Murder Among Friends

by Karen Ranney

  In a few words, he explained everything we knew which was, regrettably, not much. Evelyn had been poisoned. The murderer was unknown. The poison was taxine. Not many people were familiar with it, which made me feel a little better. Maybe I wasn't the only person out of my element.

  I glanced at Army, and held up my hand like some kind of dork. "Who inherits Paul's estate?"

  "He died without a will," he said.

  I digested that.

  "I wonder if his sister will come forward," I said. I glanced at Talbot. "Have you told them about the other women?"

  He shook his head and filled them in about the women in California and Arizona. But I noticed he didn't say anything about my idea that Paul had faked his death, for which I was grateful. I didn't want to be ridiculed in front of this group.

  "And they each mentioned the sister?" Harry asked.

  Talbot nodded.

  "You think the sister is the one who masqueraded as Evelyn," Army said.

  I nodded.

  Pink Suit had disappeared, and I wondered what had happened when I wasn't looking.

  “Why didn't Evelyn know about Paul's sister?"

  "How do you know she didn't?" Army asked.

  "Because she and I had made arrangements to spend Thanksgiving together," I said. "She made a point of saying that she and Paul didn't have any family."

  She wanted to make sure I got through the holidays. Evelyn had reasoned that I couldn't hole up in my room if she invited herself over - a trick that might have worked.

  No one spoke. I think I knew the answer, but I was afraid to say it aloud. If I did, it would make it real.

  The reason Paul didn't introduce his sister to Evelyn was because Evelyn already knew her. Only not as Paul’s sister.

  What really scared me was the idea that I might know her, too.

  22

  “Quiche?” I asked Maude, staring down at the kitchen table in dismay. “Do you think construction men will eat quiche?”

  “Tell them it's pie,” she said flatly. “A man will eat anything if you tell him it's pie.”

  I looked askance at her but didn't say anything in response. I suspected Maude had a great deal more experience with men than I did.

  “It’s not all quiche,” she said when I kept staring down at the assortment. “There are some pecan tarts, too.”

  I would lead with the tarts.

  Two days had passed and Dale Bradshaw hadn’t called me back. After leaving three more messages, I decided I'd check in with the construction crew at the Hamilton house. Maybe he was working there, or someone would know where he was. Or tell me they'd seen him after the explosion. That would work, too.

  I left Maude and went into the storage room next to the butler's pantry for a tray.

  Tom's mother had died in Michigan and his family had sent him all the Havilland china she'd collected over the years. We didn't have any place to display all her pieces, so we kept it stored in the shipping crate. The crate was nearly my height and took up the majority of the space and I'd complained about it fiercely in the five years it had been there.

  Every time I went into the storage room, I was freshly annoyed, especially when I had to edge around it to get to the shelves where the trays were stored.

  If I was going to offer quiche to construction men, I was going to do it in style.

  When I finally surfaced from the storage room, I piled Maude's mini quiches and pecan tarts onto a large tin tray with handles.

  I gave myself a quick perusal in the mirror beside the front door.

  Not too bad.

  “Don't let them give you any trouble,” Maude warned as she opened the door. “Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?”

  “No, I'm sure.”

  Maude gave me a look much like Tom might have, as if she seriously doubted my sanity. I ignored her and smiled.

  I trotted down the street, feeling like the welcome wagon of old. I missed Sally trying to trip me, but I didn’t want to expose her to shards of wood and loose nails on the ground. Try as I might to be rational and logical in regard to her, she was my buddy and my pal. We’d bonded well five years ago.

  The Hamilton house, named after the man who'd built it a hundred fifty years ago, would probably always be called the Hamilton house regardless of how many times it was sold. Strange, how the rest of the houses on this block had escaped that fate.

  Now the yard was filled with debris, old molding that had been replaced, wainscoting that looked as if it had been sent off to be restored. A good quarter of the roof had been stripped away, the gray shingle looking oddly colorful against the faded grass. I knew the construction company only by reputation – they had a good track record when it came to restoring these old houses.

  A half dozen ladders had been erected on the outside of the house, in order to reach the outermost areas of trim and decorative woodwork. Three or four of them were being used by men dressed in jeans and plaid shirts, armed with the ubiquitous leather belts and gimme caps.

  I remembered what Army had said. They didn't look like they were nearly finished.

  I held out my tray like a waitress and was the recipient of a brief but utterly charming smile from a man twenty years younger. That thought wasn’t enough to keep me from smiling back.

  I have always had a thorough appreciation for the male anatomy. As a student in my youth I’d traveled to Florence and stood admiring David's Michelangelo. All for art's sake, of course.

  Every week, Evelyn had emailed me pictures of half (or more) naked men. I had rolled my eyes, but never neglected to look.

  Deciding the frontal approach was the easiest and most expeditious way, I placed the tray on a sheet of plywood and removed the cling wrap Maude had put on top of it.

  Three men passed me, each of them smiling in the way only young men can – half amused, half ogle.

  “Would you like a pie?” I asked one of the men.

  He jingled when he walked, his heavy leather belt low on his hips, his tools clanking against each other.

  He nodded at me and grinned, and scooped up a handful of quiche in his hand. Five gone and not a word had passed between us.

  That wasn’t going to work.

  Picking up the tray, I went around the job site acting as if it were a cocktail party. The hostess with the mostest in the middle of this scene of chaos. I think the only reason I wasn’t asked to leave was because I had food.

  I passed a man standing on the steps. I extended my tray and he grabbed one of the pecan tarts and plopped them in his mouth before nodding his thanks.

  Evidently, I was going to have to change my modus operandi. So far I had lost a dozen tarts and nobody had said a word. I wasn't exactly invisible, witness the disappearing food. But I certainly wasn't attracting the attention that might result in some conversation.

  I left the porch and circled around to the side of the house where new windows were being installed. A very expensive undertaking and one of which I was unfortunately very familiar. Replacing ours had been financially draining.

  “Would you like a pie?” I asked the young man working on the frames. He pushed back his ball cap, and stared at me. “I have pecan or spinach,” I said deciding not to announce it was quiche.

  “Who are you?”

  Finally, conversation.

  “A next door neighbor. I live over there,” I said, pointing to my house. “Pecan or spinach?”

  “Pecan,” he said.

  I held out the tray and he helped himself to a handful.

  He kept working on the window frame. He glanced over at me but didn't say anything as he used his chisel against the soft wood.

  One thing about these old houses, they showed the pride of workmanship. It was that very same standard that made it so difficult to have them professionally restored. The people who worked on them had to know what they were doing, and consequently they came at a steep price. But my respect for their talents escalated after all the work we’d had done o
n our house. They were craftsmen, and it was evident from his care that the label could be applied to this man.

  “I’m looking for someone,” I said. "Dale Bradshaw. He was a sub here.”

  “You need to talk to the foreman.” He pointed with his chin. “His trailer’s over there.”

  I was hoping to avoid any authority, for the simple reason that people in power tend to ask questions but divulge very little. But I squared my shoulders and nodded, making my way to the trailer.

  As I passed the porch, the door yawned open, the space inside dark and inviting. I had a love affair with these old houses but I’d never seen the inside of this one. I wanted to walk through it empty, listen closely to see if I could hear the voices of yesterday in the echoes.

  It's better to beg for forgiveness than ask for permission. Who’d said that? I didn’t know but I thought it was an excellent motto and one I used often.

  The main room was in the shape of a trapezoid. A large fireplace topped by a mahogany mantel took up the shorter wall. To the left was a door leading to the back of the house. From here I could see a hint of a kitchen and the butler's pantry.

  The four windows facing the street seemed to call for filmy curtains beneath heavy velvet draperies. Now the windows seemed stark, their unstained frames appearing too rustic for the room, the stickers on the glass even more discordant.

  I could almost imagine a crimson horsehair sofa with ornately carved mahogany arms sitting in this room. A crystal chandelier adorned with tiny glass prisms would hang above it, illuminating the corners and the newly refinished oak floorboards.

  To the right of the fireplace was another closed door. But instead of heading there, I began climbing the steps.

  I felt like a child exploring a haunted house. The lure of the unknown coupled with the thrill of the forbidden.

  The house wasn't as large on the inside as it appeared on the street, but was a maze of hallways leading into warren-like rooms. The ceilings were as high as those in my house but the rooms were small and cramped. Which was a shame, really, because there were some lovely architectural details. I wondered if the lamps and sconces mounted on the walls were the original gas fixtures, but instead of looking closer, I went up one more flight of stairs.

  The stairs ended abruptly at a door on the third floor. I opened it and found myself facing yet another short length of steps, seven in all. At the top was an attic, already renovated, clad in drywall, and painted a soft pale pink. I wondered what it was going to be - a little girl’s bedroom, or a playroom?

  What would it be like to watch a little girl ride her bike up and down the street like Barbara had? I pushed the thought away and retraced my steps, picking up the tray where I’d left it.

  All in all my house was prettier but I’d be a fool if I didn’t think that way after all the elbow equity I’d put into it.

  I found the trailer behind a commercial dumpster half filled with old linoleum. I knocked on the door and when someone answered, peeked inside. A desk stretched almost from wall to wall fronted by two folding chairs. The man seated behind it was beefy and bald. Hanging on a hook near his head was a large Stetson, proving my theory that cowboy hats either concealed baldness or contributed to it.

  “Excuse me," I said, in my best etiquette book voice, "Are you the foreman?”

  The man looked up and nodded. “I am. Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for one of your sub-contractors. Dale Bradshaw. Is he working today?"

  “Dale? Why do you want to see him?”

  “I was talking to him about some extra work I needed done at my house. I have a glass ceiling that needs to be repaired."

  “I'd be happy to give you an estimate.”

  “It's not enough for a company like yours,” I said smiling brightly. “But too much for me. Besides, I wouldn't feel right changing now. He and I have already discussed it.”

  “I haven't seen him in about a week. He’s probably taken another job.”

  Or had he been blown up in Paul’s studio?

  I handed him a mini quiche and the last pecan tart in thanks, and made my way home.

  The fact that no one had seen Dale in a few days bothered me. People shouldn't be expendable. Someone should be missed, either from work or home. Friends should want to know where you were. Or neighbors notice you haven't waved from your porch for a few days.

  People shouldn't just vanish.

  Vanishing made me think of Tom.

  It was time for us to talk.

  23

  The following morning I decided to take the bull by the horns. The bull, in this case, being my husband. Before confronting Tom however, there was one more thing to do in my murder quest.

  I'd seen the ads all over the internet, places that said you could find anything about anyone for a fee. Now, I gave them Tom's Visa card number and authorized a charge of twenty-five dollars to learn everything I could about Dale Bradshaw. While I was at it, I charged another twenty-five dollars for information about Dorothy Chanson.

  I skipped through Bradshaw's divorce record. I didn't care about his marital status, or the fact he'd been in the Marine Corps, although that put him up one level on my mental ladder. In Texas, he didn't have to be licensed to install skylights, but he did have an electrician's license.

  I took down the address from his license, hoping it was up to date.

  Dorothy was a bit more of a challenge. The record on her stopped about a year ago. Army's information had been right - she'd been the Director of a not-for-profit agency, one geared toward literacy.

  I'll admit to a bit of disbelief at the thought of the would-be-Goth promoting literacy, but the fact remained she wasn't anywhere near California or Arizona. Still, she didn't have to live there to be part of Paul's scheme.

  She'd cried when I mentioned Paul. That was an indication she felt something for the man.

  For the low-low-price of only one hundred dollars, I could subscribe to a month's worth of spying on my friends and family. The way the neighborhood was going, maybe it was a deal I should take.

  I looked through my Windows Photo Gallery for pictures Evelyn had sent me, and printed out three. Thank heaven she'd been a camera nut. On every neighborhood occasion, or party she threw, there was Evelyn with her digital camera. It had occurred to me, before, that being behind the camera was probably a way to escape being in front of it.

  "My mother called my face interesting," Evelyn had said during one of our gazebo afternoons. "My dad just told me to get a good education."

  I smiled at that memory. Evelyn had faced life head on. I cultivated a bury-the-emotions-before-they-bite-you-in-the-ass way of handling things. The problem was, that when they did bite you in the ass, you got emotional rabies. I was beginning to foam at the mouth.

  The picture printing done, I took Sally out, arguing with her over several questionable gravel indentations. She thought Stranger! Danger! I thought Mrs. Maldonado's cat. Come to think of it, maybe she was thinking cat, too.

  My uniform for the confrontation with Tom was a dark blue suit and a bright red blouse with a flouncy bow that had always annoyed me at work. Now, however, it made me feel feminine and pretty. I matched it up with bright carnelian earrings. I snapped on my gold watch and my inch wide gold bracelet, a gift from my grandmother and one I considered a talisman of sorts.

  I put on some foundation and a little blush, mascara, lipstick, and soft teal eye shadow. My hair was a disaster and would be until it grew out again. I slicked it down with some goop I had in the vanity, used the blow dryer and fluffed it up with a round brush until it didn’t look bad at all.

  Standing in front of the mirror, I surveyed myself, pressing both hands flat against my hips and pushing in, wishing they were a little thinner. I haven't been a size one since I was one, and doubted I ever would be again. But since the accident, I'd been wearing a size ten, down from a twelve.

  Grief should be the new diet craze.

  Maude was in the kitc
hen, baking again. Probably something decadent she would wave in front of my nose and refuse to let me sample. That's okay, there was a bakery two miles away.

  Sally looked at each of us expectantly. Me, because I might give her a dog treat from the container on the counter, and Maude because she was the guardian of the refrigerator and there was good stuff in there.

  Maude ignored Sally in favor of me.

  "I have a very full day," I said, grabbing my purse and keys. "Errands and things.”

  She looked as if she didn't believe me and I couldn't blame her. On the whole, I don’t lie well, which I've always considered a point in my favor.

  "You've been pushing yourself too much."

  Actually, I hadn't been pushing myself at all, but that wasn't a comment I was going to make. I had the thought that Maude might be a little worried about my new attitude. If I was ambulatory, capable, and resolved, she might not be needed.

  When had I become so cynical?

  Or was it simply awareness, an awareness of my surroundings and other people that had been dulled over the last nine months?

  I waved off her words, gave her a bright smile, and left the house.

  Our garage is behind the house, converted from a carriage house and a pain when it was raining. When it was, I normally left the car beside the kitchen door. But since I worked remotely, I rarely drove anywhere. Maude did most of the errands.

  I hadn't driven much since the accident. Like the other occasions, I felt Barbara's presence beside me in the car. This car was new, of course; the other had been totaled. Although the model was the same and the color different, I could almost see her in the passenger seat, head lolling against the window, that dazed, euphoric look in her eyes causing me immeasurable pain.

  "I love you," I said, in the quiet of the car, the sound of the powerful German engine a backdrop to my words.

  A flash of movement, her arms flailing, her words coarse and abusive as she tried to take the wheel. I pushed the image away. Barbara wasn't there.

  I reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a Ferguson's directory. I keep one with me at all times, only because I can get lost in a cardboard box. I never take shortcuts and whenever I'm due anywhere, I always add in enough time to get lost and find my way again. Tom called it my LFQ, or Lost Factor Quotient.