by Joan Hess
“And she has no theories about where Daphne might have taken refuge?”
“How would I know!” Jessica growled, then regained control of herself and smiled, albeit sternly. “Moving along, Miss Emily Parchester has now maintained her vigil in the oak tree at Oakland Heights, Phase Two, for five days, despite inclement weather earlier in the week and the possibility of thunderstorms tomorrow. The spokesman for the Farberville Green Party, Assistant Professor Finnigan Baybergen, declined to speak on camera but issued a statement that although his group sympathized with Anthony Armstrong’s family, the party would not back away from its moral commitment to die local environment.”
Their focus drifted on to other stories. I switched off the TV, glumly ate as much of the congealed macaroni and cheese as I could stomach, then tried to sort through what I knew. It took very little time. At some point I heard footsteps downstairs, but they were followed only by the sound of the tenant going into his or her apartment. My novel did not appeal. Network TV was tedious, and my accountant had forbade me from paying for additional channels. Next door, the Kappa Theta Etas squealed, as was their custom, then subsided. I flinched as a branch scraped against the side of the house, and again when a car slowed down on the street. I realized I was quite as paranoid as Adrienne Armstrong, and her pretext was stronger than mine.
When the telephone rang, I lunged for the receiver as though expecting the governor to grant a last-minute reprieve. “Yes?” I gasped.
“Are you okay?” demanded Caron. “You sound like there are rabid monkeys beating at the window.”
“No, I’m fine,” I said as I untangled my feet and sat up. “The monkeys gave up half an hour ago.”
“You are so bizarre, Mother. I just called to say that Inez and I are going to sleep over at Luanne’s tonight. We’re going to watch movies.”
“Luanne is more than capable of looking after Skyler. She has two children who both started out as babies.”
“I know that. We just think we ought to be there in case something happens. At the press conference, Luanne was pushing the stroller. Daphne could have shopped at Secondhand Rose, or at least seen Luanne through the window.”
“That’s a little bit far-fetched, isn’t it?”
“It may be, but it’s what Inez and I want to do, and Luanne was agreeable. You don’t need the car, do you?”
“No, I’m not planning to go anywhere,” I said. “However, I want you to be home tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. I promised Adrienne I’d go out there at ten to flap my hands at the caterer, who’ll probably respond in kind with a butcher knife. If we don’t have adequate lemons and limes, I’ll have to go to the grocery store. Randy’s wife doesn’t appear to actually go anywhere, but she seems to feel strongly that their car should be parked in front of their condo.”
“Whatever,” said Caron. “Nine o’clock.”
I wished her a pleasurable evening, then hung up. The phone rang almost immediately. I picked it up, expecting Caron to argue that she didn’t need to be home before nine-thirty.
“Claire!”
This time I recognized Adrienne’s voice. “Is something wrong?” I said.
“Chantilly’s not back and I’m really scared. I turned on all the outside lights and set the security system so that no one can so much as touch a doorknob without the alarm blaring. I’ve tried to sit down and read a magazine, but I keep hearing noises. I think I should call the police and demand that they send someone to patrol the grounds.”
I wondered if Caron and Inez could be diverted to baby-sit for someone older than Skyler. The casseroles wouldn’t appeal, but all the desserts might.
“No, Adrienne,” I said patiently. “You’re inside with the doors locked and the security system on. Why don’t you have a bowl of ice cream and watch TV? Chantilly will be back before long.”
“I don’t see how I can go to sleep until she’s here. That means tomorrow my eyes will be red and my face all puffy like a raw biscuit. The media are going to be crawling all over this, from the church to the cemetery, and then out in front when guests arrive. I’ll be a laughingstock on the news tomorrow night. That horrid reporter will be gloating during every second of the film clip.”
“Then go to bed so you’ll be presentable.”
Adrienne must have realized die futility of trying to talk me into a pajama party. “I know I’m being silly. I’ll just go upstairs and take a bath and give myself a facial. Chantilly has a prescription for sleeping pills somewhere in her bathroom or on the dresser.”
In that she was entirely too self-centered to commit suicide and therefore miss her Tae Bo classes and the opportunity to be recruited for Junior League, I wished her a peaceful night.
Then, wishing myself the same, I went to bed.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I was drinking coffee and reading the newspaper when Caron came home the next morning. “Did you have a good time?” I asked.
“Yeah, everything was fine, but Luanne must liave the most uncomfortable sofa bed on the planet. If prisoners of war were forced to sleep on it, they’d spill their guts after eight hours.” She went into the kitchen and returned with a glass of milk. “She said she was happy to keep Skyler until she heard from you. You didn’t hear from Daphne, did you?”
“No,” I said. “Do you have a black or navy skirt?”
“So I can audition to be in an orchestra? I hate to remind you, Mother, but I flunked out of the rhythm band to kindergarten, and was the only kid in the fifth grade who never learned to play‘Greensleeves’ on a recorder. It was very traumatic.”
“So you can accompany me to the preluncheon frenzy at Adrienne Armstrong’s house. The caterer will have a staff of ten or twelve. Jacque, as he calls himself, won’t even notice that he didn’t hire you. If need be, I’ll pass you off as the bartender’s apprentice.”
“Do I get tips?”
“You might. What’s more important is that you’ll have the chance to poke around inside and see if you can figure out what Daphne was looking for. The guests won’t start arriving until shortly after noon. If you dress like everyone else, you’ll be faceless.”
“That is, like, so appealing,” Caron said. “Can I also aspire to be nameless, aimless, and listless?”
“Adrienne’s afraid that Daphne is hiding in the woods around the house, waiting for an opportunity to sneak inside. She could be right. The staff will all be bustling about, and I’m not sure I can disappear for more than a minute or two. I’ll draw you a layout of the second floor.”
Caron sat down and crossed her arms. “And if Daphne actually is there, with a gun, frothing at the mouth, I’ll rate a bartender at my funeral? Better still, how about three oboes, a piccolo, and a mime? Rhonda will be so envious she’ll commit suicide just so her parents can hire the Rockettes.”
“Take a shower, dear. We need to leave in forty-five minutes.”
Which we did, with some grumbling from the passenger’s side of the car.
Having never attended a catered wake, I wasn’t sure that there wouldn’t be a tip jar on the bar. For all I knew, protocol would demand a string quartet seated at a discreet distance, diverting us from our grief with Bach and Vivaldi. Military jets might fly over in formation to offer a salute. It was just as well I wasn’t rich, since I would have flubbed it at every turn.
Jacque and his forces had already descended with the subdety of a high school drill team. Several vans were parked haphazardly on the road and in the driveway. Minions, dressed as I’d predicted, hustled back and forth, toting covered trays and roasting pans. No violins, violas, and cellos were in evidence, but the possibility could not be dismissed—unless, of course, the current vogue was bugles and bagpipes.
Caron stared. “And I’m supposed to say,‘Excuse me while I run down to the basement to search for clues’?”
“Try to blend in. If Jacque notices, tell him that you’re with the bartender.”
“I’m going to have to get a new role model
, Mother— one who won’t oblige me to learn how to make martinis for mourners. Doesn’t this seem just a Little Bit Ludicrous?”
“No more so than filling Rhonda Maguire’s locker with cheese sauce,” I said. “Now go inside and pretend you’re a staffer. When you have the chance, wander away from the action.”
“Upstairs, downstairs, and in my lady’s chamber?”
“Don’t forget the attic,” I said, then sent her into the fray.
Randy Scarpo came walking out of the woods beyond the driveway, dressed in the standard outfit. “I thought I’d better start the prep work,” he said cheerfully. “Slice lemons and limes, stick toothpicks through olives, that sort of stuff.”
“You’ve done this before?”
“At the country club before I took the job at the fitness center. The pay’s about the same, and now I can work out four or five times a week.”
“Did you encounter Anthony Armstrong at the country club?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, grimacing. “He and his pals had their own reserved table in a corner where they played poker when it was too cold or rainy for golf. It used to take me half an hour to clean up after they left. If I was lucky, someone left a couple of dollars as a tip.”
“What did their wives think about it?”
“Some of them bitched about the cigar smoke and the noise, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it. Adrienne was one of the few who thought it was funny. She used to say they reminded her of rowdy children playing‘Go Fish and Chips.’ If that’s all, Ms. Malloy…”
“Is Jillian coming for the luncheon?”
“No, she’s taking Connor to the park—even though, according to her, he’s likely to be kidnapped by men in black ski masks and held for ransom. She has a vivid imagination for someone so dull.”
I felt an irrational need to defend Jillian despite her flagrant dislike of yours truly or, as far as I could tell, anyone else except Connor. “I read the article about the fire last year. That must have alarmed both of you.”
Randy smirked. “She didn’t even know what was going on until the fire trucks and paramedics arrived. It wasn’t like we were in any danger, but she acted as though we were in the path of a lava flow from Pompeii. She wanted to pack suitcases and move to a motel—in another state.”
“I’m a mother,” I said, “and I know how the maternal instinct kicks in when the cubs are threatened. Did you try to talk to her?”
“Yes, and in words of one syllable. I’d better start setting up the bar.”
I refrained from tripping him and followed him into the house. He continued out to the backyard, but I dutifully went into the kitchen. A man who looked more like a burly carnival roustabout than a master of haute cuisine was bellowing at a girl who was slouched over a cutting board. Carrot fragments were scattered on the counter.
“I said thin! These are chunks! Disgusting chunks! Throw them in the garbage and start again, but this time pay attention. Otherwise, I’ll demonstrate for you, using your thumbs!” He glared until she nodded, then looked at me. “I was told no guests would arrive until noon. You’ll have to find some other place to stand. I suggest the middle of the nearest highway.”
I considered bristling but decided it was below me. “I’m Claire Malloy. At Adrienne Armstrong’s request, I spoke to you on the phone yesterday. I promised her I’d come here this morning in case any problems arise.”
“I am Jacque Chambrun, not a short-order cook at a diner. Three weeks ago I catered a banquet for five hundred corporate executives and their spouses. Next week I’m doing a wedding dinner for three hundred. If I have a problem, I see to it myself. At this moment, you are a problem, since you’re blocking the door. Are you able to escort yourself out of the kitchen, or should I help you?”
“Pardonez-moi? Oh, sorry, you’re not French, are you?” I winked at him, then left before he could attack me with a chunky carrot stick. I went on to the backyard, where Caron and several other staffers were spreading tablecloths on round tables. Randy was behind a makeshift bar, transferring maraschino cherries from a jar to a glass. The grass was clipped, the flower beds beginning to show promise. The clouds rolling in, however, were promising something entirely different.
Caron gave me a piteous look, but I ignored her and returned inside. My presence was not needed outside, and clearly was not welcome in the kitchen. I dodged a couple of boys with cartons of china, considered the possibilities, and finally decided to do a more careful search upstairs. I’d looked around Daphne’s bedroom, but I’d done nothing more than peek at the master suite or any of the other bedrooms. Or the attic, if indeed there was one. It seemed inordinately gothic to go there with a storm approaching, replete with flashes of lightning to illuminate the horribly mutilated lunatic crouched behind the chimney.
Mary Shelley, please meet your party at the gate.
As I reached the bottom of the staircase, I noticed the door to Anthony’s office was ajar. I’d closed it the day before, so it was obvious that someone else had been there since then. Which was interesting. I smiled brightly as a girl came through the front door with a suitably stunted floral arrangement, waited until she continued on her way, then moved quietly toward the office.
I wasn’t really expecting to find anyone inside as I opened the door, and therefore gurgled unattractively as I gaped at Finnigan Baybergen, who was seated behind the desk.
“This is really most fascinating,” he murmured.
I stepped inside and closed the door. “Yes, it is. Feel free to elaborate.”
“I was speaking of the abstract,” he said as he held up a thick pad of pages. “I found it in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet in the closet.”
“Adrienne made it very clear yesterday that you’re not welcome in her home. I doubt she’s changed her mind since then.”
“Which is why I waited until I was sure she would be at the funeral. I didn’t expect to see you here, though. I find it difficult to understand your role in this, Ms. Malloy. You claim to be an ally of Miss Parchester, yet you seem to be spending a lot of time in this house.”
“So do you.”
“Only because it’s important that I confirm the existence of particular information that Armstrong was privy to. His wife does not seem inclined to allow me access to his files, and she’ll have me arrested if I’m here when she returns. Why don’t you run along to your little bookstore? I’ll put everything back where I found it and be careful to close the door when I leave. It will be for the best if you don’t mention I was here.”
“I’m not one of your freshman botany students, Baybergen,” I said. “What’s the document you’re reading?”
“As I said, the abstract.”
“The abstract of what?” I said, thinking of slides from an art appreciation class that I’d taken to avoid modern dance. I am a woman of many talents, but fluttering is not among them.
“Oakland Heights, of course. You do understand what an abstract is, don’t you?” My blank look answered his question, and he continued as if he were lecturing the hapless on the distinction between liverwort and moss (which I am sure is a very sublime distinction, indeed). “It traces the ownership of a parcel of land back to its original grant from the government, in this case in 1854 by President Franklin Pierce. The parcel stayed in one family until shortly after the Civil War, when one must think the sons who might have inherited the homestead did not return. After that, the parcel changed hands quite a few times, sometimes for cash and other times as part of an estate, but in 1937 came into the possession of a family named”—he flipped through the pages—”Zorelli. Luther Zorelli inherited it from his father, Riccardo, in 1969. When Luther died in 1991, the parcel was passed on to his daughter, Sheila Armstrong, nee Zorelli. She immediately sold it to Armstrong Development, Inc. for one dollar and other valuable consideration. Three years ago she signed a quit claim deed, which terminated any lingering issue of dower rights.”
“Sheila.” I sat down on the
leather chair and tried to process what he’d said. “It must have included this area, too. I saw some old family photos with a farmhouse and a barn.”
“Forty acres,” said Baybergen wistfully, as if imagining his own little house on the prairie. “In these days of vast corporate farms, it doesn’t sound impressive, but it must have been adequate for Riccardo and his wife. Bear in mind that in 1937 this land was well out in the country. They wouldn’t have been burdened with utility bills.”
“I’ll have to agree it’s fascinating, but it doesn’t explain why you sneaked into the house and put yourself in danger of being arrested once again for trespassing. Couldn’t you have found all this at the courthouse?”
He rocked back in the chair and gave me a supercilious smile. “What makes you think I didn’t?”
“Because you’re here.”
“You have a point. Mr. Constantine and I did no more than a brief search of the deed books to determine the most recent owners of the property. What I find fascinating is the link all the way back to the pre-Civil War era. It’s hard to imagine why settlers would have come here. There’s no convenient access to a navigable river or—”
“What is it that you’re hoping to find?” I said. “There’s nothing in the abstract that you couldn’t have found in an extended search, and President Pierce is not going to revoke the grant.”
“Unfortunately, he is not,” Finnigan conceded. “I believe that somewhere in these files is a geological map that specifies the demarcation of the fault line, which will prove that Armstrong knew of the potential risk when he constructed Oakland Heights. It may be too late for the bastard to face criminal charges of reckless endangerment, but his estate will be subject to a civil lawsuit. We’ll see how many more condos Armstrong Development can construct after they pay a judgment of several million dollars. Juries can be generous to victims of callous disregard.”
“But you haven’t found the map?”
