Here we go again, I thought, feeling a pang for myself unlike the others that had come before. I recognized it as jealousy, of course, Karen connecting to Chantal in a way she would never connect with me. A percentage of my envy was probably wishing for the impossible, but I refused to acknowledge that. My lifestyle was fine the way it was. My life was fine the way it was. I had purpose, accomplishments, happy moments and sad. Let other women ooh and ahh and squeal with maternal delight. I was content with my role as their guardian.
More than content.
Proud.
I heated myself a bowl of chicken pot pie in Karen’s microwave and sat at the end of the table eating it with a spoon. Two chairs away the other women chatted about maternity clothes and morning sickness. I washed down my dinner with coffee.
Reporting that Karen’s brother had been murdered could wait.
Chapter 37
Perverse as fate, the rising sun painted the following morning in technicolor. The men were already gone, the girls probably watching the countryside slip by through the window of their school bus.
Chantal pushed a stray caper into the cream cheese of her bagel and lox. Then she lifted an eyebrow at me as if to say, “Isn’t it time?”
Leaning toward Karen, I dabbed my lips with a paper napkin then cleared my throat to secure my sister-in-law’s attention.
“I’ve got something to tell you,” I said carefully. “You were right to think Toby wouldn’t commit suicide. He didn’t.”
Karen took it like a slap—swaying, blinking, palms pressing the kitchen table as if she were about to rise and flee. “Do you believe it?” her shock silently asked Chantal. Their hands reached out to each other and held.
I laid out all the facts I knew by rote, then excused myself to go pack. Chantal and I were supposed to return to the Roitman estate today.
I felt Karen’s gaze follow me down the hall toward the room Chantal had used overnight. My clothes were there and my duffel bag. My cosmetics. My pillow. For days I’d yearned for the soft snug feel of my favorite jeans, the ease of my long-sleeved t-shirts, my real running shoes, not the clean, for-show sneakers I’d taken on the trip. I wore the comfy stuff now, but bodyguarding Chantal meant adapting to her lifestyle, a far more public and put-together one than mine. I extracted a black pencil skirt and my best black slacks from the closet and brushed the dust off the folds. I grabbed a striped pull-over sweater from my dresser drawer, then turned back to the closet for whatever else I could find.
Warmer days were on the way. The leaves had popped while I was eating Lobster Thermador and spying on my host, prying personal tidbits from Chantal’s background, learning Marsha’s mercurial ways and Lana’s fears. I’d concluded that Frank’s upbringing had prepared him perfectly for success without perfecting him, and his son’s childhood environment had accomplished much the same.
Were any of them capable of murder? I’m afraid so.
Were any of them likely to confess? Not without the right provocation, and that was something I hadn’t worked out quite yet.
Was there still a chance Frank’s business troubles provoked Toby Stoddard’s death? Absolutely. But did I think someone outside the family, someone I hadn’t yet met, was responsible? Extremely improbable. Troxell admitted that the deceased had a sedative in his system, and those medications don’t act instantly. An intruder would have had to gain access to the lodge, force the sedative on Toby, then keep him out of sight and quiet long enough for it to work. And, since Toby had every reason to live—Chantal, the baby, the new house, the lifestyle—I couldn’t imagine him risking the dangerous combination of a sedative and alcohol on his own.
Tragically, the faked suicide better suited a killer unable to extricate themselves from the aftermath, someone who needed Seth Troxell to believe what he saw and close the case without a second thought.
I was mulling all this over as I folded a loose jacket that, if needed, could conceal my Glock. To my favorite saddlebag purse I added some mini binoculars wrapped in a silk scarf. My indispensable phone would be kept either in a pocket or a belt clip. The turquoise necklace from Corinne, my so recently departed mother-figure, stayed where it was. Some things are just too precious to risk damage or loss.
Zipping my stuffed duffel and hoisting it to my shoulder, I released a deep sigh. I wasn’t just feeling lonely. I was anxious. Prickling-skin, heart-racing anxious, and with good reason. Since Chantal was present when Troxell’s minions picked up the rug, telling her what was going on, and why, had been unavoidable. I didn’t dare tip my hand by suggesting she keep the news from her family, so if the murderer hadn’t already learned I was onto his or her secret, he or she would surely hear by the end of the day.
Congratulations, Lauren, I told the worried face in the bedroom mirror. You’ve not only warned a killer you’re on his trail, you’ve put anyone who knows even part of what you know at risk. You need to end this fast.
I closed my eyes and visualized success, breathed in deeply, breathed out slowly. Only when my impatience was under control and my face showed nothing of the churning inside did I dare venture back into the hall.
Still at the kitchen table, Karen and Chantal looked up when I returned. Make it believable I reminded myself, but make it work.
“Hey, Karen,” I began with my fists clasped together. “I just got a call.”
“Oh?” She released Chantal’s hand. Spared me a glance.
“A dear friend is undergoing chemo,” I fibbed, “and she’s sick as a dog. She’ll be okay, but her husband has business out of town and he needs somebody to help out for a couple days.” Except for what I was saying, I might have been a teenager begging for car keys. “Could Chantal please stay here awhile longer? Dave really doesn’t have anybody else to ask.”
“No, no,” Chantal protested. “Why don’t I just go home?”
“Because I’m supposed to be protecting you,” I reminded her. “You’ll be safe here,” I argued. “Nobody knows where you are.” None of the people angry with her father, anyway, which was another matter altogether.
“But…”
Karen raised her palms like a teacher ordering her class quiet down. “Done deal,” she insisted. “We’ll kick back, get to know each other better. Plus I’ve got a maternity shop I think you’ll love. Would that be okay?” she asked, finally consulting me.
“Sunglasses and a baseball cap should do it.” I joked, but the mother and the mother-to-be took me seriously. “I think you’ll be fine,” I assured them.
Still jazzed by the urgency of my mission but also pumped with anticipation, I crunched across the gravel drive and threw my stuff in the trunk of the Miata. Unless Chantal told her relatives I was driving a rusting red convertible, and why would she? I was free to roam with impunity.
Gavin’s widget factory, and presumably his condo, were located in Frederick, Virginia, geographically between the farm and my second destination.
Standing in the crotch of the open car door, I ran my eyes over Ron’s fields, the barn and its outbuildings, the flawless sky and the distant hazy horizon. I listened to the breeze and the squawk of a crow, the drone of a tractor, and the rush of a truck on the road. I breathed in the smells of fresh earth and grass and the first dandelions of the year.
Then I bid them all good-bye.
Chapter 38
I fueled up at a nearby crossroad and checked the Miata’s oil, Dad’s wise recommendation for a nearly vintage vehicle. Its radio was in a staticky mood, so I created a Lyle Lovett station on my phone in honor of my security cowboy back at the Roitman estate. The Texan’s voice proved to be nice company, interrupted only by my GPS “recalculating” my occasional premature turn.
Gavin Roitman’s turf, Fredricksburg, Virginia, is very historic, very Americana, and proud of it. The buildings tended to be traditional brick or painted clapboard. Contrasting shutters were the norm, columns an infrequent upgrade to a facade. The city struck me as too quiet for an attractive, well-off, s
ingle guy. I pictured Gavin as a Georgetown man, or maybe Richmond if it was more convenient to his work.
During one of my unscheduled neighborhood tours, I pulled over next to a historic building with a broad front porch, “originally built in the 1760s for George Washington’s younger brother Charles” and christened as a tavern in 1792. Somebody came across a sign and thought the tavern’s name was Rising Sun, but that turned out to be wrong. Oh, well. A bar by any name was still a bar, which prompted me to wonder if my extended absence from the Pelican’s Perch was costing me my job.
Another worry for another day.
Right now I mostly cared about the bars on my cell phone. If I wanted to grill Gavin Roitman, I needed to know where he was. As it was only 11:15 AM on a weekday, I tried the widget factory first.
Mr. President was out of the office.
“All day?” I quizzed the woman who had answered the phone.
“Yes.”
“Fishing in Alaska?” I felt compelled to ask. “Big car-matt convention in Tampa?”
“I really can’t say,” the humorless voice replied. She sounded approachable though, so she was probably good at her job.
Next I phoned Gavin’s home number, and to my surprise a female answered.
“Oh!” I said brilliantly. “Is Gavin home?”
“No he isn’t. May I tell him who called?” Not May I take a message? Not even Who the hell are you? Nice polite response, but less welcoming than the widget-factory receptionist. Perhaps I had best explain myself.
“Lauren Beck, I work for Gavin’s father.”
“Doing what, if I may ask?”
That was when I crossed off cleaning-person and underscored girlfriend. “Bodyguarding his sister Chantal at the moment, which is why I’d like to speak with Gavin. And you are…?”
“Julianna.”
“Would that be Julianna Sykes by any chance?”
Silence.
“…because if you are, I think you can help me.”
Silence.
“Please,” I said. “I won’t take up much of your time. It’s about his sister. I’m already in Fredericksburg. May I stop over? Please? This isn’t something that should be discussed on the phone.”
In the end I thought I was going to get brushed off, but Julianna finally relented. “Apartment 4C,” she confided. “I’ll put you on the list at the gate, but I’m going to want to see some ID.”
“Perfectly fair,” I agreed.
The apartment complex was a sprawling, upscale assortment of units, each divided twice by a stack of square white, wooden outcrops that served as decks. The faces of the buildings sported the Fredericksburg assortment—brick, clapboard, and once in a while stone. My progress between buildings one, two, and three also took me past a clubhouse, a fitness facility, a pool, and two tennis courts. The surrounding landscape had just been planted with annuals and mulched with dark brown stuff that smelled like chocolate. The grass awaited mowing for the first time this spring, and pink petals from a Japanese cherry tree next to my parking spot spun through the air like confetti. A beautiful day in the neighborhood, which was too bad because everybody seemed to be at work except me and Julianna; and in a way I was working, too.
My first sighting was Julianna’s shadow eclipsing the peephole of 4C. I held up my driver’s license and a photocopy of my expired Landis, PA, police badge.
The door opened and the fragrance of beef and vegetables seasoned with bay leaf greeted me before Julianna did. Had to be a crockpot recipe judging by how completely it permeated the apartment.
“Come in,” she said, stepping aside.
The living room and kitchen were open concept, with granite countertops and stainless steel appliances to the right opposite white leather sectional furniture grouped around a rustic coffee table. The rug appeared to be Native American, but the lamps and knickknacks were an eclectic assortment probably gleaned from around the world.
“Please sit down,” Julianna said as she tossed a dish towel onto the kitchen counter. “Can I get you something?”
“I guess whatever you’re cooking isn’t ready yet.”
She smiled and folded her hands in her lap.
“No, nothing,” I answered. “I promised to make this quick.”
“What’s this about Gavin’s sister?”
“I’ve been hired to act as Chantal’s bodyguard, and I’m trying to gauge how much danger she’s in.”
“I don’t see how I can help. I can’t even imagine what you’re protecting her from.”
Julianna wore her blonde hair up in a clip. Her shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow, the waist area wet as if she’d been cleaning up dishes and got splashed. Like a person whose only criteria was to be comfortable, she, too, wore jeans and casual shoes.
“We’re worried that whoever killed Toby might have the same reason to silence Chantal.”
Gavin’s live-in girlfriend closed her eyes and winced. Then something astonishing happened. Julianna Sykes, who surely never met Toby Stoddard in her life, began to tremble and cry.
“What?” I asked, as in What am I missing?
“I heard the shot,” she answered, which absolutely flummoxed me.
“I don’t understand,” I said truthfully. “How…? I didn’t think you were there.”
She lifted her chin and wiped away tears. “I wasn’t,” she said. “Gavin and I were talking on the phone when…when the shot was fired. I can still hear it now. It reminded me of…”
“…losing your sister.” The gunshot, the crash, equally awful sounds. Who wouldn’t make that unfortunate connection, even nearly a year apart? “I’m so sorry.”
Julianna sniffled and blinked. “You know about Luanne? Oh. Of course. You’re working for the Roitmans.” She looked alarmed. “You won’t tell them I’m here, will you? Gavin wants to…”
“None of my business,” I interrupted. “None of theirs either.”
“No. No, you’re right. Thanks. Thanks for that.” She hugged herself and stared out through the slider to the deck. “Rotten luck,” she mused. “I’m always first in line.” She flopped back in her armchair and dug a tissue out of her pocket.
“You’ve got questions?” she asked.
I did, but not the ones I’d planned. Now I wanted details about the traumatic event she had just described, the event that unintentionally gave one of my prime suspects an awfully good alibi.
“What did Gavin think happened?” I wondered.
“Think? The same thing I did, I guess—What the heck was that? Is everybody okay?”
“I guess I meant what did he do?”
“He said he would call me back and hung up.”
“Did he?”
“Did he what?” She was getting exasperated, and so was I.
“Did he call you back?”
“Oh, sure. Two hours later.” She waved her head and stared into the distance again. “I’ve never heard him like that. I hope I never do again.”
“Like what?”
That earned me a disparaging stare. “What do you think? He was horrified. His whole family was. The police came, the medical examiner or whoever the heck it is who pronounces you dead. I don’t know about things like that.”
“I’m sorry to stir up such bad memories.”
“You’ve got your reasons, I guess. Do you have any more questions, because…?”
“The rest probably don’t matter.”
She seemed to reconsider. “Ask me anyhow. I’m curious.”
“Alright. How did Gavin and Toby get along? Were they friends, rivals? Do you know?”
“Friendly rivals, I guess. Toby gave Gavin investment tips now and then.”
“Did Gavin act on them?”
“I think so. Sure. That was Toby’s field of expertise, after all. Analyzing that sort of thing.”
“Any idea whether the investments worked out?”
She gestured vaguely at our surroundings. “Mostly, I guess. Toby put his own money into th
em, too.” She gave a short laugh. “He said if they didn’t pay off, they could cry in their beers together. They also co-owned a couple of industrial properties. Gavin seems to think they’re pretty solid.”
“So he must have thought Toby was a pretty upstanding guy?”
“Oh, yes,” she agreed with a heartier laugh. “Gavin called him Mr. Clean.” Her brow furrowed slightly, “…but not always in a nice way.”
I stood up to leave but abruptly turned back. “He should marry you, you know,” I remarked.
Julianna’s pretty lips spread into a sly smile.
“He already did.”
Chapter 39
“Congratulations!” I exclaimed regarding the Sykes/Roitman nuptials. “When was the lucky day?”
Julianna eyed me askance. “February,” she replied. “Why do you ask?”
“Just happy for you, that’s all,” I told her, hoping she hadn’t already intuited the worst, that her new husband had made moves on me shortly after we met.
She folded her arms and scowled. “Did Gav make a pass at you?”
My shock probably deserved Julianna’s snicker.
“The Roitmans were around, right?” she stated, further surprising me by her confidence.
“Not around,” I hedged.
“It was on the trip, though? While you were staying on that obscenely huge boat.”
“Yesss…”
“Did you mention it to Chantal? Marsha? Anybody?”
“No.”
“But they could have pieced it together on their own?”
Thinking back, I realized they certainly could have. Gavin and I went off to the disco together and came back separately. He happened to be sandy from head to foot; but when I returned, my clothes were still pristine. If the yacht was equipped with a security camera, such details might have been noticed. Also Chantal had exclaimed over lunch, “You’re not interested in him, are you?” If she hadn’t believed my answer…
“You think I was a shill?”
Guilt Trip Page 18
