Murder Among Neighbors (The Kate Austen Mystery Series)

by Jonnie Jacobs

  “Even loving husbands and wives sometimes fight,” I said. Although I wasn’t sure the observation applied to Daria and Jim.

  Flicking a strand of hair from her face, Daria turned to me, arched her brows and asked, “What does your little police friend think?”

  “Quit needling me, will you?”

  “Aha,” she said with a wide smirk. “You wouldn’t react that way if you weren’t already feeling guilty.”

  I ignored the smirk, and the remark. “Why would Robert want to kill Pepper?”

  “How should I know? Maybe he just got tired of her selfish attitude.”

  I twisted my mouth and rolled my eyes the way Anna does when she thinks I’ve been totally outlandish. “You never give up, do you?”

  “Anyway, it wouldn’t hurt to have the police keep an eye on Robert. You know what they say about these aloof, repressed types . . .” Daria let her voice trail off and finished the sentence with upraised hands.

  Somehow I pictured Robert going for the jugular in divorce court more readily than in the flesh, but then murder was hardly an exercise in rationality.

  I spent the next hour updating the gallery mailing list and mulling over Daria’s suspicions, which I had to admit, were not as outrageous as they at first appeared. If Pepper had been killed by someone she knew, especially by someone with access to the house, it limited the field quite a bit How many people, even those who profess to loathe you, in the final analysis care enough to kill you?

  Finally, I picked up the phone and called Sharon, whose husband George was an old school buddy of Robert’s. Aside from our mutual involvement in the nursery school, we didn’t know each other well—the unfortunate, but natural consequence of her having a son, and I, a daughter. But I’d always liked Sharon and felt reasonably sure she wouldn’t be offended by my call. Sharon was rarely offended by anything.

  “Can I talk to you sometime, about Pepper?” I asked when she had finally wrestled the phone from Kyle.

  “Sure, you want to come over right now?”

  “I’m at work.”

  “How about coming by for dinner then? George is out of town, and I’m always hungry for adult company when he’s gone.”

  We agreed that I would pick up a pizza from Round Table and she would make a salad. Then, feeling quite pleased with myself, I finished the mailing list, flipped through a stack of paintings—two might “work” for Sondra—and picked Anna up at school, after assuring Mrs. Duval, the head teacher, that Anna did, in fact, know her left from her right, and would, I was confident, eventually learn to write her letters on the line.

  “Guess what,” I told her as we drove home. “We’re going to have dinner tonight with Kyle Covington and his mom.”

  She gagged. “Yuk and double yuk.”

  “We’re having pizza.”

  Silence.

  “And I’ll get some ice cream and chocolate sauce for dessert.”

  She didn’t look exactly happy, but she was no longer on the verge of a tantrum either.

  <><><>

  Promptly at six o’clock I rang Sharon’s bell, balancing a hot pizza in one hand and a bag from Baskin Robbins in the other. Anna was unable to help me because her own arms were filled with Barbie dolls.

  “I don’t think Kyle likes to play Barbie,” I’d cautioned as we left home.

  “I know,” she’d told me with a wide smile. “He hates them.”

  Kyle opened the door for us and gave Anna a glare which matched her own. He was a gangly, gap-toothed kid with a head of unruly reddish hair. He glared a moment longer, then turned abruptly and left, without a word. Anna’s glare shifted to me as we followed him down the hallway.

  While Anna and Kyle made faces at each other over cheese and pepperoni, Sharon and I talked about the tribulations of raising children in the nineties, compared notes on favorite authors, and delighted in finding that we had more in common that we’d known. Then she put a movie in the VCR and set the children down in front of it, with a strict warning that they’d better behave themselves if they wanted dessert. Handing me a cup of coffee, she led the way to the living room.

  The Covington house was decorated in what could only be called shabby chic. The upholstery was faded, the rugs worn, the wooden furniture amply nicked; and there were books and magazines stacked everywhere. Even the houseplants managed to look weary. But the total effect was one of relaxed elegance. Charm jumped out at you from every nook and cranny. Somehow the same imperfections that made my own house appear pitiful and a touch dingy even when it had just been cleaned, gave the Covingtons’ home character, attesting to the fact that the folk who lived there had more important things to do than decorate.

  Sharon settled herself into an overstuffed chair and tucked her bare feet up under her. She made a feeble effort to brush the hair out of her eyes, but it bounced right back. Her hair was dark, short, and so naturally curly that it tended to have a mind of its own. With her fair, freckled skin and gamine face, she wasn’t what you’d call a beauty, but had looks that were appealing all the same. Sort of the Hollywood director’s dream for the girl next door.

  “Now,” she said, twisting to look at me. “What was it you wanted to know about Pepper?”

  “It’s not about Pepper, actually, but Robert” I paused, feeling like something of a jerk, then forged ahead. “What’s he like?”

  If she thought the question odd, she gave no indication. “Cautious, deliberate, demanding, bright, a stickler for details, very proper. And not a heck of a lot of fun. He likes to be in control and he likes to be right. But for all that, I like him. He’s a true gentleman and knows how to turn on the charm.”

  Holding her mug with both hands, she sipped her coffee thoughtfully, then shrugged. “He’s really more George’s friend than mine. Although we occasionally got together as couples, Pepper and I never really hit it off.”

  “But you’ve known him a long time?”

  “George has. They went to boarding school together and then ended up at the same college. I met him once or twice way back when—and he was at our wedding— but until he and Pepper moved to Walnut Hills I never really talked to him.” She laughed. “I still don’t He and George talk a lot about the tax code and rates of return. I generally don’t pay much attention.”

  “So you didn’t know Pepper before she married Robert?”

  “Never met her until they moved out here. George was kind of miffed that we didn’t even learn about the marriage until after it was all said and done. I gather it was kind of a spur of the moment thing. No real wedding at all.”

  I set my cup down on the table in front of me and thought how best to phrase my next question, but nothing seemed just right. “Did they get along okay?”

  “As well as most couples. They didn’t argue or try to one-up each other in public, if that’s what you mean. In fact, I remember noticing once the fond way Robert draped an arm over Pepper’s shoulder as he was talking. It must have been one of those times when I’d had it up to here with George’s sense of propriety.” Sharon punched the pillow at the back of the chair and shifted her position before continuing. “They were certainly no Romeo and Juliet, but then who is after a few years of marriage?”

  The next probe felt even more awkward, but I plunged ahead anyway. “I’ve heard rumors that Pepper might have been having an affair.”

  Sharon shrugged. “It wouldn’t have surprised me.” Something must have shown on my face because she laughed.

  “It’s not uncommon you know.” The laugh passed, but the gleam in her eye remained.

  “You?”

  “Don’t sound so shocked.”

  I’m not sure I was shocked, exactly. More like amazed, and maybe a little awed. I was beginning to think I was the only woman in Walnut Hills leading a mundane, puritanical life. Except, of course, for Daria, who wasn’t so much puritanical as blinded by love.

  “Men like Robert and George,” Sharon explained, “they’re so sober and sedate. They make
wonderful husbands, but lousy soul mates. And only passable lovers. Technically competent, but sadly lacking in passion.”

  I thought of Andy who had plenty of passion, all of it focused on himself. It wasn’t even clear to me that he was technically competent, but I’d never thought of filling the void. Until recently that is.

  “Why are you so interested in Robert? Are you planning to move in on him too?” she asked.

  “Too?”

  “Susie Sullivan. She was over here yesterday, pumping me with all kinds of questions.” Sharon leaned forward and patted me on the knee. “Kate, you can do better than Robert. He’s worse than George, by a long shot.”

  A half-giggle rose up in my throat and I almost choked on a mouthful of coffee. “I have absolutely no romantic interest in Robert. He’s definitely not my type.” And besides, I wasn’t the kind of woman who played around, was I?

  Sharon studied me, trying determine if I was telling the truth. “So why all the questions?”

  “This sounds crazy I know, but I never knew him very well and ...” I stopped and took a deep breath. “And it crossed my mind that he might have had something to do with Pepper’s death.”

  She laughed loudly. “Robert? You’ve got to be kidding. If he were the one who had been killed, I might suspect Pepper, but never the other way around. It just isn’t his style.”

  “That was my thinking too, but anything’s possible. And he did have a temper I’ve heard.”

  She shrugged. “No worse than the rest of us. Besides, why would he do it?”

  “How would Robert take it if he found out Pepper was seeing another man?”

  “I don’t imagine he’d be too happy about it, but I can’t see him killing her for God’s sake. Besides, I don’t know how he’d ever find out unless she told him. He has a fine eye for details which have a financial implication, but everything else seems to float by him. She’d have to practically bring her lover into bed with him before he’d notice.”

  “Several people have told me they saw bruises on Pepper’s arms and legs.”

  Sharon shook her head, but more in bewilderment than denial. “I don’t know, it sounds pretty unbelievable. Still, I guess none of us can ever really know what goes on in another’s head, can we?”

  It was an idea I would have liked to explore further, but just then Anna and Kyle came in to announce that the movie was over and since they’d been so good, could they please have extra ice cream.

  Our conversation turned to less weighty matters, and when the ice cream was gone Anna and I got ready to leave.

  “By the way,” Sharon told me at the door, “I’ve been meaning to tell you. My sister ran into an Andy Austen from Walnut Hills last week when she was in Switzerland, of all places, at this little out-of-the-way restaurant that had been written up in Gourmet. That’s your husband, isn’t it?”

  I nodded. “It’s a small world.”

  “He was with his cousin. Apparently she’s a famous Italian fashion model. If she ever comes for a visit I’d love to meet her.”

  I promised I’d introduce them, though of course I never would. Couldn’t, in fact. Andy had no female cousins at all.

  Chapter 12

  Warm water pounded my back, easing the cricks and cramps resulting from a troubled night’s sleep. You don’t know anything for sure, I told myself. Maybe Andy really does have an Italian cousin, some distant relation he looked up on the spur of the moment. Maybe, I answered right back, but I doubt it. And some things you don’t need to know for sure. High probability is enough.

  Guiltily, I let the water run, even after I had soaped and rinsed my body and thoroughly washed my hair. California’s water situation was going from bad to worse as one dry winter followed another, and our daily water allotment, already curtailed, was due to be cut even further now that summer was approaching. Just a minute longer, I promised myself—repeatedly, for a full ten minutes. Fortunately, Max’s frantic barking saved me from a record-high utility bill, and maybe even a visit from the water police. A moment later, as I was stepping from the shower, Anna peered into the bathroom.

  “There’s a man at the door for you.”

  “Anna!” My voice was shrill and, I hoped, harsh. “I’ve told you time and again not to open the door to strangers.” God only knew what wily con artist was, at that very moment, prowling around the front rooms of the house, trying to sniff out the Ming vases and silver tea sets we had so wisely put off buying.

  “It’s that same man.”

  Grabbing my terry robe, another of Andy’s castoffs, I trudged down the hallway, hair dripping wet. In my haste, I didn’t bother to think about Anna’s words, using the precious seconds instead to formulate a suitably nasty threat about calling the police.

  But they were already here.

  Michael Stone slouched against the closed door, rubbing Max’s ears. “Good morning, Kate. I wanted to catch you before you left for work.”

  Wiping away the rivulet of water which snaked down my cheek, I pulled the robe tighter around my middle and retied the sash. “Here I am.”

  “I guess you were in the shower.”

  “You’re very observant.”

  “And you’re very pretty, even dripping wet. Especially dripping wet in fact.”

  “Listen, I don’t have a lot of time this morning.”

  “That’s okay, neither do I. But I’ll wait if you want to dry off first.”

  A little puddle was forming at the base of my feet, but I ignored it and tried my best to glower.

  Michael waited, a lopsided grin creasing his face. “And if you keep tugging at that robe,” he drawled, “it’s going to rip right in two.”

  I knew when I was outgunned. “I’ll just be a minute,” I told him, trying for a hostess-in-control formality. “You can make yourself some coffee if you’d like. The filters are in the drawer next to the sink.”

  Ten minutes later, hair damp but no longer dripping, makeup artfully in place, and dressed, for a change, in something other than sweats, I waltzed into the kitchen. Stone eyed me for a moment, then, with an appreciative grin, handed me a cup of hot coffee.

  “You’re very pretty when you’re not dripping wet, too.”

  Ignoring him, I sat down at the table. “Now, what’s all this about?”

  He sat down across from me and sipped his coffee. “I wanted to see if you’d have dinner with me.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Or tomorrow, if you can’t make it tonight.”

  “Evenings are kind of hard for me. Baby sitters, you know.”

  There was that cocky grin again. “How about lunch then?”

  “I work, remember?”

  “Every day?”

  “Except weekends and Wednesdays.”

  “Great, tomorrow’s Wednesday. I’ll pick you up about eleven- thirty.”

  I watched his eyes crinkle with pleasure; then I set my cup on the table and laughed too. “Does this qualify as police harassment?”

  “You haven’t seen anything yet,” Michael said with a wink. He leaned back in his chair. “Oh, there was another thing. There’s no Tom working for Robert, and no one who drives a Jeep Cherokee, blue or otherwise.”

  He waited, gauging my reaction. “Be careful Kate. If you play with fire you’re bound to get burned.”

  I thought his warning applicable to numerous areas of my life right then, and Robert was the one that worried me least.

  <><><>

  Several times that afternoon and the next morning I picked up the phone to cancel lunch, but in between, I savored the giddiness of anticipation. And in an odd moment here and there, I found time to contemplate what I knew of Robert and what I did not. Why he might have lied to me about the car.

  All in all, it was a long twenty-four hours.

  Promptly at eleven-thirty the next day, Stone arrived at my doorstep, whistling softly under his breath. We drove to Concord and pulled up in front of a newish-looking complex of garden apartments.
/>   “What’s this?” I asked.

  “My apartment.”

  I looked at him blankly.

  “A friend’s actually, but I’m staying here while he’s on assignment back East. Barbara has the house.”

  “What about lunch?”

  He grinned. “Don’t worry, I’m a wonderful cook.” His grin grew wider. “Among other things.”

  “I’m not sure this is such a good idea.”

  “That’s because you haven’t tasted one of my omelet’s yet They’re the best in the West, guaranteed.” Flipping his jacket over his shoulder, Michael began whistling again, a breezy, upbeat tune. He continued to whistle as we walked up the main path and turned left to his front door, but I noticed that his hand trembled as he put the key in the lock. It was that, I think, that finally did it. There was no longer a decision to be made.

  Once inside, Michael kissed me lightly, just barely brushing my lips with his, and then, when I didn’t protest, he pulled me tight against him and kissed me again, a longer, more serious kiss that seemed to go on almost forever.

  And thus it was that I found myself at high noon in the middle of the week, when I should have been pulling weeds or folding laundry, recklessly tossing my carefully selected wardrobe onto the floor.

  Michael, who had helped with the tossing, pulled me onto the bed next to him and kissed first one eye, then the other. As he was working his way toward my mouth, I suddenly giggled, and he looked stricken.

  “It’s not you,” I hastened to explain. “It’s the bed. I’ve never slept on a waterbed, much less made love on one. It feels as though I’m about ready to bounce off onto the floor.”

  “It does take some getting used to.”

  I bit my lip. “It’s that—and the fact that I’m nervous as hell.”