by Kelly Rey
"He said that," I told her.
There was a beat of silence.
"That's all I'm going to say about Herman Kantz," she said.
Maizy and I exchanged a glance.
"That's really all the time I have for this," Sybil said.
"We'll be in touch," Maizy told her. "We'll probably need to talk to you again."
"How I look forward to that." Sybil brushed past us and disappeared into the salon.
"I don't think she meant that," Maizy said. She checked the time on her cell phone. "I've got something to do. We'll visit Bitsy Dolman tomorrow. I'll pick you up at seven. I should probably mention the Z has a little brake problem. I might not be able to stop, but I'll be sure to slow down."
Oh, good. I could use some exercise.
* * *
Around six o'clock, while I was watching Animal Planet with Ashley and considering my dinner options, Curt knocked on the door holding a beer, a can of Coke, and a fat paper bag from Taco Bell. I answered it before realizing I was wearing a ratty T-shirt and baggy gray sweatpants with holes in the knees.
Either he didn't notice, didn't feel the need to comment, or didn't see the point since I'd always been happily unencumbered by fashion sense of any kind.
"So how was the wedding?" he asked when we'd settled in on the sofa. He passed me the Coke and a couple soft shell tacos. "Was it as bad as you thought?"
"It was Animal House in formal wear," I told him. I started eating the tacos out of the wrapper. "How'd it go at Cam's?"
He grimaced. "The question's how long it's gonna go. It's like he's building another house over there. We didn't even get it framed out yet."
"Maybe he should've hired a contractor," I said. "Are you any good at framing?"
"I'm good at everything," he said. "Now give me details."
I told him about the ceremony and the octogenarian food fight, leaving out the little factoid about the dead groom in the pool.
"Sounds interesting," he said when I was done. "Now are you going to tell me about the dead groom?"
"I want you to know I had nothing to do with it," I said immediately.
His eyebrow rose. "Nothing?"
I shook my head. That was my story and you know the rest of that.
He took a drink of beer. "You know, I was talking to Cam this morning. He mentioned that he thought Maizy might have sneaked out to meet up with a boyfriend last night. Said she didn't get home till almost two."
I chewed determinedly on my taco.
"I don't think Maizy has a boyfriend," he said. "Do you think she has a boyfriend?"
I swallowed. "Well, there's Brody Amherst."
"She thinks Brody Amherst is a putz," he said flatly.
From everything I'd heard about Brody Amherst, Maizy was right about that.
"You don't suppose she crashed the wedding, do you?" he asked. "Maybe made an anonymous call to the cops from a burner phone about 12:30 in the morning?"
"I was kind of busy," I said. "What with being the maid of honor and all."
"Yeah." He ran a hand over his hair with a sigh. "Listen, Jame, I know you and Maizy have the girl version of a bromance going on, but try to remember her father is a very large man and carries a gun."
As if I could forget. Every time I bought into one of Maizy's harebrained schemes, I was all too aware we were on dangerous ground if we happened to rattle past Cam Emerson in an Honest Aaron special.
CHAPTER EIGHT
At 6:59 Monday night, I was waiting on the curb when a rust-speckled green 240Z careened around the corner on two bald tires and slowed to about five miles an hour as it cruised down the block. I leaped up and made a run for it through a cloud of exhaust fumes. It took a couple of tries before I wrenched the door open and dove into the passenger seat, gagging.
Maizy shoved it into second gear, and we rocketed down the block, skulls glued to the headrests from the force. "So who's the office noob?"
Eunice? I looked at her. "How do you know about her? Did you cut school today?"
"I chose to abstain," she said. "Sitting too much is bad for you."
"So you decided to jog on over to Parker, Dennis, right?" I asked.
She shook her head. "I decided to drive over. Only I ran out of gas on account of the gauge must be broken. So I walked to the gas station. Exercise." She grinned at me. "So who's the noob?"
"Her name is Eunice Kublinski. She was hired last week," I said. "She just passed the Bar."
"That's cool," Maizy said. "Is she like Gloria Allred? Gloria Allred rocks."
I didn't see any Gloria Allred in Eunice. "Probably not," I said. "She seems kind of timid. And she went to Harvard Academy of Law and Mortuary Sciences online."
"Is that a real thing?" Maizy asked. "Cause if it is, I might want to check it out. I wouldn't mind knowing how to embalm someone."
I rolled my eyes.
"Knowledge is never wasted," she told me. "That's what my dad says. Of course, he also says I should take driver's ed. So you never know."
With Maizy at the wheel, it took about thirty seconds before we coasted to a stop in front of Bitsy Dolman's, a shabby split-level home in a shadowy cul-de-sac in Oakcrest. It had once been a decent neighborhood, but the '90s had been tough on local businesses and residents alike. It was a curious location that didn't square with her ritzy business address.
I'd read that the area was undergoing a resurgence, but you couldn't prove it from where I was sitting. The shutters were faded and peeling; the lawn was stippled with brown patches. Dead mums lurched from a plastic planter and collapsed to the ground. A decrepit canvas carport sagged in the driveway, putting a cap on the general sense of depression surrounding the place.
"This is nice," Maizy said.
Sure, if you were the Addams Family. I must have copied the address wrong. How could Bitsy live in a neighborhood like this?
We got out of the Z, sidestepping broken branches on the way up the weed-choked walk.
Bitsy came to the door on the third knock. Her gray wool slacks were stained, her purple silk blouse was wrinkled, and her eyes were sort of vacant, as if she wasn't quite there behind them. "Not interested," she said.
I tried to smile at her. "Aren't you Bitsy Dolman?"
"Who's asking?" She blinked and refocused. "You were at Oxnard's wedding."
"In the bridal party," I agreed.
"Bridal party." The words dripped disdain. "Don't even get me started." Her gaze shifted to Maizy. "Who're you?"
"Anastasia Thorpe," Maizy said. "Oxnard's granddaughter."
"Oxnard doesn't have a granddaughter," she said.
"I'm twice removed," Maizy said.
Bitsy frowned some more, as if she couldn't quite put that together.
A dog howled somewhere in the distance. Maybe a werewolf.
I cleared my throat. "May we come in?"
"If you feel you have to." She pushed the door open with her foot.
The inside was marginally better than the outside, but only because there were no weeds growing there. Lots of floral furniture and dated wallpaper, with a coating of filth over everything. I sat on the very edge of the sofa cushion while Maizy stood just inside the front door with an expression of horror.
Bitsy sat down, ankles crossed, back straight. A glass sat on the coffee table in front of her. There were circular water stains scattered like magic linking rings across the top of the table.
"So," she said. "Do you need a personal shopper?"
Of course I did. I mean, look at me, dressed like a thirteen-year-old boy without the style. But that was beside the point. I folded my hands piously, mostly because I didn't want to touch anything.
"Have you heard that Oxnard Thorpe passed away?" I asked gently.
Her eyes widened so dramatically that it was hard to tell if the reaction was genuine or a display for my benefit. "No, I—" She stopped, but her lips kept moving in little flutters with no sound. "Excuse me," she said faintly. She got up and left the room.
"She didn't ask what happened," Maizy whispered.
I nodded. Everyone asked what happened. Unless they already knew.
When Bitsy came back, she was clutching a green cashmere sweater tightly around herself as if to ward off a chill. "What happened?" she asked.
Maizy's lips twisted with disappointment.
"I'm sorry to say he was found dead in the swimming pool," I said carefully.
"Drowned?" Her voice was barely audible. She turned away, her hand pressed to her mouth. She seemed to be trying to gather herself.
I cleared my throat. "Would you mind if I ask where you went after his wedding reception?"
She turned back to me with a frown. "What?"
"I noticed you didn't stay long," I said. "Where did you go when you left?"
She picked up the glass. Her hand was steady. "Why? You just said he drowned in the pool."
Actually, I'd been careful not to say that.
"Marrying that woman was the silliest thing Oxnard ever did," she said. "I only attended for his benefit."
I figured as much. I also noticed she hadn't answered my question. "Had you known him long?"
A glimmer of a smile traced her lips. She wrapped her arms around herself, stroking the sweater absently. "Years. Since we were children, really. He was a dear friend."
"Did you approve of your friend marrying Sybil Sullivan?"
"It was none of my business." Her voice was firm. "I went to the wedding, and I left early for another social obligation."
I remembered her exit had been on the heels of Herman Kantz's exit. Probably Bitsy's social obligation had had to do with climbing.
I hesitated. "Bitsy, you didn't seem too impressed with Sybil and her friends."
"Friends." She snorted. "You mean employees. Don't even get me started on them."
Right. Clearly that angle was going nowhere.
"What sort of social obligation?" Maizy asked.
Bitsy looked up at her, startled. "I beg your pardon?"
"I bet you had a date with some guy you met online, right?" Maizy asked.
Bitsy went pale. "I most certainly did not. I attended a fashion show with my daughter."
Judging from her ensemble, she should've stayed a little longer. Except for the sweater, which was actually pretty nice, albeit mismatched. Maybe her stains and wrinkles were her version of dressing down after work.
"I've never been to a fashion show," I said, just to keep the conversation going.
"I'm not surprised." She took a slug from her glass. "The Fire and Ice show is elite. You wouldn't fit in."
I sensed a theme.
Finally she got around to the question I feared most. "Why are you so interested?"
I hesitated. "I've been hired to investigate Oxnard's death." In filet mignon. Otherwise we were doing this for Maizy's personal amusement.
"Oh," Bitsy said. "You have. And who might have hired you?"
"That's confidential."
"I thought so." She shook her head. "The widow Thorpe. I imagine she's busy redecorating Oxnard's mansion as we speak. She ought to be in jail," she muttered.
"Why do you say that?" Maizy and I asked simultaneously.
"Isn't it obvious?" She held her drink up, admiring the color. "She never loved him. She loved his money."
"How do you know that?" I asked.
"Everyone loved his money," Bitsy said.
"Did you?" Maizy asked. She glanced around. "'Cause it doesn't look like he gave you any."
"I'm redecorating," Bitsy said. "Open your eyes. Who else would kill a groom on his wedding night?"
That was one question, alright. But there was another.
"How well do you know the other wedding guests?" I asked.
Her mouth twisted. "I don't socialize with that element."
I was doing a stellar job of gathering information. I had no idea what to ask, no clue what Bitsy might be willing to talk about, nothing but instincts to go on. And my instincts were giving me zilch.
Fortunately, Bitsy didn't need much encouragement. "I do know Abby and Alston weren't happy when Oxnard took up with that gold digger."
Well, that was something. I nodded encouragingly. "Did they talk to you about that?"
Bitsy stared at me like I'd stolen her bourbon. "They didn't have to. They were raised on the Main Line, for God's sake. Sure, they've lived off their inheritance and then off their brother, but they know low class when they see it."
I'd heard of the Main Line. I wasn't exactly sure where it was, but I knew big money lived there.
Wait. Lived off their brother?
"But I suppose their troubles are over now," she said. "At least someone's troubles are over."
Was that a violin I heard?
She raised her glass in a toast. "Here's to Abby and Alston. May the silver spoons never fall out of their mouths." She took a nice long drink and belched behind her hand. "Oh, who'm I kidding? They've probably already started probating the will."
I'd just assumed Sybil had inherited everything, never thinking the Thorpe family also consisted of Stepford Thorpes. With all that money at stake, Oxnard's estate had all the makings of a court battle royale, and that was something Sybil would probably want to avoid.
And Sybil being in my life longer than necessary was something I wanted to avoid.
* * *
"What'd you think of her?" Maizy asked when we'd gotten back in the Z.
"I could see her pushing Oxnard in the pool," I said. "And the entire wedding party along with him. That is one bitter woman."
"I think she's sad and lonely." Maizy maneuvered around some fallen branches. "Her husband had a midlife crisis and ran off with a younger woman. Ow." She wiggled around in her seat. "Something's poking me."
Hopefully it wasn't breathing. "How could you possibly know that?" I asked.
She shrugged. "All men with midlife crises run off with younger women. It's in the handbook. My friend Belle? Her Uncle Billy quit the airline after thirty years, and now he teaches hula in Hilo with his twenty-year-old girlfriend." Her mouth twisted. "See what I mean? Sad. That's why Bitsy hoards things and drinks. Her husband's probably wearing a grass skirt and doing nicky-nack with some hot island babe."
I didn't know about that. If Curt showed up in a grass skirt, I wouldn't exactly have nicky-nack in mind. I'd have protective custody in mind.
"She was throwing serious shade at Sybil," I said.
"Maybe she had it bad for Oxnard," Maizy said. She shifted to one side, pulled something out of her back pocket, and dropped it on the dashboard. "His money made him a lot better looking than his looks did."
I stared at it. "Why'd you steal her electric bill, Maizy?"
"Because I want to know how bad her money problems are."
"And how do you know she's got money problems?"
Maizy glanced in the rearview mirror. "Because it's pretty dark back there, and her lights aren't on."
"Maybe she passed out on the sofa," I muttered.
"Maybe her utilities got turned off for nonpayment," Maizy said.
"Maybe the lights are on a timer," I said. "And they just haven't come on yet."
"Okay." Maizy swung over to the curb and let up on the gas. The Z coasted another ten feet before sagging to a stop. "Let's test that hypothesis."
We sat there in silence while full darkness enveloped the neighborhood. Plenty of mosquitoes. Some lightning bugs. No lights.
I scratched my arm. "I never said it was a hypothesis."
"So here's what I think." She started the car again. "Bitsy killed her dear old friend Oxnard because he refused to help her with her money problems after Mr. Bitsy took off on her."
"Or," I said, "He wanted to help her, but Sybil wouldn't let him. Maybe they had a fight about it, and Sybil killed him herself in a fit of rage." If only I'd been less concerned with salvaging dinner and more concerned with where the food fighters went.
"Or," Maizy said, "Alston and Abby killed h
im because he was helping her and spending their inheritance in the process."
"But where does Herman Kantz fit in?" I asked.
"It's a conundrum," Maizy agreed. She nodded at the utility bill. "You see why I wanted that?"
"Maybe we should take a peek at Oxnard's will," I said. "Find out who all the players are."
She snorted. "We could do that, but players change. Wills get contested all the time."
She was right there. Some of Howard's ugliest cases had involved heirs battling over an estate.
"Well," I said, "it can't hurt. We'll have a copy at the office. I'll look for it tomorrow."
"And I'll see if I can get Bitsy's lights turned on again," Maizy said. "Nobody should have to drink in the dark."
We were quiet for a few minutes while darkness slid past the window. I couldn't get past the feeling that something felt off about Bitsy. Well, pretty much everything felt off about Bitsy, but specifically her address. I dug into my purse until I found her business card. I'd remembered right; her office was on the main street of an upscale town a few miles away. It was possible that professional appearances were more important to her than living arrangements, but it seemed unlikely given what I now knew about Bitsy.
"Turn north on Merrick Highway," I said. "I want to check out Bitsy's office. From the outside," I added, before Maizy got any ideas.
"Cool. Why?"
"It doesn't add up," I said. "Why would she live in a ghost town and keep her business in Cedarwood?"
"Not enough money?" Maizy suggested.
"It's more than that," I said. "Her house was stuck in the '70s or something. You'd expect a personal shopper to have better taste. Or some taste."
"I see your point," Maizy said. "You think she's not what she seems to be."
It took fifteen minutes to get to Cedarwood, where we cruised slowly down Main Avenue beneath a sprawling canopy of leafy old maples and elms, past historic commercial buildings housing an ice cream parlor, a post office, a municipal building, and a quaint single screen movie theater with a marquee that read African Queen, all fronting onto a red brick sidewalk.
I consulted the card. "320 should be in the next block, up on the right. Maybe next to that real estate agent's office?"
