Familiar Friend

by Cristina Sumners

  “Thanks, but I’ll just go into the nave and use my cell.”

  The Rector reflected that that was going to cost her a young fortune but that if anyone could afford it Kathryn could.

  As she left his office Father Mark asked, “You’re not really resigning?”

  “No, that was just to get your attention.”

  “Good. I’d hate to lose our best preacher.”

  “Shameless flatterer.”

  Kathryn had a number that rang Kit’s own cell phone, not his house; she was thankful for that, as she would have hated to have to ask for Lord Wallwood whenever she rang up her boyfriend. It would have made her feel unbearably pretentious. She was also grateful that he kept that phone with him in his wheelchair at all times during the day and on his bedside table at night.

  “Kit?”

  “Kathryn! Darling! My God, look at the time! What’s happened? Has there been another murder? Are you all right?”

  “No, no new murder, and I’m fine. I hope I didn’t wake you?”

  “No, just drifting off. If you’re all right, why are you rousing me from my beauty sleep at this hour? Not that I’m not overjoyed to hear from you at any hour of the day or night, my dearest. It’s just that these days when I get calls from you at other times than our usual Sunday I tend to expect alarming announcements.”

  “No alarming announcement. It’s just that I am about to ask the most obscenely huge favor of you. There’s no excuse for it. I am desperate.”

  “But darling, whatever you need! Only tell me.”

  “Tom is in trouble.” She told him the story. Kit, who knew Tom from the previous summer, was eloquent in his sympathy.

  “But what can I do?” he asked immediately.

  “Well, this is the awkward part. I’ve been talking to the Rector here at St. Margaret’s, Mark Randall.” Kathryn took a deep breath. “Mark says Tom is in love with me.”

  “I could have told you that, sweetheart,” Kit said, thoroughly unsurprised.

  “Oh. Ah. Why didn’t you, then?”

  “You didn’t seem to want to know.”

  “Oh, isn’t that the God’s truth! Because now that I do know, I really hate it. Anyway, Mark says that that’s the only reason anyone here would ever suspect Tom would kill Louise, that is, because he wants to marry me, so the only way we can convince these eight people or anybody else that Tom didn’t kill Louise is for you to come over here and have Tom introduce you to everybody as my almost-fiancé, as if he regards you, as the Rector puts it, as a fait accompli in my life.”

  “Ah, because if I’m a fait accompli he doesn’t have a motive.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, in that case I’d better be on a plane in the morning, hadn’t I, in time to be in church on Sunday?”

  “Oh, I do love you.”

  “I am so glad. Will you marry me?”

  “You know the answer to that question. Oh, you know you can’t stay at my house, don’t you? I hate to drag you all the way to New Jersey and then be inhospitable, but my house is utterly and spectacularly wheelchair-unfriendly. I’ll find a hotel for you. And I’ll phone up an emergency carpenter and see if I can’t get a ramp built up my front steps so you can at least see my first floor. Oh, I can’t wait for you to meet Mrs. Warburton!”

  CHAPTER 20

  Kathryn came dancing home to inform Mrs. Warburton and Tracy about the imminent arrival of Kit Mallowan.

  “Oh, wait till you meet him! He is the most divine man! He is the most gorgeous, sexy, witty man you will ever meet in your entire mortal life and when the sun shines on his red hair and when he wears blue, which he almost always does, ladies, I tell you, no woman in her right mind could resist!”

  Mrs. Warburton was smiling indulgently and Tracy was grinning from ear to ear, more amused than she would have believed possible a few hours previous. “I think we get the picture,” she told Kathryn. “When does this paragon arrive?”

  “Sometime tomorrow afternoon, presumably. He said he would catch a flight in the morning. We need to make a hotel reservation for him, Warby, wheelchair-accessible of course, and we need to find a carpenter, and isn’t that going to be fun on a Saturday, to build a ramp so he can get up the steps to the house here.”

  Mrs. Warburton assured her that the carpenter would be no problem, because if a professional one could not be sufficiently bribed to come out on a weekend, she knew a very nice man at her church (First Presbyterian) who would be more than happy to oblige her.

  Kathryn informed Mrs. Warburton that she was a treasure.

  “Nonsense, dear. Do we need to go to J.F.K. to pick up this young man?”

  “I asked him if that would be necessary, but he said we might be busy sleuthing or guarding Tracy and that he would take a cab.”

  “I can’t say I’m sorry not to have to drive to J.F.K.,” Mrs. Warburton said.

  “He would never let anyone be inconvenienced for him,” Kathryn declared. “He is a darling. He is perfect. I shall go absolutely out of my mind waiting for tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Mrs. Warburton,” Tracy suggested, “I think somebody should throw some cold water on this woman.”

  But it was Tracy herself who administered the cold water by adding, “By the way, Tom Holder called.”

  Kathryn came down to earth with a thud.

  “Oh,” she said. To her overwhelming relief, she did not blush again. Or if she did, at least it wasn’t so bad that she could feel it.

  If Tracy and Mrs. Warburton detected any pink in Kathryn’s cheeks, they attributed it to Tracy’s remark about cold water.

  “What did he want?” Kathryn asked.

  “He wanted Patrick to come over here as soon as possible,” Tracy answered, “so he could talk to both of us about what happened before that infamous drink got mixed, not after. Seems he wants to start on a whole new idea.”

  “Fine by me. Have you had any luck getting Patrick?”

  “Not yet. I left a message on his phone but he hasn’t called back yet.”

  “Well, girls,” said Mrs. Warburton, “I don’t think you need me here anymore. I think I’ll go see about hotels and carpenters. Kathryn, any preference on hotels? The Harton Inn, perhaps?”

  “Oh, yes, I think so. A room overlooking Peller Square, if you can get one on such short notice. But it has to be drop-dead perfect in every respect, you know.”

  As Mrs. Warburton went downstairs, Kathryn turned to Tracy and asked, “Why did I even bother to add that last sentence? She knows who the room is for. She wouldn’t settle for anything less than drop-dead perfect.”

  “That woman is incredible,” Tracy marveled. “Where on earth did you find her?”

  “She used to run a bed-and-breakfast in Poughkeepsie and my dates stayed there when I was at Vassar. I was always crazy about her. After her husband died of cancer she was broke from the medical bills because their insurance hadn’t been good enough, and she had to sell the house. Rough on her, but I try to pay her enough to make up for it.”

  “She seems happy here.”

  “She tells me she is. Actually, she rules me with an iron fist. Are you happy here?”

  Tracy fetched a huge sigh. “You know I’m not. I am going bananas. But I am physically comfortable, of course. I am slowly making my way through your library thanks to the volumes Mrs. Warburton is bringing up to me. I don’t have to worry about my job, because my boss is a sweetheart and he told me to take my time about getting back to work.” (Unbeknownst to Tracy, Kathryn was paying said boss to pay the temp who was taking her place.) “I am coming to terms with the fact that I am a widow, which, as you know, is a shock, but it would be ridiculous to pretend to you that my marriage was in great shape and that I am prostrate with grief. Are you asking, would I rather be here than back in my apartment? Yes, I’d rather be here. Despite the claustrophobia, it feels safer.”

  “Good. Now, excuse me a minute. I’m going to go take off my collar and other priestly attire and change
into my Friday night casuals. Then I’ll come back and we can plan your future or paint each other’s toenails or watch a Pierce Brosnan video or do other girl stuff until supper’s ready, how’s that?”

  “What color do you like your toenails?”

  “Fuchsia.”

  “I’ll get out the polish.”

  They dined at a small table in Tracy’s room, as Kathryn still refused to let Tracy out of her luxurious prison. As Tracy tasted the homemade soup that was the first course, she remarked, “I don’t care what you’re paying her, it’s not enough.”

  Kathryn replied, “I’m sure it’s not, but she won’t let me give her a raise. I’ve tried three times.”

  After supper they climbed onto the bed and propped themselves up on a mountain of pillows and watched the Pierce Brosnan video after pretending for ten seconds to have a spirited debate between Pierce and the fuchsia toenails.

  It was almost 10:30 when Patrick called. He apologized for not returning Kathryn’s call earlier, but he’d been in the library and of course he’d had the ringer on his phone switched off. Sure, he’d be glad to meet Tom at Kathryn’s house the next day. Ten in the morning? Fine. Tell Tracy good-night for him.

  “For God’s sake, Tracy!” Kathryn exclaimed. “He was in the library! On a Friday night! No wonder they call him The Monk. Have you ever known Patrick to have a date?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think he’s gay?”

  “Jamie used to talk about it. He said Patrick dated when they were undergraduates but never got serious about any one girl for very long; then after they were graduate students he stopped dating altogether. Jamie thought that’s when Patrick might have started to begin figuring out his sexuality. But Jamie never had the nerve to ask him about it.”

  Kathryn contemplated the now blank television screen.

  Tracy said, “He’s not, well, you know—”

  “Camp? Not in the least. But scads of gay people aren’t. They look and act absolutely plumb normal.” She turned and looked into Tracy’s troubled eyes. “Sweetie,” she said, “you’re a brand new widow. That’s enough trauma for right now. I’d hate to see you get your heart broken.”

  Tracy turned her head away, but not before Kathryn saw the sudden glint of tears. Kathryn put her arm around her and gave her a quick squeeze. “I’ll say good-night now. You get some sleep. Your session with Tom and Patrick is at ten.”

  She left the room, closing the door softly behind her. She hoped she was wrong about Patrick’s being gay, but he certainly didn’t seem much of a ladies’ man. And despite the fact that Kathryn had watched him like the proverbial hawk, she had seen no overt signs that he returned the emotions Tracy felt for him. He treated her with unfailing affection, which had sharpened since Jamie’s death into a fierce mother-hen-like determination to defend her against all comers, but that was a long way from eros.

  She put Patrick and Tracy to the back of her mind and prepared to make the necessary phone call to Tom. She went to her room, sat on her bed, and took several deep breaths. That turned out not to be enough, so she took several more, and said a prayer. She picked up the receiver, noticed that her heart was beating so loud, she was afraid Tom was going to be able to hear it, and put the receiver down again. “Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn!” she said. She did some more breathing and some more praying. It took her five minutes before she was finally able to key in the number, and she hadn’t stopped either breathing or praying as she waited for the ring.

  It only rang once, because Tom had been waiting by the phone chewing his nails.

  “Hi, Tom. I’m sorry to be so long getting back to you but we’ve just now gotten hold of Patrick. Can you be here at ten tomorrow morning?”

  “Sure, that’s great. What I thought we’d do is—”

  “Tom?”

  “Yeah?”

  “We’ve both had rather a long day, and it’s a bit late…”

  “Oh, I’m sorry! I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Kathryn hung up in a shuddering confusion of guilt and relief, knowing Tom wasn’t going to see her in the morning because she planned to leave the house at 9:45. On second thought, in case he was early, maybe she’d better make that 9:30. Or better yet 9:15.

  The next day she informed Tracy she had a lot of work to do, especially since Kit would be coming and taking up a lot of her time over the next few days, so she was off to the Seminary library.

  “You’re kidding. You don’t want to be in on this?”

  “I’d love to be in on this, but I’ve been neglecting my academic work ever since you tripped over Mason Blaine last week, and if I don’t get caught up it’s gonna be, in that grand old Texas phrase, too wet to plow.”

  She gathered up a briefcase full of papers to grade and books to read and set off prepared to spend a full day, if necessary, exiled from her own house, during which she tried mightily not to think about either the questions a certain policeman was asking her friends or the feelings a certain policeman entertained for her.

  Tom arrived at Kathryn’s promptly at 10:00 (Patrick had been there since 9:45) and the first thing that happened was that Tracy got to come downstairs. She achieved this freedom by the simple expedient of asking Tom if he thought it was safe.

  “Yeah, I think you’re fine as long as you stay in the house. I know Kathryn’s been keeping you upstairs but she’s just worried about you. In fact, I’m sure you’re fine if you go out with your escort out front.”

  “Hooray for that. I’ve been humoring Kathryn but it’s beginning to drive me bonkers. So let’s sit in the living room, why don’t we?”

  “Where is Kathryn?” Tom asked, looking around.

  “She said she had work to do. Sent her regrets.”

  The stab of disappointment Tom felt at this news was, he told himself, out of all proportion. Forget her, he told himself. You have a woman’s life to save here. Not to mention your career to salvage.

  “O.K., Tracy. Mr. Cunningham. Let’s—”

  “I think it’s time you called me Patrick. After all, this is now unofficial, isn’t it? Kathryn tells me, quote, the idiot asshole District Attorney has an ego problem with Tom and wants to take over the case so he suspended him, unquote. That about right?”

  Tom grinned. “I’d like to think that was it, of course. At any rate, I’m suspended, and you’re under no obligation at all to answer any question I ask you. You’re here because Kathryn asked you to come.”

  “That’s right, I am. And she has faith in you, and she asked me to answer your questions, so that’s what I’m going to do. And so is Tracy, I assume.” Patrick looked at her interrogatively.

  “Of course.” She nodded.

  “Good. I appreciate it. Now, as Kathryn may have told you, I’ve decided I need to start working on a different notion from where I was before because of some new information I got before they chucked me out. You know we were assuming that Tracy’s drink was poisoned during the time that you, Patrick, left it on the sideboard and went upstairs to go to the bathroom?”

  They both nodded.

  “Well, I’m no longer making that assumption. I’m assuming it’s possible—not certain, but possible—that the poison was put into the glass at some other time.”

  Both of them looked at him in deep puzzlement.

  “But when?” Patrick asked.

  “That’s what I’m going to try to find out now. Let’s start with the last time you took a sip out of that glass, Tracy, when we know it was healthy. I assume you finished off your drink and decided you wanted another one, right?”

  Patrick and Tracy looked at each other, then back at Tom. Both of them looked rather uncomfortable.

  “You understand that this is painful, don’t you?” Tracy asked.

  “Of course, I do,” Tom said. “Homicide investigations are always painful. But in this case I’m not only trying to solve a homicide, I’m try to prevent one, so frankly, I’m expecting both of you to put up with the pain.”
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  “Touché,” said Patrick. “All right. Tracy finished off her drink. I asked if she wanted a refill. She said she wasn’t quite ready for one yet. That was fine with me because I was still working on mine.”

  “Hang on a minute. Where were you?”

  “On the porch. Same place where—where it happened. Tracy didn’t move between then and—and later.”

  “All right. Go on.”

  “So we talked a bit.”

  “Who else was there?”

  “Oh, let’s see, Edward and Caroline Drew. Carlos Barreda. Is that right, Tracy?” She nodded. “So then a few minutes later Edward and Caroline and Carlos all together decide to go get refills and I offer Tracy again and she says O.K. and I say do you want to come along and she says no, she’ll stay put.”

  “So you took the glass directly from Tracy’s hand?”

  “Yes.”

  Tom looked at Tracy. “You’re sure that after drinking from the glass you didn’t put it down anywhere, rest it on a table or anything, before giving it to Patrick to refill?”

  “Positive. There weren’t any tables on the porch to rest things on. I remember wishing I had a napkin to wrap my drink in because of the condensation: I was definitely holding it all the time.”

  “Good. That seems pretty clear. So you handed the glass directly to Patrick and you, Patrick, took it straight into the dining room?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Now, this is an important question. Tracy, when you gave the glass to Patrick, was there any ice left in it from your last drink?”

  “Ice? Why, yes, there was a fair amount. I remember crunching on it when I was talking to the Drews. Why?”

  “Never mind. Just something I’m working on. Patrick, when you took Tracy’s glass and started doing the Witherspoon thing, did you add any ice along with the vodka and Kahlua?”

  Patrick frowned. “I’m trying to remember. As Tracy said, there was a fair amount of ice in the glass already. I might have thought it didn’t need any more. And to tell you the truth, I was concentrating more on trying to make people laugh than anything else…” He shrugged.