“What a lovely laugh you have,” he said. “So different from your mother’s.”
After that, it was easy. Hugh and I slipped out separately, after the dessert course, upstairs to my childhood bedroom, redecorated to Mother’s taste in black, white and gold silk. No one would interrupt us here.
We returned in time for after-dinner brandy. Mother always brought in the Methodist church choir to sing carols (strange, as we were Episcopalian, but our choir never was worth much, except in their stock portfolios). They’d reached “Joy to the World.” Mother, still seated next to that handsome man, silver-haired, distinguished, knowing—someone I’d never seen before—slid Hugh a cool look. Me she ignored. Nothing new about that. She didn’t say anything later either.
And then, Hugh was dead, and I figured we didn’t have to talk about it at all.
Chapter 3
Officers Joe Munson and Pete Samuels showed up the next day at noon to inform us that Hugh had been beaten to death with a fireplace poker and to question Mother about the murder. My third feeling, after the shock of realizing Mother was considered a suspect and sadness at losing Hugh, was uncharitable frustration that my prime source of information had dried up. Never mind that, when I’d lured him upstairs the night before to ask if he knew about Mother’s trouble, he’d told me to ask her myself. And of course, Mother wouldn’t kill Hugh. They were friends. Why would Mother kill Hugh?
Mother wouldn’t kill Hugh, would she? No. Too messy. Too uncontrolled. Not possible.
The interview began cordially enough. Mother seated the officers in the living room and asked if they wanted tea. They did. She left me to entertain. The room smelled of cinnamon with an overlying hint of old champagne. Someone must have spilled on the carpet.
“You live with your mother?” Samuels asked.
“Temporarily.”
He looked like he thought I was a bit old for that. His mistake was thinking I cared what he thought. He leaned back on the couch, shoved a throw pillow to the side.
Mother arrived with the tea tray. She’d used the silver, complete with pot, sugar, creamer, and four of her daintiest china cups. Super-thin sugar cookies left over from the fête formed a flower shape on a delicate porcelain plate. Intimidation via Bernardaud. Even so, the tray must have been heavy, as it shook a little when she set it down. She poured; they set their cups on the coffee table on top of the linen napkins she passed them. They didn’t drink.
Munson began. “Since Dr. Woodward spent most of his evening here, you might have seen or heard something that would be useful.”
Mother’s eyes flicked at me, but she nodded.
“Did Dr. Woodward have any enemies?”
“Everyone has enemies.”
“Is that a yes?” This from Samuels. If he hadn’t been a cop, he would actually be kind of hot. Yet another reason why I shouldn’t be allowed out of the house on my own.
She shrugged. “I guess so. I don’t know.”
“How about someone who might hold a grudge against him?”
“No.”
“Was he involved romantically with anyone?” Munson again.
Samuels sipped at his teacup. He looked remarkably comfortable with it given that his body looked useful for bulldozing through doors.
“Me, I suppose.” Mother leaned back and tapped her index finger on the armrest.
All the rumors were true, then? I liked Hugh, but wasn’t it déclassé to date one’s therapist? Mother must have been really lonely. How surprising.
How sad.
“Involved how, ma’am?” Samuels set his tea cup down and leaned forward, flexing his fingers, as if he wanted to wrap them around Mother’s throat.
Munson leaned back. His gesture seemed to calm Samuels, who let his hands go slack.
“He was my analyst, and, well, there were all those rumors. Rumors tend to create a relationship of a kind.”
They nodded again, a pair of those bobble-head dolls that used to appear in everyone’s rear car windows. “Yes, ma’am. We need to know if the rumors are true.”
My mother glanced in my direction. “Where there’s smoke, officer…” Her voice drifted off while her fingers traced the paisley pattern in the chair’s fabric.
“Is that a yes, ma’am?” Munson waited, pencil poised over his notebook.
She inclined her head, but barely, like Princess Diana.
“Were you intimate with Dr. Woodward last night?” Samuels seemed to prefer the salacious questions.
“Why would you think that?” Again, that little glance slid my way. For a woman of iron control, it was a remarkably uncontrolled gesture. Surely, Munson and Samuels could see her doing it. What did she think we’d done upstairs anyway? Oh my god.
“You’ve just confirmed the rumors.”
“Yes, officer, but that has nothing to do with last night.”
She couldn’t have been with Hugh. I’d watched his car leave, and Mother hadn’t gone out, had she?
“We have a witness who claims you entered Hugh’s house around the time of the murder.” Samuels dug a bit of dirt out from under his fingernail and flicked it onto the carpet.
“And who would this be?”
“We will need a DNA sample, ma’am.”
My stomach dropped. Shouldn’t she have a lawyer?
Samuels asked, “Did you kill him, ma’am?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Is that a ‘no,’ Mrs. Montague?”
She sent him a withering look. Samuels, maybe the first human ever, seemed impervious. “You need to come down to the station, ma’am.”
“Are you arresting me?”
“We’d like to ask you a few more questions.”
“Clara, call Bailey,” mother said as she stood.
Had something happened between her and Hugh? If I’d been home earlier, could I have prevented it? I pulled out my cell phone and started toward the coat closet.
“I don’t need you, Clara. Just stay here.”
She collected her coat and handbag, then walked out without a word, Munson and Samuels behind her. The front door snapped closed.
I dialed Bailey, who assured me she would meet Mother at the station. “You won’t be able to see her. Seriously, Clara, let me assess the situation first, okay?”
I disconnected and slid the phone into my pocket.
Mother was now definitely in trouble and completely out of reach. With nothing for me to do, the house felt claustrophobic. I left the dirty tea service for the maid, pulled on a pair of wooly boots and a sheepskin coat, and grabbed the keys to the Land Rover. I needed advice, and Richard and Paul were just the ones to give it to me. At this point, they were my only friends, unless you counted the barista at Starbucks, and I didn’t feel like hanging out alone with a latte and the inevitable idiot at the next table speaking importantly into his cell phone about butter futures or his prostate exam.
They knew I was home, but I didn’t know how they would take my just showing up on their doorstep. Faithful Paul had always sent regular missives by email or text, whether I replied or not, and I’d seen them over the years, but my communication was erratic, and that was a kind word for it.
I shut and locked the front door. It had started to snow and for a moment, I sat in the Land Rover and watched the flakes collect on the drive. Had the dreams been warning of Mother’s arrest? Why would someone kill Hugh? At least I knew now why I’d come home. I shoved the car in gear.
Ten minutes later, I pulled up in front of a sweet little house by the water. In the summer, the herb garden puffed over the walk and made the air smell like a perfumed bath. Today, the snow-dusted path led to the porch with its purple front door, around which the house gleamed pale yellow like some grandmother’s fairytale home. They’d spent a lot of time fixing it up before Richard was diagnosed with H
IV two years ago, finding pleasure in working on it together.
Now, Paul’s recent messages communicated an ongoing tension, a waiting for bad news that ate up any excess energy.
Paul opened the door. He looked tired, his hair ruffled upright and his shoulders stiff, but his eyes brightened when he saw me. “Oh good! Just what we need to cheer us up.” He pulled me into the house, calling to Richard, who loped through the kitchen door into the living room that stretched across the front of the cottage.
“Hey lady!” He engulfed me in a bear hug, and I relaxed. Richard was six-foot-three and about two-hundred and fifty pounds. He reminded me of a cat who was all muscle and swagger until he got into your lap, and then he was nothing but purr. Paul, in contrast, was lithe and slender and topped with brush-cut dark hair.
“You sure this is a good time? You guys look like you just got in from a night of partying.”
Richard was still in his robe and Paul’s eyes were bloodshot; Paul clutched a mug of coffee.
Paul shook his head. “We were hashing over the week.” He gestured toward the kitchen. Grateful, I draped my coat over a maroon leather recliner, Paul’s one concession to Richard’s tastes in the room. The rest was decorated with heavy brocades in dark green and navy and lightened with photographs of the sea Paul had taken on their annual trip to Bermuda.
In the kitchen, a cheery haven of yellow, green, and ruffled plaid seat cushions, a plate of bagels with cream cheese and lox sat in the middle of the table. Richard grabbed another plate from the cupboard and shoved cream and sugar in my direction, while Paul poured coffee.
“What’s up?” I asked.
They looked at each other. Paul said, “Richard’s HIV has been outed at work, and everyone freaked.”
“I thought that stupid behavior left with the eighties.”
Richard tipped his head in defeat. “Seems not.”
I reached for his hand. “What are you going to do?”
“Nothing. They can’t fire me, and no one is overtly rude, just nervous. They don’t want to talk to me; they don’t want to work with me. They even want to meet in the conference room instead of in my office, like I’ve contaminated the space I work in. I now know why shunning was so effective.”
“Oh, Richard…”
“They’re scared and ignorant.” He shrugged.
“Time to find another job?”
“I like the one I’ve got. Anyway, we can’t do without my income.”
Richard was the VP of a small technology firm in New York City. Paul owned his own herbal shop and was a healer and therapist. Briefly, I wondered what Hugh had thought of Paul’s kind of therapy.
Paul must have seen the shadow cross my face. “What’s the matter, Clara? You didn’t come to hear our problems.”
“You make it seem like I don’t care.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
He stood to fetch the coffee pot. I ran my finger around the lip of the mug.
“Hugh Woodward was murdered last night, and Mother has been arrested for the murder. On top of that, she’s acting weird.”
Richard said, “Murdered? How?”
Paul said, “Honey, your mother’s never not been weird.”
“Someone beat him to death with a poker—and she’s weirder than normal.”
“How is that possible?” asked Richard.
“Stop,” said Paul.
Richard shrugged, grinning.
“True confessions first: last night I dragged Hugh up to my bedroom between the dessert and the after-dinner drinks.”
Richard leaned back and guffawed. “Home for less than a week, and she’s already seduced Mama’s therapist. Was this for fun or profit?”
“Oh god. That’s what Mother thinks too. But I didn’t. It was the only place I could think of that was truly private. You know what those parties are like. I’d been trapped by the Christmas tree with Hetty Gardner for a half hour before dinner. Not even a second martini could help me through that tedium.”
“So what did you do if you didn’t, you know….?” Paul put the coffee pot back and sat down again. I rolled my eyes at him.
“I asked if he knew anything about Mother’s troubles. He waxed rhapsodic about his professional ethics and how much he loved Mother and would never, ever hurt her.”
“Never ever?” This from Richard.
“You’re not helping,” said Paul.
“When the police came today, Mother told them she was with Hugh last night. But unless she slipped out after I went to sleep, she’s lying.”
“How do you know?” Paul asked. “You haven’t talked to her for fifteen years. They could have been involved.”
“I—” He was right. I knew hardly anything about Mother’s life and understood even less. “My god. Do you think she did it?”
Richard laughed drily. “You mean, did she assume that her daughter had slept with her lover and killed him in a jealous rage?”
I blew out a breath. “You’re right. My mother doesn’t have jealous rages.”
“Betcha didn’t think she had lovers either.” Paul draped some lox over half of his bagel and took a bite. “Why would you think something was wrong with your mother?
I pinched a corner off a bagel and rubbed it into crumbs on my plate. “My dreams.”
“You’re having dreams again?” Paul put down his food, alarmed.
I explained about the dreams of blood and the appeals for help. “Maybe her being wrongly accused is what the dream meant. Or maybe she committed this crime to prevent a greater one? I don’t know. Asking Hugh was my best idea.”
“Why don’t you ask her?”
“I can’t. She won’t tell me.”
Paul looked at me speculatively. “That’s two different answers.”
Richard threw in his two cents. “Talk to her friends. She had a houseful of them last night.”
“Right. Then the most private woman in the world finds out her daughter is asking questions of everyone in town, and that’s the end of that.”
“The end of what?”
“Good point. There is no there there, is there?”
Richard shook his head. “Lord save me.”
“Fine. Me. It’s the end of me. If I ever want any relationship with my mother, my prying will kill it. Anyway, isn’t that the police’s job?”
Paul said, “Do you want a relationship with your mother? I would have a hard time telling if you did. C’mon, Clara. You show up after fifteen years with some wild story about your mother being in danger, corner her therapist in the bedroom and demand private information. How do you think she’ll feel if she finds out?”
“I’ve tried to ask her directly.” That wasn’t exactly true. “I might be able to draw out some gossip, but Hugh was my best shot—discreet and knowledgeable. I needed him. My dreams are getting worse, and you know what happened last time.”
Paul teetered between irritation and worry. “I remember flying to Switzerland to check out that Zurich clinic for you. I remember you curled up in a hotel bed, where you’d been for a week without eating.” He paused, shook his head. “The dreams will tell you, but you have to give them time. You know that.”
“I don’t want to lose her.” To my horror, I felt myself tear up.
“Oh, honey, of course not.” Richard handed me a paper napkin for my nose.
“At the reading of father’s will, she told me she’d be here when I was ready to come home, only she’s exactly the same woman I left fifteen years ago. It’s still impossible to connect with her!” I blew my nose. “Sorry,” I said. “I’ll get hold of myself, I promise.”
“You know,” Paul speculated, “Maria Leiber might talk to you confidentially.”
“Who’s that?”
“Hugh’s wife.”
�
��Hugh was married?”
“Sure,” Paul said. “Forever.” He noted my shocked expression. “Forever is about fifteen years, give or take—after you left at least.”
“I never heard about a wife.”
“You haven’t been around to hear about much of anything, have you?” He raised his eyebrows at me. “Hugh and his wife have—had—an open marriage. They used their money and social connections to help each other, but didn’t want to be tied down. They both had open affairs for years, but from everything I saw when she visited, they adored each other fiercely. All very pragmatic. Anyway, she spends most of her time at that monstrosity of a house they own in Helena.”
I said, “You’ve been to her house in Helena?”
“No, hon, she showed me pictures. Wanted to outfit a room for massage and aromatherapy, and paid me to consult.”
Richard said, “I imagine the police called her. When she arrives, I’m sure she’d talk to you.”
“How would she know anything about Mother?”
Paul said, “Maria and Hugh talked all the time. If something was going on that Hugh could talk about, Maria would know.”
I thought about my dreams: the blood on Mother’s hands, her pleas for my help, her locked up in jail, someone seeing her going into Hugh’s house last night. I’d long wondered if she had the same gift I did, and if she did, could she be sending me the dreams—or was that wishful thinking? At least it would be some kind of communication. “Even Maria, it’ll get back to Mother, and she’ll be furious with me,” I repeated.
“She doesn’t have magical powers,” Paul said, eyeing me.
Richard said, “If she’s going to know anyway, you should start with the person who can give you the most information.”
I sighed, resigned. “Fine. Let me know when she arrives and I’ll call her.”
“Maria isn’t who I mean.”
I looked at him, puzzled.
“Think. Who else has the goods and wouldn’t care who she dished to?”
Shadow Notes Page 2
