Murder Among Friends

by Karen Ranney

  "You could have poisoned her then. A little every week."

  "Is that how it was done?"

  He sighed. "No, it isn't. There was a large amount of taxine in her system."

  "I couldn't have done it," I said. "I don't have breast cancer and I don't know anyone who does."

  "Your neighbor, Mrs. Maldonado."

  I stared at him again. "Really?"

  He nodded.

  "I didn't know," I said, feeling horrible about my ignorance. "So Paul and I are in the running for murderer?"

  "And everyone she worked with."

  That comment startled me. I hadn't thought of her co-workers. It wouldn't be difficult for someone to poison her coffee, would it? Evelyn was a coffee-holic.

  "And maybe Paul killed her," he said.

  "What is this, the Socratic method of police work?"

  "Whatever works."

  "Isn't there some way of analyzing the loan documents?" I asked. "Tracing the handwriting?"

  "You'd have to have a sample to compare it to. Are you thinking we should get a handwriting sample from every woman in San Antonio?"

  "So all you can prove, right now," I said, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice, "is that Evelyn was poisoned."

  He nodded.

  "By person or persons unknown."

  He nodded again, a smile curving his lips.

  “Army will be overjoyed,” I told him. “He’s an aficionado of murder.”

  Talbot shook his head.

  “Well, what do you expect us to do?” I asked. “Just sit around?"

  “You could let the police do their job.”

  “What’s wrong with the public helping the police? The SAPD has a very active volunteer association.”

  “They don’t try to solve homicides.”

  “Old cases,” I told him and then caught his look. “Very well, this isn't an old case, but it was right next door. It's Evelyn. I can’t help but be involved.”

  He shook his head again.

  "Evelyn's murder is a break in the pattern. You have to admit that. If Paul was responsible for those other mortgages, and he must be, then killing Evelyn doesn't fit."

  His eyes warned me he was losing patience with my interference. Very well, I'd change topics.

  "Why did you come to the King Lion District Police Department? Why did you stop being a Ranger?"

  His face closed, the smile dissipated. Evidently, I'd stepped over a line.

  We sat in silence for a few minutes while I tried to figure out how to back away from my faux pas.

  I looked away, into the back yard. I couldn't see the lovely old tree, or the top of the studio anymore, but I'd always remember it. Or would I? Would the nakedness of my view become familiar in time?

  “It’s an insidious kind of identity theft. Come into a city, look for the area being gentrified, and set up your mark." I turned to him. "It's hardly fair, is it? Here these women thought they'd found love, or at least affection, and he robs them blind."

  Talbot didn't comment.

  "Dorothy could have been his accomplice."

  He shook his head. "She was living in Chicago when Norton was in California and Arizona."

  "Heard of planes?"

  "You don't like her, do you?" he asked.

  "No, I don't. I don't know why I don't like her, except I think she took advantage of Linda." I stared down at my plate, then forced myself to face Talbot. "Or maybe it's just that she reminds me of Barbara a little," I said, surprising myself with my ruthless honesty. "Even though she's my age, she's arrogant and dismissive and contemptuous of everyone and everything."

  "Maybe she's just scared," he said. "After all, she had to come home to live with mommy."

  "Now you're being a psychologist."

  "Most cops are. Along with being a marriage counselor and a few other roles."

  I left half my sandwich, but began on the chocolate cake. I have my priorities. I closed my eyes at the first taste of chocolate. I've never smoked, but I can't help but think chocolate must hit the brain like nicotine.

  Pacing myself, I put my fork down on the plate, blotted my lips, and asked him the question bouncing around in my mind for days.

  "Are you sure it was Paul who died in the explosion?"

  He stared at me.

  "Couldn't it have been someone else?"

  He took his time finishing the tuna roll. When he was done, he took a sip of tea, then folded his arms and looked at me.

  "Did you do a DNA test?" I asked, before he could say anything.

  He sighed. "I hate CSI," he said. "People think everything's just like television, that everything's instant and tied up in an hour.You don’t think Norton was the man in the studio?"

  I remembered the installer on the roof. How difficult would it have been to have set the tanks to explode when he was up there working?

  Paul could have committed not just one murder but two.

  20

  After Talbot left, I realized it had been a very long time since I'd sat and talked to someone face-to-face.

  Since Evelyn's death, in fact.

  As I made my way to my closet, I realized how much I'd drawn into myself, how closely I guarded my life. I was working remotely, so I didn't get that give and take of daily interaction with my co-workers. Meetings were held via conference call.

  I'd made a few cyber friends, but that wasn't as personal as the friendship Evelyn and I had shared, and even that relationship had suffered in the last year.

  Snail-like, I'd become self-sufficient, not requiring anyone. Not needing anyone. Maude was here on sufferance, my only concession to a marriage as dry as the life I'd created.

  Was I going to stay this way until I, too, croaked? A sort of penance for the mistakes I'd made with Barbara?

  Talbot's words echoed in my mind, the first absolution I'd ever received.

  I tried to remember what I'd been wearing the day I'd taken the shepherd's pie to Paul. The blue slacks and top? No, it was the yellow outfit. I rousted around in the hamper for my clothes, relieved when I found the installer's business card, a little embarrassed that I hadn't paid much attention to it.

  His name was Dale Bradshaw and he might have been murdered.

  Sally came and silently sat at my side. We left the room, the two of us, heading into the hallway and beyond, to the Morning Porch.

  One of the reasons I loved this old house was the fact that it seemed to enjoy all of the seasons, such as they were in South Texas. Here, in the Morning Porch, I could sit and watch the sun rise over The Woods. Beyond, were buildings and a bustling city, but the view was shielded by the tall oaks surrounding the King Lion District.

  This room was almost wholly mine since, like my sitting room, Tom never came in here. I'd furnished it with plush overstuffed furniture slipcovered in pale green velvet. I settled into the chair and a half, putting my feet up on the ottoman. Sally settled on the floor between the chair and the ottoman, satisfied to be close enough to know when I moved.

  I pulled out my cell phone and Dale's card, dialing the number. It went immediately to a recording. I left my name and number, asking him to call me. That's all, no other hint of what I called about, such as wanting to know if he was alive.

  I pocketed the cell phone and sat back, staring at the sky through the solar screens.

  My daughter was on my mind but she was often there, just out of range of my thoughts. Accompanying her was an aching sadness, a hole where part of my heart had been.

  When she'd been a baby, I'd worried, fussed, and agonized over her. Was she gaining the right amount of weight? Was she rolling over when she should have? What did it mean that she didn't crawl, but simply stood and wanted to walk? I played CDs to stimulate her mind, games to educate her. I played peek-a-boo and blew on her stomach, and kissed her all over.

  I made sure she did her homework, felt comfortable inviting friends home, went to those events to enrich her education. I took her shopping and to museums, griev
ing a little when she'd begun preferring her circle of friends to me. I'd become Just Mom.

  I never thought to ask if she was taking drugs.

  One of Evelyn's conversations came to mind, one particularly poignant in retrospect. We'd made a pitcher of martinis, and were sitting in the gazebo.

  “I believe I have discovered the meaning of life,” she said, peering into her glass.

  Since she was studying a toothpick spearing an olive and an onion, I smiled. But when she spoke again, her words were more surprising than amusing.

  “I think it's to be. Nothing more than that. If we're related to the apes, and are simply a product of evolution, then perhaps what we think of as a soul is only a sense of self-awareness we’ve developed over a million years.”

  “So there isn't anything more than who we are?”

  “No," she said thoughtfully. “But along the way, the knowledge of our mortality seeped in and we created an Afterlife."

  "Have you become an atheist?"

  She shook her head. "I pray," she said. "Do atheists pray?"

  "I doubt it."

  "I believe in God, but I don't believe in Heaven. Is there such a thing as being a half-atheist?" She took a sip from her glass and smiled. "I think we should simply recognize ourselves for the marvelous creatures we are, appreciate our evolution and celebrate the fact that we are finite. One day we will be no more.”

  “You are much too philosophical for me.”

  Now, I recognized why her words had bothered me. I was afraid she was right and there was nothing more than this. What if there was no heaven? What if I never saw my daughter again? What if Evelyn were right and the meaning of life was simply to enjoy it and revel in the miracle of self awareness?

  Was that enough?

  That idea made death even more of a monster and murder a crime against humanity.

  I stood, warning Sally with the movement of my foot. She snuffled a complaint but sat up and followed me to my office.

  I worked until night came, only taking a break to play fetch with Sally. Our version goes this way: I throw a stick and she looks questioningly at me. Then I go and get the stick while she remains where she is, grinning at me as if I've done something amusing. I come back to the original position and throw a stick again only for her to wait for me to go get it again.

  We're still working on fetch.

  The night was warmer than normal. A breeze tickled the last of the leaves on the oak trees until they sounded like the faintest of wind chimes or the far off giggle of children. As I turned, the stick in my hand, I noticed the light on upstairs.

  Tom was home.

  But instead of confronting him, Sally and I made our way to the Great Room. I sat and watched an infomercial on a hair depilatory. I've never had a woman come up to me and ask to feel my legs and if she did I don't know what I'd do. But I doubt I'd wax eloquent on the virtues of one product over another.

  The far off buzz of a cell phone announced a call for Tom. I wondered who was on the phone, but he wouldn't tell me if I asked. Nor did he come in search of me, a sure sign something was glaringly wrong between us.

  I was still sleeping in the guest room, going on the third week. Either I had to give, or Tom had to apologize. But what good would it do for him to falsely apologize for something he truly felt?

  I hadn't told him I was right about Evelyn's death. I no longer cared about winning any arguments. Besides, his response would probably have been to lecture me again. I wasn't in the mood to be lectured by Tom.

  My life was nothing more than a series of questions.

  What did I do about Tom?

  Could we salvage something of our marriage?

  Who had poisoned Evelyn?

  How do I prove it was Paul?

  Would taxine account for Evelyn's hair loss? I couldn't remember when it had started or if it had gotten worse in the last six months. But then, I wasn't really caring about anyone or anything six months ago.

  Just how damn insular had I been?

  Enough not to notice things were going to hell around me.

  Where were Evelyn's computers?

  I wasn't a detective. I didn't know what else to do, only that something needed to be done. I was out of my element and knew it. Maybe another visit to the Murder Club – and who had come up with that name? – was in order.

  21

  The next night, I put on a pair of jeans and a pullover sweater in a hunter green color that made my hazel eyes look almost like emeralds. I actually put on makeup and finished my murder meeting ensemble by wearing a pair of round gold earrings. I spritzed on some perfume Tom had given me a year ago, a fragrance stronger and more exotic than I normally wore.

  Did I know how to dazzle 'em or what?

  I took Sally out, then let her back in the house.

  "You have a choice," I said. "You can either go upstairs, or you can wait for me here, in the kitchen."

  She yawned, showing an impressive set of very sharp teeth, and padded to her favorite spot beneath the kitchen table. Hope springs eternal in Sally's world. We never fed her table scraps, but she knew the best place to be, just in case.

  The night was blustery, the chilled wind plucking at my sweater as I walked beneath the trees to cross the street. For once, I was glad my hair was so short. If it were still shoulder length, it would have looked like a haystack by the time I reached Army's house.

  As it was, I threaded my fingers through my hair and rang the doorbell. Less than a minute later, Army opened the door, bearing a bright smile and an insulated mug.

  "Wassail. You can never have too much wassail," he said, handing it to me and shutting the door.

  "I thought that was for Christmas," I said. The intense aroma of the cinnamon, cloves, and ginger tapped the end of my nose and convinced me to take a sip.

  "Good God," I said, trying to breathe after the first swallow. The top of my head was floating a few inches above my forehead. "You're trying to get me drunk."

  His eyes twinkled. "It's not as if you have to drive anywhere, Amy," he said. You're right next door."

  "Across the street."

  "Same thing," he said waving his hand in the air.

  Tonight he was dressed in a crimson smoking jacket. I'd never seen one outside a black-and-white movie. Maybe he'd given up the Japanese yukata for the sophisticated forties detective look.

  "Go on back. Everybody's in the Murder Room."

  Tonight the ambience was slightly different. Because the night was chilly, the drapes had been closed over the windows, creating a cozy crimson room. The fire, occupying one wall, was blazing brightly. I always thought it odd that San Antonio houses had fireplaces when we normally only had three days of winter.

  More than once I'd opened up all my windows, and turned on the air conditioner in order to light the fireplaces in our house. The only ones I used often were in the Great Room and the master bedroom.

  The circular couch was filled, but as I entered, someone - Richard? - stood to let me sit. I thanked him, clutching my cup of wassail. My nose was warm and so was my blood. I put the wassail cup down on the coffee table beside a platter of chocolate goodies: truffles, coated nuts, cookies, brownies, and petit fours.

  The man knew how to throw a party.

  All in all, it was safer to eat a truffle than drink Army's potent wassail.

  I recognized most of the people from the first meeting I'd attended. A woman dressed in a pink suit, with long red hair swirling past her shoulders was a stranger, however. Not so the man she was teasing. She stood behind the couch, her fingers trailing over Talbot's right ear. He flinched, moving away.

  He wasn't in uniform tonight, but wore a navy blue polo shirt, black jeans, and boots. I sat back, took another truffle and watched.

  Pink Suit giggled, trailed her finger over his left ear, then bent and whispered something to Talbot.

  He looked embarrassed when I caught his eye. I couldn't help but wonder if she was a girlfriend or wife. Othe
r than my cursory inspection of his left finger ring finger one day, I'd never come out and asked him his marital status.

  It wasn't any of my business. But because he knew everything about me, including the parts I really didn't want anyone to know, it seemed only fair he divulge something about his life.

  Frank was sitting on the end of the couch, talking animatedly with Douglas.

  Not one person had spoken to me after my initial greeting. Instead, everyone was paired off, either in foreplay like Pink Suit and Talbot, or intimate conversations. It felt like one of Tom's parties, when I was terrified of saying anything for fear of offending someone.

  I was really tired of feeling that way. I was really tired of being constrained by my own manners. I wanted to stand up, say something idiotic like, "Hi, I'm Jennifer Roberts, and I'm alive."

  Instead, I sat there polite and silent.

  "Now that we're all here," Army said, holding up his wassail cup, "shall we begin?"

  Pink Suit stopped teasing Talbot long enough to read the minutes from the meeting I hadn't attended. They’d discussed a Dallas case of a murdered mother, and one in San Antonio involving the dismembered corpse of a young woman. Finally, they got around to the King Lion District.

  "Officer Bill Talbot has agreed to join us tonight. Officer Talbot has the distinction of also having been a Texas Ranger."

  Now, Talbot really was embarrassed, if the color on the tips of his ears was any indication. I stifled my smile with difficulty.

  "I'm hoping to convince him to join our little group," Army said.

  Talbot didn't look in my direction. I had the feeling he was deliberately avoiding my gaze. How liberating to be the one who made Talbot uncomfortable, since it had always been the other way around.

  Pink Suit had put down the minutes of the meeting. Now, she was trailing a finger down the back of Talbot's neck. His smile tightened.

  I didn't bother hiding my amusement this time.

  Army sat on the brick hearth, put his wassail cup down to the right of him, and looked at each member of the club in turn, a somber inspection that silenced everyone and even had Pink Suit straightening and minding her hands.