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“Oooh, oooh,” said Susu, shaking her head in mock horror. “Roe, you may not have gotten married, but you’ve dated more interesting people than any of us ever dated.”
“Like who?”
“That policeman, for one. And that writer. And now a priest. Don’t the Episcopalians call ’em priests like Catholics do? And remember, even when you were in high school, you dated . . .”
Now, I knew Susu intended this list to cheer me up, but it had exactly the opposite effect. Like looking at my closetful of bridesmaid dresses. So as soon as I could, I started the parting process. As I was getting into my car, I said as casually as I could, “Did Little Jim have a football game Wednesday evening? I thought I saw your van parked at the Youth Club field.” “What time?”
“Oh, I guess it was about five thirty.”
“Let me think. No, no, Wednesday afternoon is Bethany’s Girl Scout meeting, and Little Jim has Tae Kwon Do at the same time, so Jimmy has to take him to that while I go with Bethany to Scouts. Jimmy has Wednesday afternoons off anyway—that’s the after- noon the store is closed, because it’s open on Satur- days. I think the older league had a game scheduled for Wednesday. There are lots of vans like ours.” “Little Jim’s Tae Kwon Do is in that building in the shopping center on Fourth Street?”
“Yes, right by that carpet and linoleum place.” “Does Jimmy get to stay and watch Little Jim’s class?”
“No, the teacher won’t let parents stay except for
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special occasions. He says it distracts the boys, espe- cially the littler ones. But the lessons are just half an hour or forty-five minutes. So Jimmy takes a book and reads in the car, or runs an errand. And it’s right before supper, too, at five o’clock, so on Wednesdays I have to have leftovers or run home from Scouts and get some- thing out of the freezer to microwave.” Susu didn’t seem to think it was strange I was inter- ested in her family’s schedule, something she enjoyed detailing anyway. Like any specialist, she wanted to air her knowledge.
As I finally took my leave and drove away, I was thinking that if Jimmy Hunter had killed Tonia Lee, he’d done it on a tight time budget. Susu hadn’t actu- ally said her husband had eaten with the family on Wednesday night, but she hadn’t mentioned it was dif- ferent from any other Wednesday, either. So I had to decide this was inconclusive. But the odds were a little more in favor of Jimmy Hunter’s being innocent. It looked as if Patty Cloud’s favorite suspect had been sit- ting outside the Tae Kwon Do studio with a newspaper or a book, or sitting at the country pine table eating supper, at the time Tonia Lee Greenhouse had been killed.
Chapter Five
A
There was a blinking light on my answering ma- chine.
The first message was from my mother. “If you haven’t taken anything by Donnie Greenhouse’s, you need to do that. I took by a chicken casserole this morning, Franklin Farrell said he was going to take a fruit salad of some kind, and Mark Russell from Rus- sell and Dietrich says his wife is making a broccoli casserole. But no one’s made a dessert. I know her mother’s church will take a lot of stuff, but if you could make a pie, that would mean that the Realtors had provided a full meal. Okay?”
“Make pie,” I wrote on my notepad. (Despite the fact that I was not a Realtor, and I supposed Eileen or Idella knew how to make a pie—probably Mackie, too, for that matter.)
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“This is Martin Bartell,” began the second message. “I’ll see you tonight at your mother’s.” I swear the sound of his voice made something vi- brate in me. I had it bad, no doubt about it. It was a helpless feeling, kind of like developing rabies, I figured. Though they had shots now for that, didn’t they? I wished I could take a shot and be over this thing with Martin Bartell. Aubrey was sexy, too, and a lot safer; perhaps, despite my doubts, our relationship was viable. With an effort, I dismissed Martin from my thoughts and began to rummage through the freezer to see if I had enough pecans for pecan pie.
Not enough pecans. Not enough coconut for Ger- man chocolate pie. (Yes, pie. I never make the cake.) Not any cream cheese for cheesecake. I turned my search to the cabinets. Ha! There was a can of pump- kin that must have come out of Jane’s cupboard. I would make a pumpkin pie. I took off my navy blue sweater and put on my old red apron. After tying back my hair, which tends to fly into batter or get caught in dough, I set to work. After I cleaned up and ate my lunch—granola and yogurt and fruit—the pie was ready to go to Donnie Greenhouse’s.
Tonia Lee and Donnie’s modest home was sur- rounded by cars. I recognized Franklin Farrell’s Lin- coln parked right in front, and several more cars looked familiar, though I am not much of a one for re- membering cars. Franklin Farrell’s was the only pow- der blue Lincoln in Lawrenceton, and had been the subject of much comment since he’d bought it. Donnie Greenhouse was right inside the door. He looked white and stunned and yet somehow—exalted.
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He took my hand, the one that wasn’t balancing the pie, and pressed it with both of his.
“You are so kind to come, Roe,” he said with dole- ful pleasure. “Please sign the guest book.” Donnie had been handsome when Tonia Lee had married him seventeen years before. I remembered when they’d eloped; it had been the talk of the town, the high-school-graduation-night elopement that had been “so romantic” to Tonia Lee’s foolish mother and “goddamned stupid” to Donnie’s more realistic father, the high school football coach. Tonia Lee seemed to have worn Donnie thin. He’d been a husky football player when they’d married; now he was bony and looked undernourished in every way. Tonia Lee’s horri- ble death had given Donnie a stature he’d lacked for a long time, but it was not an attractive sight. I was glad to get my hand back, murmur the correct words of condolence, and escape to put the pie in the kitchen, which was already full of more homemade food than Donnie had eaten in the past six months, I’d have been willing to bet.
The cramped little kitchen, which had probably been ideal for Tonia Lee, a minimalist cook, was full of Tonia’s mom’s church buddies, who seemed to be mostly large ladies in polyester dresses. I looked in vain for Mrs. Purdy herself and asked a couple of the ladies, who suggested I try the bathroom.
This seemed a bit odd, but I made my way through the crowd to the hall bathroom. Sure enough, the door was open and Helen Purdy was seated on the (closed) toilet, dissolved in tears, with a couple of ladies com- forting her.
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“Mrs. Purdy?” I said tentatively.
“Oh, come in, Roe,” said the stouter of the two at- tendants, whom I now recognized as Lillian Schmidt, my former co-worker at the library. “Helen has cried so hard she’s gotten herself pretty sick, so just in case, we came in here.”
Oh, great. I made my face stick to its sympathetic lines and nervously approached Helen Purdy. “You saw her,” Helen said pitifully, her plain face soggy with grief. “How did she look, Aurora?” A vision of Tonia Lee’s obscenely bare bosom flashed through my head. “She looked very”—I paused for inspiration—“peaceful.” The bulging eyes of the dead woman, staring blankly out from her posed body, looked at me again. “At rest,” I said, and nodded em- phatically to Helen Purdy.
“I hope she went to Jesus,” wailed Helen, and began crying again.
“I hope so, too,” I whispered from my heart, ignor- ing the wave of doubt that washed unbidden through my mind.
“She never could find peace on earth, maybe she can find it in heaven.”
Then Helen just seemed to faint, and I backed hastily out of the little bathroom so Lillian and her companion could work over her.
I saw one of the local doctor’s nurses in the family room and told her quietly that Helen had collapsed. She hurried to the bathroom, and feeling tha
t I’d done the best I could, I looked around for someone to talk to. I couldn’t leave yet—I hadn’t been there quite long enough, my inner social clock told me.
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I spied Franklin Farrell’s head of thick gray hair over the heads crowding the room, and “excuse me’d” over to him. Franklin, a spectacularly tan and handsome man, had been selling real estate since coming to Lawrenceton thirty or more years before. “Roe Teagarden,” Franklin said as I reached his side, giving every appearance of great pleasure. “I’m glad to see you, even though I’m sorry it’s here, on such a sad occasion.”
“I’m sorry it’s here, too,” I said grimly. I told him about Helen.
He shook his handsome head. “She has always been wrapped up in Tonia Lee,” he said. “Tonia Lee was Helen’s only child, you know.”
“And Donnie’s only wife.”
He looked taken aback. “Well, yes, but as we all know . . .” Here he realized that bringing up Tonia Lee’s infidelities would hardly be proper. “I know.”
“I brought a fruit salad with Jezebel sauce,” he said, to change the subject. Franklin was one of the few single men in town who didn’t mind confessing that he cooked for himself and did it well. His home was also definitely decorated, and beautifully so. Despite his flair for inte- rior design, and his penchant for cooking something other than barbecue, no one had ever accused Franklin of being effeminate. Too many well-known cars had been parked overnight in the vicinity of his house. “I brought a pumpkin pie.”
“Terry’s bringing marinated mushrooms.” I tried not to gape. It was hard to picture Donnie and Helen Purdy appreciating marinated mushrooms.
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“Terry doesn’t always have a solid sense of occa- sion,” Franklin said, enjoying my expression. Franklin and Terry Sternholtz were certainly the odd pair of the Lawrenceton realty community. Frank- lin was sophisticated, smooth, a charmer. Everything about him was planned, immaculate, controlled, ge- nial. And here Terry came, covered dish in her hand, her chin-length red hair permed and tossed into fash- ionable disarray. Terry Sternholtz said just about any- thing that entered her head, and since she was well-read, an amazing number of things did. She nod- ded at her boss, grinned at me, and mouthed “Let me get this to the kitchen” before being swallowed by the crowd. Terry had freckles and an open, all-American face.
In sharp contrast, I found myself staring at a picture of Tonia Lee that hung over the fireplace. It had been taken at one of those instant-glamour photography places that dot suburban malls. Tonia was elaborately made-up, her hair sexily tousled and softer than her normal teased style. She had a black feather boa trail- ing across her neck, and her dark eyes were smolder- ing. It was quite a production, and to have hung it over her fireplace where she could view it constantly meant Tonia Lee had been very pleased with it. “She was quite a woman,” Franklin said, following my gaze. “Couldn’t sell real estate worth a damn, but she was determined her personal life was going to be memorable.”
That was a strange but appropriate epitaph for the misguided and horribly dead Tonia Lee Greenhouse, née Purdy.
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“You go out running every evening right after work, don’t you?” I asked him.
“Yes, almost always, unless it’s raining or below freezing,” Franklin said agreeably. “Why?” “So you must have been out Wednesday evening.” “I guess so. Yes, it hasn’t rained this week, so I must have run.”
“Did you see Mackie Knight?”
He thought. “So often I see the same people who ex- ercise at the same time I do, and I’m not sure if I did see Mackie that evening or not. I don’t always, because I vary my route. There are two I like, and I pretty much alternate them. Mackie seems to pick his at random. I remember it was Wednesday when I saw Terry and Eileen; they walk together most evenings. But I remem- ber only because Terry congratulated me again on a sale I’d made that day. I saw Donnie, riding his bike, that new ten-speed . . . I’m sorry, Roe, I just can’t re- member about Mackie specifically. How come?” I told him about Mackie’s questioning by the police. “I can’t believe they’re so sure another car wasn’t there!” Franklin looked very skeptical. “Someone must have shut their eyes for a minute or two, either the woman across the street or the couple behind the An- derton house. And it seems pretty strange to me that both doors were watched that very night.” I shrugged. But I thought of what the killer had had to do—move Tonia Lee’s car to the rear of Greenhouse Realty, then get home on foot. If the killer’s car had been at the house, too, he’d either have had to go all the way back to the Anderton house from Greenhouse Re- alty to move his own car, or return from taking his
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own car home to get Tonia Lee’s. It seemed almost cer- tain someone would have noticed the other car. I was thinking of the killer as “he” because of Tonia Lee’s nudity.
Terry Sternholtz returned while I was still thinking it through.
“You look awful grim, Roe,” she said.
“Considering the occasion . . .”
“Sure, sure. It’s terrible what happened to Tonia Lee. All us females are going to have to be more careful—right, Eileen?” Eileen had just appeared at Terry’s elbow, looking especially impressive in a black- and-white suit and huge black earrings. “I’m glad we took that self-defense course,” Eileen said.
“When was this?” I asked.
“Oh, a year ago, I guess. We drove into Atlanta to take it. And we practice the moves the woman taught us. But I guess, if Tonia let herself be tied up like that, she wouldn’t have had a chance anyway.” Terry shook her head.
Franklin looked startled. He must not have heard that titillating fact. Even worse, Donnie Greenhouse was standing very close, with his back to us, talking to a woman whose hair and glasses were exactly the same gray-blue. But Donnie didn’t turn around, so appar- ently he hadn’t heard Terry. She, too, had spotted Don- nie and was making a horrified face at us to show she realized her gaffe. Eileen gave her the reproving look you give a close friend, the one that says, “You block- head, you did it again, but I love you anyway.” Eileen and Terry were apparently closer than I’d
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realized. Now that I considered it, I believed it was Terry who’d answered the phone at Eileen’s when I’d called this morning. Eileen was at least ten or more years older than Terry, but they had a lot in common, it seemed. They worked for competing real estate firms, but they were the only single female real estate dealers in Lawrenceton. Well, there was Idella, but she hadn’t been divorced very long.
I’d always assumed (along with everyone else in Lawrenceton) that Terry and Franklin were lovers, at least occasionally, because with Franklin’s reputation it was impossible to believe he could share an office with a woman and not try to seduce her, and it was as- sumed in Lawrenceton (especially by the male popula- tion) that almost all of his seduction attempts were successful. But the way Franklin and Terry were stand- ing, the way they spoke to each other, didn’t add up to an intimate relationship. If I’d had to pick a pair of lovers out of our little group, it would have been Eileen and Terry.
This was an idea I had to adjust to. I had no prob- lem with it. I just had to adjust.
Donnie Greenhouse joined our little circle, and my attention was claimed by his doleful face and his strangely exultant eyes. Somewhere behind those pale compressed lips lurked a grin of triumph. I realized I would rather mash the pumpkin pie in his face than have him eat it, and stomped the thought down into my “Examine Later” compartment. That compartment was filling up rapidly today. Donnie put his hand on Franklin’s shoulder.
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“Thanks so much for coming,” the new widower said. “It’s great to know our—my—fellow profession- als ar
e showing such support.”
Embarrassed, we all mumbled appropriate things. “Tonia Lee would have been so pleased to see you all here. Mrs. Queensland was here this morning, and Mark Russell and Jamie Dietrich were here, and I see Idella coming in the door . . . this has meant so much to me and Tonia Lee’s mom. She’s had to lie down in the guest bedroom.”
“Do you have any idea yet when the funeral will be?” Eileen asked.
“Not for sure . . . probably next week sometime. I should be able to get Tonia Lee’s—remains back from the autopsy by then. Now, Terry—you be sure and come to the funeral.”
Terry looked considerably surprised. “Of course I will, Donnie.”
We were all shuffling around trying to figure out what to say when Donnie suddenly burst out, “I know you all will back me up with the police and tell them I couldn’t have hurt Tonia Lee! That woman detective seems to think I could have killed Tonia, but let me tell you”—suddenly he was breathing very fast and other people were turning to look at us—“if I’d been going to do it, I’d have done it long before this!” Now that I could believe.
The room hushed, and everyone tried to find some- where else to look. As if moved by one impulse, we all gazed at the ridiculous glamour photograph blown up to such huge proportions above the fireplace. Tonia
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Lee’s false smoldering eyes stared back at us. Her wid- ower broke out in sobs.
This was undoubtedly a scene that would be forever enshrined in Lawrenceton folklore, but telling about it in a year would be a lot more fun than being here at the actual moment it occurred. We all looked at the front door longingly, and as soon as decently possible, the crowd began to flow out, washing the little cluster of Realtors with it. Donnie had pulled himself together enough to shake the hands of those leaving. I noticed quite a number of them managed to wipe their hands against their clothes, unobtrusively. I know I did.
An hour of reading the newest Joan Hess restored me. I may have dozed off a little, because when I looked at the clock, I found it was past time to get ready for Mother’s dinner party. I dashed up the stairs, took a very brief shower to freshen up, and stood in front of my open closet, faced with a sartorial dilemma. I had to look nice for Aubrey without having it seem as if I was looking my best for Martin Bartell. Well, that was treading a very fine line indeed. What would I have worn if I’d never met Martin? If I were just going to a dinner to greet a new person in town? I’d wear my royal blue dress and matching pumps, with my pearl earrings. Too dressy? Maybe I should wear nice pants and a pretty blouse? I called my mother to find out what she was wearing. A dress, she told me definitely. But the royal blue suddenly looked boring— high-necked and vaguely military with its two rows of
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