by Anne Canadeo
Lucy had been sitting on a stool at the counter and now rose and paced the kitchen floor, from the magnet- and note-covered refrigerator to the sink and back again, a very small space, especially considering her stride.
“I was walking my dogs. I guess it was about ten o’clock. I usually don’t walk down Ivy Lane, but there was a big shepherd my dogs don’t get along with on Fenwick, so I turned on the corner to loop around.” She heard her voice rambling on nervously and tried to slow down.
“Yes, go on.”
“I saw the sign near her driveway, advertising her services, so I knew it was Cassandra’s house. I was standing across the street, a short distance down the street, when the door opened. I saw her in the doorway with a man, who was leaving. He had on a baseball hat and dark glasses, so that sort of caught my attention.”
“I see . . . go on.”
“They talked a moment and then he walked to a van that was parked down the street. When the van passed, he had taken off the hat and glasses and I saw that it was Richard Gordon, Nora Gordon’s husband. But you probably know all this, right? Because I saw him this morning at his antique store, and he told me why he’d been there. And he said he was going to the police station to tell you, too.”
“Yes, he came in. I didn’t take his statement, but I read it a little while ago. I’d like to hear the story from you, too, Lucy. I know you only saw them together for a few moments and it was dark. But how would you describe their interaction? Arguing? Friendly? Anything more than just talking?”
Lucy stared out the kitchen window, seeing just a blur of green lawn and blue sky. She pushed a strand of wet hair behind her ear. Of course, the police would want her side of the story, just to see if it matched up. Maybe, despite the poignancy of Richard’s words, that was not really what he was doing there.
“It seemed . . . intimate in some way. But I’m not sure I could say friendly. She had on a sort of bathrobe-looking thing—a kimono. So that seemed intimate to me. I don’t know if she was dressed underneath,” she said bluntly. “I couldn’t tell at that distance.”
“All right, go on.”
“At one point, she leaned very close and whispered to him. Or even kissed him? He had his back turned to me, so I couldn’t really see. But now I don’t think they were involved that way. Romantically, I mean,” she added. “Because of what Richard told me this morning.”
“So you told him that you saw him that night. Just what you told me, more or less. What did he say when you confronted him? What was his explanation?” Detective Ruiz asked calmly.
Lucy guessed that she probably had a copy of Richard’s statement in front of her, and was checking for any discrepancies in the two versions of the event. Lucy tried to remember exactly what he’d said.
“He told me that he had been in touch with Cassandra regularly, and gave her information about his son, Kyle, so that Cassandra could create messages from Kyle’s spirit for Nora.” The disclosure was difficult to relate. Such a twisted hoax to perpetrate on one’s grieving wife. “He told me that he’d gone to a session with Nora, when she’d just met Cassandra, and started giving Cassandra information very soon after that.”
“Did you believe him?”
“Yes, I did. For one thing, he seemed so regretful and disgusted by his own behavior. And what he said shows him in such a bad light . . . why would anyone make that up?”
Detective Ruiz didn’t stop to answer that question. It occurred to Lucy that there could be possible reasons why such a tale would be contrived . . . to cover up something even more horrible?
“How did he sound when he told you this? Angry? Upset? Matter-of-fact?”
Lucy thought a moment. “He sounded sad. Pathetic. Burned-out. Like he was losing his grip. Disgusted with himself,” she said again. “And even embarrassed. Made a fool of. I may have smelled alcohol on his breath,” she added, “though I’m not entirely sure of that. He did look tired, as if he hadn’t slept in days.”
“Why do you think he told you? Did you pressure him in any way?”
“No . . . not at all. I told him that I had seen him and had to mention it in my statement today. I didn’t want to blindside the guy. But I also told him, a few times, that he didn’t have to tell me what he was doing there. I didn’t need to know. I didn’t really want to,” she added.
“But he told you anyway.”
“He insisted. He said he didn’t want me to go without hearing him out. I don’t know the Gordons very well. Just by sight around town. And a little bit through Edie. But he seemed like he really wanted to get this off his chest. Maybe he would have told anyone who happened to be there at that moment,” Lucy added. “I think he wanted someone to hear his side of the story. I don’t think he had any intention of hurting Nora. He sounded desperate to help her. He said the sessions made her so happy, it was like a miracle cure. Edie had said that, too. So he thought his interference was harmless. At least, at first. He also told me it had all been Cassandra’s idea. She’d contacted him and suggested it. That’s what he said, at least,” she added.
Lucy wondered now if Richard had told the police the same story.
“All right. I guess we’re done. Unless you have something else to add,” Detective Ruiz replied.
“I know you can’t tell me this, but I can’t help asking . . .”
“Yes?”
“Do you have to tell Nora what Richard did?”
Detective Ruiz didn’t reply for a long moment. “You’re right, I can’t tell you that, Lucy. Partly because I don’t know. I can say that we need time to look into Mr. Gordon’s story, and determine if his relationship to the victim is relevant to the investigation.”
“Yes, of course.” Lucy felt foolish now for asking. Luckily, the police were a little slower at jumping to conclusions than she and her friends were. And they also had this funny tic about needing to back up a story like Richard’s with facts. No matter how convincing the delivery had been.
“Is there anything else you’d like to tell me? About the Gordons, or Cassandra Waters?” the detective asked.
“No. I can’t think of anything.” Lucy was eager to end the call. She felt exhausted and distracted, and wondered how she was going to get any work done today.
“Thanks for your time. If I have any more questions, I’ll be in touch.” The detective said goodbye and hung up.
As Lucy set down her phone, she realized she’d forgotten all about the dogs, still out in the yard. She found them worn-out from chasing squirrels and birds, and panting in the damp, cool shade of an overgrown holly bush. She brushed the dirt and leaves from their fur and with a collar in each hand, led them back inside, where they eagerly lapped at water bowls.
She picked out a ripe peach, grabbed her water bottle, and stomped up to her office, feeling frustrated about all the time lost in her workday.
If I never hear another word about any of those people, I’ll be perfectly happy.
You say that now, a tiny voice chided. Let’s hear what you say Thursday night, hanging with your pals.
As Lucy set about her work, answering e-mails and pushing along with the Bleckman directory, one part of her was tempted to at least send a quick text or e-mail to Maggie and give her a hint about Richard’s startling confession.
But when she finally did, Maggie never texted back and Lucy got too busy again to contact any other friends. Matt came home early and she was happy to shut the computer and get up from her desk.
“So, did you get a chance to call the police back today?” Matt asked as they finished dinner.
“I did. I spoke to Detective Ruiz. She’s very smart and easy to talk with, too. You remember her, right?”
“The woman detective, right? When that girl you know, who knit her wedding gown, got in trouble, she figured out who was really responsible, right?”
Maggie had actually figured that puzzle out. But Lucy didn’t bother to correct him. “That’s right. Rebecca Bailey. She still comes to knit with
us sometimes, with her mother.”
“What did the detective think of your fortune-telling session? Any big clues jump out at her?”
He was teasing now, but Lucy didn’t mind. She had not told Matt much about that session, all the unsettling tarot cards that had turned up, resonating with her worries about their relationship. The less said about that right now, the better.
“That part was pretty cut-and-dried. But I did have something unusual to tell her. About Richard Gordon.”
She quickly told Matt how she’d seen Richard and Cassandra a few nights ago while walking the dogs and what had happened when she’d gone to the antique shop this morning and told him.
“Wow . . . that’s unbelievable. I only met Richard a few times. But he never seemed to me the type of guy who could lie that way. Sounds like he was desperate.”
“I think so. I think he’s really telling the truth about the situation, too,” she said. “I felt awkward confronting him like that. But I didn’t know what to do. I did have to tell the police when I called them. Even though he’d gone there and told them everything before I called.”
“That was a sticky spot. But I think you did the right thing.” He’d finished his dinner and took a last sip of wine. “Did Detective Ruiz remind you to not get mixed up in her case again?”
His tone was half-teasing but half-serious, too. She was eager to reassure him that that was not at all the situation.
“I have to admit, I’m curious. We all are, since we did meet Cassandra and saw how she operates. But I’m happy to leave this one to the police. I already know more than I want to.”
Matt seemed satisfied with that reply. “What do your friends say?” he asked. Lucy had cleared the dishes and served a bowl of ripe strawberries. Matt picked one up and took a bite.
He had such strong, white teeth. She’d always liked that.
“I didn’t tell them yet. You’re the first to get the scoop.”
“Wow, honey.” He tilted his head and stared at her. “I’m honored. I didn’t realize I was on the A-team. Does that mean I have to knit now, too?”
“Silly . . .” She laughed at him and picked out a strawberry for herself. “You’re my friend, aren’t you? My best friend,” she added.
He smiled and took her hand, the teasing gone from his warm expression. “Of course I am. And you’re mine. Among other esteemed titles I hold for you.”
She met his gaze and held it. The perfect moment to bring up that nonchalant “just-wonderin’-where-our-relationship-is-goin’-pal?” conversation. The one her friends had been coaching her on. One friend, in particular.
Lucy sighed. Wasn’t the quiet but complete understanding between them enough? It seemed to be all the reassurance she needed.
Or was she just seeing what she wanted to see? And maybe Matt—though clearly perfectly content in the moment—was thinking something entirely different about their future. Wasn’t thinking of it at all?
He smiled, his gaze questioning. “Are you okay? Still rattled by talking to that detective?”
Lucy shook her head. “I’m all right.”
She paused. A voice in her head that sounded a lot like Suzanne screamed from the sidelines: “Run for home plate! Run for home plate!”
“There is something I’ve been wanting to talk about,” she said finally. “Our . . . our relationship.”
He sat up straighter, his expression alert now, though he still kept hold of her hand. “Is this about my house stuff? I know I haven’t been taking care of my chores,” he admitted quickly. “I’m sorry. . . .”
They had split up the housework soon after they’d moved in together. Maybe even before that, as one of Lucy’s ground rules. Matt wasn’t very good about doing his “stuff” and Lucy often covered for him, because he worked such long hours and she was always home.
She slipped her hand away, smiling a moment. “Yes, come to think of it, you haven’t been doing your stuff. But it’s not about that.”
“Oh . . . all right.” He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest, wide-eyed and relaxed, assuming his “just trying to be open and interested” expression.
Set up like a wooden duck at a fair. All you have to do is pull the trigger, a little voice advised.
“I was just wondering . . . would it bother you if I went away for a night or two in July? Suzanne found this house on Plum Island and we want to do a girls’ weekend. I just didn’t know if you would mind, since you’ve been working so hard and we haven’t really made any vacation plans yet,” she rambled in a nervous rush.
You yellow-bellied, sap-sucking coward . . . you super-fried chicken.
If you get a bicycle for your birthday instead of an engagement ring, that’s just what you deserve.
Matt sat back, looking a bit surprised. Then he smiled and shrugged. “Sure. Sounds like fun. What weekend are you thinking of?”
“We thought we’d leave on Friday night, July tenth. The weekend after the Fourth.”
He walked over to the calendar they kept on the refrigerator, marked up with important occasions—invitations and appointments, Dara’s weekends, dental visits, and knitting meetings. Of course.
“I guess it will be all right. Dara is coming the weekend of July Fourth and she’ll stay for the week. I’m taking her to camp on Saturday the eleventh,” he added.
Dara was signed up to spend two weeks at a very nice sleepover camp on a small, pretty lake in Maine, in a town just over the New Hampshire border.
“Sounds like it works out. What will you do after you drop her off, visit your brother?” Matt’s brother Will and his wife, Jen, lived in Maine, not far from the camp. A family visit would give Matt something to do. And he did look a bit glum, as if he didn’t like facing a weekend alone.
“That’s a good idea. Jeff Solomon asked if I want to go fishing sometime. Maybe I’ll call him,” he added, mentioning an old college pal who lived in Boston but had a weekend home nearby, in Ipswich. “He just bought a new boat. A Boston Whaler with a flying bridge; it even has radar to find the fish.”
“Radar? That doesn’t seem fair. Doesn’t your conscience bother you, taking such a big advantage over a bunch of poor, defenseless flounder? Being a vet and all that? Shouldn’t you have more compassion?”
“Flounder aren’t running in July. More like those crafty sea bass and cunning swordfish. Did you ever come face-to-face with one? Hardly defenseless. Fish are smarter than you think, Lucy. Don’t let those blank stares fool you.” He stared at her, walking closer.
Lucy laughed and stood up. “What is that supposed to be? A fish imitation? Pretty lame.” She covered his eyes with her hand and leaned over and kissed him.
“Not lame at all . . . if I got a kiss out of it,” he said afterward. “There’s a reason they call us slippery.”
Chapter Eight
Lucy was glad that the Thursday night meeting was at Suzanne’s house. She was next on the rotation and was relieved at her narrow escape this week.
She’d been swamped with work the last two days and could have never cleaned and cooked for the meeting in time. As it was, she’d rushed around the house just to make it out by quarter past, then remembered she’d offered to bring dessert, requiring a quick detour to the supermarket for fresh berries and gelato.
She hoped the contribution wasn’t too spare but was sure that whatever the dessert lacked in wow power she’d more than make up for with the information she would share about the Gordons and Cassandra Waters.
Walking up Suzanne’s driveway, she heard voices in the backyard and knew her friends were already out on the deck behind the rambling old Colonial, a bargain property Suzanne and her husband had snatched up before it had hit the official listings, a run-down wreck at the time with great potential and all the space their big family needed.
Slowly but surely, with patience that most mortals did not possess, they had restored and rebuilt the house to its present glory.
While Suzanne still complained of
a few rough edges, even more bathrooms to update, and a basement “perfect for the set of a Harry Potter sequel,” the old house was more or less a masterpiece. Suzanne, however, had recently admitted she’d love to sell the place and trade up for another fixer-upper, in an even better neighborhood. Something with a water view.
Knowing Suzanne, her family had best start packing. Once she homed in on a goal, she was pretty much unstoppable.
Lucy let herself through the gate and found her hostess nearby, wielding giant tongs and a hot mitt—shaped like a lobster—as she cooked on the grill, flipping heads of baby bok choy.
“Sorry I’m late. I stopped to pick up dessert. Just some berries and gelato.”
“Perfect. We were wondering what happened to you. We thought maybe you rode your bike here.”
Lucy ignored the teasing. “I’ll put this in the fridge, be right out.”
“Good idea. Grab that pitcher from the freezer, too. Raspberry mojitos. They should be just right.”
Lucy was sure they would be. Suzanne was an awesome cook and Lucy knew the meal would be wonderful—well worth a few teasing remarks from her often outspoken, but beloved, knitting buddy. Suzanne always served the most interesting cocktails, too.
While Suzanne poured the frozen, pale pink drink, Lucy settled in a comfortable seat at the round wrought-iron table. A big green umbrella was open above, not needed, of course, at night, but creating a cozy space together with small lanterns hanging from the spokes for extra light and an array of candles glowing on the table.
She greeted her friends—everyone but Phoebe, who Maggie happily reported was on a last-minute date with a guy she’d met recently at a craft fair. He was a potter and Phoebe thought his work unique and very inspired. Lucy thought the match sounded promising.
Her friends had already blazed a path into the appetizers—a platter of fresh mozzarella, tomato, and basil, she noticed as she pulled out her knitting and eyed the selections.
