Shadow Notes

by Laurel S. Peterson

  She stared at me. “You really don’t understand how much your mother hates me, do you?” The waiter set the bill on the table, and Mary Ellen, without glancing at it, dropped a stack of twenties and handed it back. She threw her wallet into her purse. “We are enemies, after all. I don’t know everything firsthand.” She gave me that malicious smile again. “But you do.”

  Her driving on the way back to the Women’s League headquarters was no less assured than it had been on the way out. I wondered what neuroscience would have to say about a specimen like her. She parked in the same space she’d vacated and popped open the BMW’s locks. “Now, git.” She twizzled her perfectly manicured nails in my direction.

  On the way home, a slightly sickened feeling settled in my stomach. I knew I had done something unforgiveable in approaching Mary Ellen. Mother spoke of her rarely and always with contempt. What had I gotten for my troubles? If I believed Mary Ellen, I had confirmation of Mother’s affair and a motive for her to commit murder—nothing I really wanted.

  Chapter 5

  Friday’s Women’s League meeting about the Christmas Bazaar consisted of women in plaid headbands, sitting in an eight-thousand-square-foot over-decorated mansion, talking about how they could save the low-income locals by selling expensive jewelry and crafts to each other. Maybe I was missing the big picture, but it seemed more self-serving than serving. But then I was hardly an innocent, having learned with the best of them how to polish off a bottle of wine, get rid of a husband, avoid my issues, and check out which of my neighbors might be useful to me. Anyway, Mother had pleaded not guilty at her hearing, and I was a little distracted.

  Saturday night was the political fundraiser for Mary Ellen’s brother, Andrew, where I hoped not only to lock up a job in his campaign, but also to talk to some of Mother’s friends, cry a little on their shoulders, and see what kind of information I could elicit. The Winters hosted the event at their mansion. It started at seven p.m., so the attendees could get home in time to sleep off their excesses before the limo picked them up for church the following morning. The mansion itself was a huge error on the part of the Winters, a purchase, it was rumored, meant to give the family historic credibility. Apparently, their first choice had been a home in which President George Washington had slept, but they’d settled for one where John Adams had stopped on his way to the First Continental Congress in 1774. Since then, the walls had been sheet-rocked, floors evened out, and an industrial-quality kitchen, a second story, and “architecturally-appropriate” additions had been fitted on. The result was a cross between the bridge of the Enterprise and a badger sett. Apparently, Architectural Digest didn’t agree with me, as they’d done three spreads on the house so far.

  Andrew Winters was running for a U.S. Senate seat against Sherilyn Ambroise, an African-American Democrat. He looked like a sure win, given all the money behind him: Mary Ellen’s contacts from her volunteer work and their husbands, and his friends from Yale Law and Harvard Business. His corporate law clients, General Electric, Pitney Bowes and World Wrestling Entertainment, would contribute. Andrew played the humble card, emphasizing that he’d started his career as a public servant on the school board, before an appointment to city council. He volunteered on nonprofit boards and was seen at the right political fundraisers. He might have run for governor if this seat hadn’t opened up.

  What was apparent about five seconds into meeting him was that he craved power and attention, but the evening was so populated with power-hungry, attention-seeking guys I almost forgot there were other kinds of men. At least half of them, the married half it seemed, came on to me. Some forgot they’d already come on to me and tried again after they’d had their third or fourth martini. This got in the way of my making friends with their wives.

  At some point, it occurred to me to wonder how I had grown up among these people but not become one of them. Well, a little. Definitely in my closet. I loved Chanel and Calvin Klein and Roberto Cavalli shoes with the best of them.

  Maybe what kept me separate were all the secrets I had to keep, like maybe my mother had an affair with her therapist; or that only fifteen years in age separated us; or that sometimes from her room, I heard strange noises, like someone keening. “It was nothing,” she would say if I mentioned them. “Really, Clara. You must stop making things up.”

  Sometimes I wondered what it would have been like to grow up in a home where I didn’t feel split in half.

  And now, what was I getting myself into by volunteering for the most high-profile activity in town—one that would certainly get me scrutinized like no other? Was it a short-cut to the information I needed…or a path back to crazy?

  A drunk, fat guy wobbled in my direction. I turned away fast and collided with someone tall and substantial in a lovely charcoal wool suit. I wanted to rest my cheek against that comforting fabric, but managed to drag myself off. I looked up into topaz eyes.

  “If it isn’t Miz Montague,” the voice attached to the eyes said.

  “I’m so sorry.” I felt myself blush. “It appears I’m incapable of being graceful and conscious around you.”

  He laughed. A nice laugh, like melted chocolate. “I’m Kyle DuPont.”

  I shook his hand. It was warm, like the laugh, and it sucked me in, even though he was police, and they were not on my side at the moment.

  “It’s Clara, please.”

  Before I could get any further, Mary Ellen had her claw around my upper arm. “C’mon,” she said. “Time for your interview.”

  I shrugged at Officer DuPont as she dragged me through the crowd, whispering under her breath about how tragic it was that my mother was in jail, especially with that new African-American cop. You just never knew with those people…

  I yanked my arm away and thought if I could find Hugh’s murderer, I’d pay him to do one extra job before they locked him up.

  Andrew stood in front of a large stone fireplace in a bouquet of matching honey-wheat-blonde women. Not hard to do, mind you, in my town. The hairdresser I’d seen before Mother’s party was already after me to add a little color to my hair, and I didn’t even have any gray yet.

  They all wore the same suit but in different colors and fabrics, and their eyes lingered on each other’s jewelry, as if figuring out how to steal it. The shortest clung to Andrew’s arm, as if he were a tree trunk and she a lizard. I had to admire the way he slid from her grasp to take me aside.

  Andrew was a little older than Mary Ellen, but equally well-preserved. Gold and platinum hair, thick and solid, but not yet fat, an oval face, clean shaven, as all politicians were, so the voters could convince themselves he was telling the truth. He had discarded his suit jacket in favor of the rolled-up-shirtsleeves look, and fine hairs glimmered on his pale arm. “Clara. How lovely to see you. Your mother and I were so…close.”

  That was news. I watched him assess my hair, my chin, my breasts, waiting for a reaction, and stilled my revulsion.

  “My sister has suggested that you would be an asset to my campaign.” One of his arms slithered across my shoulders like a boa constrictor. “When can you start?”

  Pretty short interview. “Whenever you want.”

  “How about Monday? It’s only part-time for now, but as the campaign heats up, there will be room for promotion.” He dragged the word out. I wondered what he thought I would be willing to do for eight-fifty an hour.

  “Sounds good,” I said. Mary Ellen gave me a sharp look, but didn’t say anything. The boa constrictor slid to the middle of my back.

  “Tell me about your skills.” The gin on his breath should have killed the boa dead of alcohol poisoning.

  “I have solid research skills from my Ph.D. at Harvard. I worked in France for—oh,” I waved my hand languidly through the air as if the companies were of no consequence and my tenure at each far longer than the few months it had actually been, “Moët, Chanel, Versailles—doing even
t and PR work.” I moved slightly away from him, but that turned out to be a mistake, as the boa constrictor slid still further south, almost below the equator.

  “Perfect. Just what we need. I think I’d like you to start by reviewing our donor files. Mary Ellen, don’t you think she’d be great at planning fundraisers?”

  Mary Ellen nodded, her right eyebrow slightly quirked.

  Just as the boa started to head south of the border, two things happened simultaneously: I turned to face him, pulling myself free, and someone grabbed my shoulders and tugged me backwards, almost making me lose my balance.

  “Miz Montague. I’ve been looking for you.”

  Kyle DuPont inserted his bulk between me and Andrew, slapping the maybe-senator’s shoulder. Andrew winced. “Mr. Winters. How are you?”

  Andrew said to me, “I see you’ve met our new chief of police.”

  “Chief of police?” My surprise showed like red underwear under white pants. This town had changed if they’d hired a black man to lead their police force.

  Andrew cocked his head and Kyle DuPont rescued me. “I gave Miz Montague directions the other day. I think she thought I was a detective.”

  I nodded, grateful. Everyone knew my mother was in jail, but who wanted it said aloud? “You were looking for me?”

  “Only if you’re done with Mr. Winters.”

  I looked a question at Andrew. He gave a hearty slap to DuPont’s shoulder, a gesture that backfired, as DuPont didn’t seem to feel it, but Andrew looked as if his arm was vibrating. “No, we’re done. A pleasure to meet you, Clara, and I’ll see you in the office on Monday at ten.”

  Chief DuPont guided me to a secluded corner. French doors framed the view of a stone patio lightly brushed with snow. The trees, wound with little white lights, glowed. “You okay?” he asked.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” I’d gotten what I wanted, but it settled uneasily on me.

  “Guy has a reputation. Moved in on you pretty fast.”

  “I’m not fifteen, for god’s sake.”

  He nodded, his eyes focused on Winters across the room. “You should watch out for him anyway.” The coterie of blondes had returned, goldfish around an outstretched hand. Before I could ask him what he meant, he said, “Isn’t that Hetty Gardner?”

  “Where?” I turned.

  “The one not dressed like anyone else.”

  Hetty stood just outside the circle, her long woolen skirt and heavy clogs a thick counterpoint to the other women’s delicate couture. The silver-haired man from Mother’s fête lounged casually on a hot pink loveseat behind her. His eyes were watchful.

  “Yes, why?”

  “It’s rumored she holds some kind of weird pagan ritual out at that farm of hers. Fire and sheep guts under the dark of the new moon.”

  “Is the chief of police supposed to spread rumors about his residents? And to a virtual stranger?”

  He focused on me. “You’re not a stranger. I know everything there is to know about you.”

  “You’ve researched me?” I think I squeaked. The light through the windows played across the planes of his face, deepening the shadows around his nose and mouth. “You arrested my mother. Why would you research me?”

  “I have files on a lot of people.”

  “I didn’t do anything.” From squeaking I moved on to sputtering.

  “We’ll see.”

  My laugh came out like a cough. The muscles in my torso had contracted to a pinpoint, making it difficult to breathe. “Just when I was warming up to you, you had to ruin it by adding me to your suspect list.”

  He shrugged. “It’s my job.”

  “So you rescue me from Slimebag Winters there just so you can throw me in the lockup?”

  “‘In the lockup’?” he mimicked, grinning suddenly. “What is this, a bad episode of CSI?” He leaned in. “And I wouldn’t use that pet name of yours for Mr. Winters too loudly.” He flicked his finger in a half circle. “Lots of ears in this room.”

  “Speaking of, how did you get invited?”

  “Campaign has to court the town officials.”

  “This is the town-est of the town officials, all right.” Nat Mueller, the mayor, sidled up to us and shook DuPont’s hand. Mueller was thirty pounds overweight in a square, bulldog sort of way, but he carried it like a boxer, light on his toes.

  The chief nodded in my direction. “You’ve met Clara Montague?” He didn’t realize I knew everyone in town. It was he who was new.

  “I believe we renewed our acquaintance,” Mueller drawled, “one or two martinis ago.”

  At least the man had the grace to remember and I smiled at his sort-of apology. “In fact,” Mueller continued, “I’ve known Clara and her mother all their lives, but I hadn’t seen her in so long, I forgot what she looked like.” He patted DuPont on the arm, still addressing me. “Your mother did us a great favor when she pushed us into a nationwide search for police chief. We got ourselves a good man.”

  “Mother was involved in finding a police chief?”

  “Your Mama’s pretty influential around here. Not everybody likes that.”

  Hetty Gardner chose that moment to interrupt. “Clara.”

  “Hi, Hetty.”

  “I’m sorry about your mother.” She held her head to the side slightly, as if shielding her comment from the men.

  “Thanks.” I glanced at Nat, not sure what he knew.

  “Yeah, terrible thing, Clara. You got a good lawyer?”

  “Bailey Womack.”

  Hetty sucked in her breath sharply, then coughed.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “I, uh…” She snuffled a bit and rooted around in her pocket. A large handkerchief emerged to cover almost her entire face. If she blew, it was silent, and a moment later, the handkerchief disappeared again. “She and I didn’t really get along at school.”

  “Hetty, you were, what, three grades behind us?”

  “One,” she snapped.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I don’t remember it all that well. Actually, I’ve tried to forget most of it.” I gave a cocktail-party laugh.

  Chief DuPont leaned against the doorframe and scanned the room.

  “You were pretty oblivious.” Her sharp tone surprised me.

  I hardly remembered interacting with her at all other than on the bus. We hadn’t lived far from each other then, but later—if my fuzzy brain recalled accurately—I thought her parents moved to another part of town. After that, I hardly saw her, even though her mother’s second husband, Ernie Brown, had been my father’s business partner.

  “I imagine forgetting wouldn’t be that hard.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She just shook her head. “If you don’t remember….”

  I made the mistake of looking at the chief and he raised an eyebrow at me. “I knew you’d been misbehaving, Miz Montague.”

  It was all I could do not to burst out laughing. Hetty harrumphed.

  Mueller changed the subject, rescuing us all. “So Hetty, how are those sheep doing? We’ve still gotta contract for the town picnic this summer, right?”

  Hetty nodded. “Five lambs and tomatoes, lettuce, radishes—all the ­vegetables you ordered. I’ve got it all worked out. I’ll butcher the lambs a week or so before, so the meat will be really fresh. I even have a couple of the high school kids lined up to help me with packing and transport.” She ducked her head, presumably in deference to the mayor and his kindness in ordering from her farm.

  “Sounds great,” he said, a bit too heartily.

  I was thinking about the lambs—little, fluffy, playful lambs. “I need another drink,” I said. “Can I get anything for anyone else?”

  “What’s the matter, Clara? Can’t you take the blood and guts?” Hetty stared at me, her eyes dark and triumphant.
I could see why people thought she was dancing naked while praying to the moon goddess.

  “Frankly, Ms. Gardner, I’m not sure I can either,” muttered Mueller. He took my arm and guided me away from Chief DuPont and toward the bar, buried six-deep in bodies in a low-ceilinged dining room. Mueller’s beefy hand stayed on my arm as we threaded our way through. It was good it was his left hand, because he needed his right hand to shake with almost every person we passed.

  When we reached the relative sanctity of the bar itself, Mueller said, “I’ve known your mom a long time. You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do, right?”

  It was what people said when they didn’t really want to do anything of the kind. I wanted to ask him if my mother and Hugh had had an affair. I wanted to know if they’d broken it off, if Hugh hadn’t stopped coming around, as Mary Ellen said, but I didn’t. “You went to school with her?”

  He nodded.

  I had the bartender pour me a glass of seltzer water. It was getting late and I was feeling the drinks I’d already had.

  “What was she like?”

  “She treated everybody the same, no matter what side of the tracks they grew up on, if you know what I mean. She was always telling stories and making plans. She wanted to be a dancer.”

  “A dancer?” I couldn’t remember Mother on any dance floor.

  He nodded. “She spent more time at that ballet studio than at school, but she always had time for the school newspaper—not that we had much to write about in seventh and eighth grade—and the drama teacher got her to help choreograph one of the school musicals. She was something, your mother.”

  “Why did she change?”

  The question startled him. “I, uh…I’d have to think about that,” he hedged, running his hand down his tie and patting it flat against his stomach’s bulk. “The person who knew her best was Hugh. So tragic. You just say the word, and I’ll do whatever I can to help.” He picked up the fresh martini from the bar and then someone caught his attention, and he turned away, patting vaguely at my arm.

  I looked around the room. It was as empty as any room I’d ever seen, even jammed with people. So much money and ambition couldn’t fill this space with anything more than fizz. What would any of these people ever tell me that would give me the kind of insight into Mother I so desperately wanted? Mueller was right. Hugh had been my best bet, but Hugh was dead.