by Jana DeLeon
“It would be hard to buy,” I said. “My mother died when I was a child. My father wasn’t rich but he never remarried. I’m glad. I don’t think I would have done well with someone trying to fill my mother’s shoes.”
“Francesca never tried to fill my mother’s shoes,” Meg said. “She made it clear from the beginning that she was not my mother and had no intention of acting like one. She was more like the high school kid you hire to babysit while you go out to dinner. Except it wasn’t for a couple of hours. It was every hour of every day.”
“I know it was hard,” Gertie said. “Especially with your father working so much and you being so isolated out there from the rest of the community.”
“Dad was just doing what he was good at,” Meg said. “I don’t blame him. He was an intellectual. A numbers guy. He was never much of a people person. That’s why it was so easy for Francesca to get her claws in him. She was right there, already in the house. Already taking care of his dinner and his laundry and his daughter. Why not take care of him in the bedroom and win the lottery?”
It was clear Meg was bitter, and I was having a hard time blaming her. Francesca had seemed pleasant enough but the situation was so cliché that I couldn’t help but feel bad for Meg. I imagined she endured a lot of talk behind her back. When she was younger, she wouldn’t necessarily have understood, but once she hit teenage years, she would have known the score.
“My mother wanted to fire her,” Meg said. “Did you know that?”
“No,” Gertie said, and I could tell both she and Ida Belle were surprised.
Meg looked out the window and nodded. “I didn’t know anything at the time even though I saw plenty. I was too young for it to make sense, you know? But as I got older and the pieces fell into place…I think the affair started before my mother died. And I think she knew about it.”
Gertie shook her head. “You might be right, but I hope not. Your mother was a fine woman and she didn’t deserve that kind of treatment, especially in her last days.”
“My mother was an angel,” Meg said. “Why my father settled for street trash after her is something I’ll never completely understand.”
I glanced at Ida Belle and Gertie, neither of whom made a move to respond. I took their cue and decided it was better to let her keep talking.
“For a long time, I thought she killed my mother,” Meg said.
“Oh, dear,” Gertie said. “Your mother was very sick for a long time. It wasn’t fair at all, of course, her passing so young, but I’m afraid her prognosis was never good.”
Meg sniffed. “I know. I mean, I know that now. I’m just saying that back then, I thought she killed my mother so she could take her place.”
Ida Belle nodded. “A perfectly normal idea for a child to have, especially one who had lost her mother.”
“But I’m not a child anymore,” Meg said and gazed out the window again.
“No,” Gertie said. “But you’re still young and this is an emotionally trying time.”
Meg was silent for several seconds, then she spun around and looked Gertie straight in the eyes. “I don’t believe Francesca killed my mother anymore, but I do think she killed my father.”
Gertie’s eyes widened. “But I thought your father died of natural causes. I mean the actual death part, not what happened after.”
“That’s what the ME said,” Meg said. “But he’s like a thousand years old and Dr. Wilkinson was out of town. Dr. Wilkinson swore that my father would be fine as long as he took his meds. And he took them. I know it because I asked him about it all the time. He swore he took them every day without fail, even when he was out of town.”
I glanced over at Ida Belle. So far, her story aligned with Francesca’s.
“Maybe Dr. Wilkinson was mistaken,” Ida Belle said. “These things happen. Or maybe your father decided he didn’t need the medication. As foolish as it seems, he wouldn’t be the first to do so or the last.”
“No,” Meg said. “I was there when he had that spell with arrhythmia. He was scared. My entire life, I’ve only seen him scared twice. The day he told me my mother was going to die and that day. No way would he stop taking his meds.”
“Have you talked with Dr. Wilkinson?” Gertie asked. “Discussed this with him?”
Meg nodded. “I talked to him Sunday on his way to the ME’s office. I’d left him five messages, at least. I was thrilled when I heard he’d demanded an autopsy. I tried to get one but they told me I didn’t have the authority. That only Francesca could require it and she had said it wasn’t necessary. No surprise there.”
“And did he convey the results of the autopsy to you?” Ida Belle asked.
“Yes,” Meg said, an edge to her voice. “He said there was no indication of foul play. No poison or whatever. But Francesca was a nurse’s aide. She’d know how to kill someone and hide it. And I don’t think Dr. Wilkinson believes it was natural causes either, regardless of what the autopsy says.”
“Why do you say that?” Gertie asked.
“He asked me a bunch of questions about Father and his medication,” Meg said. “Then he asked about Francesca and their marriage. I’m telling you, he suspects something. He just hasn’t proven it yet.”
I looked over at Ida Belle, who shot me a worried expression. That was two people close to Garrett Roth who thought he was murdered, and it sounded as if Wilkinson suspected the merry widow of something.
“I’m sure Dr. Wilkinson will do everything he can to get all the details about your father’s death,” Ida Belle said. “He’s got a stake in it as well, and I’m sure he wants answers.”
Meg nodded. “I know he does, but what if he can’t get any? What if she gets away with it? And her, calling here, leaving me messages and pretending she’s worried. She never worried about me a single day in her life. Why bother putting on a show now?”
I thought about Francesca’s request earlier concerning Meg. Was it an act? A ploy to make us think she was the grieving, concerned widow? Given the lack of relationship between the two women, it certainly seemed suspect.
“Can I ask why you think Francesca did this?” Gertie asked. “Or perhaps not why, as the usual reasons of older man with money and younger wife can always be cited. I guess what I really mean is why now?”
Meg frowned. “I see what you’re saying. It would have made more sense for her to do something years ago, when she was younger and could make better use of the money. She’s still an attractive woman, though, so I guess the answer would be the obvious—another man. Although I have no idea how she would come across one living in isolation.”
She shook her head. “I know I don’t have any proof. It seems that no one does, but I can’t let go of the feeling that it’s all wrong. And then this maze thing. I just don’t know.”
“Did your father have any buddies in town?” I asked.
“Perhaps the Weekend at Bernie’s type?” Gertie asked.
Meg nodded her understanding. “I’ve thought about that nine ways to Sunday. But I can’t come up with anything. My father didn’t really have friends. He mostly had work acquaintances and that was it. And it would take some seriously devoted friends to take those risks just for a last hurrah. I’m not saying people wouldn’t do it for someone they loved, but I think the head part is taking it further than friends would go. Besides, my father never attended the festival and he hated rock music. He only listened to classical. If he had ever dressed up, Gene Simmons would have been his last choice.”
Her eyes watered and she brushed a tear from her cheek. “I just don’t understand why this is happening. And I’m trying to deal with all this and with the festival…”
Gertie reached over and squeezed her arm. “I know that the committees are assigned to all the festival events, but I’m assuming you might still get questions. You shouldn’t be dealing with any of that. If you can provide us with a timetable and a list of volunteers, we’d be happy to cover for you.”
Meg gave her a
grateful look. “Thank you. I’ve had some people call and offer—mostly Celia and her crew—but honestly, I don’t trust them to do things the way they’re supposed to be done. Celia tends to have her own agenda for things.”
“The understatement of the year,” Gertie said.
Meg gave her a small smile. “I keep telling myself that I can’t sit in this house staring at the walls all day, but even for the ten minutes I showed up last night, all the pats on the back and sympathetic comments were more than I could handle.”
She rose from her chair and went over to the kitchen counter where a binder sat. She picked it up and handed it to Ida Belle. “This is everything festival-related. All of the crews and committees, everyone’s assignments, dates and starting times, and the maze layout. I know it’s a lot to ask, but if you could make a copy and get the original back to me…just in case I feel like being involved, you know?”
Ida Belle nodded. “Walter has a good copy machine down at the store. I’m sure he won’t mind running me off a copy. I’ll do that right away and bring the original back.”
“If I don’t answer, just leave it at the front door,” Meg said. “I might try to get some rest. I haven’t been sleeping all that well.”
“Of course not,” Gertie said. “We’re going to get out of here and let you get right to that rest you need. But if there’s anything we can do, don’t hesitate to call.”
Meg nodded. “Thank you, again. For the food and the company and for not telling me I’m crazy.”
Gertie patted her hand. “You’re not crazy. You’re sad and scared and you need answers. I don’t think anyone faults you for any of those feelings.”
We headed out of the house and jumped into the SUV.
“So?” I asked as we pulled away from the curb. “Meg and Wilkinson appear to be on the same page.”
“At least about the suspicious death part,” Ida Belle said. “But neither can come up with how it was done.”
I nodded. “Both Francesca and Meg insist Garrett was taking his meds.”
“The same meds that weren’t in his system,” Gertie said. “How do you explain that?”
Ida Belle shook her head. “He was lying to both of them? It could be as simple as stubborn man syndrome.”
It was the logical explanation. In fact, at the moment, it was the only explanation. But something about it didn’t ring true. For all intents and purposes, Garrett Roth sounded like a self-absorbed man who lived for making money and sitting with his books. People like that rarely invited death. Granted, sometimes they were egotistical enough to think they couldn’t die and perhaps that was the case here, but something still felt off.
“I think we need to do some more digging on Francesca,” I said. “And Gertie is right. Why now? If Francesca is behind this, why not ten years ago or fifteen?”
“The logical answer is that while the lifestyle worked before, it’s stopped working now,” Ida Belle said.
“So what’s the catalyst?” I asked.
“Like Meg said, a man,” Gertie said. “When a woman sets out to change her entire life, there’s usually a man in the background.”
“I have to agree with her,” Ida Belle said. “But if Francesca has a man, he must be the best-kept secret in Sinful.”
“Yes, it’s rather hard to meet people when you’re a sort of a hermit,” I said, speaking from direct experience.
“Maybe Garrett found another woman,” Gertie said. “If he was cheating on his dying wife with Francesca, why wouldn’t he cheat on her as well?”
“I suppose if we allow that he and Francesca were carrying on before his wife’s death, then it’s no stretch to assume he might have tired of Francesca and traded her in for a new model,” Ida Belle said. “And New Orleans is full of available women looking for a payday.”
“But wouldn’t she just yell for a divorce, collect her money, and leave?” I asked.
“I’d bet anything there was an ironclad prenuptial,” Ida Belle said. “Too much of Garrett’s holdings were inherited. I’m certain the trust was structured specifically so that anyone married in couldn’t get their hands on it. Look, even Meg can’t collect without her father directing it.”
“So death pays off and divorce doesn’t,” I said. “That seems simple enough.”
“Unless Francesca isn’t behind it at all,” Gertie said.
“If she’s not, then there will be nothing to find,” I said.
But somehow, I knew that wouldn’t be the case. Everyone had a few skeletons in their closet. We just needed to pull them all out, then determine if they were all your basic embarrassing things she didn’t want known or something that led to first-degree murder charges.
“What’s on the schedule for tonight?” I asked.
“Arts and crafts,” Gertie said. “The kids are divided up by age and split into available rooms at the two churches.”
I held in a sigh. I didn’t have an artistic bone in my body, unless you counted making a smiley face on a body target at the gun range.
“Don’t worry,” Ida Belle said. “We’re off the hook on that one.”
“Really?” I said, trying not to sound excited. “How did that happen?”
Ida Belle inclined her head toward Gertie, who threw her hands in the air.
“You confuse craft glue with superglue one time and everyone casts aspersions,” Gertie said. “So some of them wore a little glitter for a couple weeks.”
Ida Belle raised one eyebrow. “And?”
“And the twins might have stuck their heads together,” Gertie said. “But the hair grew back and they weren’t completely stinky before they could undress and shower again.”
I opened my mouth but couldn’t find any words to say.
“And?” Ida Belle said again.
“There’s more?” I asked.
“Someone should have told me those were permanent markers,” Gertie said.
“You mean besides the manufacturer, who printed it directly on the label?” Ida Belle asked.
I grimaced. “What age group?”
“Kindergarten,” Ida Belle said. “Some of them wore mustaches and interesting facial tattoos for a couple months. Several mothers insisted on putting Band-Aids on them before they went into public.”
“How was I supposed to know they’d draw phallic symbols all over each other?” Gertie said.
“Oh no,” I said and started laughing. The mental picture of a school full of kids walking around with male privates etched on their faces with permanent marker was too hilarious to hold it in.
“I think they were supposed to be spaceships,” Ida Belle said. “They’d just covered astronauts in school.”
“Whatever,” Gertie said. “It’s not like any of them went on to be professional artists, which tells you everything you need to know about the quality of their work.”
“The Hawkins kid is a professional painter,” Ida Belle said.
“He paints water towers,” Gertie said. “And in high school, when he used one to profess his love for a girl, he spelled the name wrong. His name.”
“Was his name that hard to spell?” I asked. People sometimes got creative or were just plain drunk.
Ida Belle snorted. “Billy. And before you ask, he spelled it with one L.”
I shook my head. “I am sometimes at a loss for words, other than saying I’m at a loss for words. Next question—do you know if the maze is still a crime scene?”
“Yeah,” Ida Belle said. “Some of the ladies were in the park doing cleanup today since that storm blew stuff all over the place. The police tape is still there.”
“Why?” Gertie asked me. “You’ve got something in mind. I know that look.”
“I want to get a look inside the maze,” I said. “I want to figure out where the body was stashed.”
“You’re convinced it was hidden during the build?” Ida Belle asked.
“I don’t have any other explanation,” I said. “And if it was, then there should
be indications—assuming the storm didn’t blow all the evidence away.”
Ida Belle nodded. “So if we find the hiding spot in the maze, then that narrows our suspect list down specifically to people who worked on the build. And now that we have our handy list of opportunity volunteers, we can start trying to put together motive.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Which means we’ve got to sneak into that maze tonight.”
Gertie hooted. “Field trip!”
Chapter Fifteen
Carter arrived at my house around 9:00 p.m. and I fed him dinner from one of the casseroles I’d begged off of Gertie. The woman really did have a freezer full of readiness. Due to my planned outing, I was hoping he’d head home for the night, but he settled into the recliner and showed no signs of wanting to move. As the clock inched closer and closer to midnight, I started to get antsy.
Finally, I just blurted out, “I figured you’d want to sleep in your own bed tonight.”
Carter looked over at me for several seconds, then narrowed his eyes. “Is there any particular reason you need me to stay at my house tonight?”
“Maybe.”
He turned off the television and sat up straight. “You’ve been oddly quiet, especially about our friend Garrett Roth. I assumed you three would be gallivanting around town today, poking your nose into business, and getting into the kind of trouble that usually results in a phone call to the sheriff’s department, but the phones were as silent as you. So what gives?”
I blew out a breath. “Look. We did spend the day gallivanting, but we just didn’t get into any trouble. For a change. I’ll admit that part. And I’ve been quiet about things because it’s better if you don’t know.”
He shook his head. “We’ve already played that game and it didn’t go so well for us the first time.”
“This is different. You know what I’m doing in general. I’m just not offering up details. What you don’t know, you can’t lie about. Get it?”
