Murder Among Friends (The Kate Austen Mystery Series)

by Jonnie Jacobs

  I’d forgotten about Mona’s car phone earlier, but I used it now to call the auto shop. My Datsun, with its four new tires, was ready. There’d been a part of me secretly hoping the tires would be on back-order so I’d be forced to drive Mona’s Jag a little longer. Scooting around town in a seventy-thousand-dollar set of wheels changes things in ways that are hard to explain to the uninitiated.

  I called Sharon next.

  “I got your message,” she said. “Don’t worry about the meeting, you didn’t miss much.” She didn’t say it so much as croak it.

  “What’s the matter? You sound funny.”

  “I think I’m coming down with flu. It just sort of hit me all at once and it keeps getting worse.”

  “Have you taken anything?”

  “Vitamin C, Motrin, cough syrup, a couple of decongestants, a flu medicine you mix with hot water, and some Chinese herb concoction my cleaning lady gave me.”

  “You took all that at once?”

  “Not all at once.” She turned away to cough. “But pretty much.”

  Sharon is one of those people who believes that suggested dosage is just a ballpark figure and that drugs are best mixed, something like spices. I’ve seen her going through her medicine cabinet pulling out a little of this and a little of that, just the way I make chili.

  “It might make you feel better to know there’s going to be an official investigation of Mona’s death.” I gave her a brief summary of the latest developments. “The cops will probably want to talk with you at some point.”

  “They already have.” She coughed again. “This morning. Some young guy, looked more like a high school kid than a cop. A long, tall drink of water with a receding chin. He came by just as our meeting was winding down. Could barely conceal his excitement at getting four for the price of one, so to speak.”

  “Cops figure the more people they talk to, the more likely they are to come up with something.”

  “He didn’t get much useful information from us, I’m afraid. Laurelle didn’t really know Mona, of course, but Mary Nell just about talked the poor fellow’s ear off. Recounted every conversation she’d had with Mona in the last month. She had plenty of potential suspects too, including that crazy guy who hangs out in front of the auto wash. According to Mary Nell, he got a bee in his bonnet that Mona was his first wife, reincarnated.”

  “Where did Mary Nell get that?”

  “Who knows where she gets any of the stuff she comes up with? Anyway, she was going on and on, while Claire hardly opened her mouth. Seems to me she might have been able to give this cop something useful since she lived so close to Mona. But you know Claire, answered every question in monosyllables. Frowned the whole time, as if she thought murder might be contagious.”

  I remembered her hasty retreat after our chance meeting in Payless. “Claire suffers from chronic unhappiness,” I told her. “I wish I could think of some way to break her out of it.”

  “Yeah, well, good luck.”

  A car pulled up behind me and tooted the horn, signaling that he was waiting for my parking spot. I motioned him on. The world of car phones was new enough to me that there was no way I was about to try talking on one and driving at the same time. “I don’t suppose you feel up to giving me a ride to the shop so I can pick up my car.”

  “Sorry, I feel lousy. Why don’t you just keep Mona’s for another couple of days? I haven’t even got around to placing an ad for it yet.” Sharon’s voice was hoarse and nasal. She sounded miserable.

  “Can I do anything for you?” I asked.

  She hesitated. “You sure you don’t mind?” When I assured her I didn’t, she rattled off a list of things she needed from the grocery.

  “Just a minute,” I said, grabbing a pen from my purse and a scrap of paper from the compartment under the dash. It was a customer receipt from the photo department at Safeway, but it was the only thing I could find. I scribbled Sharon’s list on the backside, then promised to pick up Kyle from school. I made a mental note to pick up Mona’s photos, as well.

  “If I’m not better by tomorrow,” Sharon said, “you’ll have to manage the ticket table at the auction without me. We set up a schedule of shifts at the meeting today, so you should have help. I feel terrible dumping it in your lap like this.”

  “I can manage,” I told her. “Don’t worry about anything except getting well.”

  <><><>

  The next day, Sharon was worse rather than better. I spent the morning transporting raffle items from the school, where most things had been dropped off, to the club, where the auction was to be held. Then I made another trip to the grocery, this time remembering to pick up Mona’s photos, stopped by the pharmacy for some heavy duty cough syrup Sharon’s doctor had prescribed, and then drove Kyle home from school. Since Sharon was having trouble even making it out of bed, I fixed him a snack.

  While Kyle ate, I looked through Mona’s photos. I’d hoped they might hold some clue to her death. (Wasn’t that how it worked in the movies?) Then I’d be able to wow Michael with my cleverness. At the very least I was hoping for a photo from Mendocino, something that would help identify her mysterious lover. But the pictures were family snapshots, mostly of Libby, some of which included Brandon, as well. There were several pictures of the interior of Mona’s house, presumably the “before” pictures those home decorating magazines suggest you take, one of Sharon and George, which was flattering to neither of them, and a couple of Jodi sitting on Mona’s porch swing.

  I stuck them back into the envelope and went to check on Sharon. Ever mindful of those pesky airborne germs, I stood at the bedroom doorway while she croaked words of gratitude. I wasn’t particularly looking forward to the auction, but I figured my evening was going to be a lot more pleasant than Sharon’s.

  The Walnut Hills Country Club is private and fairly exclusive, but enough parents belong that there’s apparently never any trouble reserving the clubhouse for the school’s annual auction. Good thing, since the event would hardly have drawn the crowd it did if we had to hold it in the school cafeteria.

  I left the car with the parking attendant and headed inside. I’d arrived early to put things in order, but Mary Nell had beaten me there. She had the reception table already set up, complete with floral arrangement, name tags, raffle bin, even a plate of cocktail nuts she’d appropriated from the buffet.

  “It’s nice to have something to offer people when they first come in, don’t you agree? Make them forget we’re after their wallets.”

  Since people knew that’s precisely why they were there, I thought it would take more than a bowl of nuts to make them forget. Of course, there was more. Lots more. Glancing across the room, I saw a long buffet table laid out with enough rolled and puffed and wedged edibles to persuade even the most tightfisted to loosen their purse strings. The bar was sure to help matters along too, despite having to shell out more of your own money to imbibe.

  I took a seat next to Mary Nell and started to reach for a nut.

  “Maybe you ought to pass for now,” she said primly. “We don’t want to be running over for refills in the middle of our shift.”

  “No, I guess not.” Though it wasn’t like we had to cross the Rubicon to get more nuts.

  Couples started arriving almost immediately, some of them decked out to the nines in their fancy evening finery. I figured those were the people whose wallets we were really after, the ones who would bid on the Alaskan cruise and the weekend in Paris. I had my eye on the catered picnic for two and the one hour massage, both of which were enough of an extravagance for me that I’d have never considered them if the money hadn’t gone to benefit the school.

  Most people had purchased tickets ahead of time so we merely took their stubs for the raffle and directed them to the name tags. I recognized the kindergarten parents and a few others, but Mary Nell seemed to know just about everybody. Whenever there was a lull in arrivals, she’d lean over and do a quick rendition of who’s who, a mundane inventor
y of name, occupation, and number of children.

  Among the early arrivals were Susie Sullivan Lambert and her new husband, who she wore on her arm like a jeweled Cartier watch. “I understand my piece about Mona finally got the cops’ attention,” she said, smugly. “They’re investigating her death as a homicide now.”

  I nodded, without bothering to explain that her story had nothing to do with it. Besides, I was still angry at her for twisting my words and making them public. I wasn’t about to say anything more.

  Mary Nell had no such compunctions, however. She gave Susie a complete account of her conversation with the police sergeant the previous morning at Sharon’s. She hadn’t quite finished when Laurelle and Paul arrived, and since Laurelle had been present herself, Mary Nell invited her comments also. Laurelle, however, had her mind on the living rather than the dead. She ignored Mary Nell, waved to several friends across the room, then turned to hug the couple who’d come in behind her.

  The woman, an overly made-up blond with poodle-dog curls, handed Mary Nell their tickets. “Isn’t that Mona Sterling’s car in the lot?” she asked.

  Mary Nell nodded, then introduced me, explaining that I’d borrowed it temporarily. From there she launched into a meandering account of my association with Mona. The woman looked bored and Laurelle examined her nails.

  When Mary Nell finished, Laurelle turned her attention, fleetingly, in our direction. “You two managing okay without me?” she asked. This was, I gathered, Laurelle’s all out effort at doing her fair share. Without waiting for an answer, she grabbed Paul, who was looking at me rather oddly, and dragged him off.

  Susie didn’t seem much interested in hearing the details of the police inquiry, either. But I figured that was because she was one of those people who doesn’t like facts interfering with her thinking.

  “Well,” Mary Nell huffed, “Laurelle certainly seemed interested enough in Mona’s death yesterday.”

  “Laurelle likes to be in the center of things,” I said.

  “Isn’t that the truth.”

  After the initial rush of activity, people straggled in more slowly. Mary Nell took the opportunity to straighten the table top, smoothing the linen cover and realigning the name tags and pens. Since not one person had touched the nuts, I grabbed a handful when her head was turned.

  “I’ve been thinking about poor Mona,” she said, while I endeavored to unobtrusively chew a cashew. “I’ve been thinking about her for days, of course, but especially since talking to that policeman yesterday. He got me started wondering and, well...” There was a short pause. “I think Mona may have been in some kind of trouble.”

  “Trouble? What kind?”

  “I don’t know really. I’m not implying she’d do anything bad herself, of course, but... well, she might have, you know, witnessed a crime or overheard some incriminating remark. There was a movie on television a couple of months ago. This woman was married to a sculptor, a real sensitive, artistic type of guy. Well, it turns out that he was using some of his pieces to smuggle drugs. Now, the wife didn’t know anything about it at first...”

  I cut her short. “What else besides this movie makes you think Mona might have been in trouble?”

  Mary Nell frowned. “For one thing, nothing else makes sense. It isn’t like anyone stands to actually benefit from her death, except Libby I suppose, in the long run. But mostly it’s what Raffi said.”

  Raffi, no last name, was the hair stylist among those residents of Walnut Hills who could afford to care about such things.

  “I had an appointment this morning,” Mary Nell said, “and we got to talking about Mona. Raffi mentioned that she’d dropped by a couple of days before she died, asking about his, uh, friend, Milt.”

  What Mary Nell meant, of course, was lover rather than friend, but since both Raffi and Milt were male, she couldn’t bring herself to say the word. Her main point, however, was lost on me.

  “Milt’s an attorney,” she explained, practically whispering the words under her breath.

  I was still lost. “Stan Lundy was Mona’s attorney.”

  She nodded. “But Milt is a criminal attorney.”

  “And you think Mona was inquiring because she needed his services?”

  “That’s the impression I got.”

  At first glance it seemed pretty far fetched. Then I thought of the three thousand dollars she’d withdrawn from the bank. And the hold she’d supposedly had over Gary. Maybe Mary Nell was right after all. “Have you told the police?”

  “You think I should?”

  “It’s probably nothing, but yes, I think you should tell them.”

  Mary Nell’s face grew dark. “Oh dear, I don’t want to get Raffi in trouble, you know, for breach of a client’s confidence.”

  I sighed. “I don’t think the law recognizes hairdresser- client privilege.”

  She looked at me solemnly, then nodded. “You’re probably right,” she said, sounding anything but convinced.

  At that moment, Claire arrived, chewing at one of her fingernails. “I know I’m late.”

  “No problem,” Mary Nell said. “You want to get a bite to eat or something before you take over here?”

  “I don’t think so.” Claire unbuttoned her coat. “Where’s Sharon? She and I are supposed to share this shift.”

  “Sharon’s sick,” I told her. “I’ll take her place.”

  Claire went back to gnawing at her fingers.

  “Go look around,” Mary Nell offered, turning to me, “I’ll stay on with Claire.”

  “I can do it myself. I’m not stupid, you know.”

  “Of course not,” Mary Nell soothed.

  “No one was implying you were,” I added.

  “Nobody ever trusts me. No matter how hard I try.”

  “We simply thought you might prefer some company,” I explained. Then, remembering the photo in my purse, I pulled it out and handed it to Claire. “Here, you might like this picture of Jodi. It’s something Mona took, not too long ago from the looks of it.”

  Mary Nell leaned over to take a peek, but Claire grabbed the photo and stuck it in her handbag without so much as a glance. “I told Jodi not to pester her,” Claire muttered, as much to herself as us.

  While Mary Nell got Claire oriented, I made a sweep of the buffet, fixed myself a mini ham sandwich, then loaded my plate with an assortment of fancy delicacies, half of which I couldn’t identify. Plate in hand, I wandered over to the side of the room where the silent auction items were located, found the listing for my coveted picnic, and discovered that the bids had already surpassed my self-imposed limit. Even in the spirit of supporting education, I wasn’t about to fork over seventy dollars for a basket of food. I did bid on the massage, although it was no bargain either, and then on a hardbound atlas of the world. I jotted my name on a few of the smaller items, hoping someone would come along soon and outbid me. I knew that if my name didn’t show up in at least a couple of places, I’d hear about it from the powers that be.

  When the live auction started, I moved across the room to get a better view. The first few items, a case of wine, dinner for four at the Park Manor, a round of golf with the Club’s pro, all went rather quickly. There was a good deal of kidding around among members of the audience, and a few catcalls when the high bid was declared final. After awhile I got tired of watching and headed for the bar. Paul Simms wandered up a moment later, greeting me as though I were an old friend. I’d half expected that he wouldn’t remember me, since he hadn’t the first time we’d met. But apparently our introduction at Mona’s memorial service had stuck.

  “Kate Austen,” he said, sliding down the bar to join me. “Hey, it’s good to see you again.”

  I wasn’t about to offer my hand and say “likewise,” so I smiled instead and nodded to the front of the hall, joshing him. “How come you’re not out there spending for the good of our schools?”

  Paul smiled back. “Laurelle does a fine job of that without my help.” It was
said pleasantly, but I detected a note of irritation all the same.

  The bartender appeared and Paul pulled out his billfold. “Let me get this. What’ll you have?”

  “White wine.”

  He turned to the bartender. “A glass of the Hidden Cellars chenin blanc and a double Glenfiddich, straight, no ice.”

  We again exchanged smiles.

  “Say, I wanted to ask you about that piece in the Walnut Hills Sun. You really think it’s possible Mona Sterling’s death wasn’t a suicide?”

  I nodded. “The article twisted a few things, but it doesn’t matter so much anymore. The police have pretty much ruled out suicide. They’re investigating it as a homicide now.”

  “Really.”

  Our drinks arrived and Paul stared silently into the bottom of his glass. I couldn’t see much of his expression because his face was turned, but I was aware that his breathing had picked up.

  “What made them change their thinking?” he asked finally.

  I didn’t know what the police considered public information, and I wasn’t taking any chances. “I’m not sure.”

  “But there was something that made you suspicious.”

  “Just small, intuitive stuff. The only real evidence, if you can call it that, was the scotch.”

  I glanced at Paul’s drink and paused for a moment while a thought skittered across my brain. I shook it off. Glenfiddich wasn’t your everyday scotch, but it wasn’t really rare either. “There was a bottle by the sofa,” I continued, “along with an empty vile of pills. Sharon Covington claims Mona never drank scotch.”

  “Interesting.” Paul stared straight ahead. He brought his glass to his lips and then set it down again without drinking. “I wonder if they have any leads.”