Sleuthing Women

by Lois Winston

  ~*~

  A little after six that evening, Daria arrived at the front door loaded down with Chinese food from Mr. Woo’s.

  “Now tell me,” she began, even before she took off her jacket, “what’s been happening? Do you think the police have any suspects yet?”

  “No suspects. No fingerprints. Apparently there wasn’t any physical evidence at all.”

  While I got out bowls, chopsticks and paper napkins, I told her about my conversation with Lieutenant Stone, carefully leaving out the part about his exquisite gray eyes and magnificent smile. There are some things you don’t share, even with a good friend.

  “To show you how desperate they are,” I said, “the lieutenant asked me to look over Pepper’s bedroom for any clues they might have missed.”

  Daria was emptying the cartons of food into bowls, and she turned to look at me, almost sending the asparagus chicken onto the floor. “What did you find?”

  “Proof that neatness is an overrated virtue.”

  She looked puzzled.

  “I didn’t find anything. The killer might have been a sicko, but he was a tidy one. The room was hardly disturbed, and there was certainly nothing there to identify the killer.”

  “Pretty smart.”

  I wasn’t sure if she meant me or the killer. “Yeah.”

  She smiled and handed me a bowl of rice. “You should have called me; four eyes are better than two.”

  “Even a dozen eyes wouldn’t have made a difference. You want wine or soda?”

  “You actually have to ask that question?”

  In fact, I didn’t. Opening the fridge, I found the bottle of chardonnay left from her last visit, and poured a glass while she went to tell Anna that dinner was ready.

  “She wants to finish watching Sesame Street’ first, is that okay?”

  “Sure, she only eats rice and pot stickers anyway. Let’s go ahead and start though, I’m starving.”

  Fascinated, I watched as Daria rolled moo shu pork into a pancake and then took a dainty little bite, somehow managing to avoid having juice dribble down her chin or shredded cabbage land in her lap. Daria is one of those women who refuse to yield to the little imperfections the rest of us take for granted in life. Her hair is never dirty, her clothes never spotted, her windows never grimy. And no weed ever had a chance in her garden.

  “I did learn something interesting, however,” I announced.

  “What’s that?”

  “I think Pepper might have been having an affair.”

  Daria choked and reached for her glass, taking several large swallows. She even managed that with flair. “Whatever makes you think that?”

  I told her about finding the diaphragm and about my earlier conversation with Robert.

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s enough, isn’t it? It’s not likely she’d take Polaroid pictures of the two of them actually doing it. Besides, I also found the original pharmacy box, from January of this year, so I know it wasn’t something she kept as a memento.”

  “January? That was almost six months ago.”

  I nodded, not exactly wowed by her powers of arithmetic.

  Daria was still coughing, but she sat back now and breathed deeply. “Do you have any idea who it was?”

  “Not a clue. I was as shocked as you, I mean I didn’t even suspect. “

  “Well,” she said smoothly, “knowing Pepper, I guess we shouldn’t be too surprised.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Pepper always thought she was such hot stuff. She probably seduced men for a hobby.”

  There’s always been an element of envy, I think, in Daria’s relationship with Pepper. On occasion I may fantasize about living in a fancy house and jetting off to exotic places, but it’s so far beyond the realm of possibility that I’m not disappointed with what I have. The situation with Daria was different. She and Jim were certainly well-to-do, but his dentist’s income hardly qualified them as members of the moneyed elite. I had an idea Daria resented being on the fringe of a life she secretly coveted.

  “Pepper’s certainly not the first,” I reminded her. “We never suspected Lisa either, or Joan. We think everyone else leads the same dull lives we do.”

  “Not dull, satisfying.”

  “Yours may be satisfying; mine, at the moment anyway, is dull.” And far from satisfying.

  “Well, having an affair is certainly not the way to liven it up.”

  From out of nowhere, a picture of Lieutenant Stone flashed through my mind. Hands in his pockets, lips curved in a half-smile so that the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes crinkled. “Weren’t you ever tempted?” I asked, more eagerly than I intended.

  Because of her position as owner of an art gallery, Daria often mixed with interesting and glamorous people. I figured that somewhere along the line, over a glass of champagne, or in the barren loft of some yet undiscovered artist, there had to have been a flicker of unexpected chemistry. But apparently she was better at ignoring these things than I was, because she shook her head emphatically.

  “Never,” she said. “But then I’m spoiled.”

  This was an annoying habit of hers. Whenever the rest of us complained—usually more as a joke than out of seriousness— about lazy, insensitive husbands, Daria would lean back and listen, lips pursed in a discreetly self-satisfied manner. And then, when there was a lull in the conversation, she’d drop some nugget about Jim’s gentleness and devotion. “Not that he’s without fault,” she’d add demurely, but of course that is exactly what she did mean.

  “You know what a sweetheart Jim is,” she continued now. “I can’t imagine finding anyone else who’d come remotely close.”

  I nodded, confirming that Jim was indeed a rare and wonderful man, then tried to steer the conversation back to the question at hand. “Do you think I should mention the diaphragm to the police?”

  “Why would you do that?”

  I shrugged. “It might be important. Maybe Pepper was blackmailing her lover, so he killed her.”

  Daria scowled. “You’ve been watching too many bad movies. This Lieutenant Stone asked you to look for murder clues, not pry around in Pepper’s private life. Besides, you don’t know anything for sure, and spreading rumors is . . . well, it’s tacky and quite beneath you.”

  My ambivalence must have been obvious, because she continued, “Think about poor Robert then, don’t you imagine he has enough to worry about already?”

  She was right about that. I pushed at a red chili with the tip of my chopstick, recalling Mary Nell’s words from that morning.

  “Did Pepper seem troubled recently?” I asked Daria.

  “No, not really. She was busy with the Wine Festival, and that made her testy on occasion, but I wouldn’t say she was upset. Chris took in their mail and fed the cat when they went to Hawaii last month. He said she was practically euphoric, couldn’t stop talking about what a wonderful time they’d had.”

  Chris was Daria’s sixteen-year-old son, the one the other boys respected, the teachers praised, and the girls adored. At least that was how Daria saw it.

  “She told me she was glad to get back home,” I said, standing to reach for the carton of rice from the counter. “Want anything more?”

  Daria shook her head. “I never understood why you two were such good friends. You’re usually not impressed by all that phony stuff.”

  “I wasn’t impressed—I just liked her. And it wasn’t all phony.”

  Daria gave me one of those don’t-be-such-a-simp glares and changed the subject. “You sure you didn’t hear anything that night?”

  “Of course I’m sure. You think maybe I heard screams, ran to the window, got a good look at the killer and have been keeping it a secret?”

  “You might be scared, being alone and all, your life in turmoil.”

  “It’s okay, Daria. Really, I’m fine. And if I saw anything that night I would certainly have said something.” Hoping to forestall the
it’s-okay-to-be-sad pep talk I sensed was imminent, I stood up and started clearing the table.

  “Any word from Andy?” she asked.

  “He sends postcards to Anna, sometimes I rate a P.S.”

  “I just don’t understand how he could do this to you.”

  I shrugged. The funny thing was that on some level, I could.

  “And I was so fond of him, too,” Daria lamented.

  “The worst part is having to figure out all over again, what to do with my life. I thought that was all behind me.”

  Before I met Andy, my life had no direction. I drifted from job to job, man to man, day to day, all in a kind of murky bleakness. But marriage changed that. For the first time I knew who I was and where I fit in. Or thought I did. But now things had come full circle and I found myself once again at an impasse. Only this time I had a child to worry about, possibly two, and the thought of being a secretary had lost whatever appeal it once had.

  Daria poured herself a second glass of wine and looked around the kitchen, as if she might find there in the blue and white patterned wallpaper or chipped Formica some sign that my prospects weren’t as hopeless as I thought.

  “I’ve got an idea,” she said, growing suddenly animated. “Why don’t you come work for me?”

  Daria owned an art gallery that had me drooling every time I visited. But I could see myself more easily as a maid for one of her clients than I could selling them expensive art.

  “The pay won’t be anything to write home about,” she continued, “but it would be a great way to ease back into the routine of working and you’d be involved in the art world.”

  “It’s nice of you to offer, but—”

  “Nice nothing. We’re terribly shorthanded at the moment, and it’s going to be even worse this summer when Paul takes off for Alaska. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before.”

  “But what about Anna?” I was ready, maybe, to start thinking about the direction of my life, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to leap into a full-blown change just yet.

  “You can work while she’s at school, maybe find a sitter for a couple of afternoons a week. I don’t need anyone full-time, but I do need someone I can trust. You’d be a such a help, and you’d enjoy it too, I know you would.”

  “I don’t know,” I told her hesitantly, “my hours would have to be quite limited.”

  “Fine. You want to start Monday?”

  What the heck, it was a good idea. A great idea, in fact. “Sure, Monday it is.”

  She stood up and hugged me warmly. “This is going to be such fun,” she said, her voice rich with affection. “Paul and Mandy are lovely people, but we’re hardly chummy. I’m going to really enjoy having you around.”

  “Business and pleasure don’t always mix,” I reminded her.

  “Not to worry. A friendship like ours can weather almost anything.”

  Daria rinsed the dishes while I cut up Anna’s pot stickers and two tiny pieces of chicken, which I tried my best to disguise. And when Daria left, I stood in front of the mirror and smiled at my reflection. Maybe this was going to be one of those turning points life is supposedly full of. In the years to come I would look back on this moment and laugh at how easily it had all fallen into place.

  SIX

  Walnut Hills Community Church is a massive, modernistic structure of concrete and glass. From the outside it looks more like a power station than a house of God, but it won an award for architectural innovation the year it was built. The list of parishioners reads something like a local version of the social registry, and the church is a hub of community activity, so even those who worship elsewhere frequently find themselves attending recitals, scout functions and political meetings there. Pepper, of course, had not only been a member of the congregation, but of the steering committee as well, and her memorial service probably came close to topping the list of the year’s best attended events.

  The church was already nearly full by the time I arrived, the air filled with the soft buzz of discreetly subdued conversations. Robert sat in the front pew next to Claudia. He looked remarkably serene, as though he were only peripherally involved in the day’s events. Like someone attending the wedding of a distant relative.

  There wasn’t even a hint of the raw emotion I’d detected, although fleetingly, a few evenings earlier. I spotted Daria and Jim several rows farther back and had started up the aisle in their direction when Candice Blackford signaled to me.

  “There’s room here, Kate,” she said, scooting over and patting the smooth, polished wood of the pew. Candice is the high school principal and ex-wife of the town mayor. She’s short, dumpy, gray-haired, and exceedingly outspoken. But everyone loves her, even the students she places on probation.

  “Quite a turnout, isn’t it?” she said, as I slipped in next to her. “I’m sure Pepper would have been proud.”

  Because I wasn’t sure whether she was being sarcastic or serious, I merely nodded.

  “Do you think they’ll find the killer?” She sneezed and then, without waiting for an answer, continued. “I’ve heard, unofficially of course, that the police have practically nothing to go on. The city council is furious, what with the bad publicity and all. They want the case wrapped up right away. They’re putting on pressure to bring in outside help, but Ness won’t hear of it.”

  Ness was the chief of police, a longtime resident of Walnut Hills who reminisced at every opportunity about the good old days when the town had only one stop light, one bank and no one ever had to worry about locking the door. He was also a vocal supporter of Save Our Hills, a group which caused the pro-development city council considerable grief.

  “Can they make him get outside help?” I asked.

  “Not technically, but you know how these things go.”

  Only vaguely. I wanted to hear more of Candice’s unofficial information, which was probably more complete and up to date than what anyone but Ness himself was privy to, but just then the organ began a slow, dirge-like march, and the pastor walked to the pulpit where he stood gazing solemnly at the assembly before him.

  The room was warm, hot actually, and I could feel perspiration gathering under my arms and along the back of my neck. My gray wool jersey, the only thing in my closet remotely appropriate, was much too heavy for late spring. The other women, I noticed, were all stylishly dressed in lightweight silk or linen, the colors muted and subdued without being drab. I wondered whether each kept a special funeral wardrobe in continual readiness, or if some of them had run out to Nordstrom in search of the perfect outfit the moment news of Pepper’s death hit the papers.

  The organ music ended, and there was a long moment when the room was absolutely still. Finally the pastor spoke, addressing first Robert, then the assemblage of friends who had come to show their respect for the remarkable woman who had been cut down in the prime of life. The man had a fleshy face, a wide mouth and long teeth that reminded me of a horse’s. Looking at him made me uncomfortable so I peered around the room instead.

  A surprising number of faces were familiar, even when I didn’t know the names. Without thinking about it, I started playing a mental game, trying to catalog people I recognized. Some were from the nursery school, some from my art class, some from my association with Pepper and Daria. There was the woman who jogged at the same time each morning that I did, another who walked by my house most afternoons with a matched pair of wolfhounds. Across the aisle from me, seated next to an overweight, bald-headed man, I spotted the blonde who drove a pink Cadillac with the license plate SEXY GAL.

  The minister was busily listing Pepper’s contributions to the community, when I caught another familiar face at the back of the church. Only this one I couldn’t quite place. He was young, maybe in his early twenties, with smooth skin and closely cropped blond hair. He sat at the end of the last row, hunched forward, listening intently as the minister praised Pepper for her devotion to good causes. I knew I’d seen the young man before, and he obviousl
y knew Pepper in some way, but I couldn’t for the life of me think what the connection could be.

  “Look to your left,” I whispered to Candice, “last row. Do you recognize that young man?”

  If anybody knew, it would be Candice, who seemed to have a far broader knowledge of the community than her ex-husband the mayor. Certainly if the young blond had gone to school locally she would know him.

  “No, he doesn’t look familiar at all. Why?”

  “Just curious. I’m sure I’ve seen him somewhere, but I can’t think where.”

  It was time then to bow our heads in prayer so I had to stop staring, but my mind wouldn’t let go. It was like trying to recall the name of a song or an old classmate—I’d think it was there, almost on the tip of my tongue, and then suddenly there was nothing and the process would start all over again.

  After the service, the mourners lingered under the giant oak in front of the church, each unwilling to be the first to leave. Out of the corner of my eye I watched as Robert shook hands, patted shoulders and nodded somberly.

  I was looking around for the young man with the familiar face when Daria and Jim joined me a few minutes later. Daria, in dark green silk, looked sensational, like the hostess at a successful opening, but Jim looked terrible. His skin was pasty, and his whole body seemed to droop.

  “How you doing, kiddo?” he asked, giving me an affectionate hug.

  “Pretty well.” Better than you, I thought. Either half the teeth in Walnut Hills had suddenly needed serious attention, or the idea of murder was even more upsetting to Jim than to the rest of us. Then I remembered that his brother had recently lost a wife to cancer, and I guessed that Pepper’s service had somehow stirred those memories.

  “Any word from Andy about when he’s coming back?” Jim has yet to acknowledge that Andy might not be coming back at all, or that he might come back to a bachelor apartment in the city.

  “No. He writes Anna but not me.”

  “What’s it been now, a little over a month?”

  I nodded.

  “He’ll be back soon, just you wait and see. Andy’s not the type to be alone for long.”