Every elegant white hair was immaculately and stylishly groomed, and she wore a cream colored suit that showed she still had her slender figure. So cultivated, so Southern, so dignified.
And so terrified. But only in her eyes, intense and bloodshot. Her look was piercing.
She offered Jennifer her hand, looking down her aristocratic nose at her. Her skin felt soft. Whatever power she possessed had been seriously shaken.
“So you’re the one,” Mrs. McEvoy stated evenly.
“Excuse me?” Jennifer said.
“The one she chose to destroy me.” Her lips trembled slightly as she forced them into a stiff, ironic smile. She dropped Jennifer’s hand and took out a soft, white pack from her purse, fiddled with the cellophane cover, and drew out a cigarette. She offered one first to Monique and then to Jennifer, both of whom shook their heads.
“And you,” Eileen said, addressing Monique. “You had a hand in this as well.”
Monique paused in her preparation of a second pot of coffee. She and Jennifer had drunk the first one waiting for Eileen to arrive.
“I’ve tried my best to stay out of the feud between the two of you,” Monique assured her. “I had no idea what Mary was going to tell Jennifer when she went over there.”
“Well maybe you shouldn’t have stayed out of it,” Eileen told her.
“And just when did you start smoking?” Monique asked her. It was an obvious attempt to divert the conversation, but definitely worth trying.
“Right now. I stopped at Starvin’ Marvin’s on the way over. This will be my first.” She popped the cigarette into her mouth, talking around it.
“First ever?” Jennifer asked.
“Ever. I’ve done everything right all my life,” she told them, the lines deepening around her mouth as she flicked on a lighter, one of the cheap, disposable kind. “And look where it’s gotten me.”
Her face was flawless, her neck far tighter than it should have been. If she’d had a nip and a tuck here and there, she’d had a practiced surgeon. Not a scar showed.
She drew the fire into the tobacco, puffing only enough to get it lit. She didn’t inhale. She looked almost ridiculous with smoke curling out of that refined mouth. If she felt like choking, she kept it, like everything else, well under control.
So this was how a lady of the South protested.
Monique came over and took the cigarette out of her hand, ran it under water, and dropped it in the sink.
“She used you,” Eileen told Jennifer, studying her.
“How? By delivering the threats you wrote to her to the police?”
“Would you care to see a sample of my handwriting?” Eileen asked, pawing through her purse and pulling out a to-do list and a small address book. “Is this what the writing looked like?” She tossed them onto the table in front of Jennifer.
The words were all written in cursive, a flowing feminine hand. “The threats were done in block letters.”
“How convenient. So all you have is her word, and we all know what that’s worth. Did she say she saw me deliver those threats?” Eileen practically choked on her words, she was so indignant.
Jennifer shook her head, avoiding Eileen’s eyes.
“She used you,” Eileen repeated.
“Maybe she did,” Jennifer agreed. “But she’s dead all the same, and the police don’t even know where her body is.”
“You’re assuming a lot. It’s my understanding it will take a few days for the DNA results to come back. I wouldn’t put it past that lunatic to have spread animal blood all over her room, just to see how we’d all react.”
Obviously she hated Mary. Passionately.
“I heard her scream,” Jennifer reminded her.
Mrs. McEvoy looked down at her hands, the only part of her that belied her age. She seemed tired. “I didn’t wish Mary any harm. Not really. Not physically.” Then she looked Jennifer in the eyes. “My children would have a fit if they knew I was here talking to you.”
“Your children?” Jennifer began, looking over at Monique. Mrs. Ashton had mentioned them.
“Mark McEvoy and Stephanie Hyatt,” Monique supplied.
Jennifer recognized both names. McEvoy was the head of one of the major construction companies in the area. He’d built a good number of the new homes in Macon. Hyatt was a well respected Bibb County judge. Until now, Jennifer hadn’t made the connection. They had to be, what, at least fifty. It was strange to hear someone refer to them as children.
“You wanted them to inherit the Ashton mansion,” Jennifer said.
Mrs. McEvoy fumbled through her purse. “Does anyone have a mint, something, anything to chew on?”
Monique handed her a stick of gum from a sweets bowl on her counter. Mrs. McEvoy unwrapped it and popped it into her mouth.
“Two years ago, when Toby died, she went on a chocolate binge,” Monique explained. “How much did you gain? Ten pounds?”
“Fifteen.”
“Was Toby your husband?” Jennifer asked quietly.
“Her dog,” Monique supplied.
Mrs. McEvoy ignored them, intent on chewing her gum.
“The mansion,” Jennifer offered again. Seemed she could never get anyone to stick to the subject.
Mrs. McEvoy looked Jennifer full in the face. “I never wanted the house for Mark and Stephanie. I wanted Juliet to inherit it, but that’s impossible. That house has been in our family since it was built, and I want it to stay there, where its history will be preserved, where my brother wanted it and said so in his will that so conveniently disappeared.
“You have to understand what a vengeful, spiteful woman Mary Bedford Ashton was,” she went on. “Whatever respect she obtained through the years was solely due to my brother’s position in this city. He was so grief stricken over Clarisse’s death, he couldn’t see Mary for what she was. She slipped right into his life before he realized what she was doing. Once he did, it was too late.”
“If it was all wrong, why didn’t he just divorce her?”
“Shelby was a man of his word. He promised to stay with Mary. You young people wouldn’t understand that.”
“You might be surprised what we understand.”
Eileen almost smiled. “Marriage was a commitment when he and Mary took their vows. And then when his daughter died, he just didn’t care anymore. He and Mary may have dwelled in the same house, but he stopped living with Juliet’s last breath.
“Is that coffee ready yet, Betty?” Eileen demanded. “This gum isn’t doing it. If you won’t let me have nicotine, how about caffeine?”
“It’s coming,” Monique assured her. The machine was still groaning.
“How did Shelby and Mary meet?” Jennifer asked.
“She worked for him, that’s about all I know. Clarisse had that chronic gallbladder problem. She was so terrified of surgery, she wouldn’t let them operate until it ruptured and she had no choice. It’s a miracle she didn’t die on the table. They kept her in the hospital for two weeks and then she needed extra help once she came home. Shelby hired Mary to care for her. She was a practical nurse, I think.”
“Someone from one of the Atlanta papers called here this morning,” Monique interrupted.
“Why’d they call you?” Jennifer asked.
“I helped Eileen with some activities for the Cherry Blossom festival. They probably got my name off the Internet. They didn’t seem to know we’re related.”
“So it’s started.” Eileen sighed. “That means they’re probably harassing everyone I’ve ever known or worked with. Even the tabloids have the story—that she accused me of trying to murder her before she died.” Eileen picked imaginary lint from the cuff of her jacket.
“How do you know that?” Monique asked.
“They keep calling the house. I unplugged the stupid phone.”
“If you’re innocent, your name will be cleared,” Jennifer began.
“My name, young lady, is already ruined, simply by Mary’s uttering i
t to you. Of course, I won’t be convicted of anything. Do you honestly believe that a conviction is the only way to take one’s life away?”
She was right. Whatever the outcome, the question would linger as long as the crime remained unsolved: had Eileen McEvoy been involved in her sister-in-law’s death? It was a death knell. Mrs. McEvoy would be forced to withdraw from the activities that she loved. She would find herself “dead” to Macon’s social circles, left off the invitation lists. Even if they tried to keep her on, the whispers would be too much for her to endure. Eileen was right. The damage was done.
“She was a vicious woman. She should have been shot years ago, the way she treated Juliet.”
“You shouldn’t be saying things like that about anyone,” Monique warned.
“I don’t care. It’s the truth. When she married Shelby, she banished Juliet from the nursery to another floor. Then when Juliet didn’t do what she wanted, she’d lock her in her room, so she couldn’t get out. Kept her prisoner until she gave in and obeyed, even when she was in high school. You don’t rear children like that. You don’t treat anyone with that little respect.
“You’d think,” Eileen went on, “someone who was into women’s rights as much as Mary was back then would have been more sensitive. She was the type of person who always thought she knew what was best for everyone else, shoving her beliefs down everyone else’s throat.”
“I didn’t know that was going on—with Juliet, I mean,” Monique said.
“Of course you didn’t. You were only a child yourself. Dirty little secrets. In the Sixties, no one talked about them. Now everyone goes on national TV and tells the most intimate details that I wouldn’t have dared utter to my husband in the privacy of our own bedroom.”
Eileen offered a mirthless smile. “It’s ironic, don’t you think? Shelby married Mary so that Juliet would have a mother. At least she never physically harmed the child. If she had, I would have had to step in, regardless of the scandal.”
“So that’s why Juliet was so unhappy,” Jennifer suggested.
“No. Juliet was not unhappy,” Eileen assured her. “She was getting out. She’d started college and she’d found a young man, however questionable, to love.”
Malcolm Reed.
“Then why did she...”
Mrs. McEvoy shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Monique brought over a tray with three cups of coffee, spoons, a creamer, a bowl of sugar, and a stack of napkins. She set it down in the middle of the table and then shifted a cup over to Mrs. McEvoy.
She spit out her gum in a paper napkin and took a long, hard swig.
“I thought you took cream and sugar,” Monique said.
“Not today.” Eileen swirled the coffee hard with a spoon.
“I hope you didn’t let the police see you this angry,” Monique warned her.
“I know how to conduct myself properly, young lady.”
Jennifer shot a sidelong glance at Monique. She supposed, once a young lady to Eileen McEvoy, always a young lady.
“I’m not the only one who had strong feelings about Mary. Melba despised her.”
“The housekeeper?” Jennifer asked. “Then why did she continue to work for her?”
“Melba was devoted to Clarisse. She stayed for Shelby’s sake. And for Juliet’s. She watched her, all these years. Mary could only go so far with her in the house. She made sure Mary didn’t cross the line with Juliet and that Shelby got the care he needed. He was sick with heart disease for two years before he died.”
Eileen took another large gulp of coffee. “Mary was afraid of me, you know. She knew I’d find her weak spot now that Shelby is gone, now that I don’t care who I upset. She knew I’d get her, and, if I’d had enough time, if she hadn’t been killed, I would have.”
Chapter 19
Jennifer was tired to the bone and, despite Sam’s best efforts, she’d had nothing for breakfast. But shock could keep her appetite at bay for only so long.
If she were lucky, she still had enough bread and Colby cheese to make herself a grilled cheese sandwich because she sure wasn’t going out for anything, and cold cereal for lunch had lost all its appeal.
Her little Beetle chugged into the parking lot of her apartment building and pulled into an open space right next to a white Chevy van with “The Art of Good Food” painted in red cursive lettering across the back and the sides. What was Arthur doing there? Her neighbors were in the same tax bracket she was. It didn’t include catering costs.
She gathered her purse, slipped out of her car, and made her way up the stairs, into the building and to the elevator. At the door to her apartment, she paused. A distinct odor of garlic and onion was in the air and she could hear a low murmur coming from inside, some rap tune. Hesitantly, she raised her hand and knocked.
The door opened and Arthur, a dish towel slung over one shoulder, greeted her with a smile. “I was beginning to think you weren’t going to make it home for lunch.” Muffy’s tail was awag as she circled Arthur as though he were her new best friend.
“What the heck are you doing?” she demanded. Her home was her haven, inviolate. How dare he invade it and make up to her dog?
“Preparing your lunch,” Arthur offered, totally ignoring her irritation. “I have a mushroom frittata about to come out of the oven.”
That would explain the onion and garlic. Her gaze flicked from Arthur’s grin to Muffy’s panting approval to what little she could see of her kitchen. Surely if Arthur meant her harm, he wouldn’t have made her lunch first. Or would he? She really was hungry. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to have one small piece of frittata before she kicked him out.
“How’d you get in here?” she demanded, dropping her bag by the door and snapping her fingers at Muffy. She trotted over for a rub behind her ears.
“Your super let me in. I told him you ordered lunch.”
“I don’t believe you. He knows better.”
“Right. Actually I lied. I told him I was doing some fancy desserts for Dee Dee, and I needed to drop them off. He insisted on seeing my driver’s license and he took down my tag numbers. For a moment there, I thought he was going to fingerprint me.”
But he’d still opened the door. She’d have to have a talk with Luis. Never meant no exceptions, no judgment calls.
“Hey, if my being here makes you nervous, leave the door open,” he told her. “I was worried about you. You had a rough night.” He gave her a long, piercing look. “Why you so suspicious, girl? Can’t someone look in on you without you gettin’ all defensive about it?”
“I’m all right,” she insisted, the door ajar.
“Well, I’m not, and when I’m not, I cook. And right now it looks as though I’m without a kitchen.” He grinned at her.
“So you borrowed mine?” She wanted to add don’t you have any friends? but she realized it might just be that he didn’t.
“Not too many people cared for Mrs. Ashton,” he told her. “And it’s not like I have anyone I can talk to.”
“You were attached to her,” Jennifer said, realizing suddenly how it made some weird sense that Arthur might choose her if he felt the need to talk. Melba was hardly the warm and cuddly type, and Eileen had made it clear how much Melba disliked Mary.
“She was good to me.”
Whatever his emotions, he kept them well under control.
“And what does her death mean to your plans for your restaurant?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Surely that contract you signed with her—”
“It terminated with the death of either of the parties,” he said. “I dug it out of my files this morning and took another look at it.”
“Did she make provisions in her will?” Jennifer asked.
Arthur shrugged. “I haven’t heard nothin’ ‘bout the will yet. I’m hopin’ for a call from her lawyer, but that all takes time. As of right now, I’m unemployed and The Art of Good Food is on hiatus until I find me anoth
er kitchen. Melba won’t let me in the door. I’ve made her a list of my equipment, but she says I can’t remove anything until it’s okayed by the executor, and I don’t even know who that is at the moment. She suggested I make copies of all my receipts.”
“I see. Who made her the guard?”
“The police told her to lock it up until Mrs. A’s lawyer takes care of things. I’ve had to cancel a number of jobs. Tell you what, I’ll just refer them to Dee Dee.”
“Thanks. She could use the work. Hey, maybe she could arrange some kind of cooperative venture. You could share her kitchen, at least for a little while. I could ask her, real subtle like.”
He offered that engaging grin of his. “’Fraid I’ve got too much going on right now, too many arrangements to make.”
Jennifer nodded. His life had been turned upside down.
The timer beeped in the kitchen.
“Excuse me. Your lunch is ready.” Arthur disappeared behind the partition. She didn’t bother to follow him. She simply pulled out a chair at the table, sat down, and let Muffy welcome her home.
In less than two minutes, Arthur was back out carrying two bowls of greens. “Hope you like Caesar salad,” he told her, placing one on the place mat in front of her. A basket of fresh rolls was already on the table. “The fritata needs to stand a few minutes before I cut it. Got some of the prettiest cantaloupe from the farmer’s market sliced and ready to go.”
“Sounds wonderful. Arthur,” she started, looking up at him, “why would someone want Mary Ashton dead?”
He slid into a chair across from her and leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “Mrs. A’s an acquired taste, but I don’t know anyone, ’ceptin’ maybe Mrs. McEvoy, who actually hated her. What you’ve got to remember is she had money. Lots of money and that house has to be worth a fortune. What I wonder is who couldn’t wait? Who had to have it now? And how could killing her let them get it? I’d say the answer is pretty obvious.” He took a bite of salad and then hopped back up. “Forgot the tea.”
He was back in seconds. He must have had the drinks sitting on the counter. He handed her one and she took a sip. Perfectly brewed with just a hint of mint. Distinctive. He evidently liked to leave his mark on everything he did.
Dying to Be Murdererd Page 8
