Daughter of Deceit

by Patricia Sprinkle

  “That might have had something to do with it.”

  Sarcasm was wasted on Murdoch. All she seemed to want was an audience. “But who knows? When I go to England in October, maybe I’ll find we are related after all. If I do, I am going to be so angry about that tea set. I warned Bara she needed to put it somewhere safe!”

  Katharine regarded her curiously. Postponed anger was a new concept. But she felt confined in the elevator. It was too small for the two of them and Murdoch’s obsession. She was glad when they reached the bottom.

  Murdoch turned one way and Katharine the other. “The garage is this way,” Murdoch called after her.

  “Mine isn’t. I came from that direction.”

  “Are you limping?”

  Katharine gave her a rueful smile and held up her foot, ridiculously grateful for the first interest Murdoch had ever shown in her. “New shoes. I didn’t know I’d have so far to walk.”

  “Would you like a lift? I’ve got a really close space. I’m lucky that way. Parking spaces open up for me.”

  “Lucky for both of us.” Katharine accepted the offer gladly.

  Murdoch’s daddy might drive a Mercedes, but she drove a white Buick several years old—her mother’s old car. A purple suitcase sat on the backseat. Seeing Katharine’s glance, Murdoch said, “I wanted a color that didn’t look like everybody else’s on the carousel.”

  “But why didn’t you put it in the trunk?”

  Murdoch hesitated—to ask herself the same question? “I was only going to be in there a minute, and besides, the hospital ought to have good security.”

  Katharine didn’t point out a sign directly above the hood stating that the garage was not responsible for items stolen from cars.

  As Murdoch continued to chatter about her research while she drove, Katharine wondered: Do people get self-centered from living alone, or do people wind up alone because they are so self-centered?

  That was followed by a scary thought. When Tom has been gone awhile, do I do that to people? Hang on to them and bore them to death with my own obsessions?

  At least I don’t make an idol of family, she comforted herself.

  Family idolatry seemed rampant in the Payne family. All her life Bara had idolized a living relative, while Murdoch idolized the dead ones.

  Surreptitiously Katharine slid off her painful shoe and rubbed her foot on the carpet. She felt a prick from something on the bottom of her foot, but savored the relief of her unconfined toe. Dare she walk barefoot to her car?

  “I appreciate the lift. I can get out here. The elevator is right there.” Katharine slid her foot back into her shoe and felt a sharper prick. Great. Now she had two wounds instead of one. She could hardly wait to get to her car.

  She tried not to limp the short distance to the elevator and then to her car, but as soon as she sat down she jerked off the shoe and peered at her foot. Even in the dim lights of the parking garage, she could see that the blistering toe was red and angry, while a tiny spot of blood swelled from her sole. Something must have clung to her bare foot from Bara’s floor and worked its way in while she walked. Heaven only knew how many germs it had carried in with it.

  She used a tissue to stanch the blood and wished she had a flashlight so she could see the spot more clearly. In the dimness of the garage she saw nothing—except dirt. She was glad she hadn’t examined the foot in Murdoch’s presence. Her sole was filthy. Accustomed to going barefoot around her house and even out onto the patio, she must have forgotten to wash her feet before sliding them into her sandals.

  She scratched the wound gently and felt something sharp. She had no tweezers, but didn’t Tom keep Scotch tape in his armrest? But she wasn’t in his car—she was in the rental. Drat!

  She dampened a bit of tissue with spit and stuck it to the wound to stanch the blood. That would have to do until she got home.

  As she drove, she mulled over Bara’s situation, trying various scenarios.

  Scenario one: A thief came to rob the house. Bara heard the intruder, came down to confront him, and got beaten up. Foley heard the beating and came up. The intruder grabbed the convenient gun and shot him, then put Bara’s prints on the gun—to make it look like she had killed Foley—and escaped with the loot. Surely that was plausible enough for a good attorney to instill reasonable doubt in the minds of a jury?

  Unfortunately, scenario two was more likely: Foley was lifting the family silver and Bara heard him after he’d removed most of what he was after. She went down to confront him, he beat her, she snatched the gun from the table and shot him, then collapsed to the floor.

  What happened to the silver, the lamp, and the Monet? Whether it was her father’s voice or her own, Katharine knew it was his legal mind at work.

  Maybe Foley’s mistress took the loot. Maybe they conspired together and were putting things in her car when Bara surprised them. After—or while—Bara shot Foley, the woman fled.

  Had the police asked Bara for the woman’s name? Would Bara remember it? Might it stimulate her poor brain to remember more about that dreadful evening?

  Katharine’s own brain was stimulated to recall something Bara had remembered: Scotty had been at her house the week before, asking for money. That opened up a whole new avenue of thought. Scotty, playing the amiable fool, but knowing that Foley was likely to get away with treasures that had been in his family for years. Scotty, who might feel he had a justifiable excuse to take back the treasures. Scotty, who had “fallen asleep” and been late for his Thursday poker game. Scotty, who could have carried all the stuff to his house and had days to dispose of it, with Murdoch away. Scotty, who knew somebody who could sell Bara’s tea service—and possibly the other items?—on the QT. Scotty, who had a key to Bara’s house, because he grew up there.

  Did Bara hear him from upstairs and come down to investigate? Or had he come to her room to argue with her, and…?

  That’s where Katharine’s imagination shut down. She could imagine Scotty shooting Foley on the spur of the moment if interrupted in looting the house, but where did Bara fit into the scenario? Katharine could not imagine Scotty beating Bara.

  But if Scotty knew Bara was adopted, would that make a difference to him?

  Katharine was a firm believer that an adopted child is completely a member of his or her adoptive family, but the witnesses agreed that Nettie Holcomb hadn’t felt that way. Nettie had preferred Art and never warmed up to Bara. Scotty was a better actor than Nettie—years of bonhomie proved that. But had he secretly resented Bara, too? Enough to beat her if she came upon him robbing her house? Enough to frame her for Foley’s murder?

  Katharine couldn’t investigate Foley’s girlfriend, and she wasn’t willing to believe Bara had killed him, but she decided she would like to ask Eloise a few questions.

  Since Posey’s was on the way to the nursing home, she stopped by, hoping Posey could go with her. She preferred to question Eloise in front of a witness.

  Posey was at aerobics, but Julia, her housekeeper, was puttering in the red, black, and white kitchen. “Are you limping, Miss Kat?”

  “I’ve got a blister and a splinter in my foot,” Katharine admitted.

  “Come on into this here powder room and let me have a look.” After she’d examined the foot, Julia fetched a large bowl, tweezers, Band-aids, antibiotic cream, and a soft wash cloth. She filled the bowl with warm soapy water. “Put your foot in there a minute. This may hurt a little, but I’ll fix you right up.”

  Feeling younger than Hollis, Katharine sat on the lid of the toilet and let Julia wash her foot, wincing when the blister sank into hot water and again when the wash cloth passed over the splinter in her sole.

  Julia noticed the second wince and reached for the tweezers. “Let’s see what you got in there.” In an instant she held up something that glittered in the light. “That’s no splinter. You picked up a little piece of glass.” It was a tiny spike, perhaps a quarter of an inch long. “What you been doing to those poor feet
? That’s a bad blister on that toe, too.” She applied antibiotic cream liberally to the wound and sore toe. Katharine wasn’t sure why the cream was needed on the blister, but it felt heavenly to have Julia’s strong fingers massage her feet.

  Julia stuck on a Band-aid and heaved herself to her feet. “You go straight home and put that foot up a while,” she instructed. “Tell Tom to order in a pizza or something for dinner.”

  “In a little while,” Katharine hedged. “I have one short errand to run for Bara Weidenauer first.”

  Julia filled a glass with ice and poured in tea to the brim. As she handed it to Katharine, she demanded, “When you gonna learn not to take on everybody else’s troubles? Sometimes that can be more trouble than it’s worth.”

  Within an hour, Katharine would heartily echo those sentiments.

  Chapter 34

  Much refreshed, Katharine drove to visit Eloise. She found Eloise by her window again, looking up at the hazy sky. Did that suit her hazy thoughts?

  “Hello, Miss Eloise. It’s Katharine Murray, Ann Rose’s friend.”

  “I know who you are, dear. It is so good to see you.” Eloise gave her a welcoming smile. “I don’t know if I have any cookies in the jar in my kitchen, but I can at least make us some coffee. It is good of you to stop by.” She attempted to rise, but straps fastened her arms to the arms of the chair.

  Katharine laid a hand on one shoulder. “I don’t need coffee this morning, but thank you, anyway. How are you feeling?” She took the visitor’s chair.

  Eloise settled into her seat. “I’m fine. Nothing the matter whatsoever. And you? Were you limping?”

  Imagine her noticing. “Just a little. I have a blister.” Katharine tried to think how to get from a blister to what she wanted to ask. “I got it walking from the hospital parking lot to Bara’s room. Did you know she’s in Piedmont?”

  “Bara? What’s the matter with the child? She is never ill. Art has a weak throat and Murdoch gets a dreadful cold every winter, but Bara is strong as a horse. Strange, considering.”

  “She—uh—fell down some stairs a couple of days ago.” Perhaps it was true.

  “Oh, dear. Will she be all right? Nobody ever tells me anything. Nobody ever comes—”

  “I came,” Katharine said quickly. She didn’t want Eloise veering off into anger. “I want to ask you a question about Scotty.”

  Eloise peered at her. “Are you from the newspaper, dear? I never speak to reporters.”

  “No,” Katharine assured her. “I am Ann Rose’s friend.”

  “How is dear Ann Rose? I haven’t seen her for ages. Such a charming girl. I knew her mother, you know. She made me laugh.”

  “Ann is fine. She and I came earlier, to ask you about Nettie.”

  The name made Eloise widen her nostrils and shy back. “Nettie made him do it. He’s not a bad man. She insisted!”

  “Do what?” Conversing with Eloise was like walking on ball bearings.

  “You know, dear. About the man.”

  Before Katharine could react, Eloise was chirping on like a canary whose cover had been taken off. “He didn’t want to do it. He really didn’t. But Nettie made him. That man showed up and wanted to talk to Bara, and Nettie was afraid people might find out about”—she peered toward the door with an anxious frown, and her voice dropped—“you know. She couldn’t stand that. And Winnie was out of town. She didn’t know what to do about the man.”

  Katharine hazarded a guess. “The man from Yugoslavia?”

  “Some foreign place. Coming to the house like that, demanding to see Bara.”

  “Was he Bara’s father?”

  Eloise gave her a puzzled look. “Winnie was Bara’s father.”

  “But Bara was adopted. Didn’t you know that?”

  Eloise peered toward the door and the window, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “Winnie went and got her, but we never speak about it. Nettie doesn’t want people to know. She’s so ashamed. That’s why…” Eloise broke off, her face puckered in distress. “Scotty is not a bad man. He’s not! He’s just weak. It was Nettie who made him do it!”

  She was getting excited again. Katharine stroked her arm and murmured, “I know.”

  “What are you all talking about?” Murdoch stood in the doorway. How much had she heard?

  A nurse came in behind her with a syringe on a tray. “It’s time for your mother’s insulin.” Murdoch took the tray. “I’ll give it to her.”

  When the nurse had left, Murdoch repeated, “What were you talking about?”

  Katharine thought quickly. “I was asking your mother if they knew Bara was adopted.” That wasn’t going to be a secret much longer, anyway.

  “Sure.” Murdoch set the syringe tray on a table beside Eloise. “They adopted her in New York. I didn’t know, though, until last week. All these years, they never told me. But we had been over at Bara’s—I wanted a good look at the silver service before I went to Boston—and on the way home Daddy started talking about how it was a shame she got Nana’s things, because she wasn’t really part of the family.” Murdoch’s face grew pink. “Nana had no cause to bypass Aunt Nettie and me and leave the most valuable things in the family to Bara!” Murdoch had rocketed from calm straight to the screeching stage. Katharine wondered if she was in the early stages of her mother’s condition.

  Afraid they would disturb the other residents, Katharine lowered her voice, but felt compelled to protest. “Adopted children belong as much as birth children do. Once they are adopted, they are family.”

  “But Bara always was her favorite.” The perennial whine of younger children.

  Katharine stood. “Well, since you’ve arrived, I’ll let you two have a visit. It’s good to see you, Eloise.”

  She meant to hurry past, but Murdoch caught her arm. “Why were you asking her questions about Daddy?”

  So she had overheard part of the conversation.

  Did she know what her father had done?

  “Bara asked me to try and find out who her birth parents were.” Katharine tugged, trying to gently disengage her arm. “I had hoped your mother knew.”

  Murdoch’s grip tightened. “I think it’s more than that. You like solving mysteries, don’t you? And murders. Genealogy isn’t serious for you. It’s just a pretext for sticking your nose into other people’s business.” Her eyes glittered, and a drop of moisture formed at the end of her nose. “Bara should never have had that tea set! And the Monet? Do you know how much that thing is worth? Millions! But she hung it right in her front hall, like it was no more valuable than something in a scruffy motel.”

  Katharine doubted that Bara had any acquaintance with pictures in scruffy motels, but this wasn’t the time to think about that. Murdoch was so close she could smell coffee on her breath, and her eyes glittered. How far would she go to protect her father?

  In a quick gesture, Murdoch grabbed the syringe and held it aloft. Katharine frantically tried to remember what she knew about insulin. Couldn’t it be deadly, injected into a person without diabetes? In another instant, Murdoch would jab the syringe into Katharine’s arm.

  Katharine summoned more energy than she knew she possessed and wrenched away. Screaming, she dashed for the door. “Help! Help!” She pelted down the hall.

  “Stop, thief!” Murdoch cried behind her.

  An orderly ran after Katharine. “Stop her!” Katharine gasped at him. Her sandals slipped on the tile floor. “She’s trying to kill me!”

  She heard him pause, but any second Murdoch and her murderous syringe could be upon her. She kicked off her sandals and darted for the front door. Ignoring the gravel that bruised her feet, she ran to her car. Murdoch’s Buick was backed into the adjoining space, its bumper scraping the low white concrete wall in spite of several signs in the lot reading PLEASE DO NOT BACK IN.

  Katharine slid into her seat and locked the door with no seconds to spare. Murdoch pounded on her window. “Don’t you go spreading stories about Daddy, you hear me! If
you do, we’ll sue you for slander. Bara didn’t deserve all that! She doesn’t need the money. And she doesn’t even like the tea service. It shouldn’t have gone to Bara. She isn’t part of our family! She doesn’t love it like I do. To her, it’s something on a sideboard. She never sat at Nana’s imagining Dolley Payne Madison drinking tea from that pot. And the Monet! Fifteen million dollars, and Foley wanted half. He’d have gotten it, too. Everybody said so.”

  Katharine started her engine. If she had to, she’d back out and take Murdoch with her. When her car started to roll, Murdoch jumped back, still shouting.

  Katharine looked over her right shoulder to make sure she was clear on that side, and glimpsed the luggage on the backseat of the Buick. Two more pieces of the puzzle fell into place, rearranging her conclusions. Instead of backing straight, she turned so that her car blocked Murdoch’s in front. The concrete wall blocked it behind.

  She stopped and lowered her window a crack. “It wasn’t Scotty,” she called. “It was you! You didn’t fly to Boston Thursday night. You couldn’t. They were socked in by the storm. Tom couldn’t come home that night.”

  Clear as a memory, she could see Murdoch dithering in the congested Atlanta airport, uncertain whether it was better to stay and hope for a flight or go home and sleep in her own bed. Worrying about the silver service and whether Bara could keep it safe for another week. Deciding to go to her house and tackle her, remove it forcibly if necessary, knowing that Bara would probably be drunk.

  “Also, you took a cab to the airport. Your dad said so. But with all that time to waste, you decided to go get your car and drive to Bara’s to get the things, didn’t you? Scotty was playing poker. Did he even know you’d been home? I’m surprised he didn’t report your car stolen.”

  “I park in the garage.”

  As soon as she said that, Murdoch turned an unlovely shade of red. But she quickly recovered and lifted her chin. “You can’t prove a bit of it.” She headed to her car.

  Katharine cracked her passenger window and called, “Your hotel will know when you arrived in Boston. And I picked up a splinter of glass somewhere. Was it from the floor of your car when you gave me a ride?”