“Maybe, but don’t you remember how special birthdays were when you were little?”
Claire shrugged. “I was raised by an aunt who didn’t much go for that sort of thing.”
An aunt who was undoubtedly the prototype for the grim woman Claire had become. It made me sad to think that she was passing the same qualities on to Jodi. “Did you grow up around Boston?” I asked.
She looked perplexed. “Southern Illinois. Why?”
“Just a guess, since Jodi was born there.”
“Oh.” A little laugh. “No, Boston was a short stay.” Claire turned back to wiping crumbs off the desks. “I understand Sharon is in charge of Mona’s things.”
“She’s executor of the will, but she doesn’t inherit anything herself. It all goes to Libby.”
“But she’s handling all of Mona’s business and . . . property?”
Claire’s face looked more pinched than usual, and I sought to reassure her. “I wouldn’t worry about the house. It will be a while before everything’s sorted out.”
She chewed on her bottom lip, clearly something short of reassured. I knew I should feel sorry for her, a woman who’d undoubtedly had more than her fair share of bad luck, but at the same time it irked me that she’d see Mona’s death first and foremost as an inconvenience to herself.
Then, as if to prove me wrong, she said, “I’d be happy to help. You know, clean up, sort through things, whatever Sharon needs. I feel like I should do something, like if maybe I’d done something sooner ...”
“I think we all feel that way.”
“But I was probably home, practically within shouting distance when she ... she … Claire swallowed. “When she did it.”
That gave me an idea. “We’re trying to piece together what happened over there, what might have led up to her death. It looks like someone was at the house that evening. You didn’t happen to see anyone, did you?”
She frowned. “What makes you think someone was there?”
I explained about the cocktail glasses and ashtray. “Probably a male,” I added. “Do you remember seeing anyone? Or anything unusual?”
Claire shook her head. “It might have been that man she’s been seeing.”
“Mona was dating someone?” That was news to me.
“I guess she was dating him. They went away to Mendocino a couple of weekends ago. She asked me to take in the mail and newspaper.”
I remembered the grocery list scratched on Timbercreek stationery. But last I’d heard, Mona was ready to dump the entire male population. “Do you know his name?”
“No. Just that she was going away for a hot and heavy weekend. You know the way she talked.” Claire glanced at the wall clock. “Oh gosh, look at the time. My supervisor’s going to have a fit. She’s a real stickler for making sure that things get done at exactly the same time each day. Says the patients need a routine they can count on. Truth is, though, most of them can’t remember what year it is, much less what time they get their bath or their bedding changed.”
Claire left for work and Mrs. Craig returned, carrying a stack of oversized colored paper. We spent the next five minutes preparing the room for an art project.
“There,” she said when we were finished, “and with three minutes to spare.” She checked to make sure everything was in its place, then turned to me and sighed. “That wasn’t the most upbeat birthday we’ve had, was it?”
“It’s pretty much par for the course where Jodi’s concerned.”
“If her mother’s been filling her head with gloom and doom about moving I can see why the poor child wouldn’t feel like skipping around. I didn’t realize they were the ones renting that little cottage out at Mona’s place.”
“You knew Mona?”
She nodded. “But not well. Libby was a student of mine at one time and I’d run into Mona around town every so often. I hadn’t talked to her in a couple of years except to say ‘hi’ in the grocery line. That’s why I thought it odd she came by to see me last week.”
“Here at school?”
Mrs. Craig nodded.
“How did she seem?”
“I didn’t talk to her. I’d left early that day for a dentist appointment. The school secretary told me she’d been by.” The bell rang, signaling the end of recess. Mrs. Craig stood. “I’ve heard that Libby’s been giving her a hard time, but I doubt I could have offered much in the way of advice. Kids stop making sense to me along about the time they turn ten. Libby was the sweetest child you ever saw when she was in my class. Just like that boy she’s been hanging around with, Brandon Weaver. I taught him too, a couple of years before Libby.”
The students returned, putting an end to our conversation, but I couldn’t help wondering why Mona would have sought out Libby’s kindergarten teacher for advice.
I spent the remainder of the morning helping with an art project, and then with the cleaning of the classroom hamster’s cage. I had just enough time to run home and change out of my smudged shirt and jeans before meeting Sharon for lunch.
<><><>
The Peppermill Cafe is a favorite of ours. Simple fare in a quiet, comfortable setting. We slid into one of the wooden booths at the back and ordered without looking at the menu.
“Have you set a date for the memorial service?” I asked.
Sharon shook her head. “I’ve been holding off, trying to reach Alice. There’s no answer at her home. The owner of the last place she worked says she quit a couple of months ago. The police haven’t had any better luck. They apparently sent one of the Washington guys out to her place. No sign of her. I guess we’ll have to go ahead without her.”
“It seems strange she’d just disappear like that.” Sharon shrugged. “Alice is kind of a free spirit, or in Mona’s words, a loose screw, double meaning intended. I’m not so sure she’d bother to come to the service anyway. She’s always resented Mona, feels she got all the lucky breaks in life.”
I’d never met Alice, but I’d certainly heard stories about her. Since my own sister and I didn’t exactly see eye to eye, I could understand the demise of sisterly affection.
Sharon brushed at a loose strand of hair. “So, did you talk to your boyfriend yet?”
“Is this leading up to a question about my love life or about Mona?”
She grinned. “Let’s start with Mona.”
“He says everything they’ve found so far is consistent with suicide.”
“It wasn’t suicide.”
“I’m only telling you what he said.”
“What about the bottle of Glenfiddich? Did you tell him about that?”
“He wasn’t impressed.”
“Damn.” Sharon leaned back and gave an exasperated sigh. “He won’t even look into it?”
“It’s not his case. And without something to go on, there’s no basis for opening an investigation.”
Our sandwiches arrived and we ate in silence for several minutes. “We can’t let it go at that,” Sharon grumbled. “We’re going to have to dig around and come up with something on our own. Something that will convince your Lieutenant Stone that it wasn’t a suicide.”
“We?” I asked. Sharon was becoming far too fond of that particular pronoun.
“Come on, Kate. You don’t want someone to get away with this, do you?”
“Well, I—”
“We’re talking about murder. The intentional taking of a human life. Someone who was a friend of ours.”
“But—”
Sharon drummed her fingers on the table. “Think of Libby then. The way she sees it, Mona didn’t care enough about her own daughter to stick around. Didn’t even care enough to say goodbye. What do you think that does to a child?”
Sharon knew how to get to me. “Okay,” I said, with a sigh. “Where do we start?”
Chapter 8
“First off,” Sharon said, “we know Mona had company that evening. Someone who smoked and who Mona knew well enough to have a drink with. Probably someone of the male p
ersuasion.”
“Or a woman who doesn’t trust any toilet seat but her own.
Sharon gave me a look not unlike the one Mrs. Craig used to silence her kindergartners. “It seems to me that this mystery guest is a good place to start.”
“So what do we do, make a list of all the males in Mona’s acquaintance with sloppy bathroom habits and a nicotine addiction?”
Sharon’s, mouth was full of avocado and sprouts on rye so she had to make do with another icy glare.
“Sorry,” I said. “It just seems like we’re looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack.”
“That’s what cops do all the time.”
Only in this particular case, the cops seemed to think there was nothing to search for. “Claire thinks it might have been the guy she was seeing,” I offered.
“What guy?”
“The one she went to Mendocino with.”
“The one she what?” Sharon picked at a sprout that was wedged between her two front teeth. “Claire is bonkers. Mona wasn’t seeing anyone. If she had been, I’d have known. You know how she liked to talk.”
I nodded. Mona was in the habit of giving detailed, and sometimes rather graphic accounts of her dating adventures. I thought she probably put more energy into analyzing her companions than she did into living the relationship itself.
“She had stationery from The Timbercreek Lodge,” I pointed out. “She was using it for her grocery list.”
Sharon shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense. The last person I remember her talking about was Greg Ellis. That’s the guy who gave her a sob story about being widowed on his honeymoon ten years ago, when in fact he’d been divorced four times. She dropped him right after Christmas.”
“You could ask Libby. She might know.”
“Speaking of Libby—” Sharon leaned across the table. “What did you decide about letting her stay with you?”
I hadn’t actually decided anything, preferring to cling to the feeble hope that the matter would somehow be resolved without my participation. But apparently the ostrich approach to decision-making had once again failed me. I was back to weighing alternatives.
The prospect of having Libby underfoot, giving me those icy glares and deep, long suffering sighs of hers, was not one I approached with a great deal of enthusiasm. On the other hand, if Anna were suddenly motherless, wouldn’t I want someone to reach out to her?
Besides, Sharon had asked me, as a favor, and Sharon was a friend. A double good turn, then. Sharon and Libby. Maybe it would help balance out my big account in the sky, which was, I feared, somewhat more weighted with selfish acts than I would like.
“I’m not making any long-term commitment,” I said finally, “but she can stay with me at least until we get Mona’s affairs sorted out.”
We. How had that crept in there?
Sharon smiled, a wide smile that dimpled her cheeks. “Thanks, Kate. George isn’t any too happy about my involvement in this. And when George isn’t happy, well ...” She rolled her eyes to the heavens.
“It has to be what Libby wants though.”
“Oh, it is. Absolutely.”
“You already asked her?”
The smile turned sheepish. “I knew you’d come through so I didn’t see the harm in mentioning it.” She gave my arm a gentle squeeze. “And I appreciate it. Really, I do.”
I took a moment to consider whether I’d been had or commended, and decided on the latter. But it was a close call.
“Now, back to this business of Mona’s death,” Sharon said, pushing her empty sandwich plate aside. “I think we should start by going through Mona’s things at the house. Her calendar, address book, files, stuff like that. See if something turns up.”
“Like a threatening letter, signed with full name and return address?”
Sharon regarded me coolly.
“Or maybe compromising eight by ten glossies of some powerful political figure.”
She sighed loudly. “Are you going to help me with this or not?”
“I said I would, didn’t I?”
“Such enthusiasm.”
“You didn’t ask for a cheerleading squad.” But I smiled a truce at the same time.
Sharon smiled back, then plunged ahead with the business at hand. “You free tomorrow morning?”
Although I’d hoped to use the morning to paint, I didn’t exactly have paying clients lined up, and I knew that’s what she meant. Besides, I’d already given into this “we” thing. There was no point dillydallying about.
“I’m free,” I told her.
“Good, we’ll get started as soon as the kids are at school.” Sharon reached for the bill. “My treat,” she said, dismissing my protest with a wave of her hand. “Oh, and I’ll bring Libby over later this afternoon. What time would be good for you?”
<><><>
My previous dealings with Libby had been brief, and largely one-sided. Apparently the prospect of moving in with me hadn’t much warmed her to the notion of conversation. She arrived that afternoon with a couple of heavy suitcases and an equally heavy scowl.
“You really want me here?” She made it sound like an accusation.
“Sure,” I replied, hoping my voice betrayed none of the doubt I felt. “As long as you feel comfortable about it.”
She shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter much where I live. Just as long as I don’t have to live with Mr. I’m-so-cool Sterling.”
Libby’s hair, which had been unnaturally blond the last time I’d seen her, was now an equally unnatural red. Not chestnut or auburn or even copper, but bright, brilliant red, a color more suited to spray paint than hair. The lids of her eyes were red, too. Red and purple and green, lined so heavily in black it looked as though she’d used a laundry marker to do the job. At least we wouldn’t have to worry about whose make-up was whose.
“You may have to move in with him at some point,” I reasoned. “After all, he’s your father as well as your legal guardian.”
“Well, I won’t go.” Her voice rose several decibels and her mouth, which was a deep dead-rose shade of red, grew tight. “He can’t make me.”
Here we were, not five minutes into togetherness and already I’d managed to make her angry. Not an auspicious beginning.
“Well,” I said, seeking to smooth the waters, “it may not come to that. And I’m sure your wishes will be taken into account. Come on and I’ll show you to your room. It’s kind of a catch all now, but I’ll empty the closet and help you fix it up.”
I took one of her suitcases and led the way down the hall. Libby plopped onto the bed and let her eyes roam the room. It was the smallest of the three bedrooms in the house, and the darkest. Andy had used it as an office, and when he moved out I’d started putting stuff there just to get it out of the way. The only reason there was even a bed in the room is that I’d started sleeping there during the time it took Andy to find a place of his own. It was quite a contrast to Libby’s own bedroom, which was large and airy, with a view of the garden, and filled with the memorabilia of childhood sliding into young adulthood. I could imagine what she must be feeling.
“It won’t take long to spruce it up,” I said, sitting on the bed next to her. “We’ll get started tomorrow.”
Libby bit her bottom lip and said nothing.
My heart ached for her. “I’m so sorry about your mom, honey. She was a wonderful woman. Funny and bright, and kind. I know how much you must miss her.”
Libby fixed her eyes on the large, black spider making his way around the perimeter of the ceiling.
“I lost my father when I was twelve,” I told her. “It shook my whole world. I didn’t think I’d ever get over it. But somehow you do. Not get over it really, but get through it.”
Libby took off her shoe, stood on the bed and whacked the spider, pulverizing him against the faded green wallpaper. “I’m not twelve,” she said, stepping down and slipping back into her loafer. “And don’t go making my mother into a saint, beca
use she wasn’t.”
Chapter 9
By the time I returned to the kitchen, Anna had finished nearly half the chocolate cookies I’d bought by way of atonement. Not that a sugary treat would make up for having some stranger horning in on your life, but I’d thought it might soften the transition.
Anna had been delighted with the cookies, and not at all put out when I told her about Libby. Of course, I don’t think she understood the difference between a boarder and the more familiar concept of baby sitter, whose sole job was catering to Anna’s wishes. I was pretty sure we’d need more than cookies when the truth finally sank in.
“How about some milk to wash down all that chocolate?” I asked.
“Chocolate milk?”
“Plain milk. The stuff that makes your bones strong and your eyes sparkle.”
She shook her head. “I’m not thirsty.”
I clenched the fistful of Tootsie Roll wrappers I’d found as I was cleaning out her lunch box and waved them at her. “I’m surprised you were hungry, even for cookies. Where’d you get these anyway? Claire didn’t bring them to school, did she?”
Anna grabbed another cookie before I could snatch the package from the table and hide it away. “Oscar gave them to me.”
Oscar? I mentally scanned the names of boys in her class. There was no one named Oscar. Sneaky. “You mean Oscar the Grouch?” I asked.
“Oscar the Grouch isn’t real!” She raised her chin and sniffed, “He’s for babies anyway.”
“Then who is Oscar?”
“A man at school.”
“A teacher?” Walnut Hills Elementary was strictly a Mr.-Mrs.-Miss kind of place, all the way down to the custodian, but occasionally some progressive, young substitute made his way into the classroom and shook things up a bit.
Anna swallowed the last of her cookie and hopped down from the chair. “He wasn’t a teacher, just a man. On the playground after school. He likes talking to kids and giving them treats.”
Her words reverberated for a moment inside my head. Along with a few other words. Child molester. Kidnapper. Drug pusher. Lunatic. I felt a chill work its way down my spine.
Murder Among Friends (The Kate Austen Mystery Series) Page 6
