Murder Among Friends (The Kate Austen Mystery Series)

by Jonnie Jacobs

  Laurelle squared her shoulders and ran a hand across her protruding belly. “Well, I didn’t know her.”

  Claire looked up, frowning. “You asked me about her just last week.”

  Laurelle swallowed a hiccup. “I did?”

  “Remember, you knew I rented the cottage from her.”

  “Oh, that’s her?” The thin line of Laurelle’s mouth relaxed. “I didn’t make the connection at first. I guess I have heard of her.”

  “How about I put on another pot of coffee,” Sharon suggested. She stood to fill the pot with water, then set it back on the stove, empty. “Hell’s, bells,” she said. “Let’s skip the coffee and open a bottle of wine. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I could certainly use a drink.”

  Because she was pregnant, Laurelle abstained. Claire, who never drank alcohol, passed as well. But Mary Nell, Sharon, and I each had a full glass, and what’s more, Mary Nell didn’t bat an eye. I refrained from pointing out to her that she was becoming more thoroughly steeped in California tradition by the day.

  <><><>

  While we drank our wine and munched on pretzels, we debated the suicide question. Mary Nell made sure we all understood that in the eyes of God, suicide is a sin. Nonetheless, she said she understood how a person might be so despondent as to seek relief in death. Sharon, who didn’t give a hoot what God thought, argued that suicide made perfect sense in certain situations, but that it made no sense whatsoever where Mona was concerned.

  “Well, she was just divorced,” Mary Nell said. “Losing her husband, and to a younger woman at that. . . It makes sense she’d be depressed. And then with Gary getting married again right away and all... I’m not saying Mona was justified in doing what she did, but I think we can’t judge her too harshly, after all she’d been through.”

  Sharon squinted one eye at Mary Nell in a look of utter disdain. “Hell, she was glad to be rid of the guy. It was like a new beginning for her. And she certainly wasn’t jealous of Bambi. The woman’s a high school dropout with the IQ of a flea. She used to work in some south of Market manicure salon, for God’s sake.”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with anything,” Mary Nell replied.

  “She could have been upset about something else,” said Laurelle, who hadn’t known Mona at all but wasn’t one to let that stop her. “I read an article about suicide not too long ago. You wouldn’t believe the things that can push people over the edge. I mean it can be the littlest, most inconsequential thing. It’s all in how a person perceives it. People who feel guilty are particularly vulnerable.”

  “Why would Mona feel guilty?”

  Laurelle shrugged. “It was just a thought. Everybody has something they feel guilty about.”

  Sharon rolled her eyes and sighed, but she was facing away from the others so I was the only one who caught it, which was probably just as well.

  Claire was sitting quietly, tracing invisible squares on the tabletop with the end of a pretzel. She is one of those women to whom nature has not been kind. She has a pinched, mouse like face with a slight overbite and a receding chin. And she does nothing on her own to improve things.

  She turned suddenly, addressing me without actually raising her eyes. “What happened when you found her?” she asked.

  Mary Nell swiveled to look at me with astonishment ‘You were the one who found her? Oh dear, poor Kate.” She reached over to pat my hand. I could tell she was thinking she should have prepared a food basket for me as well as Sharon.

  Claire tried again, her voice squeaking a little at odd intervals. “Did you know right away that she was dead?”

  A vision of Mona’s face appeared before me. I pushed it aside. “I was pretty sure she was. I called the paramedics anyway. And then the police.”

  “The police? What did they do?”

  “I don’t know really. I stayed in the other room, and then left right after they took the... after they took Mona out.”

  “I believe I read somewhere,” said Mary Nell, “that there are more suicides in California than in any other state. When you consider how cavalier most people out here are about traditional values, I guess it’s no wonder.”

  Sharon sent me a pleading look and reached for the bottle of wine. “There are more people in California than any other state,” she said. “So even if your statistics are right it doesn’t mean much. In any case, I can’t believe that Mona was one of them.”

  “What do you think, Claire?” Mary Nell spoke as though trying to entice a child into conversation. “Living in her cottage, you probably saw a different side of her than the rest of us.”

  Claire looked up. “What do I think about what?”

  “Accident or suicide.”

  She shrugged, but it was a deliberate and somewhat strained gesture. She returned her gaze to the table top. “It doesn’t much matter at this point. Either way, she’s dead.”

  There was something about the look on Claire’s face. It made me wonder if her husband’s death had been a suicide as well. She never spoke about it except to say that he’d died before Jodi was born, but it would certainly explain her dour outlook on life.

  Before I could think of some appropriately empathetic comment, Laurelle stood and announced that since this wasn’t really a meeting after all, she had other, more pressing matters to attend to. Mary Nell and Claire left not long after. Sharon and I sat awhile more, scrutinizing every conversation we’d had with Mona over the last few weeks. Even with the benefit of hindsight, we agreed there had been nothing to indicate she was upset.

  Finally, we’d gnawed and chewed at the problem long enough that there was nothing left to say. I gathered Anna and the assortment of coloring books she’d insisted on bringing. They had somehow ended up strewn around the family room floor.

  “Sorry about the mess,” Sharon said, gesturing to the piles of manila folders spread out at one end of the room. “Soccer registration. When I volunteered I never realized how much paper was involved. There’s the application, the check, the birth certificate, the recent photo, the doctor’s statement, the waiver of liability. It goes on and on.”

  I’d just finished filling out the forms for Anna so I knew what she meant. But the truth was, Sharon’s family room wasn’t a heck of a lot messier than it normally was. Actually, messy is probably the wrong word. In my house, rooms look messy. In Sharon’s, they simply look lived in. Comfortable and cozy without any of the tornado aftermath effect I seem unable to avoid.

  “You want to stay for dinner?” Sharon asked, handing me the coloring book which she’d retrieved from under the sofa. “It doesn’t seem like the kind of night you’d want to be alone.”

  I shook my head. “Andy’s coming by tonight.”

  “Again? He was just there a couple of weeks ago.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “Oh?”

  “We’re doing it for Anna.”

  “You going to keep this up after you’re actually divorced?”

  “We’re going to try to. Of course with Andy you never know. By that time he may be bungee jumping in Paris or studying meditation in Tibet.”

  She half raised an eyebrow and gave me that look she’s so good at. “What does your cop think about all this?”

  My cop, as far as I could tell, tried his hardest not to think about it. He claimed he understood, but since he’s childless himself, I wasn’t so sure he really did. “This isn’t something which involves Michael,” I told her.

  She grinned. “Wanna bet?”

  Chapter 4

  I am no great shakes as a cook, and Anna is a picky eater. Since there’s just the two of us most nights, I’ve fallen into the habit of not actually cooking a real dinner. I fix Anna an omelet or some macaroni and cheese, myself a salad, and then I nibble on her leftovers. With Andy coming over, however, I’d planned on fixing a real meal. But I’d also planned on having a good part of the afternoon for grocery shopping and preparation. Mona’s death had changed all that.


  So it was back to macaroni and cheese, although I made it from scratch this time instead of from a box. Anna took one bite and then wrinkled her nose. “What’s wrong with this macaroni? It tastes funny.”

  “That’s because it’s homemade,” I explained, giving a swift elbow to the dog, Max, who seemed to think it smelled just fine. He’s fifty pounds of affection and enthusiasm, but he has absolutely no manners.

  “Do I have to eat it3” Anna asked.

  Andy laughed. “Kate, you’ve been outclassed by Kraft.”

  “Do you like it, Daddy?”

  “Honey, I think it’s the best macaroni and cheese I’ve ever eaten, but that doesn’t mean you’ve gotta like it”

  Anna took a second spoonful. Then another. “I guess it’s not so bad once you get used to it,” she mumbled.

  “You want another beer?” I asked Andy.

  “Sure.”

  I got him the beer and then settled back to listen while Anna filled him in on the latest from the kindergarten scene. Andy listened (or at least pretended to listen— he’s good at that) and then launched into a dramatic telling of a story about his own childhood. Anna found it hilarious.

  Although I never had any trouble remembering why I was divorcing Andy, neither did I have any trouble remembering why I’d married him in the first place. Andy was a class act, the quintessential fair-haired boy. He could knock you off your feet with his Nordic good looks and well-tuned charm. The trouble was, he might just leave you there, bowled over and waiting for a hand up, while he trotted off on some new adventure.

  “So, Kate,” he said, turning his charm in my direction, “how’s the picture-hanging business?” He grinned to let me know it wasn’t a putdown, just good-natured fun. “You started on that big job yet?”

  I set my fork down, suddenly aware that I wasn’t hungry, and told him about finding Mona’s body that morning.

  “Sterling,” he repeated when I’d finished. “She related to Gary Sterling?”

  “His ex-wife.”

  “No kidding? Small world. It beats me why a dame with that much money would go and kill herself.”

  Andy’s never bought into the belief that money can’t buy happiness. And in all honesty, in his case, it probably could. “I don’t think financial worries were the problem,” I told him.

  He shook his head in bewilderment. “From what I hear, she made out like a bandit in the divorce. Had the guy by the balls and wouldn’t let go. Squeezed him but good. He’s hurting still.”

  Anna slurped a spoon of macaroni. “Why did she want his balls, Daddy? Didn’t she got her own?”

  “Didn’t she have her own,” I corrected, giving Andy a pointed look.

  But he just laughed. “Different kind of balls, kiddo.” Quickly, before Anna demanded an explanation, I asked how he knew Gary.

  “I don’t really. But I applied for a job with that new commercial development of his. Kinda combination property manager and leasing agent. Should know any day now whether I got it.”

  “They’re hiring people already?”

  “Never too early to line up tenants, especially in this market.”

  “What about Nutra-Pack?” I asked. Andy had only been with them a couple of months, selling vitamins and health food products. And endlessly recruiting salespeople to work under him. It had sounded like nothing more than a pyramid scheme for the nineties to me, but Andy had gone to great lengths to assure me otherwise.

  “Well, that, uh, isn’t quite as full-time as I’d hoped. I ought to be able to keep doing it, though, even if I get this position.”

  I didn’t need anyone to draw me a diagram. Once again Andy had been tripped up by a sure thing that wasn’t. “This new job, is it a commission position, as well?”

  “Jesus, Kate.” Andy rocked forward, slapping his open palm against the table. “This could be the chance I’ve been waiting for, an opportunity to finally break into the big time. And all you’re concerned about is the money.”

  “That’s not true and you know it. I just don’t like to see you wasting these years when you could be building your career.”

  Andy shook his head, in a slow exaggerated fashion, eyeing me as though I were the last of some ridiculous but quaint species. “You’re making yourself old with all this worrying, Kate. Life is short. You ought to lighten up, learn to enjoy the moment.”

  That was pretty much the story of our marriage. Andy and I were like trains passing on parallel tracks. I couldn’t lighten up and he couldn’t settle down.

  Although it was still early when Andy left, I climbed into bed anyway, risking the censure of modem American psychiatry by letting Anna climb into bed with me. It’s not something I do regularly, not something Anna wants to do with regularity anymore either, but sometimes it feels right.

  When Andy and I took her to Disneyland two years ago, the thing that impressed her most, besides the soda machine outside her door, was the fact that we all got to sleep together in one big bed. This was the highlight of her trip, the thing she chose to share with the nursery school boys and girls who gathered in a circle to hear her adventures. The teacher wrote me a polite but pointed note explaining that this was a practice frowned upon by child guidance experts everywhere. In return, I loaned her my copy of The Family Bed, which says basically that the experts’ opinion is hogwash.

  Anna cuddled with her back against my stomach and was asleep in an instant. For me, sleep was a long time coming. I couldn’t rid my mind of thoughts and images of Mona. Nor could I stop thinking of Libby, who though long past the age of cuddling, was now motherless.

  <><><>

  I’d just returned from dropping Anna off at school the next morning when Sharon called.

  “I have a favor to ask you,” she said. “Two favors actually.”

  “Anything but money.” Of course I would have helped out there too, if I’d thought she needed it.

  “I want you to go over to Mona’s with me.” Her voice was thin and a little raspy. “She asked me if I’d take care of the, uh, details in the event anything ever happened to her.”

  “She did?” Maybe Mona had been planning to kill herself after all. “When was this?”

  “Right after Gary moved out. She rewrote her will, listed me as executrix, and made me promise I wouldn’t let him get his hands on her stuff. I remember making the whole thing into a big joke. It never crossed my mind she might actually die.” The sentence sort of faded out so if I hadn’t known what the last word was going to be I might not have heard her. “Please, Kate. I don’t want to go over there alone.”

  I wasn’t thrilled about the idea of going over there myself, but I couldn’t let Sharon go unaccompanied, either. “Sure,” I said, with forced cheeriness. “I’d be glad to. You want me to meet you there?”

  “Might be better if I picked you up. We have to go by the mortuary, too.”

  We? I had to admire the way she slipped that one in there.

  “Can you be ready in half an hour?” Sharon asked.

  “Sure. How’s Libby doing? Have you talked to her?”

  “She spent the night with us. The police apparently contacted the trip coordinator and they brought her here.”

  “Not to her father’s?”

  “No, she didn’t want to go there.”

  “How is she holding up?”

  “On the outside, very much in control. But she won’t talk about it, won’t talk at all really. Just wants to be left alone.”

  “Give it time,” I told her. “The fact that you’re there for her, that you care about her, it’s got to mean a lot even if she doesn’t show it.” Max began barking at the delivery truck next door. I booted him with my foot then moved to the other end of the room and put a finger in my ear.

  “What was the other thing you wanted. You said you had two favors to ask.”

  “It’s probably best if I tell you in person.”

  “That bad?”

  She laughed, a nervous laugh pitched a li
ttle too high. “See you in half an hour.”

  Chapter 5

  Sharon decided we should swing by the mortuary first. “It shouldn’t take long,” she said. “Mona was quite clear about wanting her body cremated and not wanting a funeral. So it’s not like we have to make elaborate arrangements.”

  There was that we again. I mumbled something generic and noncommittal.

  “Although I suppose she wouldn’t be too upset if we held a simple memorial service,” Sharon added after a moment’s thought.

  I didn’t bother to point out that Mona was long past being upset by anything.

  Sharon parked the car near the front entrance. According to the sign above the door, Thompson Mortuary had been family owned and operated for three generations. Which was reassuring I guess, although somewhat hard to fathom. What kind of kid goes around harboring hopes of becoming a mortician?

  The window to the left of the door was painted with gold letters—Se Habla Espanol, a couple of Chinese characters, and something in an alphabet I didn’t recognize; maybe Arabic. All this in one family—I was impressed. There was no mention of English. I was hoping they spoke that too.

  We stepped through the double doors into a large entry hall with a vaulted ceiling and dark paneled walls. The air was cool, like the aisle by the freezer case at Safeway. Cool, I realized with a sudden queasiness, for the very same reason—preventing spoilage. The carpet was a plush magenta, a little too reminiscent of blood, I thought, to be appropriate for a mortuary. In the center of the room was a fountain that spouted a thin, bubbling stream of water, something like a large bird bath with a broken water valve.

  Our eyes had barely adjusted to the dim interior light when a middle-aged man in a dark, three-piece suit emerged from behind one of the panels.

  “Harold Thompson,” he said, shaking our hands earnestly. “How can I be of service today?”

  “We’d like to arrange for a cremation,” Sharon said, and then swallowed several times in rapid succession. “The, uh, body’s at the morgue but we can have it sent here when they’re finished.”