Out on a Limb

by Joan Hess

  “I believe I could enjoy a cup of soup. It’s very kind of you to do this, dear girl.” Her head sank back and she closed her eyes. “I’ll just rest, if you don’t mind.”

  Jillian went into another room and returned with a crocheted afghan. After spreading it across Miss Parchester’s legs, she whispered, “I’ll heat some soup.”

  Luanne offered to stay with Miss Parchester. I accompanied Jillian into the kitchen, which was probably more sterile than that of the local hospital. “Thank you for letting us inside,” I said. “Would you mind if I used your telephone?”

  She took a teakettle from a cabinet and began to fill it with water. “Go ahead. It’s in Randy’s office, back that way.”

  The makeshift office had been designed to serve as a storage room. A small desk and two bookcases allowed very litde floor space. Stacks of papers waited to be graded before the end of the semester. The computer appeared to be state-of-the-art, the gnawed pencils less so. I found a ielephone directory in a desk drawer, looked up Finnigan Baybergen’s home number, and dialed it.

  I was relieved when he answered. “This is Claire Malloy,” I said, “the woman with the little bookstore. Miss Parchester is very close to developing pneumonia, but will insist on returning to the platform when the rain stops. I want you to come out here, collect her wet clothing and her sleeping bag, and take them to a Laundromat to thoroughly dry them. Also, see what supplies she has and restock whatever she needs.”

  “Where are you calling from?”

  “A condo in Phase One. If you’re worried about being arrested, don’t bother. Howie has disappeared for the time being. Or am I asking too much of you, Professor Baybergen? Should I call Mr. Constantine or Eliza Peterson? Are any members of the Green Party devoted enough to the environment to actually go out in the rain?”

  “I’ll take care of it,” he said without enthusiasm. “Do you have any suggestions where I might find this thing you referred to as a Laundromat?”

  “Were you born with a graduate degree and transported from the nursery to your ivy tower? Consider this a field trip, Baybergen. Maybe you’ll find a new species of mildew behind the machines.”

  I hung up and dialed the number of my duplex. “Caron,” I began when she answered, “I’m sorry to ask you this, but you need to go back to Secondhand Rose in case someone calls about Skyler. Luanne and I had to leave rather hastily.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I don’t think I’d better tell you. Peter may show up there, and I don’t want you to have to he to him. Inez should be home by now. Why don’t you have her meet you?”

  “Inez isn’t home. I called a few minutes ago, and according to her mother, she didn’t go to the conceit. She told her mother Luanne wanted her to work at the shop all afternoon.”

  “That’s odd,” I said. “Do you think she went to the cemetery in hopes she might spot Daphne?”

  Caron paused. “She might have, I guess, but that was hours ago and she wouldn’t still be lurking under a bush, watching Sheila and Arnie get sloshed. Then again, she was acting pretty weird last night, even for herself. She insisted on sitting in a chair until dawn in case Daphne tried to sneak in and snatch Skyler. I must have pointed out a dozen times that the doors and windows were locked.”

  “It seems her anxiety was justified.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Do you suspect she has Skyler?” I asked carefully. “Is that why you decided so abruptly to go home—in case she was there?”

  “Maybe. She’s not here, though, and she’s not at home. She can’t be pushing the stroller around in this rain. I thought when the phone rang …”

  “I’m sure she’s found someplace where she and Skyler are protected. Any ideas? Could she have taken him to one of your friends’ houses?”

  “Like their parents wouldn’t notice she has a baby with her? I don’t think so, Mother. She didn’t know where you and I were going, since you didn’t even tell me until I got home this morning. I can’t see her coming here, or even to the Book Depot. And before you say she couldn’t get into the bookstore, she knows where you stash the key in case of an emergency. You’re lucky Arnie doesn’t, since otherwise you’d be peddling pretzels from a cart.”

  I squeezed my temples as the teakettle began to whistle. “You have to think, Caron,” I said. “She can’t have gone very far. She might have tried to bluff her way into the women’s shelter, but it’s a good three miles away. There’s a homeless shelter near the old post office. Would she have thought of that?”

  “How should I know what she might have been thinking, beyond this paranoia of hers that Daphne could somehow scale the wall of Luanne’s building and slither through a crack like a spider? She deserves a bed next to Daphne’s in the psych ward.”

  “Calm down,” I managed to say. “Go down to the Book Depot to make sure she’s not there, then go back home in case she does call. Tell her she’s not m trouble— unless Peter finds her first. I’ll call you at the store in ten minutes.”

  “It’s raining.”

  “It is most definitely doing that, but if you remember, my car is behind a fence topped with concertina wire and will remain there until I write what I am sure will be a hefty check. Take an umbrella.”

  I hung up and replaced the directory in its rightful drawer. After a very brief moment of debating the morality of pawing through other people’s possessions, I began to systematically search all the drawers.

  The packet of photographs was at the back of a drawer filled with old class notebooks and papers on erudite mathematical topics such as differential equations and irrational numbers. I felt like an irrational number myself as I gaped at depictions of Adrienne in very explicit poses. Exercise machines at the fitness center provided inspiration, as well as the sauna and whirlpool. And if I had any doubt as to the identity of the photographer, Randy himself had found some interesting things to do with the equipment.

  I shoved the packet back where I’d found it and slammed the drawer shut. Randy had, or was still having, an affair with Adrienne. Caron had noticed, and perhaps I should have as well. This certainly gave Adrienne a more than compelling motive to kill her husband—but not an opportunity, unless Chantilly and Daphne were accomplices. And Randy had been at home.

  I returned to the living room. Miss Parchester was now stretched on the length of the sofa, snoring in a genteel fashion. Luanne and Jillian were not to be seen, but I wasn’t flabbergasted, since there was something in the ether that was causing people to vanish from view like droplets of water on a hot skillet: ping, sizzle, poof. I kept an eye on Miss Parchester until they appeared in the tiny dining room.

  “We went up to see Connor,” said Luanne. “He’s napping.”

  “Would you like to see him?” Jillian asked me.

  “Maybe later. On the night that Anthony Armstrong was killed, Randy told the police that he was up late with Connor. Do you remember that?”

  “I had a terrible headache. Connor had fussed and whined all day, then threw up all over me after I fed him supper. I got him settled down about ten, but then he started crying again. I just couldn’t deal with it, so I called Randy at the fitness center and told him that if he didn’t come home within half an hour, I was going to pack a suitcase and leave him to deal with Connor on his own for a few days.” She looked down. “He was really angry, but he did come back.”

  “So he was here at ten-thirty or so?”

  She nodded. “We had an argument. The neighbors on both sides can probably confirm it. What’s this about?”

  “I can’t quite explain. Will you please watch for a car being driven by a man with a clipped beard? I need to make another phone call. Luanne, why don’t you come with me?”

  I propelled her into the office and closed the door. “There is something so wrong with all this, but I can’t figure out what it is. Ponder the dust bunnies in the corners while I call Caron.”

  “Caron?”

  “We think Ine
z took Skyler.” I dialed the number of the bookstore, but no one answered, naturally, confirming my ping, sizzle, poof theory that would never merit a seminar in Randy Scarpo’s exalted course of studies. When numbers were irrational, they were in some way rational. Human behavior did not correspond as neatly.

  “We were hoping she’d be at the bookstore, but she must have gone somewhere else,” I said to Luanne.

  “Why would Inez take Skyler anywhere?”

  “Because she didn’t think you were properly obsessed with the possibility that Daphne might come looking for him.”

  Luanne leaned against the edge of the desk, unmindful of the stack of papers she sent sliding across the desk. “Last night Inez was … well, weird.”

  “Caron used the same word. Today, Inez begged out of the concert, and her mother has no idea where she is. Now it seems as though Caron has thought of something.”

  “Wouldn’t she have called you before she left for this unknown destination?”

  “If I’d told her the number, she might have. I need you to stay here and watch for Finnigan Baybergen, who agreed to take Miss Parchester’s things to a Laundromat and toss them in a dryer. Don’t allow her to go back up in the tree until he’s done that much.”

  “While you do what?”

  “Go talk to Adrienne, I suppose. Chantilly may have staggered in and gone to bed, or the police may have located her. Peter may still be there.” I ran my fingers through my hair, wondering—yes, irrationally—if I smelled like a wet dog. “There’s something so wrong with this whole thing. I would have said that Adrienne and Chantilly were behind the murder, but Daphne’s their best alibi. Unless Jillian’s lying, Randy couldn’t have done it.”

  “Randy?”

  “I found photographs of Adrienne in his desk. You don’t even want to look at them. They were having an affair, and if Anthony had cause to be suspicious, Adrienne could kiss the villa, the country club, the Jaguar, and the fitness club good-bye and start reading the want ads.”

  “But he’s dead,” Luanne pointed out.

  “Conveniently so. Alternate calls to my house and the Book Depot every five minutes while you’re waiting for Finnigan.”

  “Do you want to take my car?”

  “No,” I said with a grimace. “You might be able to persuade Miss Parchester to allow you to take her home. What’s more, if Peter’s at the villa, he might take perverse pleasure in having your car towed, too.”

  I patted Jillian on the shoulder as I went through the living room and out into the rain. I considered rummaging through Luanne’s car for an umbrella, then shrugged and walked up the path, mindful of the slick, sodden leaves.

  The catering vans had gone, as had the plethora of expensive cars. The only car visible was a gray Mercedes parked in front of a garage that could easily accommodate his-and-hers SUVs, along with the Mercedes, the Jaguar, and Santa Claus’s sleigh and eight tiny reindeer.

  I recalled the photos I’d seen of Sheila’s grandparents and their farm. She’d said the villa was situated where the farmhouse had been. The barn that had looked as if it might slide down the hill had been much farther away, across a reasonably level expanse that would have been a vineyard had nature cooperated. The garage occupied what had been, in the photos, a vegetable garden and chicken coop.

  I tapped on the front door and then let myself in. “Adrienne?” I said cautiously. “It’s Claire.”

  “I’m out here.”

  I went through the living room, then stopped as I reached the door to the conservatory. Adrienne had clearly decided to overindulge in not only the leftover hors d’oeuvres but also the remains of all the liquor that had not been consumed. The glass-topped table was a veritable thicket of bottles of gin, scotch, bourbon, vodka, wines of all hues, vermouth, dishes of olives and onions, and several name brands I did not recognize. Nor did I recognize what Adrienne was currently sipping from a glass in her hand, but I doubted she did, either.

  “Fix yourself something,” she said. “We’ll drink a toast to Anthony.”

  I sat down on an ottoman. “Where did everybody go?”

  “Well, the rain got rid of most of them. A few of the relatives had this grand theory that they could hang around, but I had Jacque run them off.” She finished off the contents of her glass and refilled it from the nearest bottle. “Then he left, which made me very sad. I went to my husband’s funeral today, after all. I should be sad. Anthony wasn’t what you’d call exciting, but we had some good times. If you want, I can show you our honeymoon pictures. He put on this stupid little native outfit, then—”

  “Did Chantilly come back?”

  “You know, she didn’t, and I’m starting to get very annoyed with her. I’m glad you’re here, Claire. Make yourself a drink. If you want ice, you’ll have to get some from the kitchen. Try the pantry.”

  Houston, we have a problem.

  “In a minute,” I said. “I’m a little surprised none of your friends insisted on staying with you.”

  “You’re my only friend. I thought Chantilly was my best friend, as well as my sister, but I was so wrong. She’s hateful and I hope she never comes back. Want a mushroom stuffed with lobster? I love lobster. Anthony tried to convince me that I loved caviar, but it’s way too salty and kind of pops in your mouth. I almost threw up the first time I tasted it.”

  “Would you like me to make some coffee?”

  She laughed. “Why would I want coffee? I’ve got everything I need. I’ve got a house, expensive cars, a freezer filled with ice cream, a big-screen television, a personal trainer, and a fat inheritance. I may just buy some racehorses so I can sit in a box at the Kentucky Derby and sip mint juleps with senators.” She squinted at the array on the table. “Now there’s an idea, Claire. Why don’t you mix up a pitcher of mint juleps?”

  “Where’s Randy?”

  “Oh,” she said, blinking. “I don’t really know. I ordered him to put all the opened bottles of booze out here, then told him to send me a bill. I think he may have gotten a ride to the fitness center with Mary Margaret.”

  “I know about your affair.”

  “Don’t be silly. Why would I have an affair with Mary Margaret? She’s a real bitch, if you want to know the truth. She cheats at golf, for one tiling, and—”

  “With Randy.”

  “Oh, him,” said Adrienne. “That doesn’t count. Nobody else knows about it, and you have to promise you won’t say anything. It just wasn’t realistic for Anthony to expect me to forget about sex after we got married, was it? All he wanted to do was sit in his office every night and study blueprints. Even when he’d come upstairs, he acted like it was his duty so I’d be content to sit home and watch movies the rest of the time.” She picked up the nearest bottle and sloshed its contents into her glass. “This is kinda fun, not knowing what you may find yourself drinking. What do you think this is?”

  I looked at the label as she banged down the bottle. “Gin. Would you like some tonic to go with it?”

  “What are you—a bartender?”

  “No,” I acknowledged. “I’m just a bookseller. The reality of your affair does matter, Adrienne. Are you aware of the conditions in Anthony’s will?”

  “Of course I am. Before we got married, he made me go with him to his lawyer’s office and listen to every last boring detail of the prenuptial contract and his revised will. I thought I would fall asleep.”

  “You won’t inherit if evidence of your affair is presented to the probate court.”

  “Nobody’s going to do that. What’s even better, little ol’ Daphne can’t inherit a penny since she killed him. I’m beginning to feel kindly toward her. Maybe I’ll send a box of cookies to the prison once or twice a year just to prove I’m not such a wicked stepmother. I could even have Jacque bake a cake with a file inside it. He does a yummy chocolate mousse concoction with raspberry glaze.”

  I felt as if I were stalking a baby seal, even if Adrienne was far from wide-eyed innocence. “Did Chant
illy find out about your affair?”

  “How would she do that?” Adrienne crossed her arms and stared at me. “You’re the only one, Claire.”

  “That’s not true. Randy knows, and I suspect Chantilly does, too. Did one of them threaten to blackmail you?”

  Her mouth tightened for a moment.‘That is so tacky, Claire. I think you’d better leave, and you can just forget about having lunch one of these days.”

  “Where’s Chantilly?”

  “How should I know?” retorted Adrienne. “She took off in my car and didn’t have the decency to show up for the funeral. Lieutenant Whatsit assured me that his officers will find her. He’s quite a catch, isn’t he? When all this is over and done with, I may just give him a call. He gave me his home telephone number in case I need to get in touch with him. I’d like to get in touch with him, if you know what I mean.”

  Apparently I was once again her best friend and confidante. I watched as she finished off the gin and moved on to a bottle of tequila. “Why don’t I put all this away and help you upstairs? You must be exhausted.”

  “I suppose I am. Let’s have one more drink, and then I’ll take a nap in the living room. It’s a darn shame Chantilly can’t join us. She should have kept her nose out of my business, Claire. She had a perfectly decent job in Atlanta. I mean, she couldn’t afford the country club or anything like that, and her apartment was cramped, but that was no excuse for her to …”

  I wanted to shake Adrienne out of her alcoholic stupor and force answers from her, but I realized she could turn truculent with only the most minor incitement. “I agree she had no excuse.”

  “Nope, none whatsoever.” Adrienne selected a bottle of bourbon this time, and forgoing her glass, drained most of it. “It wasn’t my fault. Maybe I should find Randy. Do you know where he is?”

  “He left,” I said gently. “Why don’t you he down on the sofa and take a nap? You’ve had a hard day, what with the funeral and the luncheon and all the wellwishers. You deserve to rest.”

  “I think maybe I do. I’ll just close my eyes for a few minutes, then call Randy and tell him to keep his damn mouth shut.”