by Joan Hess
I moved the pitcher out of his (and Luanne’s) reach. “This was the day before her father was killed. Joplin’s not that far, Joey.”
“Maybe an hour and a half, something like that,” he said. “After I got back, I went by her mother’s house, but neither Daphne or Sheila would let me inside or even see Skyler to make sure he was okay. They were both acting crazy, saying they were going to be rich. They wouldn’t tell me anything except to say I was"—he groped for the word—”superfluous. I guess I should have been flattered. I don’t know what it means, but it sounds cool.”
“And it is,” Luanne cooed.
I gave her a hard look, then turned back to Joey. “So that’s the last time you saw her? You didn’t let her borrow your car the next night?”
“She doesn’t even know how to drive a stick shift.”
“So she never drove your car?”
“No,” he said with such conviction that my hypothesis dissipated along with the foam in the beer pitcher. “I tried to teach her once, but she damn near stripped the gears.”
“Does her mother have a car?”
“Yeah, a big clunker out in a garage behind her house, but I don’t know if it still runs. She can walk to a grocery store and a liquor store, which is about all she ever goes to. She’s a real crazy bitch.”
“Who thinks she is going to be rich,” I said. “Did she find a Picasso in the attic?”
“Picasso who? I knew a guy back in Mexico named Picasso, but we called him Pico. What would he be doing in her attic?”
I tried not to sigh. “Did she or Daphne say anything that might have indicated why they expected to come into some money?”
“I don’t think they were planning to hold up a convenience store or a bank, if that’s what you’re thinking. There were some photo albums on the table when I was there. Maybe she remembered she was the daughter of the king of England or something like that. Whatever it was, Daphne was buying it. She shoved me out onto the porch and slammed the door in my face. I would have kicked down the door and slapped the shit out of her, but I’m on probation.”
Luanne refilled his mug. “So how did you end up out here with that woman?”
“Bocaraton? She’s okay, just kinda protective. She was at Dante’s the other night, and offered to let me stay with her until I find a job.”
“Two nights ago?” I asked.
“Yeah. I was really pissed at Daphne, so I went for a beer. Bocaraton got to feeling kinda … frisky, and we left about ten. I haven’t been out of the trailer park since then, except to buy beer and pork rinds. Bocaraton keeps whining at me to go apply for a job at the poultry plant where she works, but I ain’t the kind to yank guts out of dead chickens.”
“I gather you didn’t get the job in Joplin, then?”
His jaw tightened. “No. Soon as the jerk heard I’d been in jail, he hustled me out and told me not to come back.”
I was surprised to hear he’d found the need to share the less savory details of his personal life. “Then why did you mention it?”
Bocaraton was not the only resident of the Pot O’ Gold adept at whining. “It’s on account of being on probation,” he said. “If my probation officer agreed to let me move out of state, I’d have to have a letter from the boss that said I really did have the job and what the pay was. If I just split, the first time I got stopped for speeding, I’d end up back in jail. Buncha crap.” He chugged what beer remained in his mug. “Yeah, buncha crap.”
“Aren’t you interested in Skyler?” asked Luanne.
“I figure the state has him in foster care, which is a lot better than sleeping in a car. Besides, Bocaraton ain’t exactly what you’d call motherly.” He gave us a lopsided grin. “You girls ready for another pitcher? Maybe a little dancing?”
“Perhaps another time,” I murmured, then dropped a dollar tip on the table and left witji Luanne. “It sounds as though our boy has an alibi,” I said as we climbed into her car. “And not much of a motive, for that matter.”
Luanne pulled out in time to avoid being trapped behind a tractor inching down the middle of the road. “If he was telling the truth, he didn’t have any idea that Daphne was going to the house.”
“She and her mother told him they were going to be rich. Maybe they let drop something that led him to believe he could steal something of value.”
“There’s been no suggestion of robbery.”
I rubbed my temples. “So he waited until Bocaraton passed out, which is not improbable, then went to Armstrong’s house. Unaware that Daphne was upstairs, he confronted Armstrong and shot him. He fled out the back door. Daphne made the unfortunate decision to go out the front door just as Adrienne drove up.”
“Or,” said Luanne, always pragmatic, “he and Daphne arranged to meet there at half past eleven. While she was searching upstairs, he went into the office and ended up killing Armstrong. She realized the gun would incriminate them, so she snatched it up. Adrienne didn’t see Joey because he wasn’t gallant enough to pause and help Daphne down the front steps. Which means she lied to you, but stranger things have happened.”
“But Randy Scarpo saw her get in a car and drive away.” I mentally replayed what he’d said. “No, he saw her run by and then heard her get in a car and drive away. Joey could have made it to the car a minute or two earlier and waited for her. He could be the one who actually drove away, with Daphne as a passenger. She didn’t want to incriminate him because … well, because he’s Skyler’s father and she’s the most fatalistic creature I’ve ever met. She’s docilely accepted everything that has happened to her as though she deserved it. She needs a transfusion of Caron’s blood. Even Inez has more spirit.”
“Or she could be telling the truth,” said Luanne, “as could Joey.”
I caught her wrist before she could turn on the radio. “I’m going to have to talk to Daphne again, but I don’t know how to get past Peter. The dispatcher’s probably still smarting from the lecture he must have given her, and will not give me a warm welcome.”
“You could tell him the truth.”
“I’m not prepared to do that just yet.” I thought for a long moment. “I could get a wig and sunglasses, and claim I’m Daphne’s mother. I’m fairly confident Sheila hasn’t visited her, or will anytime soon.”
“The dispatcher most likely has your photo tacked on her bulletin board. Nothing short of cosmetic surgery is going to get you past her or any of the other dispatchers.”
I gazed at pastures dotted with blissful bovines. “You could get away with it, Luanne. As long as Peter and Jorgeson are out—”
“I am not about to get myself arrested for impersonating Sheila. I may be a crazy bitch, but I’m not certifiable. And why do you think Daphne would tell me anything? I don’t exactly inspire confidence in grocery checkers, bank tellers, and store clerks. The missionaries won’t even knock on my door anymore. My clientele is discerning but wary. Daphne’s more likely to spill her secrets to Jessica than to me.”
“Well, then, what are we going to do?” I demanded plaintively. “Kidnap the delightful Bocaraton and threaten to shave her underarms until she repudiates Joey’s alibi? Are there any iron cots in the basement under your store? Can we pick up handcuffs at the thrift shop?”
“Bocaraton undoubtedly shaves her underarms with a switchblade and gives herself manicures with a hedge trimmer. What about talking to Adrienne?”
“She has no reason to let me in her house, much less answer any questions.”
Luanne glanced at me. “I have one tiny suggestion, but you’re not going to like it.”
“Don’t even bother to say it,” I said with a groan.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The following morning after I’d fed and bathed Skyler, I called the Farberville Fitness Center and inquired about trial memberships. I listened to a rote recital of all the seemingly endless packages and options, then at last was told I could have a free two-day pass.
“Do you have day care?” I as
ked.
“From seven in the morning until nine at night,” the girl said proudly, “and it’s only four-fifty an hour. Once you’re enrolled as a premium member, it’s a dollar an hour. We also have special classes for mothers and toddlers, and gymnastics classes for school-aged children if you purchase the inclusive family fitness plan.”
I let her prattle on for a few more minutes, then ended the conversation. As I went past the bathroom, I could hear the shower running. I could not hear what its occupant was saying, but that was just as well. She’d certainly aired her grievances at length the previous evening. I’d offered my entire arsenal of sympathetic platitudes to no avail. She’d stomped up and down the hallway so many times that the downstairs tenant must have thought we were training horses (and not the type one whispered to). I had remained firm, but I was a little bit worried about Rhonda’s future well-being.
I’d changed into a T-shirt and shorts, and was putting on my less than fashionable sneakers when Caron marched into the kitchen and yanked open the refrigerator door with enough vehemence to cause the pickle jars to clink.
“Where’s the orange juice?” she snapped.
“On the counter by the sink. I made some toast for you.”
“Doesn’t the death row inmate get to choose what he or she wants as a last meal before being subjected to a Lethal Injection of Humiliation?”
I finished tying my shoes but remained where I was. “It’s not going to be that bad, dear. Your friends know you couldn’t have had a baby. If someone says something snide, just say the baby belongs to my cousin, who’s visiting us. Second cousin Connie from Cannes, or Helga from Helsinki. Inez is the only person at Farberville High who knows the truth.”
Caron came to the doorway with a glass in one hand and a gnawed piece of toast in the other. “So you’re telling me I should lie?” she said, her nostrils quivering.
“At times it’s necessary. I’ve never blatantly lied to Peter, but I’ve had to omit information or misrepresent things just a tiny bit.”
“God, I hope I don’t turn out like you,” she said as she went to her room and slammed the door.
I decided it might be wiser to let her walk to school in hopes she might burn off some of her fury before she went into the high school and a misbegotten soul said something imprudent. I put Skyler in the basket, grabbed the diaper bag, took him downstairs, then conscientiously strapped him in the car seat. Madness, I told myself as we drove toward the fitness center. I owned no sleek Spandex shorts, no terrycloth sweatbands, no designer shoes. My last attempt to participate in an aerobics class had left my internal organs begging to be put out of their collective misery.
“Skyler, my buddy,” I said as I pulled into the parking lot, “I hope you’ll remember this when you’re a CEO of a multinational conglomerate. You owe me big time.”
I carried him inside and found the desk. “I called earlier about a trial membership,” I said to a girl with choppy purple hair and abnormally bright eyes.
“We are so glad to see you! I just know you’re going to love it here. Why, I’d sleep here every night if they’d let me, but Randy—he’s my boss—makes me leave at ten. Of course it’s pretty quiet by then, but you know what I’d love to do? Run a marathon on the treadmill while listening to Hawg’s Breath on my headphones. He is so phat!”
“Then he should run with you,” I said. “Do you want me to fill out a form?”
“That is the most darling baby I’ve ever seen! Boy or girl?”
For the sake of expediency, I resisted the urge to say neither and picked up a pen. The girl crouched over Skyler and cooed at him while I tackled several pages of questions more intrusive than a medical history or a tax return. I did not see a need to answer truthfully.
When she rejoined me, she gave me a schedule of classes and offered to show me around the sprawling facility. I allowed her to escort us to the day-care room, where a middle-aged woman with less-alarming hair seemed reasonably pleased to add Skyler to the roster for what I promised would be only an hour. He could use a brief spot of socialization, I told myself with a pang of guilt as I handed the basket and diaper bag over to a stranger who could very well be a psychotic kidnapper who prowled neonatal wards, as well as day-care rooms.
I bit back the urge to demand the woman’s references and allowed my purple-haired Sherpa to lead me to the weights room. After ascertaining that Adrienne was not there, I shooed her away and wandered down various hallways until I once again found the tennis courts.
Adrienne was seated on a bench, her left foot on her right knee so that she could massage her ankle. Beside her was a young woman of a similar age, putting away her racket in a canvas bag that undoubtedly murmured of money to those with keener ears than mine.
“Adrienne Armstrong?” I said as I approached them.
“Yes,” she said, “I am. And you are…”
I held out my hand. “Claire Malloy. I wanted to tell you how sorry I was to hear about what happened to Anthony. It must be a nightmare for you. Your husband killed, and then your stepdaughter arrested.”
Her eyes narrowed as she touched my hand. “Do we know each other?”
“Oh, I’m afraid not,” I said with a little laugh. “Anthony was a dear old friend, although we hadn’t seen each other since my husband’s death so many years ago. At the time, Anthony was there for me. I don’t know how I could have coped without his wise advice.”
She remained leery. “Were you also friends with Sheila?”
“Sheila? Not my cup of tea, I’m afraid, although Daphne always seemed like a nice girl. You must be very concerned about her.”
The second woman stood up. “Adrienne is terribly concerned about Daphne, but there’s not much she can do. I’m Chantilly Durmond, Adrienne’s sister.”
There was a strong resemblance. Both had blond hair, vaguely feline facial features, blue eyes, and wide mouths. It was hard to tell which one was older, and I doubted either would admit as much.
I squeezed her shoulder. “Isn’t it wonderful that you can be here for Adrienne during this dreadful time. I would have given anything to have a sister to shield me from the reporters and bolster my spirits in the evening. Do you live nearby?”
Adrienne handed her racket to Chantilly. “Be a dear and leave this at the pro shop to be restrung. I’ll meet you in the locker room in five minutes.” She waited until Chantilly left, then looked at me with decidedly cool eyes. “Anthony never mentioned you.”
“This was years ago,” I said dismissively, or so I hoped. “I’m so glad to find you here so that I can offer my condolences.”
“But you said that you and Anthony were close friends.”
“Perhaps I should have said associates. My husband dabbled in rentals around the campus.” That much was true, if somewhat euphemistic.
“Oh, really,” she said as she resumed massaging her ankle. “You must excuse me, ah, Ms. Malloy. I’m going to have to get ice on this before it begins to swell. It’s been weak since I sprained it in high school, and I wish I’d had enough sense not to risk an injury now. I have so many things to see to, what with the funeral and all. I anticipate at least five hundred people at the church, and then eighty at the luncheon afterwards—and what a circus that’s going to be. Anthony’s sister and her husband are vegans. His uncle is strictly meat and potatoes. His secretary is allergic to gluten, mushrooms, and dairy products; and his lawyer will go into anaphylactic shock if a bee so much as looks at him cross-eyed. His grandmother, who must be a hundred and sixty years old, starts in with her gin at nine in the morning. How am I supposed to arrange this? It’s going to be a disaster, the talk of the town for the next ten years.”
I picked up her gym bag. “Let me help you, Adrienne. Chantilly and I will get you home and settle you in with a nice cup of tea and an ice pack, then start making phone calls.”
“Do you really know how to do this?” she asked tearily. “I could, but my husband’s been murdered and the police are cr
awling all over the yard. Reporters are lined along the driveway like starving hyenas. That woman— that dreadful woman—that beastly woman—”
“Jessica Princeton?”
“Yes!” Adrienne said as she grabbed my arm and pulled herself to her feet with only a genteel grunt. “Can you believe she had the audacity to show up here, my one haven, and pretend she was a member! Sucking up to me, trying to trick me into”—she gulped loudly— “telling her things about my private life with Anthony. Is there no decency in this world?”
“Outrageous,” I said.
“So you will come by and help? Chantilly simply has no idea how to put on a luncheon of this magnitude. When your husband died, you must have gained some experience.”
“Some.” I saw no reason to elaborate. After Carlton’s funeral, about a dozen of us had gone out for pizza. Out of respect for his memory, we’d eschewed anchovies. Carlton had always turned up his nose at anchovies, so it was the least we could do. He wasn’t fond of black olives, either, but we were willing to make only so many concessions.
“I will be so grateful,” Adrienne continued. “You are such a dear friend … ah?”
“Claire,” I supplied. “I have a small complication, but I’ll come over to your house in an hour. I hope we’ll have a chance to talk further.”
Chantilly joined us in the hall. “I left your racket, and they promised to have it in a week. Adrienne, you absolutely must go home and lie down. The reverend is coming by at eleven to discuss the service, and the funeral director is asking all these ludicrous questions. I cannot cope with either if I don’t have a stiff Bloody Mary. When Mother and Daddy died, Aunt Beebie and the church ladies took care of everything. When my goldfish bellied up, I flushed it down the toilet. I don’t know what to say to all these reporters and detectives. I don’t even know what to say to the damn florist!”
Adrienne touched her sister’s lips. “Claire has agreed to supervise things.”
I did the best I could to keep the panic out of my eyes. “I’ll be at the house shortly. Please instruct the police to allow me inside.”
