisted on actually seeing their top two bands in person after I gave them CDs of several area bands to listen to. He was a music geek from way back. The thrum of an electric bass vibrated up from the floor below, and I said, “Let’s get to it.”
We descended the stairs and found the band in a large open room that was probably used for church suppers if the tables and chairs stacked on dollies were any indication. The band had set up on a small dais at the far end of the room and the drummer hailed us with a rim shot when we came in. I’d worked with them a couple of times before, and I introduced them to Doug. He and the lead singer immediately got into a discussion about the guitar he was playing. I rolled my eyes good-humoredly and pulled a couple of folding chairs off a dolly for us to sit in. Doug joined me in a moment.
“Give us one minute,” the bandleader said, stepping over wires to talk to the keyboard player.
We sat side by side in our cold metal chairs, the only audience members waiting for a concert to begin. I’d done this numerous times with other brides and grooms, but today it felt awkward. Maybe because Madison wasn’t there and I sensed Doug’s anger or disappointment about her defection. Maybe because I was still unsettled from the spat, if you could call it that, with Brooke. Maybe because Doug’s getting married in a week and it makes me sad. Mostly to break the silence, I asked, “Did you see the article in today’s Herald?”
Doug furrowed his brow. “Yeah. I have to talk to the police tomorrow, when I’ve got more time.”
I raised my brows at him. “About what?”
He hesitated. “I suppose it doesn’t matter if I tell you since I have to tell the police anyway. Now that they’re calling Ivy’s death murder, I need to tell them she hired me a few days before she died to draw up a will.”
“Really?” All my and Flavia’s imaginings about Ivy talking to him about protecting herself from libel charges or prosecution vanished. It was nothing so interesting. She wanted a will, like millions of other people.
“When she called me, the Wednesday before she died, I thought maybe she was ill and that had prompted it.”
“You did? Why?”
“I don’t remember her exact wording, but I got the impression she thought she might die soon. She didn’t actually say she had cancer or anything, but that’s where I went. She wanted the will quickly and I gave her the draft on Friday—it was simple, mostly boilerplate, a couple bequests, a request for spreading her cremains. Now that the police are saying she was killed, I can see that she might have meant something else, which is why I’ve got to talk to the detective. Your new sweetie.” Despite the somberness of the topic, he grinned.
Uh-oh. I sent up a quick prayer that my name would not come up when Doug talked to Hart. I had a sinking feeling that God’s answer was You got yourself into this, so you can get yourself out.
“So she left everything to Ham,” I said.
“No. She was leaving half to Heaven Animal Haven and half to her college.”
“But Ham’s already made arrangements to sell her house!”
“That’s because she didn’t sign the will. Without a will, a person’s estate goes to their nearest living relatives, a spouse if married, then children, parents, or siblings.”
I guessed that made sense. Before I could think about it, the band launched into its first number, a Def Leppard cover, obviously requested by Doug.
I leaned in to speak in his ear. “You’re kidding, right? People want to hear ‘YMCA’ and ‘Shout’ at a wedding, maybe a little Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole, and ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ for the older crowd.”
Doug grinned and my heart skipped a beat. “Yeah, but they’re good.”
When the band brought the number to a close, Doug applauded and said, “You know any Nat King Cole?”
“Of course, man.” The lead singer counted out a slow three-count and the band eased into “Unforgettable.”
“C’mon.” Doug grabbed my hand and pulled me up.
“Wha—”
“Got to practice my dancing. Don’t want to embarrass my bride by trampling her feet.”
Before I could object—which I was absolutely going to do—he pulled me against his chest and led me into a haphazard waltz. His hand clasped mine firmly an
d his other hand wrapped around my waist. The scent of his familiar aftershave brought back memories of slow dancing in the high school gym with crepe paper streamers and chaperones; of making out in his car, afraid to go too far and prevented from it by the stick shift and bucket seats; of the first time we made love, both of us virgins, in his college dorm room. I nestled closer and felt his arm tighten around my waist. After a few more bars of the smoky tune, both his hands went to my waist and my arms went around his neck and we moved in slow circles. When I closed my eyes, the church’s linoleum flooring became the polished wood of the gym floor. All that was missing were the delinquents trying to dump vodka in the punch bowl, and the gaggle of girls talking animatedly on the sidelines, trying to pretend they didn’t care they didn’t have anyone to slow-dance with. Doug bent his head so his cheek rested against mine and I could feel his breath on my ear. If I turned my head a fraction our lips would meet.
“Just like old times, eh, A-Faye?” His voice was husky.
“Pretty much,” I agreed weakly. The melty lassitude of desire made my limbs heavy. My body ached with warmth, and I was ultrasensitive at every point where we touched. A day’s growth of beard rasped my cheek. His hair was crisp at his collar where my fingers laced. I was light-headed. I could tell by the way his breathing deepened and slowed that he was feeling the same tug of desire.
The song ended and the band clapped for us, laughing. I pulled away, face flaming. What was I thinking? He was getting married in just over a week. This trip down memory lane was dangerous and wrong.
The Readaholics and the Falcon Fiasco Page 22
