I had talked to so many people at this point, absorbed so much information, so many nuances. I tried now above the continuing flood of Helen’s commentary to pinpoint the exact source of Stuart Singletary’s uneasiness when I’d interviewed him in his small, luxurious office.
There was something about the way he’d met Howard Rosen at the Abbott house.
Did it involve Cheryl Abbott?
That meeting, that introduction, what was the story there?
“…on the kids, as he calls Cheryl and Stuart. I think they’re a bit long in the tooth for that designation, but I’m just a fast-talking floozie hot for Poppa’s body. Howsoever, it seems Cheryl’s been telling Daddy that it’s just so awful to have the whole thing dredged up again.”
I needed to know more about the Abbotts. I took a deep drink of my coffee. And pulled Helen’s string and hoped my ear wouldn’t wilt.
“…well, I don’t think the way Tom showers money and gifts and treats on Cheryl is Freudian. I mean, Cheryl is a really, really sweet girl. It all comes down to sheer spite. Perhaps another little indicator that I’m in over my head, but what the hey, it’s more fun than sitting home watching Macaulay Culkin on the tube. You see, Tom’s never really gotten over the divorce. And it galled him, right down to the quick, all those years when Myra—that’s Mrs. A number one and Cheryl’s mom—could buy Cheryl anything at all her heart desired and all Tom had was an English professor’s salary. Myra married big bucks! A guy she met on a flight to Denver. Myra and Tom always flew separately, you know, that spooky deal of not wanting to go down together. Well, that blew Tom’s marriage out of the water. Myra and this guy—Harrison, I think’s his name—were seatmates and they clicked. Myra got a quickie divorce and married Harrison. He’s an international financier, and ever since Myra’s spent money like the Atlanta Braves on a roll…”
Helen’s obsession with Tom Abbott’s marital status was the price I had to pay to gather a few crumbs of information about Cheryl and, indirectly, Stuart Singletary.
“…and so, of course, Cheryl’s been indulged from the get-go. Myra thinks up something special—a spa weekend in Carmel—Tom tops it with a shopping spree in Paris. It’s a wonder Cheryl’s half as nice as she is.”
“Somebody told me Cheryl had a crush on Howard.” I wandered over to the fireplace. The logs were in place. I turned on the gas, lit the flame.
“Really? I hadn’t heard that—and I don’t think it’s so. I mean, Cheryl knew Howard, of course. But I never thought…” Helen came to a full stop.
For an instant, silence filled the line. It was a nice change.
“Is that what you’re thinking, Henrie O? Hmm. Actually, I can’t see it. Stuart’s just not—well, can you see him shooting people over a girl? I mean, really.”
“Sex and money, Helen. In my experience, one or the other is behind most murders. So yes, maybe Stuart wanted Cheryl that much.”
“My dear, he does woodworking and he made a plaque for Cheryl, the Browning poem, of course. And he’s the one who got up at night with…”
I listened patiently for another fifteen minutes. If there was wheat among the chaff, I didn’t winnow it.
Maybe it was getting too late.
I finally said good night to Helen, who was as chipper as at the start of our conversation.
I wasn’t. But I went to my computer. I was driven, compelled, determined to link Stuart Single
tary to Maggie’s murder. He was the answer, I was sure of it.
Modems are the twentieth-century equivalent of Aladdin’s magic lamp. If you have one, you can go anywhere. I stayed at my computer until almost midnight that night, calling up every reference I could find to Stuart Shelton Singletary. Most I skimmed. I printed out a couple. Every word reinforced Urschel’s description of Stuart Singletary. From a modest working-class background, he’d excelled all the way through public schools, won a scholarship to Thorndyke. And he’d been on easy street ever since Tom Abbott’s novel became a runaway best-seller. As Helen Tracy had told me, Abbott showered Cheryl and her husband with luxuries—summers at Oxford, a vacation home at Eureka Springs, a cabin cruiser on Beaver Lake. Singletary and his young wife were social lions in Derry Hills, entertaining at small dinner parties two or three times a month. The social notes also carried news of their travels. They’d spent last summer in Ireland with her father. Cheryl Singletary played tennis and was active in several Derry Hills charities. Usually as social chairwoman.
I hoped Singletary liked his father-in-law as well as he liked being married to the daughter of a rich man.
Cheryl Singletary. I definitely wanted to talk with her.
When I went to bed, my mind teeming with minutiae about a man I’d never met until a week ago, I was discouraged.
What possible motive could Singletary have had to murder Howard Rosen and Gail Voss?
And how the hell had Maggie figured it out?
fifteen
S always, I scanned The Clarion at breakfast. No big stories had broken locally. There was a small story on page 6 about Maggie Winslow’s funeral yesterday in her hometown of Saint Louis. The inset thumbnail photo of Maggie had reproduced poorly and the young face looked pallid, uninteresting, without a trace of her beauty and vitality. Nothing more was likely to run until Rita Duffy’s preliminary hearing in December.
Today’s Clarion was the same old, same old. Trouble was brewing in the Middle East. The stock exchange had plummeted seventy-five points the previous day. Today’s weather forecast called for a high of fifty-five and sunny in Derry Hills. November made palatable.
I checked the weather in L.A. for today—sunny and seventy-two degrees. I wished it weren’t two hours earlier there. I’d like to talk to Jimmy.
But I couldn’t talk to him until I decided what my answer would be.
Mrs. Jameson Porter Lennox, Jr.
I looked down at the simple gold band I’d worn for so many years. Many widows switch rings to their right hand. I had not done so.
241
But it was too early to call Jimmy, even if I were ready to do so. And I wasn’t.
Instead, I called Helen Tracy and asked her to take my nine-and ten-o’clock classes. Her curiosity quivered between us. Then Helen asked silkily, “If I do, can I have an exclusive on How-I-Tracked-My-Student’s-Murderer?”
I grinned. Old reporters may die, but they never stop trying for a story. “Sure, Helen.”
“Happy sleuthing, Henrie O.”
I hung up and riffed through my file until I found the printout from Maggie’s computer. It was important to remember that Maggie’s plan of attack had led her into danger. My best bet was to follow her lead. Cautiously, of course.
The first item on Maggie’s list: Find “J Smith.”
“Honey, no. Please don’t eat the Play-Doh.”
The little boy squirmed and wriggled as his mother tried to edge the gooey red ribbon out of his mouth.
A baby’s wail rose from the back of the apartment.
The pretty, plump young mother plunged two fingers into the toddler’s mouth, expertly retrieved the slippery mass, then jumped to her feet.
The boy’s face turned red, and he wailed furiously.
His mother gave me an apologetic look. “I’ll be right back.”
I fished a small squeezable plastic flashlight from my purse and held it out to the complaining toddler. I pressed it; the light on the end came on. His mouth remained open, but he was abruptly quiet as he watched the light blink. Then he grabbed the plastic tube, plopped down on the floor and began to pump it.
The young mother returned with a tiny baby cradled in the crook of her arm. “Oh, how nice. Johnny, did you say thank you?”
He looked at me, his eyes shining, muttered something that sounded reasonably like thank you, then concentrated totally on the flashlight.
I knew I’d better work fast. “I appreciate your willingness to see me. I know this isn’t a pleasant memory.”
“It br
ought it all back to me—when the girl from The Clarion came to see me. And now she’s dead, too.” Erin Malone Howell nestled the infant against her as she sat down across from me in the small, cheerful living room. Toys were scattered about, but the room was almost painfully clean. She looked at me with stricken eyes. “Do you think…”
She didn’t have to finish.
I nodded.
“Oh, God,” she said huskily. “It’s all so awful. That means the murderer’s here in town. I had nightmares for years. They were so happy that night. Gail and Howard. Pretty names. They were handsome together. He left me a twenty-dollar tip. I ran after them and he said, ‘No mistake. It’s from Joe Smith.’” Erin patted the baby gently. “You know, it’s tough being a waitress. I worked my way through Thorndyke waiting tables at the Green Owl. That was the best night I ever had in tips, and then, when they were killed and we all knew it must have happened right after they left, it made me sick. I’ve never trusted life since then. I almost broke up with Ronnie. He said I was crazy, just because some psycho killed people we didn’t even know. But I felt
like I couldn’t trust anything, like a pretty day is a lie because you know that all these evil things are happening around you and you don’t even know about them. It took me a long, long time to get over that feeling. And really, I don’t think I’ve ever gotten past that night. I still dream about Lovers’ Lane and a car splashed with blood. And now, with my babies, I think of them growing up and I wish I could take them someplace safe.” She looked at me forlornly. “But no place is safe, not if something like that can happen here in Derry Hills. And that reporter, she was trying to find out what happened and now someone’s killed her! So, if I can help you”—her young voice was firm—“I will.”
“Joe Smith. What did Howard and Gail say about him?”
Erin Howell reached out and smoothed her son’s rumpled shirt, then leaned back and rhythmically patted the baby, who made tiny satisfied mewing sounds. “You know, I’ve thought and thought about that. It was funny. They were so high.” She added swiftly, “Not drugs. They were excited, thrilled. And like I told the police, every so often I’d be at their table, you know, with their salads, then with the pizza. I wasn’t paying close attention, but I heard snatches of their talk and I was noticing because they’d brought some champagne with them, and they were toasting each other. Once they held up their glasses, and he said, ‘Here’s to Joe Smith. I didn’t really believe in him,’ and she said something like, ‘I did.’ Then the girl—Gail—paused and said, ‘I love Joe Smith,’ and the way she said it made me feel so good inside, and he looked at her real soft and said, ‘I know you do.’ And then I was taking a big order, a bunch of guys at a table behind
them, and it got real noisy. But the next day I thought about it, all that kidding about Joe Smith, and then she got real serious and said she loved him. I could tell she meant it. So it wasn’t a joke. But in the paper, it said the two of them planned to get married. So who was this Joe Smith guy? All I know is, I’m sure she meant it. I swear to you, she loved Joe Smith. I never did figure it out.”
I found Frank Voss out in the hall at the county courthouse, waiting for his case to be called. I saw no resemblance to his dead sister. Where Gail Voss had been blond and slightly built, Frank Voss was tall, stocky, and dark-haired. Reddish cheeks bulged in a heavy face. He had John L. Lewis eyebrows and pale green eyes which possessed all the charm of pond algae.
Over the shuffle of footsteps in the marble-floored hall and the rumble of deep (primarily male) voices, Voss boomed, “Why dredge it all up? What can be done now?”
“I’ve received some new information, Mr. Voss. But I need a clearer picture of your sister and Howard Rosen. I’ll be very brief,” I promised. I kept my note-pad in my purse.
He shrugged bulky shoulders in an expensive but ill-fitting black pinstripe suit. “I can give you a clear picture of Howard. He was a blowhard. All the personality of an anthill. All noise, no substance. What the hell Gail saw in him—” He broke off abruptly, pressed his lips together. “Goddamn, if she hadn’t been out with him, she’d be alive today.” Voss glared at me.
“Why are you so sure?”
The transformation was startling. The red faded from his face. His eyes softened. And he spoke quietly, all the bluster gone. “Nobody would have wanted to kill Gail. She was gentle, so gentle. She deserved a wonderful guy to love her. Instead”—and his face hardened—“she fell for this creep.”
“Why did you dislike Howard so much?”
Voss’s full lips curled in disgust. “He was a bumptious, pushy loudmouth.”
“Then why did your sister fall in love with him?”
“I don’t know.” His bewilderment was clear. “The last time I talked to Gail, we quarreled. Over the creep. She kept telling me I didn’t know Howard, that he wasn’t at all the way he seemed. So I said if he wasn’t, why did he act that way and she said it was a defense. I thought that was a lot of psychological crap. I told her so. She hung up on me.” He took a deep breath. “The next day she was dead.” His voice was dull, empty, inconsolable.
“Mr. Voss, I talked to the waitress who served your sister and Howard that last night. The waitress overheard Gail say, ‘I love Joe Smith.’ Yet, everyone agrees she was very much in love with Howard. Do you have any explanation?”
“Oh”—his mouth turned down in disgust—“it had to be some stupid joke Howard made up. The guy was always making noise about something.”
I could have told him that Erin Malone Howell was certain Gail meant every word of it.
But there wasn’t any point in that.
I was certain of only one fact from Frank Voss: He had utterly despised his sister’s boyfriend.
There was a flurry as lawyers began to stream toward the courtroom.
Voss looked toward the doorway.
I spoke quickly. “One more point, Mr. Voss. Have you talked to anyone recently about the case?”
“Yeah. A reporter from The Clarion. That girl who was strangled.” He stared at me, his pale eyes startled. “My God, do you think that’s connected to Gail and Howard?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be damned. Look, they’re calling the docket. I’ve got to go.” He moved toward the courtroom. “But keep me informed. Please.”
I hurried to keep up. “Mr. Voss, where were you last week on Wednesday night?”
“Wednesday night? The night that girl died?” He frowned and gave me a sharp, probing look. “I play poker on Wednesday nights.” He hesitated, shrugged, gave me the address.
It wasn’t far from the campus.
Then he plunged into the courtroom.
“Daughters, of course, don’t tell their mothers everything.” Maureen Voss refilled my coffee cup. She was as thin as a mannequin, her once lovely face haggard and gaunt. When she was young, I imagined she’d looked very much like the pictures of her daughter—tall, slender, blond, with an air of gentility and grace. Mrs. Voss’s voice was soft and gracious, but I heard the undertone of pain. “I can tell you without any doubt whatsoever that Gail was terribly happy. She was filled with excitement that last day. I knew her well enough—”
Oh yes, mothers can read children’s hearts without ever a word being exchanged.
“—to know something special had happened. Afterward, I tried and tried to think what it could have been. It wasn’t their engagement. Gail expected to receive a ring on her birthday, that’s what Howard had planned.” Her composure wavered. “She would have been twenty-one on July 12.”
“But something grand had happened, something they were celebrating.” I thought of the champagne and the pink streamers.
Mrs. Voss nodded. Her faded blue eyes filled with tears. She put down her cup, drew a lace handkerchief from her pocket, pressed it to her face.
“I’m sorry.” I hated this moment, wished I did not have to witness this sorrow.
Her hand fell away. She looked at me and now her eyes glittered wi
th bitter anger. “No, I’m glad you’ve come, Mrs. Collins. I want more than anything to know what happened, and why. I want the person who took her away from me—from us—to be punished.”
“Will you tell me about Gail and Howard? What were they like?”
Her description of her daughter was what I expected. “…Gail was kind and generous. She was never silly. She was very earnest about life, about what she enjoyed, what she admired.”
I put down my coffee cup. “Mrs. Voss, this is what everyone had told me about Gail. And I find it puzzling. It seems absolutely at odds with her interest in Howard Rosen. What do you think attracted Gail to Howard?”
The grieving mother looked across the room. I followed her glance to a full-length oil portrait of Gail in a soft white summer dress. The girl had looked straight at the artist, quite pleasantly, but
there was a definite reserve, an unmistakable formality.
“I don’t know,” Mrs. Voss answered quietly, “that it could matter now to anyone, but, for what it’s worth, I’m quite sure that Howard must have been, beneath that loud, boisterous exterior, a very serious young man.” She looked at me directly. “I know my daughter. To be quite honest with you, Gail really didn’t ever see anything as funny. I think she looked beyond the Howard that the world knew to a Howard that she loved.”
“You’re sure she loved Howard?”
“Oh, yes. Gail loved Howard.” Her lips quivered.
“Then, Mrs. Voss, I have another puzzle. The waitress who served them that night heard Gail say, ‘I love Joe Smith.’ Did you ever hear Gail talk about Joe Smith?”
Death in Lovers' Lane Page 20
