by Joan Hess
“Oh,” I said. “Are you a Catholic?”
“Methodist.” He got out of the car and opened my door. “I’ll be waiting right here.”
“Thank you,” I said as I reluctantly stepped onto the curb. “I’m a little nervous.”
“You’re concealing it real well, ma’am.”
There were lights on in several rooms, but the porch was dark and uninviting. I went up the steps, took a breath, and reminded myself that a seven-year difference in age was significant during childhood and adolescence; it was not a factor during adulthood. I repeated this several times, then rang the doorbell.
Porch lights came on. I made sure I was visible through the peephole and forced myself to smile like a wholesome housewife collecting donations for a charity.
The door opened a few inches. “Who are you?”
I recognized Ronnie’s voice. “Claire Malloy,” I said. “I have some good news for you.”
“Why didn’t you call?”
“I could have, but I preferred to explain things in person. May I come inside?”
“This is not a good time,” she said slowly and carefully, as if she’d only recently mastered the English language. “It would be better if you called me at a later date. I’m busy at the moment.”
“I spent more than nine days trying to sort out the truth about Oliver Pickett’s death. Surely you can allow me a few minutes of your time, no matter how busy you are.”
“I’m very busy.”
“Polishing your next presentation—or your silver tea service?” I hadn’t expected to be greeted with bells and whistles, but scotch would have been nice. When the door did not open, I said, “I don’t suppose this is the sort of neighborhood where eavesdropping is condoned, so let’s get this over with right now. For starters, your father is alive.”
“No, he can’t be! How could you say such a sadistic thing? Did you come here to torment me?”
The bells and whistles that had not been used to herald my arrival now went off inside my head. I hoped she wasn’t watching me through the peephole as I put my hand on the wall to steady myself. It was fortunate that the wind was cold; the steamy heat of Acapulco would have been my downfall (in the literal sense of the word).
I finally found my voice. “My mistake, cousin dearest,” I said. “I was referring to Arthur Landonwood, not Oliver Pickett. It’s very unpleasant standing here on the porch. May I please come inside?”
The door opened. I stepped inside and studied my hostess. Fran must have known I would never be fooled in a face-to-face meeting. Her hazel eyes dominated her face. In high heels, she would be several inches shy of Ronnie’s stature; in slippers, she barely reached my chin. Her hair was more gray than blonde, and pulled back in a utilitarian bun. The unnatural paleness of her complexion was emphasized by her long, navy blue robe. The overall effect was that of a petrified porcelain figurine.
“Shall we sit down?” I said.
“Uh, yes,” she mumbled, then went into a dim room and switched on a solitary lamp. “Would you like a drink?”
I requested scotch. She went into another room. I wasn’t sure anyone had ever sat on the antique furniture, but I decided it was high time and picked a chair of Louis the Something vintage. The bells and whistles were fading, but I was still overcome with shock.
Fran returned with my drink. “I’m sorry you came here, Claire. It only complicates things.”
“How does it do that?”
“You obviously think you know who I am—or who I used to be, anyway. I’m no longer Franchesca Pickett. I suspect I never really was. My mother and stepfather forced me to comply with their ideal, as did the sisters. My father preferred a more glamorous version, although only at a superficial level. He wanted a sophisticated, charming daughter who could be paraded in front of his friends before being packed away in a convent until the next performance. Did you have Barbie dolls when you were a child?”
I shook my head. “I wasn’t interested in dolls.”
“My father sent them for Christmas and my birthday every year, even when I was much too old. It was partly because he couldn’t bother to keep track of my age, but also, I always believed, because he subconsciously wanted me to realize this was his idea of a perfect daughter—well dressed, perpetually cheerful, and just the right size for a shoebox.” She began to move around the room, picking up objects off the tables and then replacing them. “But you said you had things to tell me. I am busy, you know. I’m awaiting a call from a colleague in California. Our research has taken us in a similar direction, and we need to make arrangements to exchange data.”
“Your mother told me what happened in the bungalow on New Year’s Eve. I came here because I wanted to tell Ronnie that she didn’t kill Oliver Pickett.”
“Yes, I killed him—my own father. I never lied to you or denied my guilt.” She made a fist and held it over her head. “I grabbed a knife off the bar. My arm went up like this, then I plunged it into his throat.” She completed the pantomime and stared at me as if anticipating a compliment. When I failed to comply, she slowly uncurled her fingers, regarded them with a sublime smile, and sat down on the sofa. “So, did you have a chance to meet the Reverend Mother? She was rigid and uncompromising, but we had some fascinating discussions on the impact of feminism on contemporary theology.”
I wondered if the driver outside would put down his book when the medics carried out my body in a canvas bag. “I met the Reverend Mother, and also Sister Jerome. She was gracious enough to allow me to look out a window at the convent grounds.”
“She and I had tea in the garden on many occasions. Did she offer you tea?”
“No, but I was in a hurry,” I said. I took a sip of my drink and listened to a clock chiming somewhere in the house. I also made sure there were no letter openers or other sharp objects within her reach.
“I did tell you a lie,” Fran said abruptly, widening her eyes as she must have done in the Reverend Mother’s office thirty-odd years ago. “Ronnie and I were cellmates for two years. To keep our sanity, we talked for hours every night about our families, describing in detail birthday parties, vacations, school, television shows—anything that allowed us to forget where we were.”
“She must have been upset when you were released,” I said.
“I was scrubbing pots one morning when a matron came and took me to the warden’s office. My mother was there. I didn’t understand what was happening until we were in a taxi, driving down a rough road. Even then, it seemed unreal. We went straight to the airport. As soon as we arrived in Phoenix, I was put in a hospital to be treated for malnutrition and internal parasites. Later, I was treated for depression and psychotic episodes.” The sublime smile returned to her lips. “But I’m fine now.”
“That’s good,” I said warily. “You don’t need to worry about being blackmailed in the future. Your mother was responsible.”
“My mother tried to blackmail me? I let her have the money from my father’s estate. Criminals can’t profit from their crimes, you know. She reminded me quite often that I had no moral right to the money. Why would she think she has any moral right to the money I’ve earned over the years? There are no bloodstains on it.”
“She was about to lose the development. I don’t know how she managed to find you after all these years, but—”
“Oh, she’s always known where I was and what I was doing. My mother’s not as crafty as she thinks she is, though. I used to catch glimpses of her on the campuses where I studied. Once I saw her peeping through my office window at the laboratory.” She hesitated, then leaned forward and whispered, “She was in Brussels, too, standing at the back of a crowd of tourists at the flower market. She was wearing a disguise, but I recognized her.”
I gulped down the rest of my drink. “Well, the police in Phoenix are now in possession of the old court records. I can give you a name and number if you want to press charges.”
“And put her in prison?” Fran said with a gigg
le of delight. “That would make a wonderfully ironic finale, wouldn’t it? But the Sisters of the Holy Swine always stressed the importance of charity, chastity, obedience—and above all, humility. It would be very egotistical of me to take pleasure in putting my mother behind bars. Besides, I am very busy.”
I seized upon this as an excuse to put down my glass and rise. I may have done so with unseemly alacrity. “Thank you for the drink. I think I’ll try to catch a flight home to night instead of waiting until morning.”
She followed me to the door. “I want you to know how much I appreciate everything you’ve done, Claire. If I’d been thinking more clearly twenty-three years ago, I would have sent you to the hospital in Acapulco to try to help Ronnie. She had tuberculosis, you know. She probably would have survived if she’d had access to proper treatment, but she was placed in a facility where needles were recycled and drugs were out of date. She told me in her letter that she’d never survive. Her death inspired me to go into medical research. I fully intended to dedicate my life to the study of mycobacteria, but there’s just something so bewitching about viruses, isn’t there?”
“Absolutely,” I murmured, groping behind my back for the doorknob.
“There’s one more favor I’d like to ask of you, if you don’t mind.”
“What’s that?”
“If you happen to hear from Fran Pickett, ask her to call me. I want to tell her that I’m not angry anymore, and I will be more than pleased to give her a recommendation if she decides to live out her life at the Convent of the Holy Shrine of San Jacinto. Do you think she might like that?”
Incapable of responding verbally, I managed to nod, then went out to the porch and down the steps. The driver gurgled in alarm as I threw myself into the backseat and told him to head for the airport. As we pulled away from the curb, I looked back at the house. Fran was standing in the doorway with a string of rosary beads in her hand. I couldn’t tell if her lips were moving, but I had little doubt that they were.
CHAPTER 16
I was sitting on the stool behind the counter, trying to take an interest in the mail that had accumulated in my absence. Envelopes with windows went into one pile, preapproved gold credit card offers (there’s one deluded industry) in a second, and flyers trumpeting sales in the wastepaper basket. The bewildered retiree was humming to himself as he studied the new arrivals on the rack reserved for romance novels. He was the only customer in the Book Depot; the icy drizzle had pretty much cleared the street and sidewalks.
“I understand you actually knew Azalea Twilight,” he said as he put half a dozen paperbacks in front of me. One of hers, Sweeter Than Wine, was on the top. “Was she as bewitching in person as she was on the printed page?”
There was no reason to spoil his fantasy with a description of dowdy Mildred Twiller. “Absolutely. Have you heard anything from your wife lately?”
“Only through her lawyer, but she’s of no concern to me anymore. There’s more to life than writing scholarly articles, taking that infernal cat to the vet’s office, and growing tomatoes. I’ve never liked tomatoes; the seeds get under my dentures and cause sores.”
I put his books in a sack and handed it to him. “Have you found a new hobby?”
“It would not be decorous to discuss my intentions with such a genteel woman as yourself. All I’ll say is please do not be alarmed should you hear noises from my apartment in the wee hours of the night, when the moon blushes above the treetops and the breeze is redolent with the heady perfume of wisteria.”
“Noises?” I said despite my better judgment.
“The pop of a champagne cork, the sensual strains of a tango, the murmuring of endearments.” He gave me a rakish wink. “Or high heels being dropped on the floor.”
I watched him as he sauntered out the door, not sure whether he fancied himself as Casanova or Farberville’s newest addition to the transvestite community. Dismissing the question, I took the top bill from the pile and glumly opened it.
At noon, Peter arrived as promised with sandwiches and coffee. We went into my office, cleared off part of my desk, and sat down.
“I received some interesting faxes this morning,” he said as he handed me a sandwich and a napkin. “They were from the detective in Phoenix. It doesn’t look as if Beatrice Cooper will be charged with anything.”
I stopped unwrapping the wax paper. “Do you realize how many people died because of her actions? If she’d called the police from the bungalow at Las Floritas and told them the truth, the body count would have stopped then and there. Fran might have been committed to a mental facility in Mexico, which surely would have been better for her. I wonder what would have happened if the party had broken up before Oliver Pickett arrived. He still might have ended up at the bottom of the cliff—after a push from his ex-wife.”
“Detective West is as frustrated as you are, but there’s no evidence that links her to any of the deaths. Jorge Farias isn’t going to admit she paid him to tamper with the car. Why should he incriminate himself?”
I sullenly ate a dill pickle, then said, “What about Farias? Is he going to get away with killing Santiago and ordering Maisie’s death? If those thugs had been any brighter, then Chico, Beatrice, and I would be on that same list.”
“Detective West obtained a fairly decent description of the men from the agents at the car rental desk, and has an APB out on them. If they’re picked up, they’ll be offered leniency in exchange for testimony against Farias. Apparently, the comandante in Acapulco will do the same thing, although he’s less optimistic that any potential witnesses would dare to testify. There is some justice, however. Farias had a heart attack last night and is in intensive care.”
“Gabriella is more than capable of running the agency, especially with Manuel’s assistance.”
Peter smiled as he pulled the lid off a cup of coffee. “Does that mean you won’t be sending flowers and a get well card?”
“Of course I will—right after Sister Mary Clarissa peddles up on a tricycle to buy a dozen copies of The Joy of Sex. What about Chico?”
“He was dropped off at a homeless shelter. It’s not a crime to be without identification. He isn’t an illegal alien.”
I finished what I could of the sandwich, then pushed the wax paper aside and made a face. “He went to the Tricky M to engage in a spot of blackmail. Beatrice made it clear she was as broke as he, so they agreed on a few nights of lodging. She probably didn’t call Farias until I showed up. I’d offered to pay him for information once, and might do it again.”
“You certainly were a catalyst,” Peter said. “Any chance you want to stir up a little something to night?”
“Like spaghetti sauce?”
“I’ll bring a bottle of chianti and candles,” he said, then gave me a kiss that was a great deal more than perfunctory and left.
I cleaned up the remains of lunch and returned to the front room. Rather than opening bills, however, I went to the romance rack and studied the covers. I finally grabbed a couple, sat down on the stool, and randomly flipped through them, looking for a fictionalized “Hints From Heloise.”
I was beneath the blushing moon, gazing up at his glistening chest as surges of heat washed through me, when Caron and Inez came into the store. I crammed the book into the top drawer, but not before they’d exchanged amused looks. In that I could concoct no credible explanation for being lost in the pages of Daze of Our Love, I said, “Have you found out about the defensive driving class?”
Caron ignored my question. “This time it Really Wasn’t My Fault. All I did was make a deal with Rhonda Maguire’s brother. There was no way I could anticipate her reaction. I am not a psychic.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, thoroughly mystified.
Caron shrugged. “I offered the little dweeb five bucks to find out the name of the guy who’s been riding around town in her car. He demanded ten, and we finally settled on seven-fifty.”
“He’s a miser,” added Inez.
“He has every penny of his allowance in a jar in the back of his closet, and is always looking under the cushions on the sofa in case—”
“That’s irrelevant,” Caron said curtly, “and we need to leave before Rhonda thinks to look for us here. She told Emily that she was going to rip off my ears and make me eat them. She also said her father would get a lawyer and sue me for public defamation. I don’t think she can do that, but I may be wrong.”
“What did you do to her?” I demanded. I had no view of the parking lot beside the store, and I was in no mood to have Rhonda storm in and mutilate my daughter. If nothing else, our health insurance carried a hefty deductible.
Caron made sure Inez was properly chastised, then said, “The little dweeb listened in on her calls last night. One of them was to a guy. She said something about getting him a check from her mother, so the dweeb took a look at his mother’s checkbook.”
“He’s in the gifted and talented program,” Inez said.
“And?” I said to Caron.
“Then he went and asked his mother who the guy was. She told him that was the name of Rhonda’s algebra tutor. It turns out the guy is in ninth grade. Ninth grade! Rhonda has to pick him up and take him home because he’s not old enough to drive. She’s two years older than he is, but she has to let him explain her homework. Isn’t that hysterical?”
“I still don’t understand why Rhonda’s so enraged at you,” I said. “Did you broadcast this over the high school PA system?”
She thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No, but it’s not a bad idea. All I did was walk into the cafeteria and ask Rhonda if she was going to invite her neonatal tutor to the Christmas dance next month. Inquiring minds wanted to know.”
“The cafeteria was kind of crowded and noisy,” Inez added, “so Caron had to shout to be heard. Everybody heard Rhonda’s response, though. She’s lucky the vice-principal wasn’t there; she would have had detention for the rest of the semester.”
