The Busy Woman's Guide to Murder

by Mary Jane Maffini

  First I headed home and borrowed Jack’s brown Mini. I changed into a green winter jacket and a white wool hat that covered my hair. I drove the short distance to Amsterdam Avenue and pulled in. I could have walked easily, but I wanted to be able to depart quickly if I had to.

  A dark sedan was parked in Bethann’s driveway. I took a deep breath, picked up the package of black-and-white fudge I’d intended for Dr. Partridge, and headed over.

  I found a middle-aged man with a gray brush cut and bags under his eyes. He was just leaving.

  “Hello,” I said. “I was at school with Bethann and I just heard the news. I wanted to offer my condolences to the family.”

  He nodded, sadly. “I’m her brother-in-law. No one else is here.”

  I handed him the package of fudge and said, “I am sorry for your loss. It was a shock.”

  “Yes.”

  I added, “It’s very strange. People from our high school class appear to be getting phone calls and reconnecting after all those years. Some of the reconnections are quite upsetting. But more importantly, the people who have been killed were all linked to St. Jude’s and the person who’s been calling around to reconnect. I’d been going to ask if Bethann also had any of those calls.”

  He stared at me blankly. “I don’t know. My wife might.”

  “Would you mind asking your wife if she knows of any upsetting calls that Bethann had? I don’t want to bring any more grief to your family, but there may be things that the police should be informed about.” I passed him my card and said, “Please give me a call if there was anything odd that happened to Bethann in the last couple of weeks. Or if she heard from or met with someone from her high school days.”

  I left him staring at it and hightailed it out of there before I ran into one of Woodbridge’s finest.

  I returned the Mini, collected the Miata, and drove to the uptown end of Long March Road, where I trudged through the endless snow to the old arcade. Margaret Tang’s new law office was on the second floor over my favorite kids’ store, Cuddleship. I thumped up the stairs and opened the door. She still hadn’t added D’Angelo to her name on the door although she used it in her private life. Maybe she didn’t want her clients to know about the police connection.

  Margaret always seemed to have an intermediary guarding her privacy. For years, I’d been trying to get past her mother. Her new husband didn’t necessarily pass on messages. In this case it was her equally new legal assistant who seemed ridiculously young even to me.

  “I’m sorry. Do you have an appointment?” she said, shaking her dark hair as she said it.

  Margaret’s voice carried the day. “It’s okay, Alison. This is my friend Charlotte Adams.”

  I thought Alison muttered, “Everyone in town knows who she is.” But that could have been my imagination.

  Everything in the office was like Margaret, reserved, practical, muted, and solid. Well thought out too. You could count on this furniture, the same way you could count on Margaret. I sure hoped that Mona could count on her too. She was going to need one hell of a lawyer. These days, Margaret wanted a life. She did mostly real estate, business contracts, and wills. But she was the smartest person I knew. If she hadn’t come back to Woodbridge to be near her parents, she would have had a meteoric career somewhere.

  I launched into my long story about Mona’s calls and her latest claims that she had dissociative identity disorder and one of her alters was killing people. Margaret listened with her usual sangfroid. She did not roll her eyes, which must have been difficult.

  “She could use some legal advice, even if the police don’t think she could have done it. That could change. I know that the hard way,” I said.

  “She’s better off with representation, for sure.”

  “Will you do it? After all, we were there when she was being traumatized by Serena. I don’t know what she can afford, but I can pay.”

  Margaret exhaled. That’s a huge emotional reaction for her. “I’ll do it pro bono, but MPD, I’m not so sure that multiple personality disorder or dissociative identity disorder, whatever term, will fly in court. It’s been known to blow up in the defendant’s face.”

  “But it shouldn’t get to court, if she’s not guilty of anything. I find it hard to believe and it does fly in the face of evidence.”

  “If she keeps saying she’s guilty, there’s bound to be trouble. For instance, if someone else is tried for those hit-and-runs, Mona’s ravings will be good news for that defense.”

  “But we don’t believe it.”

  Margaret said, “However, she has a theory that she’s guilty. Let’s make sure no one else hears that until they need to.”

  “Right.” Oh crap. Who had I told? “I mentioned it to Jack. And Sally. Her 911 colleague Brian. I left a message for Dr. Partridge. And a few for Pepper. I think that’s it.”

  “Who’s Dr. Partridge?”

  “He’s a psychologist who I believe treated one or more of the bullies. And at this moment, he’s in the hospital fighting for his life.”

  “Are you serious? Another hit-and-run?”

  “Sally said that Benjamin thought Dr. Partridge might have taken a double or even triple dose of decongestants and antihistamines and painkillers all at the same time. Apparently he fell and hit his head. Between the overdose and the head injury, he’s in a bad way.”

  “So . . . an accident?”

  “I don’t believe it was. I suspect someone knew I was talking to him about the bullies and they wanted to silence him before he revealed a name. It’s all very upsetting. I am sure that Serena is behind that and the other deaths. It was easy to find where he lived. He saw clients at home and someone with a dangerous agenda could have dropped in and slipped a little something into his coffee if he left the room. He liked his coffee very sweet and might not have noticed. That’s speculation, of course. And I haven’t worked out all the details yet. But we shouldn’t overlook the possibility that Mona could be involved. Or one of her so-called alters.”

  “No argument.” Margaret handed me her business card. She wrote her home and cell numbers on it. “Make sure she gets this somehow. Tell her I’ll be there for her.”

  I found myself overcome with emotion. When I could speak, I said, “We all have to be, even in the unlikely event she’s guilty.”

  Margaret nodded. “We’ll pull together. Don’t worry. I’ll be kind of glad to have something interesting to work on.”

  I added, “But first we have to stop the killing.”

  “We don’t. Say no to that, Charlotte. Give Mona the card. Leave the rest to the police. Take that advice to heart. Otherwise, one of these days you could be the person who gets killed.”

  I called Woodbridge Police. For some reason, I knew their number as well as 911. I was trying for Dean Oliver. Of course, he wasn’t on that day. I should have realized that, as I had seen him at the end of his shift the night before. I tried all the Olivers in the Woodbridge phone listings until I recognized his voice when he picked up.

  He said, “I’m glad to talk to you. I’ve been studying hard to make sergeant and the exam is coming up. You will be a nice change of pace.”

  “Great. What’s your favorite lunch place? On me.”

  “Sorry. I can’t do lunch.”

  Damn. Another cop who didn’t want to give me the time of day. I didn’t want to give up though. “Do you have time for coffee?”

  “How about dinner?”

  That was better. “I’m way behind this week. But if you don’t mind casual and early, I’d like that.”

  “Name the place.”

  I said, “What about Jalapeño? It’s very relaxed, downtown, and there should be good parking on a snowy night.”

  “Hey, every night’s a snowy night. Say six?”

  It was a deal.

  The wind was swirling surplus snow as I trotted up the walkway to Dr. Partridge’s house the second time. It was yet another trip out in the bone-chilling winter that just wouldn
’t quit. I was hoping that Lydia Johnson was still there. The walkway had been shoveled since my earlier visit and the downstairs lights were glowing warmly.

  She answered the door and looked surprised. I took the initiative. I handed her the gift of Kristee’s black-and-white fudge, in its distinctive black box with the shiny sheer white ribbon. “I know you are having a tough time, but can you help me, Lydia?”

  I had correctly gauged that this was a woman who loved to be helpful. “Of course, come in. I’m glad of the company. I’ve been going crazy waiting for word and I’ve been trying to keep busy.” Her eyes were still rimmed in pink, but keeping busy had obviously helped.

  I stepped into the hallway. Something delicious was cooking, stew perhaps, and there was a faint whiff of fresh bread.

  “I’m keeping busy,” she said again. “I’ve decided to be optimistic and make his favorite meals and fill up the freezer. It’s . . .”

  “A good idea,” I said. “This won’t take long.”

  “Take all the time you want. Do you like living room or kitchen? I have to check my soup.”

  “I like kitchens. Especially if someone has been cooking in them.”

  That earned me a weak smile and soon I was sitting in the bright kitchen and inhaling the aromas of soup and what turned out to be rolls.

  She bustled about and produced some hot tea and a plate of rolls with butter and a choice of cheddar, or strawberry jam. “I’m not sure how I can help you, but I’m glad you dropped in.”

  The truth is the best option. I gave it a shot. “There have been some incidents in town that appear to be connected with bullying incidents that took place at St. Jude’s High School about fourteen years ago.”

  “Fourteen years ago? Sam had just finished setting up his practice in Woodbridge not long before that. He came here because of his wife, you know.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “She was a physician, doing a residency at Woodbridge General. He followed her, but he had to start all over building up clients.”

  “Sometimes it’s good to start over,” I said. “It certainly was for me.”

  “And it would have been for him too, if Janelle had lived. They bought this house together. She hired me first so they could have some of the comforts of home even though they were both slogging away long hours. She was a very thoughtful person and the love of his life. I think that’s why he stays here, rattling around in this place. He can never leave it. It’s a long time for a man to be alone.”

  This was a fascinating glimpse into Dr. Partridge’s life, but it was off topic for me. “I was hoping he could tell me about the bullies and the outlook for them.”

  She straightened up and pursed her lips. “He’d never talk about his patients.”

  “I know that. And rightly so, but I wanted more general information. I need to know if a bully can ever truly change. One of the—I guess I could say guilty parties—is now volunteering with very vulnerable people and I’m very worried about that. Also one of the bully’s earlier victims seems to be falling apart. I was hoping for advice on how to help her. So I urgently needed to talk to Dr. Partridge.”

  “I am sure he would have helped.”

  “This accident of his troubles me.”

  “Of course, it’s tragic. Beyond tragic.”

  “And it could be convenient for someone.”

  Her teacup crashed onto the saucer. “What? Who could find something like that convenient?”

  “Perhaps one of those bullies he treated.” I didn’t say perhaps the victim. I hated the idea of Mona being guilty, but while I had to face up to it, I could keep it to myself in this case.

  “But why?”

  “Because people are dying. There have been several hit-and-runs in Woodbridge, resulting in three deaths. You must have heard about them.”

  She turned even paler.

  I pressed my point. “The people involved are connected with this bullying business. I don’t believe these are accidents, although the police seem to. I am sure Dr. Partridge would figure that out. I don’t know if the guilty party might have wanted to make sure he was—Lydia? Are you all right?”

  She was swaying in her chair, her face now white as the porcelain cup, her eyes staring.

  “What is it?” I said. “Do you know something about this?”

  She shuddered as she spoke. “Hit-and-run deaths?”

  “Yes. That’s right.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “What is it? The hit-and-runs?”

  “Janelle.”

  “His wife?” I was desperate to stay on topic and didn’t want to digress to discuss the tragedy of the long-dead wife.

  She nodded. “Didn’t you know?”

  “Know what?”

  “That’s how she died.” Her hands shook. “This is so shocking.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. “He never mentioned it.”

  “He wouldn’t. He still finds it hard to talk about it. She got home late from the hospital one night and was hit just as she got out of the car. The driveway was being repaired and she had to park the car across the street. It was a dark night, raining, but the driver must have known he’d hit her. How could he not have? Sam found her body hours later when he went out searching for her. That was the end of their storybook marriage.”

  I shivered.

  Lydia sputtered. “That driver left her for dead on the road. I am still so angry about that.”

  I actually felt a pounding in my ears. This explained Dr. Partridge’s odd reaction to my questions. “Hit-and-run” would have triggered powerful emotions in him.

  Thinking about Dr. Partridge, I’d tuned out Lydia, who was still sounding off. “He should have been caught and put on trial. But the police were quite useless.”

  “Tell me about it. I can’t get them to listen to me at all. Do you mean they never found the person who killed Mrs. Partridge?”

  “She was also Dr. Partridge.”

  “Sorry, of course.”

  “That doesn’t matter. I don’t know why I snapped at you. It’s just so upsetting, that’s all. And no. They never found the man who did it. He’s probably having a happy comfortable life while Janelle lies cold and dead for fourteen years and Sam has had his life ruined.”

  “There’s something—”

  She cut me off, taking my hand. Tears were welling in her eyes again. “Talking about these hit-and-runs triggers all these memories and feelings. I can’t believe it. Is he doing it on purpose? Could it be the same man? I suppose it couldn’t be.”

  I took a deep breath. “You keep saying ‘he’ for the driver. Is there any reason to think it was a man?”

  She shuddered. After a long pause she said, “It never entered my mind that a woman could do something like that. Do you think it’s possible for a woman to deliberately smash into someone with a vehicle? Such violence.”

  I understood her feelings. It would have to be someone who enjoyed inflicting pain and misery for the victims and the families. “I do. Horrible, but possible. I believe it is a woman who’s committing these hit-and-runs. And I am beginning to wonder if it was a girl who ran down Dr. Janelle Partridge all those years ago.”

  She turned pale. “A girl? But why?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but Dr. Partridge saw at least one person who was involved in the bullying episodes.”

  “That might make sense. You know, something strange. The night Janelle died, she was driving Sam’s car. It was a snowy night and his tires were better than hers. She was bundled up. Perhaps someone thought they were getting rid of him.”

  “That makes sense. And that’s why I am here. I didn’t even know how his wife died, but I was pretty sure that Dr. Partridge was not the type of person to mix up his medications. Do you disagree with that?”

  Her mouth hung open. She closed it and shook her head violently. “No. No, he wasn’t the type to do that. He was very methodical. Are you suggesting that someone . . . ? I don’t even kno
w how anyone else could have done that.”

  “I don’t know how. But I am convinced that someone did. I also know that the police won’t believe me. So I am hoping for help from you.”

  “Anything I can do. It’s horrifying to consider that someone would do that to Sam, but it makes more sense. I don’t believe he made that mistake himself.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But I would have known if someone was in the house last night. There was no sign of anyone breaking in and we are the only two people with a key.”

  “I have a glimmer of an idea. The medications didn’t have to be mixed up. Someone just needed to ensure that he had an overdose.”

  She blinked. “But how could someone do that?”

  “Could someone have come by here?”

  “I don’t know. I was out at my bridge club. Sam was already in bed when I came home at about ten.”

  “Do you live here?”

  “Yes. I get my accommodation and Sam gets a bit of TLC. I have a separate entrance and we both guard our privacy, but it’s nice to have a bit of company. At any rate, ten was a bit early even for him, although he gets up at dawn. The lights were all out except the hall light, which he always leaves on for me.”

  “Is there any way for you to know if he had clients last night?”

  She shrugged. “He rarely sees them in the night, but he has an appointment book. It’s in his office.” She stood up, resolute. “Let’s go.”

  I followed her down the hall and into a large office that would have originally been a dining room. The cool blue walls were lined with books, neatly organized. The large teak desk was as I might have expected; neat with a small in-basket and a twin out-basket. The in-basket was empty, I noticed admiringly. The out-basket held a few documents.

  Lydia said, “It should be right there.”

  “Where?”

  “On his desk. He leaves it right there every day. Where is it?” She checked the out-basket, then whirled around as if expecting to find it on one of the two comfortable chairs or lying on the plush oriental carpet. “That is very strange. Someone must have taken it. Unless it’s upstairs in his bedroom.” She hesitated and then made straight for the staircase and upstairs in good time. I followed her, hoping to get away with it.