Murder Among Friends (The Kate Austen Mystery Series)

by Jonnie Jacobs

  “Goodness,” I said, “you’re certainly bursting with possibilities.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” He didn’t sound any too excited about it.

  When I got home, Libby was sprawled out on the couch watching television. Anna and Max were sound asleep on the floor.

  “I was afraid to move her,” Libby said, turning off the set. “I thought she might wake up and not go back to sleep again.”

  “When she’s like that, a jackhammer wouldn’t wake her. Did she get some dinner before she crashed?”

  “Yeah. And I made sure she got her bath. We were just going to watch a little TV before dessert, and next thing I knew she was zonked out on the floor.” Libby stood. “You want me to help get her into bed?”

  “Thanks, but I can manage.”

  “You got a phone call while you were out. Some man named Erikson. I left his number by the phone.”

  I didn’t know anyone named Erikson, or anything close to that. “Did he want me to call him tonight?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  I carried Anna to bed, booted Max out the back door for a quick pit stop, then dialed the number Libby had left. I reached the Pelican Motor Lodge where the switchboard operator rang me through to Mr. Erikson’s room. He either wasn’t answering or wasn’t in. I spent a moment wondering why someone I didn’t know would be calling me from a motel I’d never heard of. I checked the phone book and found that the Pelican Motor Lodge did, in fact exist. Reassuring, though not particularly helpful. Finally, I gave up trying to make sense of it and went to bed.

  Chapter 23

  I bundled Anna up and sent her off to school the next morning, even though the wind was fierce and she was clearly feeling under the weather. Not sick really, but achy and listless enough that I’d have let her stay home if I hadn’t scheduled another showing with Dr. Caulder. We had an appointment for eleven, and I’d put a lot of effort into finding pieces I thought she would like. So I promised Anna an ice cream for her sore throat if she managed to hang in there until the end of school. Sometimes I worry that I’m a terrible mother, but when I hear about the stuff other mothers pull, I figure Anna won’t end up any more warped than the rest of her generation.

  Dr. Caulder had allotted me a full thirty minutes of her tightly scheduled time. She’d informed me of this fact in a manner that let me know how truly appreciative I ought to be. Then she took a phone call while I was still setting up and didn’t get off until quarter past. My time had been effectively cut in half.

  When the call ended, she looked at me with a raised brow, as though I had been the one holding things up. “Vhat have you brought me today?”

  What I’d brought was five very different pieces, any of which would do wonders for the drab and somber beigeness of the place. Each had a different feel, but none of the pictures were in the least threatening or upsetting. Not that I could determine anyway, and I’d given it some serious consideration.

  My favorite was a watercolor landscape in greens and blues, with enough rose pink in the blossoms that you could almost smell the fragrance of spring. I showed her that one first.

  She dismissed it with a cursory nod. “My patients’ lives are not, you know, a bed of roses.”

  Heck, mine wasn’t either. But that didn’t stop me from enjoying flowers.

  I tried the oil next. A tranquil stretch of sand and sea, richly textured with a wide variant of subdued shades. A string of birds in the upper right hand comer drew your eye into the horizon. Dr. Caulder scrutinized the work from behind her desk, then stood and tried it from a closer angle. I felt my shoulders relax. Success at last She turned. “Ees ocean, no?”

  I nodded.

  She returned to the seat behind her desk. “Vater, especially big vater, it frightens people. Such emptiness and untamed power . . .” She tapped her nails on the polished surface of the desk. “It makes us feel insignificant, no?”

  None of the other pieces appealed to her either, not even the black and white abstract I’d thought so unemotional it was almost boring. Dr. Caulder claimed that brought to mind images of female genitalia.

  “None of dteese soothe the inner soul,” she declared, with a dismissive nod.

  She picked up the phone and made another call as I carted the heavy pictures back to my car. I was plum out of ideas about how to proceed and would have told her so except for the fact that she was still on the phone when I returned to the office. I waited a few minutes, then decided to call her later. Maybe she communicated better on the phone than in person.

  I opened the door to exit and found myself nose to nose with Laurelle Simms.

  She jumped back, startled, then blinked in confusion. “You see Dr. Caulder, too?”

  “I was here on business,” I explained. “I’m trying to find some art work for her office.”

  “Ah.”

  I shifted my handbag self-consciously to my other shoulder. Running into someone you knew in a therapist’s office struck me as one of life’s more awkward moments, the kind you wish you could rewind and erase. It was right up there with being caught visiting a plastic surgeon or waiting your turn at the sperm bank. But now that her initial surprise had passed, Laurelle didn’t seem at all embarrassed.

  “Isn’t Dr. Caulder just wonderful?” she exclaimed. “So warm and sensitive.”

  Could we actually be talking about the same person?

  “She’s really helped me develop a can-do attitude. And she’s very direct. I was seeing another therapist for years, all talk and no action. Dr. Caulder’s not like that. She focuses on behavior rather than all that deep-seated memory crap. She forces you to confront the things that trouble you, to take control of your life.”

  An uneasy thought stirred in the comer of my mind. I wondered if Laurelle had suspected anything about Paul and Mona, if taking control of one’s life would include killing the woman your husband was sleeping with.

  Laurelle smoothed the lavender “Baby on Board” smock over her protruding belly. “She’s been such a big help. I don’t know what I would have done without her.”

  The thought slipped from the comer into the center of my mind. It was like an itch I couldn’t ignore. “Remember when we were all at Sharon’s the day Mona Sterling died? You said you hadn’t known her, but then Claire made some comment that indicated you’d been asking about her. Remember?”

  Laurelle cocked her head to the left and frowned. Her brows folded into deep furrows. “Gee, I don’t.”

  “It was something about—”

  With a quick glance at her watch, she cut me off. “Look at the time. I’d better let Dr. Caulder know I’m here.” She was off, leaving me to wonder if Michael had been on target with his injured wife scenario.

  I returned the paintings to the appropriate galleries and then went to fetch Anna. The wind had picked up in the past few hours. The gray clouds had grown thicker and lower. There was a damp chill to the air that cut to the bone.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have soup?” I asked Anna.

  “Ice cream. You promised.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  She scrunched up her face in thought, afraid that this was, somehow, a trick question. Give the wrong answer and she’d never see the ice cream. Finally, she shrugged. A master of equivocation at five.

  I reached a hand across and felt her forehead. Maybe a tad bit warm, but not really feverish. “You want a cone or a dish?”

  This was a question she could answer decisively. “A dish. The kind with chocolate sauce and whipped cream on top.”

  I laughed. Anna had her father’s talent for turning things to her own advantage. But the anticipation in her expression made me feel a little less guilty about having sent her to school on a day she’d rather have stayed home.

  “Okay, ice cream first. Then I need to drop by Sharon’s.”

  We headed for The Creamery in the center of town. It’s an old-fashioned lunch spot that serves such cutting- edge cuisine as grilled cheese
sandwiches and perked coffee. But they make their own ice cream, which is first rate.

  “You sure were sleepy last night,” I told her. “You zonked out right there on the living room floor, remember? I had to carry you to bed when I got home.”

  “Was the motorcycle guy still there?”

  “Brandon? He was there last night?”

  She nodded. “He let me sit on his motorcycle.”

  “Not while it was moving, I hope.”

  Anna gave me one of her “you’re hopeless” sighs.

  “Did he stay long?”

  A shrug. “At first Libby wouldn’t talk to him, but he kept banging on the door so she finally let him in. He smelled yucky. Libby thought so too. She told him he needed a cold shower.”

  Great. I doubted that Brandon drunk was any improvement over Brandon sober. And while I didn’t mind Libby having friends drop by, I preferred to be told about it, even after the fact.

  “He had a surprise for Libby.”

  “He did?”

  Anna nodded. “He wouldn’t tell her what it was. Said she’d find out soon enough and then she’d be sorry she wasn’t nicer to him.”

  “And what did Libby say?”

  “She got mad at him.” Anna swung her feet up so that her toes touched the dashboard. “Guess what? Jodi got her name on the board today.”

  I didn’t like the smirky overtones of her remark, but I decided to let it pass with a neutral “hmm.”

  “She punched Nicole so hard she got a bloody nose.”

  “Why did Jodi do that?”

  “Because Nicole called her a bad name. Nicole got her name on the board, too, and then she got all mad ’cause it was Jodi’s fault. Nicole said she didn’t do anything but tell the truth.”

  And this was only kindergarten. No wonder parents were concerned about violence in the schools. “What name did Nicole call her?”

  “A battard.”

  “A battard?”

  “You know, someone whose parents aren’t married.”

  “A bastard,” I corrected, reluctantly. As long as she had the concept, she might as well get the words right.

  “When you and Daddy get divorced then I’ll be a bastard too.”

  I shook my head and launched into an explanation that would have made my mother blush. Then I delivered a lecture on bad language, name calling, and the Golden Rule. I wound it up by pointing out that Jodi’s father had died before she was born so that the word didn’t even apply in her case.

  By the time I’d finished, we were pulling into the parking lot at The Creamery.

  “Do you know what flavor ice cream you want?”

  “I want you to read me the choices.”

  “They’re the same as they were last time we came,” I grumbled. Reading a list of thirty-odd flavors and supplying a description for at least half of them was not my idea of fun.

  I pushed open the heavy door, and for the second time that day found myself face to face with someone I knew. Brandon Weaver gave me a spirited “Hey, how’s it going?” then held out the flat of his hand to Anna. She slapped it with the worldly sophistication of a five-year- old. “All right, ” he said, turning to hold the door for his companion.

  The man looked familiar, but it wasn’t until they’d strolled off that I recognized him as the blond man I’d seen lurking on the sidelines at Mona’s funeral. Who was he? It seemed unlikely that Mona and Brandon would have many mutual friends.

  I ushered Anna inside and started to read through the list of flavors, although I was fairly certain she’d end up choosing vanilla, as she always did.

  “That’s him,” she announced as I finished rattling off the first row of flavors.

  “I know. Did he teach you that hand slap routine last night?”

  “Not Brandon. The other man.”

  I stopped at peppermint. “What about him?”

  “He’s the man who gave us candy.”

  The hairs at the back of my neck stood on edge. “The one on the school yard? You’re sure?”

  She nodded.

  I remembered how she’d described him to the principal. A fairy. It made sense to me now. The man had a kind of spindly build, with a high, polished forehead, fine blond hair and pointy, Vulcan-like ears. His skin was so light it was almost translucent. But what was he doing with Brandon? I ran to the window and looked out. They were both gone.

  Something wasn’t right here. Swallowing my rising anxiety, I cornered Audrey, one of the waitresses who often served us. “There were two men here, they just left The younger one was wearing a leather bomber jacket The older man was thin and blond.”

  Audrey nodded. “They had coffee.”

  “Do you know the blond man? Does he come here often?”

  “Never seen him before. That boy, Brandon, he comes here quite a bit, but I didn’t recognize his friend.” Audrey hoisted a tray of milk shakes above her shoulder.

  I waited until she’d delivered them to the table of teenagers at the back. “Were they here together?”

  “More or less. The blond guy got here first. When Brandon showed up they ordered coffee, talked a bit, though they seemed more annoyed with one another than anything. Didn’t even finish their coffee. Not much of a tipper, either one of them.”

  Anna pulled on my sweater. “Tell me the rest of the choices.”

  Audrey went off to take an order and I read the rest of the ice cream list in a monotone, skipping every other flavor. My heart was racing, while my mind seemed rooted in quicksand. Was the man at school really some kind of pervert? I couldn’t imagine why else he’d hang around the school yard passing out candy. But why would he be at Mona’s funeral? And what was his connection to Brandon?

  And when I thought of Brandon hoisting Anna onto his motorcycle, his teasing familiarity with her at the door of The Creamery, I felt positively nauseated.

  Heavy drops of rain had begun to fall by the time we left. Although I tried to reassure myself with the knowledge that nothing terrible had happened to Anna, I was pretty shaken. I used the car phone to call home. Libby didn’t answer. Next I called Brandon and left a message asking him to call me. Then I drove to Sharon’s to see about getting a picture of Alice. Sharon had told me that morning she was sure she had one someplace. But the way she’d said “someplace” I had a feeling I’d eventually have to traipse over to Mona’s if I wanted one anytime before next Christmas.

  Kyle answered the door with a big bowl of popcorn in his arms. As usual, he said nothing. When he left, Anna gave me a sidelong glance and followed.

  Sharon called to me from the kitchen. I joined her a moment later.

  She was sitting at the table with a frowsy, dark-haired woman who was nervously trying to light a cigarette.

  “Kate,” Sharon said. “I’d like you to meet Mona’s sister, Alice.”

  Chapter 24

  Alice has been in Los Angeles,” Sharon said, her tone deliberately neutral. “She just learned about Mona’s death yesterday.”

  Alice pressed her knuckles against her mouth to stifle a sob. “I still can’t believe it’s really true. It’s just so horrible.”

  Alice’s voice was high and tight, a marked contrast to Mona’s full, vibrant cadence, and she was a good deal heavier than Mona, but the family resemblance was strong nonetheless. Both women had deep brown eyes, a wide forehead, and square jaw. On Mona these features had been attractive; they were less so on Alice, whose sallow coloring and limp hair gave her a sort of broken-down appearance.

  “I’m sorry about your sister,” I said, looking to Sharon for direction. She shrugged and handed me a cup of hot tea.

  Alice sniffled again, then inhaled deeply on her cigarette. She was wearing a tight-fitting, pink angora sweater with some kind of sequined pattern across the front. Bits of pink fuzz and fur had drifted from the sweater, clinging, like cat hair, to the black stretch pants below. “Sharon says she was murdered.”

  “It looks that way.” I tried to gauge Alice’
s reaction. Were the tears a sign of true grief or simply a performance? The two sisters had hardly been close, after all, and I was there at the house for the very purpose of obtaining her photograph as a possible suspect.

  “I feel so terrible about it,” Alice said.

  While nodding sympathy, I again glanced at Sharon, then tried kicking her under the table. Sharon, however, remained oblivious to my frantic, sidelong eye rolling, and merely moved her foot back under the chair when I persisted in kicking it.

  “Just terrible,” Alice repeated, then dropped her head into her arm and started sobbing for real. “I did this, I just know I did. It’s all my fault.”

  I set my cup down carefully and leaned closer. “What do you mean ‘your fault?’”

  “Conroy. I’m sure he followed me.”

  “Conroy?”

  Apparently Sharon’s mind was not off in space somewhere as I’d feared, because she broke in at that point to explain that Conroy was Alice’s ex-significant other. “Seems he has the strength and temperament of a tethered bull,” she said. “He was in the habit of taking out his frustrations, of which there were many, on Alice.”

  “That’s why I had to leave Seattle,” Alice said, lifting her head. “He wouldn’t leave me alone. I didn’t dare tell anyone where I was going because I knew he’d come after me.” She blinked back a fresh round of tears. “I thought I’d be the one to wind up dead, not Mona.”

  “You think Conroy killed Mona?”

  She nodded bleakly.

  “But why?”

  “Conroy doesn’t need a reason. He’s got an awful temper. He gets so angry I sometimes think he’s truly crazy. I don’t know how he found out I’d been to see her.” She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “I bet Mona wouldn’t tell him where I’d gone to, so he killed her.”

  It seemed to me that Alice had gotten from point A to point B by way of the Twilight Zone. “You really think he’d do something like that?” I asked.

  Alice raised her left arm, which was in a cast from above her elbow to her wrist. “I can show you the cigarette burns, too.”