by JoAnna Carl
“I know it’s weird, Jim! I can’t even prove this chase, this shooting, actually happened. I don’t see any bullet holes in the car, so I guess he missed me. You can check back by the corner where he fired, but the shots were aimed at the campus. They could have hit a tree or something.”
“Oh, I believe the part about the shots, Nell. People leaving that tavern saw the Cadillac. They saw the guy shoot at you. They called 911.”
“They saw him? What did he look like?”
“He looked like a normal-sized man wearing dark clothes and a ski mask.”
“Oh, nuts!”
“Yeah. Nuts. But don’t try to convince me this car chase doesn’t have something to do with the murder down at the Gazette. Somebody must be out to get you.”
“But why?”
“You’re more likely to know that than I am.”
“If I knew, I’d tell you in a New York minute! I like being alive. I don’t like being chased and shot at!”
Jim looked at me narrowly. Then he took my arm and led me over to the other side of his car, away from the patrolman.
“Listen, Nell, I got out the incident report on the asphyxiation accident—so-called. In that report you said that Martina was the only one who used that ladies’ lounge down in the basement.”
“She was the only person who used it that time of the evening. In the daytime—”
Jim made an impatient gesture. “But in the statement you made today about finding her body, you said you just happened to decide to go down there.”
I didn’t say anything, so Jim went on. “Why? If you didn’t normally go down to that lounge, why did you go that time?”
“Martina asked me to meet her there.”
“What for?”
“I don’t know, Jim. She was killed before I could ask her.”
“Your desks were right together. She could have talked to you any time all day.”
“It was obviously something she didn’t want to discuss in the newsroom.”
“Would it have been about the newspaper?”
“I don’t know! Martina was a terrible gossip. She may have wanted to give me a hot item about the city editor, or somebody else who worked within earshot of our desks. She may have wanted to pump me about something.”
“What?”
“Jim, if I knew, I’d tell you.” We stared at each other. I was the one who spoke. “Do you want me to amend the statement I made, to make my reason for going downstairs clearer?”
“You can do it when you come in to make a statement on this.” He turned and called to the patrolman.
“Follow Miss Matthews home and check out her house. If somebody’s laying for her, let’s make sure they already haven’t broken in and hidden under the bed.”
He drove off. The motor of his unmarked car had a growl that matched the one in his voice.
A search of our house involved getting Martha and Brenda out of bed, but no one was hiding in the pantry or in a closet or behind the shower curtain or under anybody’s bed. The search simply meant we were all up and excited until after two a.m.
After I got in bed, of course, I couldn’t fall asleep, so I had plenty of time to worry about Hammond’s questions.
Did someone think I knew something about Martina’s death? Why did they think that? Did I know something? Was I linked to her death in some way?
The only conceivable link I could think of was the question I had asked her about my father. But Martina had said she didn’t know my father. Well, actually, she hadn’t said that. She’d said, “I never worked with anyone by that name.”
When I examined it closely, it wasn’t quite a denial.
And Mike—he had me terribly confused. First he’d said I should include the information about my father in my statement about finding Martina’s body. Then he’d told me not to—yet.
Then he’d left town. Late in the evening. Didn’t even get a night’s sleep first. What was he up to?
And why had he first urged me to ask my aunt about my father, then changed his mind? Why the switch?
But maybe my father was the link between Martina’s death and the crazy things that had been happening. Maybe I did have to ask Aunt Billie.
No, that was a nightmare I couldn’t face either awake or asleep. I turned on the light and began reading Auntie Mame, the book that always takes my mind off my troubles. It was even more soothing than Treasure Island. Once again I fell asleep with the light on.
The telephone woke me at ten a.m. I caught the call on my bedside phone just before the answering machine kicked in. It was the dayside switchboard operator from the Gazette.
“Sorry to bother you, Nell,” she said, “but you’ve had a telephone call which the caller claimed was an emergency.”
“Who called?”
“Mr. Dan Smith.”
“Dan Smith?” In my sleep-drugged state, the name meant nothing to me.
“Yes. He’s staying at the Downtown Holiday Inn.”
“Oh!” It was Martina’s boyfriend, the guy with the angora shawl on his head.
“Do you want the number?”
I took it. What the heck did Dan Smith want? Was it really an emergency? Another one? I washed my face, but then my curiosity won out and I called Dan Smith.
He picked up the phone on the first ring. “This is Dan Smith.”
“And this is Nell Matthews. What’s the emergency?”
“The emergency is in Oklahoma City, Ms. Matthews. I have to go up there for a couple of days.” He sounded depressed. “Once they decide about services for Martina, could you let me know?”
“Of course, Mr. Smith.” He always made me feel guilty, guilty because I wasn’t grieving for Martina. “I’m not sure who’ll be handling the arrangements, but I’ll find out.”
“Well, the only family she had was a brother in California. I don’t know if he can come back or not. I told Jake Edwards that I’d handle it if nobody else wanted to.”
“You’re a good friend, Mr. Smith. Martina was lucky to have you.” I hoped that didn’t sound too corny.
“We’d known each other a long time.” He paused, and I almost said good-bye, but then he spoke again. “I hate to be so much trouble, but can I ask you another favor?”
“Certainly. If it’s something I can’t do, I’ll say no.”
“Martina gave me something, something from the Gazette library. She asked me to take it away. Said she wanted to get it out of the building.”
“From the library? The Gazette library? That’s odd. Things from the Gazette library don’t usually leave the building.”
“I know. That’s why I’d appreciate a friend returning it, just quietly. I don’t want to get her in trouble.”
It was a little late for Martina to get in more trouble, but it might not be tactful to say so. “I’ll be glad to return it,” I said. “What is it?”
“I haven’t unwrapped it, but it’s in a box.”
“Do you want me to pick it up?”
“No, I’ll leave it at the Gazette switchboard for you. Before I leave town tonight.”
We said good-bye, and I went back to bed. A box from the Gazette library. That could be anything. He hadn’t said how large the box was. I decided speculation was a waste of time. I rolled over and looked at the empty side of my double bed. Mike had occupied it a few times, even though Brenda, Martha, and I—and Rocky—had a rule that boyfriends didn’t stay overnight.
The bed looked awfully empty. I missed Mike. And he’d taken my garage door opener away. Did that mean I wasn’t going to see him again? The whole episode was weird. I couldn’t believe we were breaking up because he wanted me to ask my Aunt Billie about my father and I didn’t want to do it. Especially since he’d changed his mind and decided I was right not to approach her.
Now I was wide awake. Aunt Billie would do that to me. There was no rest when she was around, even lurking in the back of my mind.
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, and debated. I should ask her a
bout my father. No, I shouldn’t. Maybe she didn’t know anything. How would I find out if I didn’t ask? But if she didn’t know about him, who did? Had all knowledge of my father died with my mother? Aunt Billie was the only relative I had left who had known my father.
I should ask her about him.
Then I turned over and buried my head under the pillow. I couldn’t face talking to her.
And Mike had told me not to do anything until he got back. But who was he to be telling me what to do? He didn’t even want me to have his garage door opener.
I guess I would never have settled the question, but fate—or was it Providence?—intervened.
The telephone rang, and a nasal voice spoke. “Nell? Nell, honey, I’m in Grantham today, and I thought maybe you’d like to go to lunch.”
Darned if it wasn’t Aunt Billie.
Maybe fate was trying to tell me something.
Aunt Billie comes to Grantham a few times a year to shop. For the ladies of Amity, one hundred and fifty miles away, Grantham’s malls and department stores are a magnet. They gladly drive two and a half hours on a Saturday morning, shop their feet off, and drive two and a half hours home that night. They come on Saturdays because they are like most other American women; they all work Monday through Friday.
Aunt Billie works in my uncle’s insurance office. Actually, she runs both the office and my uncle, but it’s never occurred to her to get her insurance license and become an agent herself.
Her hobby is crafts, which immediately shows that she and I have nothing in common. She likes to do handwork, she says, because it gives her something to do while she watches television. Doing something more interesting than television has never seemed to occur to her.
“I guess you have to work today,” she said, sighing.
Aunt Billie can’t get over my schedule. Working on Saturday, my goodness! And working nights! She finds it shocking. She’s astonished when I point out that if she wants a Sunday paper, someone has to work Saturday night putting it out.
I didn’t have to go in to work until four o’clock, so I had no real reason to dodge lunch with her, other than my natural inclination to avoid her whenever possible. We arranged to meet at twelve-thirty in Grantham’s biggest craft mall, and I called and made a reservation at the most ladylike restaurant I could think of. I barely had time to shower, blow-dry the hair, and dress in black slacks with a black and tan shirt and my much worn linen jacket. I didn’t expect her to like my outfit, but I thought the black and linen was innocuous enough that it wouldn’t cause an argument.
I met her in the frame department of the craft shop. She hadn’t changed much—same plump face and figure, same professionally curled gray hair, same pastel pants and shirt. We touched cheeks.
“Nell, honey! You haven’t been home in months!”
I didn’t point out that my home was in Grantham, and I went there every day. She paid for her purchases, and I drove us to the Trellis Room, a standard tea room with an ambiance that featured fake roses climbing over walls crisscrossed with dusty white lattices and with a menu that featured chicken salad on croissants and broccoli soup.
Aunt Billie apologized all the way over for the short notice on her luncheon invitation. It seemed she had discovered only the day before that one of her friends was driving to Grantham, and on the spur of the moment Aunt Billie decided to come along.
“But she had to go out to her daughter’s house and take her grandson his birthday gift, and I didn’t want to horn in on a family party,” she concluded as we settled ourselves at our table.
We caught up on my cousin, Carrie, and her husband and three kids. On Uncle Marshall and on the business. By then Aunt Billie’s chicken salad and my hamburger had arrived. She took a bite, swallowed, then leaned across the table.
“Nell, I’m just going to come right out and ask. Are you still seeing this Mike Svenson?”
I shrugged. “As far as I know. He’s out of town right now.”
“Do you have any firm plans?”
“Our only firm plan right now is not to make any firm plans.”
She frowned. “I know I’m just a nosy old aunt, Nell, but we would like to see you settled. Settled and happy.”
“Well, I’ve got one part of your plan accomplished, Aunt Billie. I am happy. I have friends—Mike, plus others. We do things that are fun, but I’m not afraid to spend an evening alone. I’m not getting rich, but I haven’t had to get into Grandmother’s money. And I am settled—in a job I love.”
“Oh, the job.” Aunt Billie dismissed it with a wave of her croissant. “I mean settled in Life.” She gave it a capital L.
I was trying not to let Aunt Billie get me down, so I laughed. “I spend a third of my life at that job, just the way you spend a third of your life at your job. I hope neither of us is spending that much time at something we don’t enjoy doing.”
Aunt Billie gaped at me. “I never thought about it that way,” she said. “I guess I just drifted into working at your Uncle Marshall’s office. When he started out, he couldn’t afford any office help. I answered the phone at home, and I did some of his typing. As the business grew—well, I did more. After we built our own building—” She quit talking and took a bite of chicken salad.
“And now you’re manager for the biggest insurance agency in the southern half of the state.”
Aunt Billie laughed. “You make it sound like I should ask for a raise.”
“You should think about what it would cost Uncle Marshall to replace you. He doesn’t have a realistic business budget if he doesn’t take that into account.”
She blinked and chewed that thought, along with her chicken salad. I decided it was time to talk about my father. If I could manage to keep it casual.
So I stared at my hamburger, picked up a potato chip, and used my calmest tone of voice. “Your call today was providential, Aunt Billie. I was going to call you. Is there any chance that you know where my father went after my mother died?”
I looked up from my plate in time to see Aunt Billie go into a spasm. Her face contorted, and she dropped her fork. She clutched her napkin to her face. I thought I was going to have to administer the Heimlich maneuver.
Before I could jump to my feet, Aunt Billie dropped the napkin and picked up her iced tea. She gulped several times, then put it down. Her eyes grew round and fearful. “Your father hasn’t contacted you, has he?”
“No.”
“Oh, thank goodness!”
“What would be so awful about my father giving me a call? Writing me a letter?”
She shook her head, but she didn’t answer.
“I’m an adult,” I said. “He’s not going to sue for custody, try to get me back.”
She still didn’t say anything. Just sat there, panting.
“I’m just curious, Aunt Billie. I know he and my mother had split up before she died, but I’ve never understood why he didn’t come back after she was gone. Why the split had to include me.”
Aunt Billie reached for the giant handbag she’d propped against the table leg. She shook her head.
“I don’t want to see him,” I said. “I just want to understand why he left. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
She hoisted her handbag—it was more of a duffel bag—into her lap and dug through it. “I’m all right,” she said. “You just caught me by surprise.” She pulled out a Kleenex and dabbed her eyes, soaking up the mascara-laden tears that had begun running down her cheeks.
“Aunt Billie—”
“I knew this time would come, Nell. I tried to tell Mother that you needed to know.”
“Know what?”
“About your parents. About your father.”
I stared at my plate. “Aunt Billie, I don’t want to bring up something that is obviously painful for you. But—my father went off and left me. I admit this has always been a problem for me. I’ve had counseling about it. But it affects my relationships with men. You say you’d like to see me settle down.
But I’m afraid—Mike’s afraid—I may never be able to do that if I don’t dispose of this business with my father, if I don’t find out why he deserted me.”
“I told Mother you needed to know,” Aunt Billie repeated.
“Know what?”
She leaned forward again, her face earnest, the mascara running unimpeded. “Nell, your father didn’t want to leave you. He didn’t have any real choice. He saw that you’d be better off with Mother and Dad, and he wrote a letter giving them your custody—”
“Yes, I found it among Gran’s things.”
“—and he told Mother things might be worse if he didn’t go.”
“Why?”
“Well, things got awfully confused after your mother was murdered.”
Chapter 11
“After your mother was murdered.”
I have no idea how I reacted to those words.
I had lived twenty years without a mother, and no one had ever so much as hinted to me that my mother’s death was anything but an accident. Stunned is not a strong enough word to describe how Aunt Billie’s statement made me feel. Shocked? Stupefied? Pole-axed?
I do remember that the Trellis Room seemed to turn into a still photo. I must have turned away from Aunt Billie, because when I think of that moment, the memory that pops up is of a delicate spider web covering one of the fabric roses that sprouted out of the individual bower where we were sitting.
Then I realized Aunt Billie was speaking. “Nell! Dear! Did you have no idea your mother was murdered?”
I went into denial. It couldn’t be true.
“My mother was killed in an accident,” I said. “A car accident.”
“She was killed by a car, but it was no accident,” Aunt Billie said. Her tears didn’t keep her voice from being tart.
“That can’t be true.”
“I’m afraid it is,” Aunt Billie said. She wiped her eyes. Her nose looked drippy. I was glad that the silly bower and its fake roses gave us some cover from the prying eyes of the other lunching ladies. I was glad that I didn’t know anybody else in the room. I didn’t want to have a scene with Aunt Billie, but she was obviously wrong, and I had to set her straight.
