Framed for Murder

by Cathy Spencer

  Chapter 25

  I was pretty exhausted at work on Friday and went to bed early. After a good night’s sleep, I called Frieda the next morning about my promised visit. She told me to come on over that afternoon. I arrived a few hours later bearing a chocolate hazelnut torte, a special recipe of my grandmother’s, as a thank you gift. Frieda licked her lips and insisted that we cut into the cake right then and there. She made a pot of tea, and we sat down in wooden rocking chairs with the cake between us on a beautiful green and blue, bubble-glass-topped table.

  I looked around the sunny cabin while Frieda cut into the cake, noticing an easel and some canvases leaning on the wall next to the kitchen. Of course – Frieda was an artist. I should have guessed that from her spiked red hair, avant-garde clothes, and one-of-a-kind jewellery, but I had been too worried about Tremaine on the day of the accident to notice. Today she wore a necklace of chunky wooden cubes and discs painted in bright primary colours.

  We rehashed the accident, which naturally led to talk of Tremaine. I discovered that Frieda’s attitude toward Tremaine and me was not all that different from Amy’s.

  “So, have you seen Charlie then?” she asked. “You two looked pretty cozy together in bed when I came back with the ambulance attendants.”

  “No, as a matter of fact, I haven’t,” I said in a casual tone. I glanced at a bouquet of beautiful red roses on her kitchen counter. “Aren’t those roses lovely,” I added, trying to change the subject.

  “Yes, they’re very beautiful,” she replied. “Charlie brought them, along with a bottle of French brandy. He visited me the day after he got out of the hospital, so I guess he likes me better than you.”

  “I guess so,” I said, managing a smile. “What did you two talk about?”

  “Oh, he came to thank me for helping him, and also to talk about my neighbour, Jessie Wick.”

  “And what did you tell him about her?”

  “That in the three years I have lived here, I have never seen Jessie bring anyone to her house. She is a very private person – a loner, you might say. Still, she’s a good neighbour. She keeps her property tidy, never has noisy parties, and pays her share of the winter ploughing even though she’s not here very much in the winter. I have no complaints.”

  “That’s interesting,” I said. “You know that Jessie’s a stuntwoman, right? A friend of mine who’s working on the same movie tells me that Jessie enjoys male companionship. She stays at her brother’s ranch when she isn’t at home, but I can’t see Jessie entertaining men friends there. If she doesn’t bring them to her cabin, where does she meet them?”

  Frieda shrugged. “I have no idea. Speaking of entertaining men, what about you and Charlie?”

  I sighed at the clumsy change of topic. Frieda was like a dog with a stick; she just wouldn’t let go. “Nothing about Tremaine and me, Frieda. He’s investigating my ex-husband’s murder, for heaven’s sake. Not too long ago, he even said that I was the prime suspect.”

  “I don’t believe he really thinks that. It makes no sense. If you were the murderer, why would you bother to save him when you could have let him drown? I wouldn’t have known what was going on if I hadn’t heard you screaming.”

  “I hope he feels the same way,” I replied.

  “He’s a very nice man, and good-looking, too. I think that he is fond of you. Why don’t you give him a tumble?”

  I sighed. “He doesn’t act as if he’s fond of me, and he’s nine years younger than I am. Why does everyone keep pushing me at Tremaine?”

  Frieda sniffed. “What’s nine years? I’m almost sixty, and I wouldn’t mind his Birkenstocks under my bed.”

  I looked down at the hand-knitted socks and sandals on Frieda’s feet and laughed. “Tremaine wouldn’t be caught dead in Birkenstocks. He’s more of an Oxford kind of man.”

  “Charlie,” Frieda said.

  “Charles.” I took a bite of cake fragrant with chocolate and nuts. Really, was I the most up-tight person in the world, or were all the middle-aged women I knew horny?

  Okay, maybe I was a little overly-cautious in the romance department, but I had just cause after Jack. Besides, I was not about to play the fool by throwing myself at a younger man. Tremaine was probably used to nice, firm, twenty-somethings. And wouldn’t I look stupid if I made cow-eyes at him and he ended up charging me with Jack’s murder. Charles Tremaine’s name was not going to appear on my dance card anytime soon.