Murder Among Friends

by Karen Ranney

  Murder Among Friends

  Karen Ranney

  Karen Ranney LLC

  Copyright © 2011 by Karen Ranney

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Also by Karen Ranney

  About the Author

  1

  "That woman is one part general and three parts mule," Evelyn once said about my housekeeper. Evelyn was right, but she had a knack at seeing through to the heart of things.

  Maude Simons had come into my life seven months ago, commanding my kitchen and my house from the first day.

  I wasn't entirely certain I liked having someone in the house with me all the time, but it made Tom feel better, and for that reason I’d agreed. We’d spent the last eight months being extraordinarily nice to each other, as if to make up for the tragedy that had happened to us.

  Whenever I wanted to escape Maude, I'd go to the gazebo in the backyard. As old as the house, and painted a muted gold to match the main structure, it became a haven for Evelyn and me. She would somehow know those days I was teetering on the edge, and come from next door bearing gifts: a pitcher of margaritas, or a bottle of wine, or sometimes, imported beer. The key wasn't the taste but the alcohol content.

  We never actually got drunk, but we did get mellow.

  It beat the hell out of milk and cookies.

  Or sitting in the corner rocking back and forth, for that matter.

  Most of the time, the two of us would sit and watch the sunset. I would listen while Evelyn waxed eloquent about her job or simply pontificated about life. She had an acerbic wit and could reduce people to their lowest common idiocy, including herself.

  The last time we spoke, she was annoyed at her co-workers.

  "Why is it that an organized woman is called uptight? Or why are women who know exactly what they want and how to achieve it always referred to as a bitch? If a man had the same character traits, he'd be called commanding. Or forceful."

  I didn't have an answer to her questions. Like her, I worked in a predominantly male oriented field. I'd found, however, it was easier to simply put my head down and work, rather than worry about the inequalities of the world.

  Wuss, thy name is Jennifer.

  I was thinking the same thing now as I eyed Maude's double chocolate cupcakes. At least four dozen of them were arranged in militant rows on the kitchen table.

  "Don't you be looking like you're going to eat one of those."

  I drew back, mildly insulted.

  "I wasn't," I said, but because Maude had denied me, now I wanted one.

  "They're for Tom's office."

  I allowed myself a sniff of annoyance. How did Tom's office rate cupcakes? The answer wasn't forthcoming, and I refused to ask.

  "They look wonderful," I said, wishing the chocolate didn't smell so chocolatey.

  She nodded, accepting the compliment in a queenly manner.

  Maude was a few inches taller than I, with a wide mouth, an aquiline nose, and snapping brown eyes that seemed to see everything. Her hair was always perfect, arranged in a simple shoulder length cut accentuating the thickness of her brown hair. She didn't simply walk, but strode from room to room. She reminded me of a striking Roman matriarch I'd seen on a mural in Pompeii.

  Now, Maude was looking at me as if I was going to grab one of her precious cupcakes and run off with it.

  My Sheltie, Sally, sat at my side, staring up at me in reproach. One did not beg Maude for a treat. Didn't I know that?

  Despite Maude's ability to intimidate me, she'd been a great help while I recovered. My leg had been shattered in the accident that had taken my daughter's life. My orthopedist says I've been showing remarkable improvement. A month ago, I was able to stop using a cane when I walked.

  Whether I would heal in other ways was still up in the air.

  "Fine," I said, turning away from the table, therefore resigning from the battle of wills and stares.

  The doorbell startled us both.

  “I’ll go see who it is.”

  She said nothing as I made my way to the front door, Sally my shadow.

  I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror in the hall and made a face. A week ago, I decided a shorter cut would be easier to maintain. Unfortunately, the stylist heard punk rocker. Horrified, I’d stared into the mirror and tried to stop what she was doing by mentioning I wanted longer bangs. The result was two long strands of hair the length of my chin coming out of a center part.

  I looked like a catfish. A forty-two year old catfish.

  At least she hadn't dyed it pink.

  As I turned away from the mirror and opened the door, Sally sat contentedly beside me, making no effort to bolt. She knew she had a good thing going.

  Our neighbor, Paul Norton, stood there, tears dripping down his face. His arms were wrapped around his waist as he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet.

  Paul had the build of a wrestler with thick arms and neck and thigh muscles bulging in his khaki trousers. He'd moved in with Evelyn a few months ago.

  "I'm living in sin," she'd announced at one of our afternoon soirees. "Can you believe it? Fifty-two, and I'm living in sin."

  Paul was somewhat younger, but how much younger Evelyn hadn't said. Despite my curiosity, friendship had kept me silent.

  Right now he didn’t look all that young.

  “Jennifer, help me."

  I wanted to close the door, tell Maude it was a solicitor, and pretend I hadn't seen Paul. I'd had enough of tragedy to last me a lifetime, thanks, and I wasn't getting a good feeling now.

  “Something terrible’s happened, Jennifer.”

  Don’t tell me.

  A coward I'm not, but neither am I a glutton for punishment. My quotient of angst has been used up.

  “What’s wrong, Paul?” I asked reluctantly, hoping against hope it was something easily remedied. Let him be out of coffee. Or have a plumbing problem. Or can't get a stain out of his shirt. Something I could fix.

  “Evelyn’s dead.”

  No, I couldn't fix that.

  I closed my eyes, wishing him away. When I opened them, he was still here, twin tears making their way from his green eyes down his narrow face to his square chin.

  "Evelyn's dead," Paul said again, more tears beginning to overflow his eyes. He speared his hands through his blond hair, holding onto his scalp as if afraid it might slip free.

  The God of all things, or Fate, or the Sylphs, or whoever is in charge of Destiny nowadays, winked and elbowed me in the ribs before vanishing.

  Evelyn couldn't be dead. Evely
n was my dearest friend. She couldn't be dead.

  “What happened?” I heard myself say. How very calm I sounded.

  Paul simply pointed next door to Evelyn's house, and began to sob again.

  Without speaking, I left Sally inside the foyer and closed the door. She gave a sharp little yip of protest, then probably returned to her favorite place under the kitchen table.

  I began to walk carefully down the steps, grateful Tom had the center railing installed.

  Our house was perched on a knoll of earth like an ancient fortress, creating a slope of thirty degrees or so from the front door to the curb. Halfway to the bottom, Paul joined me on the wide steps.

  The block consists of six houses, all three or four stories, built in an era when families were large. Directly opposite us were the Maldonados and next to them Mr. Fehr. On the other side, the Hamilton house was being renovated for a young couple who'd just purchased it, effectively knocking Tom and I from our perch as the youngest residents on our block. Opposite it, on our side of the street, was Linda Hopkins’s house, then us, then Evelyn.

  Predating subdivisions by some hundred years, the four parallel streets were part of the area comprising the King Lion District. Once, it was an elegant and fashionable area of San Antonio, where thriving German merchants had lived, but the area had been in grave danger of being listed as urban blight twenty years ago.

  Tom and I hadn't been precognitive when we'd bought our house. We had no way of knowing the King Lion District would be listed as a state historical district and become prime real estate. We'd been house hungry and broke, willing to buy the rundown house and renovate it over the years. Elbow equity, I've heard it called.

  Evelyn's house was a large three story Victorian facing the corner. Painted a rich dark blue, with two turreted roofs and white gingerbread trim, it was a strikingly beautiful house. A broad white verandah stretched around the second floor like a lover's jealous arms. Above, on the third floor, was a widow's walk.

  Instead of entering by the front, which almost nobody did, Paul took the path around to the back. As we approached the kitchen door, I began to slow. I really didn't want to go any further, but Paul grabbed my wrist, as if he meant to pull me the rest of the way.

  We entered through the kitchen, a lovely room adorned with a large window overlooking a view of the backyard, Paul's studio, and a massive maple tree.

  At least a dozen hammered copper pots in various sizes hung from a rack over our heads. The countertops and island stretching the length of the room were topped with ivory tile. The cabinets were a deep mahogany and the floor a pale Saltillo, laid in a herringbone pattern.

  Evelyn had remodeled the kitchen two years ago, sharing each step in our talks in the gazebo.

  Paul turned and glanced at me, as if to chide me for the delay, then led the way through the kitchen into the butler’s pantry. The massive silver serving pieces sparkling behind glass fronted cabinets had once belonged to Evelyn's grandmother.

  “When I was a kid," Evelyn had said, "I couldn’t wait until it was mine. Now, I have to polish the damn stuff.”

  We went through a set of swinging doors into a long hallway, turned left, and walked into Evelyn’s home office.

  Shelves of books lined the walls. Most of the bookcases were taken up by historical romance. If it had a duke in it, or a knight, Evelyn would read it. I once questioned her reading habits, and she'd thrust a book into my hands.

  "Happy endings, Jennifer. What's wrong with wanting a happy ending?"

  Not a damn thing, as I'd discovered. I'd become a convert, and she kept me furnished with books that allowed me to forget about my own life for awhile.

  Now, however, reality was pulling me forward, along with Paul.

  A desk dominated the room. The size of two desks abutting one another, it was impressive both for its size and for its detailing. The top was inset in tooled leather edged with gilt, and each pedestal was richly carved with renditions of sea creatures.

  But it was the two feet stretched out on the other side of the desk that captured my attention, reminding me of the beginning of the Wizard of Oz. But a house hadn’t fallen on Evelyn. I swallowed heavily and forced myself forward.

  My friend was on her back, her hands outstretched, palms up. Fully attired in a navy blue suit with a crisp yellow and blue silk scarf, she looked as if she'd simply decided to take a nap. If, however, I could overlook the fact Evelyn was staring wide-eyed up at the ceiling.

  In life, Evelyn had been an overpowering woman. Death had not diminished her effect.

  She was six feet tall, with broad, squared shoulders and wide hands. Her nose jutted out like the prow of the ship, and her chin was narrowed and pointy. As the victim of alopecia, a disease that robbed her of all her hair, she’d been forced to pencil in her eyebrows. Unfortunately, she chose to create brackets over each eye, giving her the appearance of being permanently startled. Her favorite wig was a silver page boy that did little to soften her severe features.

  But she'd been one of the kindest, funniest, most wonderful people I knew.

  Because of my leg, I couldn't kneel, but I reached down and gently cupped my hand over her cheek. Her skin was cool to my touch.

  Her wig had slipped and I wanted to rearrange it, but I pulled my hand back, feeling awkward and inept.

  "Oh, Evelyn," I whispered.

  Paul dropped to the floor beside Evelyn, sobbing into his hands.

  Was this a crime scene? If so, I knew well enough not to touch anything. All those hours of watching television had proven to be preparation for this moment.

  Dear God, please let us be wrong.

  Her skin was cool and lifeless. I pressed my fingers to the side of her neck, willing myself to feel a pulse, to see her take a deep breath. But there were no signs of life.

  Paul rocked back and forth, his arms folded around him. Twice, he reached out his hand and placed it in the air above Evelyn, as if reluctant to touch her.

  “We need to call 911,” I told him gently. His response was to nod, but he didn't move. I straightened, grabbed the phone on the desk, and made the call.

  I relayed the information to the operator, repeating the address twice. In a cool, impersonal tone, she told me someone would be there in a matter of moments. I thanked her and hung up, turning my attention once more to Paul.

  He was shaking, no doubt in the throes of shock. I'd been that way not too long ago and felt a surge of empathy for him. Unfortunately, he would come to understand this was real only too soon. I helped him up from the floor, draped my arm around his shoulders, and pulled him gently toward me.

  In the moments while we waited for EMS and the police, I crooned to him as I once had my own child. Because I remembered Barbara, I clamped down on those memories before I began to cry. Once my tears came, they wouldn't be easily stopped.

  Someone had to be strong here and it was obviously not going to be Paul. Who decided I was up for the job? I needed to send them a note resigning from the position.

  Paul continued to cry. I continued to soothe him, and Evelyn continued to be dead.

  2

  Despite the fact there was nothing they could do, the EMS technicians made a valiant effort to resuscitate Evelyn. The incident reminded me, in a horrible kind of way, of my daughter's refusal to believe her turtle, Slow Poke, was dead. Barbara could be excused; she’d been eight at the time.

  Because the King Lion District was an incorporated city within San Antonio, we had our own police force, if you call it that, consisting of four men: a chief and three officers.

  Talbot was the senior man, and unfortunately not a stranger to me. But our last confrontation had taken place nine months ago. I remembered it only too clearly.

  He glanced at me as he walked into the study, but didn't say anything. Please, don't let him mention Barbara. I especially didn't want to talk about her now. I was holding it together for Paul, and only just at that.

  Talbot was dressed in the regu
lation dark green uniform. A silver nametag was over his heart with his shield on his right side.

  I knew that shield well, the deep shading in the center, the municipal building etched in relief, and the star of Texas. I'd stared at it while trying to regain my composure or simply find my voice.

  “When did you find her?” he asked Paul now.

  Paul had stopped shaking, I was relieved to note. But he looked pale and I thought someone, a friend, a relative, should be with him. Someone better equipped to handle this situation. Someone other than me.

  “Just after four.”

  What was Evelyn doing home so early?

  Evelyn was a vice president at a large local bank and, and contrary to what most people might believe, banker's hours are standard eight to five. In Evelyn's case, they were even longer than that.

  I waited for Talbot to ask the question, but he didn't.

  I didn't like Talbot. He was a letter of the law kind of man with no flexibility in his thinking.

  Tall and rangy, he didn't seem to have an ounce of fat on his body. He wasn't as muscular as Paul, but he gave the impression of strength. His black hair was silvered at his temples and his gray eyes were perpetually narrowed, as if he hadn't yet seen anything in life he approved of or liked.

  “What time did she normally get off work?” Talbot asked.

  I nodded in approval. Finally.

  “About six or seven,” Paul said. “But she hadn't been feeling well lately."

  I raised my eyebrows. Evelyn hadn't mentioned feeling bad, and I'd seen her two days ago.