Marla put her hands on her hips. “First, making you drink a glass of glüwein, my own concoction, which will ward off the cold that you would otherwise be sure to get. Second, I’m going to cut your hair so that it’s even.”
“The hell you are! You get your hair cut for two hundred bucks a pop. What makes you think—”
“Goldy,” she reassured me, “cutting hair is a little-known talent of mine. Now sit the hell down, or I’ll call the cops about you wrecking my car.”
Of course I knew she wouldn’t. But she would threaten, cajole, wheedle, and threaten some more until I did what she wanted. I sighed and sat down.
Marla began to comb and snip. “So what have you been doing since you stole my car and wrecked it?”
“I didn’t steal anything—” I began. But the scissors stopped moving, and I gave up. I told Marla about the knife-wielding Sandee warning me to stop chasing her. I also told her that Sandee didn’t seem too worried about the cops catching her, and how she wouldn’t tell me if she killed Drew. All she would tell me was that she was protecting her assets.
“Her assets, huh? What assets?”
“Good question.”
“All that would only have taken half an hour.” Her tone was matter-of-fact as she combed and snipped. “But you’ve been gone almost two hours. And why did Tom bring you home? He couldn’t have just happened to run into you down at Don’s Detail Shop.”
“No, he didn’t. Did you hear a bunch of sirens a while ago?”
She stopped cutting. “Don’t tell me that was you, too.”
“No, it wasn’t.” I told her about Larry Craddock. “They don’t know for certain whether it’s murder or an accident, but I very much doubt that he stove in his own head, then jumped into Lower Cottonwood Creek.”
“And you know this because?”
I sighed. “Because I wanted to see his body. As awful as that sounds, I wanted to check if there was any way Sandee couldn’t have done it.”
“What? Sandee the one whose wild left turn made you crash my car. Sandee the hairstylist. You’re losing me here, girlfriend.”
“I know Sandee killed the Jerk, but she did it because he raped her. And her mother, that was because she did nothing to protect her, when Sandee was a kid.” I stopped talking. From the corner of my eye, I could see blond wisps of what used to be my nice head of Shirley Temple hair tumbling to the floor. “She’s only killed when she had a reason, when she’s been seeking revenge. And there’s no reason for her to kill Drew or Larry, at least nothing definite. I don’t think that’s why she’s here.”
“Maybe Sandee’s a map collector, too,” said Marla. “Maybe Drew and Larry cut her out of a good deal, and she’s coming back for vengeance.” I shrugged and shook my head. “Oh God, Goldy, don’t shake your head!”
Half an hour later, I was looking at a passable layered cut, sort of a cross between Tinker Bell and Peter Pan, that hid the worst of the damage at the back. Marla peered over my shoulder into the bathroom mirror, anxious for coiffure approval. “You did a great job,” I said sincerely. “Thanks, really.”
“Uh-huh,” Marla said. “Well, you never would have found a haircutting place open on Sunday in Aspen Meadow.”
“No place could have done better.”
She winked at me as she called Grace Mannheim and asked her to come get her. “This way, we can ask Grace what she’s up to over here, anyway, digging around for Frank’s daughter.”
“Okay,” I said. “Oh, one more thing. What do I call the cut, anyway, if Tom asks?”
Marla smiled. “I know what you don’t call it. I spent a semester at Oxford fifteen years ago. When my hair was getting unmanageably long, I asked some girls at a party if they knew of a good beauty salon where I could get a cut. I said I wanted a shag. Six guys at the party immediately offered to give me a shag.”
“I know what a shag is,” Arch said as he bounded through the kitchen door. “It’s a f—”
“Arch,” I interrupted, “how’re you doing on the room cleanup?”
“Julian said we could take a break. Gosh, Mom, what happened to your hair?” When I warned him with a look, he opened the walk-in and gazed inside. “Yeah, when the lacrosse guys gave me a Bic, I didn’t want to talk about it either. There’s nothing like a shaved head to get people to start asking questions.” He slammed the refrigerator door. “I can’t find anything to eat.”
“I will find you something,” I promised. “Can you tell me what kind of progress you’ve made with all your piles?”
“Lots of progress. We’ve got five bags that can go out to the trash, three bags for the thrift store, and I finished sorting through my books for the ones that will go to the library book sale.” His smile was full of mischief. “There are books in there from England, so the people at the library’s used-book sale can learn what a shag—”
“Arch!” I cried. “Would you guys like a snack, or more than a snack?”
“We’d like lunch,” Arch replied. “Please. We’re starving. Do you have any enchiladas frozen?”
“I’m sure I can dig some up.” To Marla I said, “Thanks for not hollering at me about your coat and your car. I’m really, really sorry. My insurance will—”
“Forget it, will you—”
The doorbell rang: Grace Mannheim.
“That was quick,” Marla said. “She’s never been over here, has she? Most people can’t find their way around Aspen Meadow, even if they do have a map.”
I shook my head. “Grace is just a remarkable person. Let’s get her in here and grill her about this Ingersoll person.”
Grace breezed in and pulled off her knit cap. Her cheeks were rosy, her white hair fluffy with static. She took in my haircut, but was too polite to say anything. When I offered her something to drink or eat, she declined. I told her please to have a seat in our living room. Then I rummaged through the freezer side of the walk-in until I put my hands on a glass pan of enchiladas. I pulled them out, removed the foil, and stared at the contents. Twelve, thank God. I was ravenous. I covered the pan with waxed paper, set the enchiladas to defrost in the microwave, and quickstepped into the living room.
“Your car is wrecked?” Grace was asking Marla. “How did that happen, or shouldn’t I ask?”
“It’s a long story that I’ll tell you,” Marla replied. “But only after we get home and I get a large glass of scotch in front of me.”
Grace shifted her gaze to me and again looked inquiringly at my hair. “I know there’s a story here,” she said finally.
“Marla gave me a new coiffure after church,” I explained. “And by the way, the two of us have some things to ask you.”
“I have to answer questions, but you don’t?” Grace asked.
I clenched my teeth and gave her a stern look. “We’re way past the time when it’s okay for you to be glib.”
“Oh no,” said Grace, resigned. “I think I know what’s coming.”
I said, “Go ahead, then.”
Grace frowned. “I knew when I didn’t get cell-phone reception at your house, Marla, that caller ID might give me away.”
“Okay,” I said smoothly, “it has. Now tell us what you have to do with someone else named Ingersoll, someone who isn’t Patricia.”
Grace exhaled. “Her name is Whitney Ingersoll, and she’s Frank Ingersoll’s only daughter. It’s sort of complicated.”
Marla and I waited and said nothing. For us, this showed extraordinary restraint.
“Sort of complicated,” I finally echoed.
Grace rubbed her hands together. “Frank Ingersoll, God rest his soul, was worth a lot of money.”
“A lot of money?” Marla asked, ever the competitive one when it came to bucks. “How do you define a lot of money?”
Grace said, “Not all of it is actual cash, stock, or bonds. It’s real estate, art, plus some stock and whatnot. In all, it’s worth between forty and fifty million.”
Well, I thought, what was an extra ten mil
lion here or there? Marla merely nodded.
When Grace seemed reluctant to go on, I said, “I do remember Whitney. She was Patricia’s maid of honor. In her toast at the reception, she said she was glad her father had found a soul mate. They all seemed so happy.”
“Yes, everybody was in a good mood at the beginning,” Grace echoed. “I know for sure that Frank was over the moon, at least until he got cancer, of course. That’s when everything went to hell, and not just for Frank.” Grace, reflecting, stopped talking.
I was becoming weary of prompting her. “Grace! My hair’s going to grow as long as Lady Godiva’s while I’m waiting for you to tell me what’s going on.”
Grace said, “Okay, okay. This is very difficult, so please be patient with me. Frank had a prenuptial agreement with Patricia. He wanted forty million to go to Whitney, who was twenty-eight when he made the will. But Frank didn’t want Patricia to be destitute if he should die suddenly, which is just about what he did. So he made provision for Patricia to receive five hundred thousand a year for every year they were married. He also made her the beneficiary of a million-dollar life-insurance policy. Patricia agreed to the whole thing. But then he got cancer when they’d only been married for a little over two years.”
“Two million,” Marla mused. “Good, but not great.”
Grace said, “Maybe that’s what was going through Patricia’s mind when she went into the hospital with a new will and a new lawyer. She convinced Frank, almost sick to death on chemo, to nullify the prenup. Patricia also convinced Frank to sign the new will. In it, Patricia received thirty million in cash and whatnot. She also received the house and its contents, worth about ten million. The final ten million or so would go to Whitney. Patricia mailed the new will to Whitney, and by the time Whitney received it, her father was dead. She was furious, ready to scratch out Patricia’s eyes.”
These people and their money, I thought.
“Whitney confronted Patricia after the service,” Grace went on. “I was there, and it wasn’t pretty. Whitney got in Patricia’s face and shrieked, ‘You bitch! You shrew! I will litigate you to death!’”
“I always say,” Marla put in, “there’s no fun in funeral.”
“No kidding,” Grace supplied. “Whitney’s been contesting the will, of course, but the case had been dragging through court. Which brings me to why I’m in Aspen Meadow.”
Finally, I thought.
“Whitney keeps close tabs on what goes on in Aspen Meadow so she can learn all she can about Patricia. When a friend called her to tell her Drew Wellington had died at the library, she called me. One of the most valuable items in the estate was a Rodin drawing.”
“Rodin?” I repeated, unbelieving. “The Rodin?”
Grace nodded ruefully. “When Whitney pursued her lawsuit against the probate of the second will, she and her lawyers demanded that Patricia show them the Rodin. But Patricia hemmed and hawed and said it had been stolen. Frank had just been so sick, she said. She said she hadn’t gotten around to filing an insurance claim. But Frank had more security devices put on that house of theirs than Fort Knox. It would have been extremely difficult for anyone to steal the Rodin from there.”
“So Whitney doesn’t believe the Rodin was taken,” I put in, finally seeing the light. “She thinks Patricia hid it somewhere…and then maybe moved it to her boyfriend’s house? Her boyfriend, Drew Wellington?”
“Exactly,” Grace said. “And when Whitney heard Drew had been killed, she asked me to come over and see if you, my pal, whose husband is an investigator, if you, Goldy, could get me into Wellington’s house.”
I snorted. “She’s dreaming, and so are you.”
“When Patricia heard Drew had been killed,” Marla asked, “why wouldn’t she try to get into Drew’s house and get the drawing back, if that’s where she hid it?”
“Because,” Grace said patiently, “thanks to an anonymous source, Patricia was arrested within an hour of Drew’s body being found. While Drew’s house was being secured by the police, Patricia was on her way to the Furman County Jail.”
“Did Whitney call in the anonymous tip about Patricia?” I asked. “To get her out of the way for a while?”
Grace said, “Well, actually…yes.”
17
I tried at first not to take sides,” Grace explained. “I did like Patricia and I did let her have Losers meetings at my house on occasion. I saw Drew and Larry Craddock fighting. I didn’t lie to you about any of that, Goldy. But Patricia’s behavior troubled me. When she started seeing Drew, I hoped that would mean that she and Whitney could finally come to some sort of reasonable settlement that would be fair to both of them, so they could make a new start. Then Whitney told me Patricia’s cockamamie story about the Rodin. That drawing meant a lot to Frank. So I told Whitney I would help her, and she made me promise not to tell anyone. I’m not proud I deceived you, Goldy, or you, Marla, but I was trying to do the right thing.”
Exhausted by her long story, Grace exhaled and swore that was all she knew. She was giving Whitney daily updates on the Wellington case, which basically came down to whatever she could glean from me. The reason for Whitney’s curiosity, Grace explained, was that Whitney wanted to be able to get her lawyers into Drew Wellington’s house, to search for the Rodin.
“And because she hates Patricia,” Grace added.
“Gee,” I said, “d’ya think?”
I felt Grace had betrayed and taken advantage of both Marla and me. Maybe that made my body begin to ache again, I didn’t know. Grace seemed to read the pain in my eyes and offered to clean up the hair mess. She hadn’t asked why I’d needed a cut or why I had scratches on my face and arms. I knew she’d winkle the latest crises out of Marla, anyway, so I didn’t volunteer anything. Instead, while she was sweeping I retrieved the pan of thawed enchiladas and placed them in the oven on convect. Grace and Marla said they would get their lunch elsewhere and hoped I felt better. Marla picked up her mangled fur coat.
“But wait, Marla,” I said. “Aren’t you supposed to go to Hermie MacArthur’s brunch tomorrow? What are you going to drive?”
Marla arched an eyebrow at me. “As you said when the subject was enchiladas, I’m sure I’ll be able to dig something up.”
When they’d left, I put in a call to the church. Since it was Sunday and there was nobody in the office, I was automatically connected to the answering machine, where I pressed the number 2 to leave an emergency message. I said I was in dire need of a pastoral call from Father Pete. I’d just been attacked and fallen into the creek, I added, and I was traumatized. So could he please come over as soon as possible? I was desperate. I thanked him and left my number.
Since the microwave was free, I dug into the walk-in and pulled out a leftover piece of quiche. I heated it up, scarfed it down, then walked upstairs to get dressed. I knew Father Pete was a diligent pastor…he hated cell phones, but he checked those emergency messages quite often. Which was a good thing, because I had a very important question to ask him.
From the excited voices emanating from Arch’s room, I could tell the boys were happily occupied. If I knew anything about my son, he’d found a stash of chips, candy, or both, in his room, and handed it around to his pals while they waited for the enchiladas to heat.
While I was finished getting dressed, Arch startled me by banging on the bedroom door. Had he already run out of snacks?
“Mom! Father Pete’s on the phone.”
“Could you ask him how soon he can come over?”
Arch clomped away, then returned almost immediately. “He’s on his way. He said you were attacked and got pushed into the creek. He’s worried about you.” Arch paused. “Why didn’t you tell me you fell in the creek?”
I finished changing and opened the door a crack. “I didn’t. I rolled down a hill. And I wasn’t exactly attacked. It’s not as bad as it sounds, hon.”
“Do you want me to call him back, say you weren’t attacked, you didn’t fall in the
creek, and he doesn’t need to come over, then?”
“No, I need to talk to him.”
“Good. ’Cuz I told him you were fixing our lunch, and that he could join us if he wanted.”
I groaned.
“What? I figured that was what you would want me to do. Next time, Mom, I’ll let people who call know they need to call back and talk to you personally, okay? That way I won’t get bawled out for doing what you tell me to do.”
“I’m sorry, hon, I wasn’t bawling you out—”
“Yeah, well, he’ll be here in an hour.”
“That’s fine—” I began, but Arch had already left.
I would make this work. Twelve enchiladas divided by three hungry teenage boys, plus me…hmm. Not to mention that the enchiladas were made with pork, and Julian was a vegetarian. And Father Pete, he of the big Greek appetite, was on his way. I didn’t have any souvlaki or stuffed grape leaves or gyros lying around, so I was going to have to think up something new for him, too. And then maybe Tom would come home at some point…
Back in the kitchen, I stared into the walk-in. On the shelf where Tom put food that he labeled “Ours,” there were several pounds of lean ground beef and a bunch of celery. The pantry yielded olive oil, herbs, onions, and a bag of potatoes. Back in the freezer, I found smallish containers of homemade chicken stock and bags of baby peas and corn.
“Hmm,” I said as I pulled everything onto the counter and stared at it. Too bad all the lamb chops in the house had already been designated for the MacArthurs’ lunch. But wait. What had Father Pete called himself? An unorthodox shepherd. Well, then, he would get Unorthodox Shepherd’s Pie. Made with ground beef instead of ground lamb, which technically made it a cottage pie, but who was I to quibble? Besides, I liked the ring of the new dish’s name; I’d tell Father Pete I’d named it after him.
I filled a pot with springwater. The latest caterer’s trick I’d learned was to use bottled springwater for everything, even boiling vegetables. I added kosher salt and turned the burner to high.
Busy, busy, keep yourself busy, I told myself, or you’re going to feel Sandee pulling your hair again…
Sweet Revenge Page 26
