by Angie Fox
“A Maserati, and that was after the mortgage industry went bust,” Lauralee said. “Some of his clients might have defaulted, but Reggie already had their money.”
Ouch. “Maybe he hadn’t realized he was getting people in over their heads,” I said, trying to be charitable.
“He knew. He talked like he was doing these people a favor—helping them buy their dream homes. But when he was in town for Kelly’s funeral, he admitted he’d been lying to himself.”
“Wow.” I didn’t know what else to say.
We stopped at the intersection across from the park and then continued over once the light changed. “Kelly’s death did a number on him. The night before we buried her, I found him banging around in my kitchen at three in the morning, making cocoa. He’d stayed at our place last minute because he didn’t even want to be alone at the hotel. I think being around the kids made him feel better.”
“They always do it for me,” I said, turning back to Ambrose, who had found a fascinating bolt on the wagon. Perhaps he’d be an engineer when he grew up.
“Reggie started…telling me things,” Lauralee said, shaking her head. “It turns out he’d spent a good part of the housing boom doing all the shady things that a lot of mortgage lenders did”—she cringed—“making bad loans to good people, getting his clients in over their heads.”
She glanced at me, as if waiting for me to judge. Only it wasn’t my place, not right now. “Did he say why? Other than the money?” He seemed to have plenty without resorting to that.
She shook her head. “He’d told himself he was helping them afford the lifestyle they wanted, but he knew deep down some of the deals he was making were going to hurt people.”
We reached the playground and Ambrose just about hurt himself in his haste to exit the wagon and run toward the slides.
“Careful,” Lauralee warned him, lending her assistance.
He dashed toward the green and yellow playground equipment. Maybe he’d be an Olympic sprinter someday.
“I’ve been trying to figure out why someone would target Reggie,” I began, needing to be frank. Of course, this was Lauralee. We could be honest. “Didn’t Jeb Kemper lose his house in a bad mortgage deal?”
Lauralee shoved her hands into the pockets of her navy puffer coat. “I don’t know anything about that,” she said, with an edge to her voice, “and I don’t think it’s kind at all to assume.”
I could have been offended, but I wasn’t. She was hurting. “I’m just trying to understand what happened,” I reminded her. I really wished I could have found a way to talk about Handsome Henry, but that seemed like a bigger stretch than Jeb.
We watched Ambrose run circles around the slide.
“I’m sorry,” she said, tilting her head toward mine. “I just…I hate this.”
“Me too,” I said honestly.
Ambrose abandoned his orbit around the slide and ran straight for a mud puddle just beyond the playground.
“You want me to get him?” I asked, worried.
She smiled. “Don’t worry. Toddlers are washable.”
And this was a fourth child. We strolled past the slide and the swings and the rest of the expensive playground equipment and stood beside Ambrose and his gooey pile of mud. He seemed to be making pies. “Maybe he’ll be a chef.”
“You know, Reggie said something strange at Kelly’s funeral,” Lauralee said after a few minutes of keeping an eye on her son. “He told me he was giving it all up to her, that he’d do what she’d have wanted and he’d start fresh.”
“Well, he did start a new life, for better or worse.”
Ambrose lifted his hand to smack a mud pie onto the side of his head, and this time, Lauralee intervened. “Do you want a snack?” she asked.
He dropped the mud like it was on fire. Ambrose turned his big, blue eyes on us. “Grapes?”
Lauralee pulled a bag of large purple grapes out of her pocket and you would have thought she did a magic trick. “Get in the wagon and you can have these.”
The child flung himself into the wagon like a firefighter jumping into the truck.
Yet another career possibility.
Lauralee wiped his muddy hands before handing over the grapes. Ambrose munched happily and we began our walk home.
“Reggie wasn’t the only one who needed to leave his jet-setting lifestyle behind,” Lauralee commented. “He kept saying how EmmaJane needed it too.”
“To get a dose of reality?” I asked, suspecting where this was headed.
Lauralee shrugged as Ambrose squealed with delight at his grapes. “She’d never held a job. She’d disappear—go to Europe or the islands with her friends—and he wouldn’t hear from her for weeks. He’d have to look at her credit card statements to even see where she was.”
“I couldn’t imagine,” I said, glancing back at Ambrose and his grapes. To raise a child and then lose touch.
“Grapes?” Ambrose asked, offering me one in that melodious voice that made my ovaries melt.
I let him feed me one and chewed as he reached into his bag for more.
“Reggie needed this,” Lauralee said as we walked the neighborhood. “He needed to come home. He called me the day after he’d returned to Chicago and said he’d made his decision. He said he was going to turn over a new leaf and live a simple, honest life. He said that he and EmmaJane were moving to Sugarland and he’d put an offer in on the Robinson’s house down the street from me. The for-sale sign had been up for months, but he gave them their asking price in cash.”
I knew he’d moved close to Lauralee, but I hadn’t realized they’d been neighbors. “Cash? That does sound like Reggie—direct and to the point.”
Lauralee grinned a bit at that. “He told me that he and EmmaJane were going to be a family who cared about each other, no matter what. As if you can just order that up.”
“It would make things a lot easier,” I joked.
“There’s the house, up ahead,” she said, pointing to a green bungalow with a generous stone porch on the opposite side of the street.
“Is that Em’s car?” I asked, pointing to a sleek Jaguar parked in the driveway. It didn’t seem like she’d traded down very far.
“No.” Lauralee frowned. “That’s Carla’s Jaguar.” We slowed as we passed. “Strange. Those two normally don’t like each other at all.”
“Maybe she’s making sure Em has everything she needs,” I said. No doubt Carla had known Em for most of her life. “She could just be there for support.”
“Carla isn’t the supportive type,” Lauralee mused. “But she’s so loyal to Reggie, it would be like her to try.”
“Then we should pop by and make sure everything is all right.” Heaven knew Em had enough on her plate without having to entertain someone she didn’t like.
“Let’s,” my friend said as I steered Ambrose for the green house across the street. “I’ve been sticking close this morning just in case she needed anything.”
“You know,” I said as we crossed, “you might want to call her Em instead of EmmaJane. She likes it better.”
Lauralee touched a hand to the bridge of her nose. “Right. I keep forgetting that.” She eyed me. “Reggie was so insistent.”
“She’s no wallflower herself,” I began, not sure how to address that elephant in the room.
As usual, Lauralee understood what I was thinking. “I realize Em can be a pill, but oh my word. Did you know Reggie burned her designer wardrobe?”
I bugged my eyes out at her.
“He did it the night he went back to Chicago. It took all five of their fireplaces.”
“She must have flipped.” Even I would have gotten upset if somebody just burned everything I owned. Not that I owned much anymore.
I steered the red wagon up Em’s front drive and onto the sidewalk next to it.
“He sold her car and thrust her into a job and a life she wasn’t prepared to lead,” Lauralee said. “Now he’s gone, and she has to learn to dea
l with it on her own. She’s lost both of her parents in the past year, and she doesn’t really know anybody nearby except for me.”
I lifted Ambrose out of the wagon and situated him on my hip. “I can’t imagine,” I told her. I really couldn’t. Even after my dad died, I still had my mom and my sister, not to mention my grandmother and friends like Lauralee to pull me through.
Em, on the other hand, had gone from socialite to social outcast.
We made our way up onto the wide stone porch. Lauralee knocked while I held Ambrose.
Em answered the door, her blond hair slicked back into a ponytail, her face pinched with irritation. “Oh, good. More people I didn’t invite over.”
“Grape?” Ambrose asked, offering her one.
Em rolled her eyes and ushered us into her front room, which she’d done up with modern furniture and accessories in various shades of white, gray, and pink. It was very classy, very clean.
It didn’t look like a place where I should put Ambrose down.
Only Carla seemed startled at our small-town drop-in. She sat on the white love seat, with an array of casket sales sheets spread out on the glass coffee table.
“We were out for a walk and wanted to check on you,” Lauralee assured her cousin.
“I’m doing great,” Em said, scooping up a sales sheet with a shiny brown casket displayed like any other product, with rows of prices underneath. “What kind of coffin do you think Daddy would have wanted, Lauralee? Carla’s dying for me to pick one.”
“I’m trying to help,” Carla said, bringing a hand to her temple. “Your father would want me to help.”
To my horror, Ambrose snatched the paper out of Em’s hand and began waving it around, crumpling the bottom in his little fist. “I’m so sorry.” I tried to get it away from him while he bit the corner of it like a miniature savage. “We just fed him.”
Em softened a bit. “Let him have it. There’s more where that came from.”
“What can we do for you?” Lauralee asked.
Carla stood, her hands clasped in front of her as if she were trying to maintain the decorum of the room. “You can leave us in peace,” she instructed. “EmmaJane and I are working to find some closure.”
“She’s beyond ready to bury him,” Em said, scooping up another sales sheet and handing it to Ambrose the destroyer. “That’s our Carla, a paragon of efficiency.”
Color rose to Carla’s cheeks and she appeared as stricken as if Em had slapped her. “Reggie placed the utmost importance on tradition, family, friends.” She hesitated briefly. “You may not care for me, but your father was one of the most important people in my life. He would want us to plan a nice memorial where people can gather and—”
Em turned on her. “Why are you so eager to bury my father?”
“It’s a sign of respect,” Carla shot back, before she caught herself. She looked to Lauralee for support. “Reggie liked—”
“You don’t know what he wanted,” Em spat. “Dad left no instructions for his funeral. I’m sick and tired of you trying to force decisions on me, telling me what he wanted.” She turned to Lauralee. “And you. If you bring me one more casserole, I’m going to scream.”
“You need to eat—” my friend began.
Em glared at her. “Give me space!”
Ambrose screwed up his face and let out a hollow wail.
Em swept the brochures off the table, scattering them over the carpet. “My dad wanted a simpler life,” she said, straightening. “Fine. What can be simpler than reducing him to ashes and scattering them to the wind?” Carla gasped and Em relished the older woman’s shock. “I’ll call the crematorium myself. We’ll have it done immediately. He liked ending things in the fireplace.”
This was getting out of control fast. “I understand you’re upset—” I began.
Lauralee stepped in front of me. “We’re not against cremation, but at least think it through.”
Em’s glossed mouth curved into a calculating grin. “Don’t worry, cousin. He wanted to be dirt. I’m letting him be dirt.” She strolled past us and threw open the door. “Now get out.”
We left, mainly so we could calm poor little Ambrose down and get him back into his wagon with his grapes. It stunned me how quickly the situation with Em had deteriorated.
Carla stopped Lauralee briefly on the front porch. “Don’t worry,” she said, her eyes reddening, “I won’t let her do anything to hurt him.”
I hated to break it to her, but I didn’t see where we had much control.
Lauralee thanked her for her efforts and we continued our walk. Still, I couldn’t keep myself from glancing back at the green house and at Carla’s Jaguar as she sped away down the street. “Em’s going to leave for Chicago as soon as the police let her.” Or Ecuador. I’d seen those brochures.
“We’ll lose her for good,” my friend said, glum, “and there will be nothing we can do about it.”
“Maybe she’ll calm down and call you,” I said. “You’re not overbearing,” I added, countering Em’s angry claim.
“I don’t mean to be,” Lauralee whispered.
We turned into Lauralee’s drive and Ambrose clapped his hands. “Home!”
“Bath,” she told him pragmatically, and he seemed even happier at that.
“I invited her over last night, but she wanted to be alone.” Lauralee parked the red wagon near the porch and lifted Ambrose out of it. “I hope she at least has friends in Chicago who will support her. She shouldn’t have to do this by herself. She’s acting almost flippant about the whole thing, like she doesn’t care.” I opened the door and she entered first with Ambrose. “When I picked her up at the bank yesterday, she even yelled, ‘I quit!’ on her way out.”
I hadn’t spoken with Em much, but I remembered our run-in in the lobby of the bank. “I think she says things sometimes just to shock people.” I closed the door as Lauralee began stripping Ambrose out of his muddy clothes.
Lauralee nodded her agreement. “It’s like she’s afraid to care.” She shook her head as Ambrose struggled out of his shirt. “I worry EmmaJane—Em,” she corrected herself, “is reacting to Reggie’s death the same way she reacted to the move. She’s angry and isolated, so she’s pushing everyone away.”
When she had Ambrose down to his Pull-Ups, she lifted him into her arms. “Big Tom thinks I should take her out for a nice meal. He says we should plan something at a restaurant and not just drop by or invite her to the house.”
“He may have a point.” The usual Sugarland casserole etiquette hadn’t helped.
“It’d feel more social, less like a family intervention, if you came along,” my friend said with a cringe. “It might help her connect and feel supported.”
Reggie had suggested the same. “As long as you’re the one who asks her,” I said. I wouldn’t be venturing into that particular bear cave. “I’d be glad to help you.”
My friend let out a breath. “Good. It’s a relief to at least have a plan.”
“All the same, I’d give it a few days,” I suggested.
“No kidding,” Lauralee agreed.
“Bath?” Ambrose asked.
I kissed him on the nose. “Sorry, bub. I’ll get out of your way.” To his mother, I added, “Call me about that dinner.”
“I’ll let you know,” she said. “And thanks,” she added. “For the coffee and the company, and…everything.”
“My pleasure,” I said. And it was. “I’d do anything for you,” I promised her.
Chapter 10
I steered my big green Cadillac down Lauralee’s street, passing Jackson Park and heading up toward Main. Reggie’s daughter wasn’t the type who would take kindly to being a project—or a suspect—and we’d be careful not to make her feel that way. But if we could help her, and if at the same time I could determine who had killed her father, well, I owed Reggie and Lauralee that much.
How to do it was the question. My usual direct approach wouldn’t work.
I’d begun to ponder the problem when flashing blue and red police lights lit up my back window.
A short siren blast barked at me to halt. Mercy. I checked the land yacht’s large, round speedometer. I hadn’t been over the limit. Then I took a hard look through my rearview mirror and saw Ellis in the squad car behind me.
Irritation stabbed at me. He couldn’t just pull me over whenever he felt like talking.
I kept driving.
A loudspeaker crackled behind me. “Pull to the side of the road.”
Seems he didn’t get the memo.
I ground my car to a stop in front of a tidy blue house with an American flag on the porch, irritated at myself as much as him. I still didn’t know what to say. And after our run-in with Em, I wasn’t feeling so confident when it came to interpersonal relations.
I straightened my back against the velvet bench seat and resisted the urge to check my hair in the rearview mirror. I cared, but I couldn’t let him know I gave a whit about my appearance. And heavens, I still wore the Technicolor dream coat.
“Quickly…” I murmured, breaking a land-speed record wriggling out of the thing. I tossed it onto the floor near the front passenger seat as Ellis stepped out of his car.
He looked as handsome as ever. He could be annoying that way.
Ellis carried himself like a man who knew how to handle any situation, and he did. He’d saved my hide more than once. His tan and black deputy sheriff’s uniform fit over his broad shoulders like a dream, and excuse me if I got a bit of a thrill from the gun belt around his lean hips. In fact, if I wasn’t careful, he could melt me into a puddle on the floor.
I lowered the old roller window and leaned out on an elbow. “Ellis,” I said, trying for sweet, sounding more clipped and nervous. I tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “I don’t need you stopping me like this.”
He leaned a hand against my door frame and cocked his head toward the back of my Cadillac. “Your brake light is out.”
I sat back. “Really?” That hadn’t happened since I owned the car, and I didn’t know much about vehicle maintenance. I’d have to figure out how to fix it, not to mention pay for it.
