by Joan Hess
“Daphne’s son. He’s a month old, with a little dab of black hair and rough patches on his cheeks. A well behaved baby, usually contented. Daphne left him in a basket on my porch the day before her father was killed.” I paused to nod at a white-haired man using a cane as he came past me. “It was all perfectly legal, Peter. Daphne wrote a note that gave me permission to look after him for a few days. It just got stickier, and now he’s been kidnapped.”
“Daphne has a baby? She didn’t say anything to us.”
“She wouldn’t have, would she? You and your thugs were browbeating her and trying to trick her into confessing to a crime she didn’t commit.”
Peter was very quiet. In the background, I could hear lively chatter and the faint sound of music that could hardly be described as doleful. I waited patiently, although I knew Luanne and Caron were apt to be gnawing their knuckles on the bench outside.
“My thugs and I did not browbeat her,” he said at last. “So you’ve had this baby since Monday night?”
“He arrived on the porch in a basket.”
“You didn’t think to tell me?”
“Of course I considered it, but I thought Skyler would be better off with me than in the clutches of the system. Caron and Inez have been amusing him, and Luanne had just taken him for a stroll before someone snatched him.”
“Where are you calling from?” Peter asked in an ominous tone.
“Not from a car phone, obviously,” I said. “I don’t even know where my car is, thanks to you. Having my car towed was rude, and most likely illegal. As soon as I can afford a lawyer, I may decide to sue. All I was doing was helping Adrienne host a luncheon out on the lawn so that her dear friends could express their sympathy and share their grief with the widow. Do give her my love.”
I hung up and went outside. Caron and Luanne were throwing acorns at the squirrels scampering across the grass, but in such a desultory fashion that I doubted any missiles had found their targets. “I told Peter about Daphne—and about Skyler,” I told them. “I suppose all we can do is go back to Secondhand Rose and hope someone calls.”
“But who?” said Caron.
“I don’t have a clue,” I admitted. “I thought we were aware of all the players in this ghastly game, but it seems as though we’re not.”
Luanne hauled Caron to her feet and steered her toward the car. “Who are we leaving off the list? Do you think Jessica was having an affair with Anthony? That Chantilly was worried that her biological clock was ticking away at the advanced age of twentysomething? That Mr. Cannelletti was so enraged on Daphne’s behalf that he shot her father out of righteous indignation? Joey, the sorry excuse for a sperm bank? Jacque, who wants to expand his stainless steel kitchen? Who is it?”
“Well, Adrienne,” I said as I got in the car, “except Daphne said that the car drove up well after she heard the shot. Adrienne and Chantilly were at the fitness center until ten, then at the restaurant until midnight. They left together, and came home together.”
“What a perfect alibi,” cooed Luanne. “Iron-clad, and so convenient.”
Caron grabbed my shoulder. “They must have done it, Mother. You have to tell Peter.”
“He’s got a lot on his plate at the moment,” 1 said. “We’re all likely to be hauled off to a shabby room replete with rubber truncheons and thumbscrews. Besides, I don’t see how Adrienne and Chantilly could have done it.” I paused as I thought. “But they do have a perfect alibi, don’t they?”
“So do I,” Caron said as she sat back, “but that won’t get me a hall pass. I think the weasel did it.”
“Shot Anthony or kidnapped Skyler?” Luanne asked.
“Both,” she said with postpubescent conviction. “He shot Anthony because he didn’t want to have all the construction chaos, and he kidnapped Skyler because … I don’t know. Maybe his wife wants another child and he doesn’t want to pay the hospital charges for the delivery room.”
I turned around to stare at her. “Do you honestly think Randy did all this?”
“Well, he probably didn’t kidnap Skyler, but he could have shot Daphne’s father.”
“Because?”
“He and Adrienne are having an affair, Mother. I can’t believe you didn’t notice. It took me all of five seconds. Even Rhonda Maguire could have figured it out, and she’s got processed cheese sauce for brains.”
“And you do remember what you said about the prenuptial contract,” said Luanne as she pulled into the alley behind her shop. “Adrienne would have been sent away with a pittance if Anthony found out about the affair. There’s her motive.”
“It doesn’t explain her alibi, though,” I said. “Daphne heard the gunshot before Adrienne and Chantilly drove up.”
Caron gave me a long-suffering look as we got out of the car. “Weren’t you listening, Mother? Randy did it. Adrienne knew that Anthony would be home alone, and she made sure her butt was covered. Chantilly must have realized how she’d been used and threatened to go to the police. She’s probably buried in Phase Seventeen of Oakland Heights.”
“Then Randy’s wife would have been in on it. According to his statement, he was at his condo at midnight, jiggling their baby.”
“Did anyone ask her when he got home?” said Caron.
I replayed my previous encounters with Jillian. “She may well have suspected he was having an affair, but she’d be more likely to go at him with a cleaver than he for him. If he shot Anthony, he would have had to dash out the door minutes before Daphne came downstairs and sprint to his condo. Miss Parchester’s been keeping secrets, but she wouldn’t have lied to protect him.”
Luanne unlocked the back door and ushered us inside. “You don’t know what secrets Miss Parchester’s been keeping. She doesn’t necessarily know where Daphne’s been staying or that her car was putting on mileage. I’ll bet the farm that she keeps a house key under a flowerpot or on the top of the doorsill. The car key was on a cute little corkboard by the back door. Daphne knew Miss Parchester’s whereabouts, but that doesn’t mean the reverse is true.”
Rain had finally begun to splatter on the sidewalks of Thurber Street—and elsewhere, I assumed. Adrienne’s guests had been allowed several hours to booze and graze, and it was likely that Jacque had run low on crab puffs by now. Not that I cared, frankly.
“I don’t know what to do about Skyler,” I said, sitting down on the stool behind the counter. “We should be doing something, but I just don’t know what it is. Maybe we ought to call all the churches and have someone check the doorsteps.”
“People don’t kidnap babies to drop them off at churches,” Caron said in an odd voice.
I glanced at her. “No, I don’t suppose they do.”
“I’m going to make coffee,” said Luanne. “Would you rather have a soda, Caron? I’ve got a couple of diet colas and a bottle of designer water.”
“No thanks,” she muttered. “There’s no reason all three of us should sit around and wait for Peter to have us arrested. If I’m going to make the evening news, I’d prefer to be wearing something a tad more acceptable so that Rhonda and Louis won’t be sniggering. That’s not to imply I think they watch the news, or anything else that doesn’t include music videos with full frontal nudity. I’ll be at home if you need me.”
I was so surprised that I could only gape as she went out to Thurber Street and headed in the direction of our apartment.
“What was that about?” Luanne said, as bemused as I.
I shook my head. “I don’t know.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Luanne began to pace. “You know something? I don’t care who shot Anthony Armstrong! I know I should, and I know I should be worried about Daphne and her fragile self-esteem, and about Sheila and her drinking problem, but I’m not. Maybe Adrienne and Chantilly schemed to murder Anthony. I just don’t care! You trusted me with Skyler, and I blew it. I couldn’t protect him for twentyfour hours.”
“Only one of us is allowed to have a meltdown a
t any one time,” I said.
“Then it’s most assuredly my turn—but I am not having a meltdown, dammit! I am merely pointing out my egregious lapse of responsibility. I lost a child once before. Everybody said it wasn’t my fault, but I knew it was. This time, I should have—”
“You lost a child?”
“A miscarriage in the seventh month,” she said as she circled the rack of evening dresses and disappeared. “I was shopping for sheets for the crib, and this maniac came screaming into the store and literally ran over me. I didn’t need more sheets; I was just shopping. That’s what Stepford wives do while their husbands are slaving away in their air-conditioned offices or playing racquetball in their exclusive clubs. I lost the baby in a department store while security guards wrung their hands and clerks tucked towels under me. It was over before the paramedics arrived.”
I hugged her so tightly that neither of us could get a breath. “You never told me.”
“Because I didn’t want your sympathy. It happened a long time ago. I got over it. I had two children, both happy and healthy, if not skewed by their indulgent upbringing and sizable trust funds. It pains them to call me on major holidays. They send flowers on my birthday and on Mother’s Day. I’m a little too eccentric to be welcomed at the clan gatherings on Nantucket every spring. After all, I gave up everything and ventured into uncharted territory to run a used-clothing store for would-be beauty queens of both sexes.”
“Luanne,” I began, then broke off as I tried to find the words.
She pulled herself free. “This is precisely why I didn’t tell you, Claire. You seem to think you’re supposed to supply the platitudes, the verbal aloe vera, the—I don’t know—maternal mantra. There is nothing you can say that will erase that memory. Nothing.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Don’t get gooey. We have to find Skyler.”
I fought back responses that might well have been deemed “gooey.” “Yes, we have to find Skyler. Is it possible some sorority girl wandered in and…”
“Were you drinking wine coolers all afternoon?”
I realized I had not only stayed away from the bar but also from the buffet table. “I haven’t had anything since nine o’clock,” I admitted. “Not even bread and water.”
Luanne went into the back room and reappeared with half a sandwich of dubious heritage. “Eat this before you keel over. Caron seems to believe Adrienne was sleeping with Randy. What do you think?”
“What is it?”
“Tuna salad and cucumber slices. When did you get so picky?”
“Since I read an article about salmonella,” I said as I took a bite. “Very tasty.”
“So what difference does it truly make if Adrienne and Randy are an item? Anthony was twenty years older, and a hard-nosed bastard. He was long past his sexual prime, while she’s approaching hers. Maybe they had an agreement.”
I thought for a moment. “They did, and it was delineated in the will. If it can be proved that Adrienne had an affair during the marriage, she can’t inherit.”
“And Chantilly found out?”
“She might have overheard something. If Caron could pick up on it after an hour, then how subtle could they have been?”
Luanne sat down on the steamer trunk. “Which means that Chantilly is buried in the backyard, along with the Jaguar? We’re talking one big pit. Is Adrienne all that athletic?”
“No,” I said, “and I can’t imagine Adrienne killing her sister.”
“Or her husband?”
“I wish I could, but neither she nor Chantilly seems that cold-blooded—or able to sustain a fabrication. They’re shallow and annoying, but they’re …” I paused for a moment. “They’re the reason I don’t go to class reunions.”
“Adrienne and Chantilly?”
“You know what I mean. Didn’t you go to school with them? Blond, perky, and promiscuous?”
“One of these nights we’ll buy a gallon of wine and I’ll tell you about boarding school life in New England, as well as summer camps that stressed dressage, elocution, and anorexia.”
“As long as it’s cheap,” I said. “In the meantime, we need to figure out what to do. The first thing is to retrieve my car, which is impounded somewhere in this fair city.”
“We do need to leave,” said Luanne as she stood up. “Peter’s likely to have us arrested at any moment, and—”
Two uniformed officers came into the shop, neither old enough to have graduated from junior high school. The more mature of the two, possibly fifteen, said, “Claire Malloy? Luanne Bradshaw? Lieutenant Rosen wants to talk to you.”
“They just went down to the vegetarian cafe, not more than five minutes ago,” I said glibly. “Three doors down, on the opposite side of the street. They’re blond, perky, and, I’m sorry to say, promiscuous. Be very carefiil.”
“And you are?”
“Customers,” said Luanne. “Don’t you just love these old-fashioned clothes? Beads and bangles, glitter and glitz. They make me want to shimmy all night.” She began to offer a rather impressive demonstration of talents heretofore unseen.
The officers were alarmed enough to back out the door. I would have followed them had Luanne not grabbed my wrist and dragged me out the back door.
“Now what?” she said as we got into her car.
“Just drive.”
“To Miss Parchester’s house? To Sheila’s? To Oakland Heights? I can hardly wait to see myself on America’s Most Wanted, The only photograph they can dig up will be from my yearbook. I was voted the most likely to die of leprosy in a penal colony off the coast of South America.”
“You’re kidding.”
“We played lacrosse, field hockey, and hardball in Connecticut. So where are we going?”
“Well, not Miss Parchester’s house, since Peter is likely to be there. Sheila’s no doubt having a fine time at the cemetery despite the rain, with Arnie to keep her company. We could go to the Tickled Pink Club and commiserate with Wanita, but she’s probably beyond that. My apartment seems risky. Maybe we should go to the mall and try on designer jeans and tank tops.”
“Or Adrienne’s?” said Luanne as we went up Thurber Street. “If nothing else, we should be able to overindulge on leftovers. I love leftovers.”
“Let’s check on Miss Parchester first, and then, yes, we’re going to have to talk to Adrienne.”
Ten minutes later, Luanne parked as close as she could to the revered oak tree. Howie must have taken shelter from the rain, probably in the construction shed. Miss Parchester had rigged a tarp to form a tent of sorts, although I suspected she was not warm and dry. If I’d been blessed with extraordinary powers, I would have transported Finnigan Baybergen to the platform and Miss Parchester to somewhere more agreeable, such as Miss Scarlet’s ballroom or Professor Plum’s billiards room.
“Are you okay?” I called as we approached the platform.
“I am a bit damp,” Miss Parchester said. “It’s to be expected.”
“Why don’t you come down and let us take you home? You can return later if you insist.”
“I wish I could,” she said, peering down at us. “I have to admit I’m getting chilly, and even my thermal undergarments are damp. I left the lid off the brownies, and now they’re sodden.”
“You can go home,” I said. “No one will know.”
“But I would have to live with my capitulation to blatant commercialization. I vowed when I came here that I would not waver in my dedication to the cause of environmental sanity. Yes, I am cold and wet, and quite likely coming down with a bronchial malady. I will not, however, slink away like an abused animal.”
Luanne looked as though she was ready to climb the tree and forcibly remove its occupant. I planted a hand on her shoulder and said, “Miss Parchester, I’ve met a couple who live here. Would you consider briefly leaving your post to toss your socks in their clothes dryer and have a cup of tea?”
“For just a few minutes?” qua
vered Miss Parchester. “No one would have to know?”
“Absolutely not. As soon as the rain lets up, you can climb right back up and cook acorn fritters for supper.”
“If they’re home,” Luanne said under her breath.
“Jillian will be,” I said. “I doubt that Connor’s ever seen a raindrop, much less experienced one. Whether or not she’ll let us in the condo is another issue.”
The ladder came tumbling down, and Miss Parchester followed with impressive dexterity. “Howie went home,” she said apologetically, as if he should have been present to arrest us. “I suppose he did, anyway. I haven’t seen him since late this morning, when he went off to investigate noises. He did mention earlier this week that the shed doesn’t provide adequate shelter when it rains. Neither does my tarp, I’m sorry to say. Papa would be disappointed with me.”
“No, he wouldn’t.” I took her arm and led her toward the row of condos. “You’ve survived on the platform for five days, despite Anthony Armstrong’s attempt to force you down. You deserve a respite.”
I could almost hear Luanne shaking her head as we stopped at Randy and Jillian Scarpo’s door. I knocked, then stepped back so that I was in view of whoever might peer from behind the living room drapes. Miss Parchester was trembling, and I realized I was supporting most of her weight. I was about to resort to pounding when the door opened.
“I know you,” Jillian said to me, sounding as though she’d seen my picture on an FBI flyer at the post office.
“Yes, and you saw Miss Parchester on the nightly news. She’s very close to collapsing. May we please come inside?”
Jillian waved us inside, then took Miss Parchester’s hand and led her to a sofa. “You poor thing, you’re soaked to the skin. Let me get you a quilt, and then I’ll fix you something hot to drink. Would you like coffee?”
“Tea would be nice,” Miss Parchester murmured. “I must admit I am not feeling robust.”
“And some soup?” Jillian said as she settled Miss Parchester on a sofa and tucked a pillow behind her. “Canned, I’m afraid. I wish I had something homemade, but I don’t go to the grocery store very often.”
