by Joan Hess
“Yes, Your Honor,” I said, then turned back to Daphne. “Where have you been staying since yesterday morning?”
“So you can tell the cops?”
“So they can take you back into custody before anyone else gets hurt, including you. Did Arnie find a place for you to stay?”
“Arnie?” she said with the wide-eyed gaze of a porcelain doll.
“I know that he helped you escape yesterday. He’s admitted to the note, the clothes, and a lift from the courthouse. Where did he take you?”
“He didn’t take me anywhere. I went down to the basement and out the door.”
Miss Parchester cleared her throat. “I truly think you should be leaving. I don’t know what’s gotten into Howie, but he’s usually very diligent. You. both are likely to find yourselves in police custody should he return.”
“Let me take you to see Skyler,” I said to Daphne. “And then turn me in? I know you’re trying to help, Ms. Malloy, but I have to take care of myself first. If I can just find Joey, I’ll ask him to look after Skyler.”
I wanted to shake some sense into her, but settled for a sigh. “How do you think you’re going to take care of yourself, Daphne? You’re broke, homeless, and have the questionable distinction of meriting an APB. The police will distribute flyers with your mug shot to all the establishments in Farberville, as well as to a certain bar in Waverly. You haven’t found this map that you and your mother are hoping will provide fodder for blackmail— which, by the way, happens to be a felony. Adrienne may well laugh and tell you to give the map to whomever you wish, including Finnigan Baybergen. She’ll be living in the Cayman Islands off the proceeds of your father’s estate long before the lawsuit reaches the court. Your share will be jeopardized, but you won’t see a penny of it for another twelve years, anyway.”
“I won’t?” she said.
“Did you think you would if you killed him?”
“I didn’t kill him, Ms. Malloy. As soon as I got there, I went upstairs. Why won’t you believe me?”
“I wish I could, at least for Skyler’s sake.” A thought as unpleasant as the gathering storm clouds crossed my mind. “Are you protecting your mother? Do you think she went to the house to find this map?”
Daphne jumped to her feet. “No, she didn’t! I don’t trust you, Ms. Malloy. Maybe I’ll be in touch in a few days.”
She ran down the slope to the parking lot of Phase One. A car started seconds later and drove away.
“Goodness,” said Miss Parchester.
“Gracious,” I added.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Miss Parchester,” I said plaintively, “you have to tell me what you know.”
“If you don’t mind, my dear, I’d like to listen to the radio. News from the BBC comes on at noon, and although I don’t always understand the issues, I am an Anglophile. One of these days I aspire to take a bus tour of Kent and Cornwall. Oh, just imagine the cream teas, the gardens, the cathedrals, the pubs, the vicars… I become misty just thinking of it all.”
Only one word penetrated my mind. “Noon?”
“That is what I said. I’ve put on the kettle so I can have a cup of tea while I curl up with the members of Parliament. Such an elegant group, if a bit rowdy.”
The rope ladder had been retrieved while I’d talked, albeit unsuccessfully, with Daphne. I did not want to encounter Howie and find myself handcuffed in the backseat of a police car, or being obliged to write a check for bail. And it was approaching noon, when Adrienne and her guests would arrive, recuperating from their sorrow and ready for marinated coeurs d’artichaut, as I was sure Jacque called them after he’d spilled them out of jars and splashed on a little olive oil and garlic.
“I’ll be back,” I called to Miss Parchester.
“So will Howie.”
I muttered an expletive as I stood up, brushed off my derriere, and hurried up the path to the Armstrong house. Surely Adrienne would be swaddled by her close friends by now, or clinging to her lawyer’s arm as she stumbled to the buffet table. I no longer had a reason to search the house. The geological map was more likely to be at Anthony’s business office than on a dresser in Chantilly’s room or the master suite. Or in Finnigan Baybergen’s pocket. Or long sent blowing in the wind. A treasure map it was not, but only a squiggly hodgepodge of lines that might have indicated the presence of a fault line that might have caused a fire.
If all was running smoothly, I could clutch Adrienne’s hand and offer condolences, then spirit Caron away before she became too enamored of spending time in the company of the rich and pretentious. I much preferred her as she was, a rare combination of childishness and artfulness well beyond her years. She had an impressive repertoire; boring was not part of it.
A limousine drove up as I arrived at the edge of the road. I pasted on a properly sympathetic smile as Adrienne stepped out. I was somewhat surprised when Lieutenant Peter Rosen followed her. She wore a modest black dress; he wore a dark suit and muted navy tie.
Ken and Barbie, returning from Barbie’s Dream Cemetery.
“Bless you, my dear friend Claire,” said Adrienne. “Is everything set for the luncheon? There was just an absolute crush of people at the funeral, and I have no idea how many of them will be coming.”
I forced myself to join them. “Oh, yes. Jacque is adamant that he has it under control. The tables in the backyard are set with linens and silverware. Randy arrived two hours ago to prepare the bar.”
“And Chantilly? Is she here?”
Ignoring Peter, whose eyes were flickering in a somewhat ominous fashion, I said, “No, I assumed she was with you. I didn’t go upstairs, but I will now.”
“She didn’t come back last night,” said Adrienne, her eyes filling with tears. “I don’t understand how she could do this to me. She must know how much I needed her at the funeral. If it hadn’t been for Peter, I would have totally lost it and humiliated myself in front of all those hundreds of people.”
I was trying to come up with a suitable response when the back door of the KFAR van opened and a cameraman appeared, accompanied by a man balancing a boom mike, and the omnipresent Jessica Princeton, dressed in an appropriately conservative outfit and ready to wrench a display of raw emotions from the widow.
“Mrs. Armstrong,” she began, “I’m Jessica Princeton from KFAR. As I’m sure you know, your stepdaughter escaped from police custody yesterday. Were you worried that she might show up at the funeral this morning?”
“No, but Lieutenant Rosen offered to escort me just in case.”
Jessica turned on Peter. “Then you are concerned for Mrs. Armstrong’s safety?”
“We are concerned about every citizen’s safety,” he said tightly.
“Have you made any progress in locating Daphne Armstrong?”
Peter glanced at me, and then said, “No, we haven’t, but we are continuing to investigate possible locales and interview those who might have knowledge of her current whereabouts. Anyone with information should call the police department immediately.”
Jessica raised her eyebrows, although not far enough to tempt a wrinkle. “Is she still considered armed and dangerous?”
“No comment.”
“Mrs. Armstrong, do you have any reason to fear that Daphne may attempt to cause you harm? You are, after all, a key witness.”
“I am also a widow who has just now come from the cemetery. I’m sure you and your viewers will understand if I decline to make further statements. Please address any other questions to my lawyer.” She slid her hand beneath Peter’s arm. “Lieutenant Rosen, will you be so kind as to help me inside? I’m a little unsteady on my feet.”
“Yes, of course,” he said, then looked at the reporter. “Uniformed officers will be arriving at any moment to provide security. You and your crew need to vacate the premises or risk being cited as a public nuisance. Do I make myself clear?”
“Are you familiar with the concept of freedom of the press?” she countered.
“Would you like to film a documentary from inside the cellblock at the Farberville Police Department?”
My lips may have quivered as Jessica reeled around and gestured to her crew to follow her to the van, but I maintained my composure and trailed Adrienne and Peter into the house. Once inside, I scurried upstairs, tapped on Chantilly’s door, and when I received no response, went into the room.
Some of the clothes might have been shifted from this chair to that, but they hadn’t been stuffed in suitcases to be transported home to Atlanta via airplane or Adrienne’s Jaguar. The array of makeup on the vanity in the bathroom defied description, and there were at least two dozen bottles of shampoo, conditioners, and other esoteric hair products on a shelf by the shower. After some hesitation, I opened the closet door, looked under the bed, and quickly searched all the other upstairs rooms without finding anything more telling than a used condom under Daphne’s bed and a titillating array of sex aids in the back of a cabinet in the master bathroom.
It was likely that Chantilly was still in Farberville, possibly shacked up with some muscular college boy she’d met the previous afternoon. But she wouldn’t have blown off Anthony’s funeral, I decided. Adrienne was stressed, if not stricken with grief. Chantilly wouldn’t have left without explanation, and she’d had nearly twenty-four hours to resurface. Or sober up, or return impulse purchases at the mall, or whatever.
There was definitely something rotten in the ministate of Oakland Heights. I went downstairs and out to the backyard, steeling myself to yank Peter away from the poor little widow. He could be persuaded to send a bulletin to officers on patrol to watch for Adrienne’s car, even though Farberville had more apartment complexes and motels-by-the-hour than it ever would migratory hawks. Chantilly would not be pleased should she be found in a scurrilous situation, but I really didn’t care.
The postfuneral party had arrived, and there did seem to be more than a hundred people buzzing about the buffet and bar, sipping wine and cocktails, and chatting at the tables with centerpieces of exemplary height. Caron was behind the bar with Randy, her lower Up extended and her face flushed. Jacque’s army moved deferentially among the guests, retrieving platters to be replenished, discreetly gathering abandoned plates and glasses, resetting tables, their eyes glazed and their smiles carved like those on moldy jack-o’-lanterns. I wondered if Jacque kept them in cold storage until he needed them.
I spotted two of the women I’d seen at the fitness center, and the lawyer who’d been at Anthony’s side during the press conference. Farberville’s esteemed mayor was present, slapping backs and shaking hands as if at a political rally. Other faces were vaguely familiar, perhaps from feature stories in the newspaper about community luminaries who read books once a year at elementary schools and sponsored golf tournaments to benefit the victims of disabling diseases.
Not my crowd.
It seemed impossible to find Peter without shrieking his name or firing a nonexistent weapon. I was about to go inside and call Jorgeson when Adrienne grasped my arm and dragged me aside.
“You have to do something!” she whispered so urgendy that I felt the need to dry my ear with the nearest napkin. “This is so awful!”
“It seems to be going nicely,” I said, trying not to wince as her fingernails dug into my arm. Bruises, if not scabs, were inevitable.
“She’s here.”
I stared at her. “Daphne? Where is she?”
“Not Daphne. Jacque told one of the waiters to tell me that Sheila’s in the kitchen, making herself a sandwich. How on earth could she have found the nerve to show up at a time like this? Why is she doing this to me? What if Jacque storms out? I won’t be able to show my face at the club ever again!” She gulped down what appeared to be a martini (sans olive, which was lucky, since I’d never learned the Heimlich maneuver). “This is going to be a total disaster, and it’ll be her fault. Promise me you’ll make her leave, Claire. I’ll buy you whatever you want—a new car, a trip to Tahiti, a decent wardrobe, anything!”
I extricated her fingernails from my flesh. “I’ll see what’s going on in the kitchen, Adrienne. Pull yourself together and go talk to Mary Margaret or one of those relatives you mentioned. I can probably convince Sheila to leave without causing a commotion.”
“A commotion? Do you think she’ll barge out here and start ranting? I am really, really having a bad day. I hope you appreciate that.”
I had not the slightest idea what I thought Sheila might do, but I gave Adrienne a reassuring smile and said, “Deal with your guests.”
I gave her a gentle shove in the direction of the bar, then went inside and into the kitchen. Sheila was indeed slathering pate on a slice of bread, seemingly oblivious to Jacque’s livid glare. For the occasion, she’d chosen a black taffeta gown seen more often at formal affairs frequented by those who spend daylight hours in coffins. And the cowboy boots. And a tattered mantilla.
It was not a fashion statement that would speak to the crowd in the backyard.
She glanced back at me as I approached. “My goodness, you do get around. I’m not surprised to find you here, though. This house must be overrun with vermin.”
I took her sandwich, put it on a plate, and growled, “Follow me.”
When we were in the dining room, I handed her the sandwich and told her to sit down.
“But I don’t have anything to drink.”
“Don’t move,” I warned her, then went outside and elbowed my way to the bar. “A double vodka straight up,” I said to Randy. Caron gave me a quizzical look, but I could only shrug in response. I took the glass, loaded a plate with hors d’oeuvres from the buffet, and hurried back to the dining room.
Sheila was greedily eating the sandwich. I set the glass and plate within her reach, and sat down across from her.
“Why did you come today?” I asked her.
She swallowed what was in her mouth and took a gulp of vodka. “I may not have been fond of Anthony these last three years, but I was married to him for almost twenty years. Those people outside used to be my friends. They came to my parties and I to theirs. I just thought Fd stop by so we could share our remembrances of Anthony and the good old days.” She adjusted the mantilla. “Do you find this overly dramatic?”
“How did you get here? Did you drive yourself?”
“Heavens, no. My car hasn’t run in years. I’d get rid of it, but several cats have had their Utters in it. It’s as though I’m providing a homeless shelter for our litde feline friends.”
“Then how did you get here?”
“Why don’t you be a good little exterminator and fetch me another drink? Anthony refused to give me enough money for expensive vodka, so I might as well enjoy this while I can. Better yet, bring a bottle and I’ll take it with me to the cemetery. Anthony might roll over a few times while I sit on his grave and tell him what I’m drinking.”
She was stuffing mushrooms and asparagus spears down the front of her dress as I went into the kitchen. “Is there a liquor supply in here?” I demanded.
Rumbling like a pressure cooker, Jacque pointed at a cabinet below the shelves of cookbooks. I grabbed a bottle of vodka and returned once again to the dining room.
“I’ll let you have this after you answer my questions,” I said with all the compassion of a prison matron. “First, how did you get here?”
“Do you think I saddled up a mule and rode out here? I called a cab, of course.”
“A cab?”
“The driver was half an hour late, and very peculiar. He claims to manage the local office of a United States senator. When I pointed out the absurdity of him driving a cab, he said he was keeping his finger on the pulse of his boss’s constituency. I made it very clear that he was not going to put his finger on my pulse or anything else of mine. I think I shall write a letter of complaint to the cab company.”
She reached for the bottle, but I shook my head and said, “I’m not finished. Did you come here in hopes of finding the geologica
l map?”
“I’ve never heard of that kind of map, and if I had one, I wouldn’t have the foggiest idea what to do with it.”
“Oh, yes, you would. Finnigan Baybergen told me all about it In fact, I discovered him in Anthony’s office this morning, searching through the filing cabinet.”
Her face turned pale. “You did? But he wasn’t supposed to do that. He came to my house a few days ago— I don’t remember when—and said he was researching the history of the property. I told him all about how my grandfather moved his family here from Sicily and bought the land to start a vineyard. When the soil wasn’t right, he had to settle for vegetables and some chickens. My parents weren’t interested in farming, so they rented the property over the years. Then it came into my possession, and I sold it to that son of a bitch. The house that my grandparents built was in this exact spot. When I was a child, I used to come out here all the time and play in the woods or climb around in the barn. When I was six or seven, I fell out of the loft and broke my arm. I still have a scar.”
“What about the purported fault line?”
“Oh, that,” she said, laughing. “There were stories from other families who lived out here about dishes tumbling off shelves and pictures crashing to the floor. My grandmother swore the farmhouse was haunted, so my father went to the geology department at the college and they gave him a map. She never forgave him.”
“What happened to this map?”
“My father folded it up and stuck it in the abstract, and it was still there when it came to me. When I found it, I told Anthony all the silly stories about poltergeists and disgruntled ghosts with an aversion to carnival glass. In his contemptuous way, he thought it was all very amusing, as though my grandparents had been nothing more than superstitious peasants.” She picked up her empty glass and studied it. “I wanted to punish him.”
“By blackmailing him?”
“Well, yes,” she said as she reached for the bottle. I passed it to her and waited. Once she’d filled her glass, she continued more cheerfully. “He had a major financial investment in Phase One, and enough acreage to eventually have condos all the way down the hillside—as long as the information about the fault was not made public. I mean, who’d want to buy a unit that might catch on fire or slide over the bluff? And of course there might be pesky little lawsuits from tenants who’d already suffered damages. I used to sit back and imagine his expression when I told him what it would cost to keep me quiet.” She drained the glass and refilled it. “But now, alas, he’s not here and poor Adrienne’s financial future is in danger. What a shame.”
