by Susan Cory
“Last night’s dinner got overshadowed by news of Will’s death. I’m curious about something you said after learning that the police had found him. You said it was Carey’s payback for Will giving him a drugged brownie at the graduation party.”
Jerry looked at her sharply. Ellie knew she had abandoned caution—just what she’d told Mack not to do. This was dangerous. But her friend was being set up as a murderer. And one of them had pushed Carey off the balcony. She was determined to shake loose some information of value and figured that, even if Jerry was the killer, he couldn’t do much to her in a public place.
He studied her face to gauge how much she knew. “Oh, I was just making a tasteless joke. I didn’t mean anything by it. Obviously Carey’s ghost didn’t return to avenge him.”
“No, no, I think you may be onto something. We all know by now that Will drugged Carey at the party.” She leaned closer in a conspiratorial pose. “Do you think that Will might have followed Carey into the bedroom and pushed him off the balcony?”
Jerry’s rigid stance relaxed an iota. He plucked at an imaginary piece of lint on his beige sports jacket. “No, Will didn’t follow him.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I saw Will go into the bathroom with Sharon Abramson. They only came out when people near the window started screaming.”
“Aaah. That sounds like Will. I was just wondering if there could be any connection between Carey’s death and Will’s, but it sounds like there wasn’t one. Boy, you sure have a good memory, Jerry.”
As Mack returned holding a paper plate of quiche, Ellie said, “Honey, we’ve got to go relieve the babysitter. Bye, Jerry,” She knew he would never remember that their daughter was now college-aged.
Chapter 19
Iris spotted the gray Prius by the front door in her usual spot. The house was no longer a building site, so now she was relegated to “visitor” parking. As she approached the entry, the dramatic pathos of Mozart’s Don Giovanni blasted out from the open front door. Pressing hands over ears, she raced to the living room and twisted the control knob on the sound system.
“Norman? Where are you?” The house reverberated with silence. She could see several wrapped parcels abandoned on the living room hearth, but no sign of the house’s owner. If he were down in the wine cellar he’d be deaf to her cries.
A sound—smack— came from below. Was that a door slamming? What was going on? Norman had dragged her out here on a Sunday to help him and now he was wasting her time. As she marched down two flights of stairs to give him a piece of her mind she heard a rumbling noise, but it seemed to come from outside. Probably a neighbor’s lawnmower. She paused before the closed wine cellar door. No doubt Norman was sitting in there mesmerized, sorting through his beloved La Taches and Chateau d’Yquems. She popped open the panel with her closed fist. It was pitch black. She groped for the light switch.
Norman stared back at her, his contorted face pressed up against the inside glass of the wine refrigerator, his body hunched in a fetal position. Saliva escaped from the side of his mouth, and his leaden eyes looked right through her.
Iris let out a primal, blood-curdling scream which devolved into shallow gasps. She tried to look away but couldn’t. Backing up until she felt the cool wall behind her, she wrapped her arms around her and took deep breaths.
Maybe he wasn’t dead yet. Should she call for help? Get him out of there? Do CPR? Then another thought intruded: whoever put Norman in there might still be in this room hiding, watching her. Her eyes darted around, but her body felt frozen. Hadn’t she heard a door slam?
As she stood glued to the wall, noticing the refrigerator shelves thrown on the floor, she heard heavy footsteps thumping down the stairs. He was coming back! A weapon. She needed a weapon. She grabbed a heavy brass candlestick from the table and slid behind the door. The steps got closer. She raised her arm ready to strike.
A sharp intake of a man’s breath caught her in time to allow her to divert her makeshift club past his head to crash on the floor. Frank stood framed in the doorway with his arms held up around his ears. “What the hell…” he howled. His voice trailed off as he spotted Norman’s entombed body.
“What are you doing here?” she screeched.
“Oh my god. Who killed him—you?” he asked, eyes wild.
“Of course I didn’t! I was the one who screamed.”
They both stood their ground until Frank moved toward the wine cooler. Iris slipped out behind him and scrambled up the stairs to the kitchen. She hunted for her cell in the bottom of her purse and scrolled down for Detective Malone’s number. As she reported what she’d found she heard Frank out in the hall talking to the 911 operator.
She put her head between her knees and counted to ten. After a few minutes, her heart’s jackhammering began to slacken. She looked up to see Frank in the doorway, observing her.
“I’m here ‘cause the new trees have to be watered every day. I heard you scream. Why are you here?”
“Norman asked me to help him place some artwork.”
They eyed each other suspiciously then perched at opposite ends of the kitchen table, not speaking, until they heard the sound of cars kicking up stones on the driveway. They both made their way to the front door and saw a Crown Vic and a Lincoln Police vehicle, blue gumball strobing, skid to adjacent stops. The Lincoln uniformed officers conferred with Detectives Malone and Connors, then all four strode in.
“Ms. Reid. It seems that you are not having a good week-end,” Malone said.
“I’ve had better. Norman Meeker’s body is two flights down in the wine cellar.”
Chapter 20
May I please speak with my client privately?” Stirling asked in an aggrieved voice. Detective Malone left them in an interview room, the harsh fluorescent lighting making Iris’ headache throb.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Iris? This is not my idea of lying low! I tell you to stay out of trouble and two days later, you’re found with another dead classmate! Are you insane?” His tone suggested that Iris was mischievously courting corpses merely to annoy him.
She stood facing him with her arms folded. “I’m sorry to have to call you off the golf course on a Sunday, Stirling. If you are having trouble seeing me as innocent until proven guilty, I can always switch lawyers and get someone from Shaw, Huntington and Barrett. They’ll probably give me the benefit of the doubt for being in the wrong places at the wrong times.”
“Is that all this is supposed to be—a series of coincidences? And how is it supposed to make me look if you go to our competitors to represent you? Everyone knows you’re my sister.”
“I don’t really care how this reflects on you. This is not about you!”
They held each other in a death-stare for a full minute.
“Cut me some slack, Stirling, okay? I’ve just come face to face with the corpse of my murdered client who two hours ago summoned me to meet with him. I’m either the next victim or being framed by the murderer. If all you can focus on is that your reputation might be tarnished by association with a sister who’s involved in a murder investigation, then I’ll get another lawyer. Here’s my question. Can you represent me as if I were one of your regular clients?”
“Fine, fine. Let’s calm down, okay? I think you need me as your lawyer right now. Just tell me what happened.”
Iris closed her eyes and shook her head. She wanted to float back to her feeling of safety from the previous night. “You can hear it when they take my statement.”
An hour later as they left the police station, Stirling said “I can’t believe that out of your GSD class of what—sixty students?—there have been two people murdered.”
“Three,” Iris corrected.
Chapter 21
“Pum… pum.” A basketball pounded rythmically against a neighboring garage backboard. Luc approached Ed’s weathered triple-decker, noticing the brown paint peeling from the clapboards. He should ask the guys down
at the precinct for the name of a good painter. A breeze wafted a candy smell from an overgrown viburnum bush that had stood sentinel at this porch for as long as Luc could remember. Only the sweating six-pack cradled in his arm separated him from the kid who once waited here with his father.
“Well, look who the cat dragged in.” Ed must have been sitting in his usual ratty living room chair, several feet inside. “You still wearing girl hair?” he teased as he gave Luc an affectionate bear hug. Ed was a bear himself—six feet of bulk that barely complied with police fitness regulations.
“You sound just like Pop. You know I need to pull it back when I’m cooking so it doesn’t get in the food. Give me a break.” Luc held up the Narragansett beer he’d brought. “Want some company for the game?”
On a summer Sunday afternoon in Massachusetts, there’s never any question about which game. It’s always the Red Sox.
“So, how’s your mother?” Ed asked as he resumed his spot facing the TV. Luc sank into the plaid companion chair and snapped open a beer, passing it to Ed.
When Ed had lost his wife to cancer three years earlier, Luc and his sister had urged their mother to give Ed a call—maybe invite him over for a meal. But she had resisted all efforts to get her to socialize. By then, she had even given up on the church. God was supposed to have protected her husband. That was the deal she had made in all those masses. Without her daily church visits, she’d lost most of her links to the outside world.
“She’s the same—won’t go out. She watches her soaps and waits for visits with the grandkids. Now that I’m back, I’ve joined the campaign to try to get her interested in something. I did get her down to the restaurant last week.”
Ed noticed the time on the plastic clock atop the TV. “Hey. Game’s on!” He fiddled with the remote and the image of the shaved-headed Masterson and Pedroia, hats over hearts, appeared as the national anthem was warbled by a soprano in the background.
“This game had better get the Sox back on top,” Ed muttered. “Tampa’s kept our seat warm long enough. The guys don’t need Papi to step it up against the Rays.”
The crowd repeated the sing-songy “Let’s go, Red Sox,” clap, clap, clap. The earlier drizzle had let up and the sky had cleared. After the preliminary practice swings and throws were out of the way, the game began.
“Let’s hope Drew, Manny and Lowell can keep the big bats going. Are Pena and Ortiz still on the disabled list?” Luc asked.
“Yup. Ortiz is out for a couple more weeks.” They watched in silence until Ed erupted at the screen, “Oh, Beckett! Don’t you get it? You’re not supposed to give up any hits! Just get out of this inning and settle down. Hit the corners, Josh. Pitch from ahead and stop giving up line drives.”
Luc’s lips curved up at one corner. Ed had been his little-league coach. He remembered how emotional the guy could get about the game.
After another ten minutes of snorts and groans, Ed looked over and said, “By the way, did you sign those divorce papers yet?”
Luc’s jaw muscle spasmed. He stared intently at the TV while flipping the top back from a beer. His sister had a big mouth. “I’m working on it. Look at that—Beckett left that curve way high and Upton still couldn’t handle it.”
Ed said quietly “It’s time to get on with your life, kid.”
The teams exchanged places on the field a few times. The Sox were ahead 5-4. Third baseman, Mikey Lowell, came up to bat. The ball sailed toward the second row Green Monster seats and the crowd roared. The ump flung out his left arm. The crowd erupted with fury.
“Unbelievable!” Luc turned to Ed. “Did you see that? That was a clear 4-bagger. Look—here’s the replay. Am I right?” They watched NESN’s freeze-frame.
“Screw you, Remy. Goddamn umpires.”
“ Doesn’t NESN have another camera behind home plate showing left field?”
“The Sox get screwed at least once a game on home run calls. What is it—retribution for the umps getting Bellhorn’s home run correct?”
“Don’t worry. Manny will make things right again.”
“Hey, Dusty’s walking!”
“ Magadan’s going to have a stern talk with Pedroia when he gets back to the dugout.”
“When are you coming back to eat at the restaurant? You haven’t been in since the opening party.”
“You know I’m not so good with eating out on my own.”
“I’ll eat with you. Maybe I’ll invite this new friend of mine to join us.”
“As in new female friend?” Ed cocked an eyebrow.
Luc used this entree to bring up the subject he had come to talk about.
Chapter 22
Shocked, Ellie’s hand flew to her mouth. “No,” she whispered. “Norman’s been murdered—and you found his body?” She wrapped her arms around her friend as they stood on her kitchen stoop. “You’re trembling. Come in and let me get you something to drink.”
“His eyes seemed to be staring at me and his face was mushed up against the glass door. I’m never going to be able to get that image out of my head.”
Ellie rubbed Iris’ back. “Sit down and I’ll make you tea and cinnamon toast. Or do you want something stronger? Hootch? It’s five o’clock—almost cocktail hour.”
Iris had been drawn straight from the police station to Ellie’s house, knowing she would find comfort here. Her shoulders began to loosen. “Tea’s perfect— the British empire’s cure for any crisis.”
The smell of cinnamon soon suffused the cozy kitchen. Ellie poured more Earl Grey into Iris’ mug. “Three murders! This has gotten too dangerous, Iris. We should leave it to the police now. We seem to be at a dead end anyway.” She covered her mouth. “I can’t believe I said that. At least they can’t pin Norman’s murder on you. You’re the one who called Detective Malone.”
“They could think I did that to throw them off track. Frank showed up after I found the body, but he can’t vouch for me that I didn’t stash it there first, then act like a terrified innocent.”
“Frank, the contractor? What was he doing there? Could he have killed Norman?”
“I doubt it. He said that he was there to water some newly planted trees. That’s credible. Besides, if he had done it, he wouldn’t have stuck around to respond to my scream.”
“Okay, scratch him. But we need to figure this out. We should be safe enough with our sleuthing inside this kitchen. I wonder if Norman was injected with the same drug as Will? The two killings have got to be related.”
“Maybe Mack can get that information from his ME buddy.”
“Speaking of my master-sleuth husband, we went to the final reunion luncheon today. Mack’s assignment was to chat up G.B. and Jerry. He was supposed to be subtle about it, but when I joined them, I found them pumping Mack for information about the drug that Will’s killer had used.”
“Sounds like morbid curiosity—right up their alley. But if they were the killers, they would know what they had used. Plus, if they were at the luncheon, they couldn’t have been out in Lincoln killing poor Norman. Unless they hired a hit man. Norman called me at noon and I found him soon after two. Didn’t we narrow down the suspect list for Will’s killer to Jerry and/or G.B.? But now it looks like you’re their alibi for Norman’s murder. Who else from our suspect list was at the luncheon?”
“Alyssa told me that C.C. flew back to New York Sunday morning. But that doesn’t mean that she didn’t nip out to Lincoln on her way to the airport to bump off Norman.”
“Maybe. But she seems to have that alibi for Friday. Was Adam there?”
“Alyssa said that he was playing squash with Arturo Herrera. That should be easy enough to check. Oh, and I was able to pry Jerry loose from G.B. long enough to unearth an alibi for Will and himself during the critical time at the graduation party.”
“Is it a credible alibi? I can just picture that weasel taking advantage of Carey’s having been out-of-it.”
“His alibi is that he had his eyes pinned to Will’s
every movement during the party. I get the sense that he had the hots for your boyfriend back then. Who knew?”
“Well, that’s one person at least that Will never slept with. At least I don’t think …”
Changing the subject fast, Ellie gabbed a pad of paper from her nearby desk and said “Let’s make a matrix of the five suspects’ actions during the three murders. This is getting way too complicated to keep in our heads.”
They eliminated Will from the suspect list, so that left: G.B., Adam, Alyssa or C.C. as suspects in Carey’s death; G.B. or Jerry as suspects in Will’s death, and only Adam or C.C. as suspects in Norman’s death.
“So, no one person could have killed all three?” Ellie said.
Iris frowned at their chart. “That’s what our chart says.”
“There have been three murders and we still don’t have all the pieces,” Ellie started to clear the dishes from the table. “I think we’ll have to let the police take it from here—examine fibers or get DNA evidence—whatever they do to get proof. This may be as far as we can get by shaking the trees.”
“Still, I think we’re getting closer. But it’s too dangerous for us to poke around anymore. Besides, Detective Malone said he’d charge me with obstruction of justice if I turned up at any more murder scenes.”
“Well, that’s not fair. The murderer is setting you up.”
“We know that, but the police don’t. Still, I can’t stand the thought of the murderer slipping away again like he or she did 20 years ago. Norman didn’t deserve to die. He was irritating, sure. He could get jammed on ‘play,’ but he was basically a harmless, if pretentious, nerd.”
“I think it’s time for us to keep our distance from all the people at that dinner.” Ellie said as she wiped a butter knife with a paper towel. “But we also need to keep the police from thinking you’re the killer. You did have strong connections to all three victims. What is your brother doing to defend you?”
