Sleuthing Women

by Lois Winston

  I took my free hand from the doorknob and shoved it into my pocket, but I didn’t step from my post by the door.

  “It’s something I tried for years to change,” Robert continued. “It doesn’t work like that, though, so finally I’ve come to accept myself for what I am. But I have a reputation to protect, and the rest of the world, particularly the business and financial world, isn’t exactly broadminded when it comes to things like this.” He let out a deep sigh. “I didn’t want to tell the police where I was that night unless I had to.”

  “What about the Cherokee?”

  “It belongs to Bill, the man I’ve been seeing. He’s very young—impetuous and possessive. I’ve asked him to stay away, but he won’t. He doesn’t understand my need to walk a fine line between two worlds.”

  His words pitched and rolled about inside my head, like a ship on stormy seas. It made sense, yet it didn’t. Cool, reserved, proper Robert . . . with a young, male lover?

  “You told me you loved Pepper,” I said skeptically, “that your marriage was for real.”

  “Pepper knew about my . . . proclivities from the start. Not that she was particularly happy about them, of course. She had thought once we were married I might change. And I did try. For her sake, I tried very hard, but . . .” He smiled apologetically, then blinked and looked at his hands. “In fact, we had words about it just the week before she died. Bill followed us to a party at the Patersons’ and Pepper threatened to invite him in—you know, introduce him just to embarrass me.”

  Robert paused and then sighed, an uneven, trembly sound that made me look away. “Pepper had been on edge about something all week, and I guess seeing Bill was sort of the last straw.”

  I said nothing, not so much because I disapproved, but because I could think of nothing to say. Robert must have read my silence as an expression of doubt, however, because he stood and faced me.

  “Pepper and I had an understanding—respectability and acceptance we couldn’t have had singly—but we also loved each other. Maybe not in the romantic, Hollywood way, but in the old-fashioned sense of caring deeply for another human being.”

  I don’t know what it was exactly, the tone of his voice, the pain in his eyes, or maybe just the fact that his story was outlandish enough to have come from the heart. But I believed him.

  “I’m so sorry,” I told him softly. “For everything.”

  There was a moment of silence while we regarded each other uneasily; then Robert moved to the window and gazed out at the garden below. “Was she really seeing someone?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” I said, embarrassed now at my excesses. “For a while I thought she might have been, but really don’t know. You didn’t suspect anything?”

  “No, but it wouldn’t surprise me. As I said before, ours was not the sort of marriage I’d expect you to understand.”

  There was really nothing more to be said. I turned to leave, then realized I still clutched the bronze rabbit tightly to my side. Warily I stepped back to face him once again and held out my hand. “If you didn’t kill her, how did this end up in your closet?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea,” he said, looking genuinely perplexed. “In fact, I thought you were planting it there in order to frame me.”

  NINETEEN

  “His story checks out,” Michael said, reaching for a piece of the cucumber I was slicing. “In addition to Bill, there are three others who will vouch for the fact that Robert was at that . . . club until after one A.M. And Bill drives a blue Cherokee with tinted windows, although he maintains Robert never tried to dissuade him from visits to Walnut Hills.”

  I scowled at the cucumber and kept right on slicing. “I feel like such a jerk,” I muttered. “I can’t imagine what came over me, snooping around his house like that, accusing him of killing Pepper. How in the world will I ever be able to face him again?”

  “Tell him it was some female thing—hormonal,” Michael suggested. “He’ll understand.”

  Glaring, I picked up the wet sponge and threw it, hitting him squarely on the cheek. It was just the sort of nasty comment Andy would have made.

  “Hey, it was only a joke.”

  “Well, it wasn’t funny.”

  “Okay, you’re a natural-born, bona fide fool with no rational explanation at all for your embarrassing conduct. You like that better?”

  Drying his face with a dishtowel, Michael grinned at me, a wonderfully good-natured, I-admit-I’m-a-dope grin that was impossible to ignore. That was clearly not the way Andy would have reacted, and my irritation faded. But I wasn’t about to let him off the hook that easily, so I poked him sharply in the ribs—which is not a wise thing to do to a policeman trained in self-defense. Before I knew what had happened, he’d turned me around and pinned both arms behind my back.

  “My remark was crass,” he said with great drama. “I acted like a crude, sexist pig, and I apologize. Am I forgiven?”

  “Just don’t let it happen again.”

  He released my wrists and turned me around so that I was facing him. “It was a pretty stupid thing you did. If Robert had been the killer, you’d be dead by now.”

  “At least you’d have a fresh lead.”

  “That’s not the kind of lead I want.”

  I slipped my arms around his waist. “Besides, I did find that bronze rabbit. Was the blood Pepper’s?”

  He nodded.

  “How’d it get in Robert’s closet?”

  “I imagine the killer left it there.”

  I saw a cloud pass over his face. “But you searched the whole house right after the murder.”

  “Not well enough obviously.” His tone was flat; his mouth set in a thin-lipped scowl. He looked about as grim as I’d ever seen him. “We talked to McGregory again. Tony had nothing to do with passing on the information about Pepper. McGregory uncovered it all himself, though that wasn’t what he was after. Apparently, he started checking out Pepper and a couple of the other vocal leaders of the Save Our Hills Committee. He was sure the organization was fronting for a group that wanted the ridge lands for a private park. And he didn’t send that note to Pepper; it was his wife.”

  “Lynette?”

  “You know her?”

  “I know who she is,” I said, reaching for the salad bowl. “Why would she send the note?”

  Michael grunted. “Apparently she resented Pepper. They’d had a disagreement over something that had nothing at all to do with her husband’s construction business.”

  Vaguely, I was able to recall the incident. Something about chairmanship of the Guild fashion show. I’d heard some of the other mothers talking about it, but I hadn’t paid much attention since the social comings and goings of the Guild are about as pertinent to my life as those of the English royal family.

  “Anyway,” Michael continued, “she used the information her husband dug up out of spite, just to annoy Pepper.”

  “Maybe Lynette is the killer.”

  Michael grinned at me and tweaked my chin. “I already thought of that, but she was in New York at the time.” Then, leaning against the doorframe, he watched as I pulled plastic bags from the refrigerator and dumped them unceremoniously on the counter next to the sink. “Hey, watch how you treat the lettuce. It bruises.”

  I ignored him and hacked off the end of the romaine.

  “And it’s better to do a leaf at a time.”

  I turned and glared. “You want to make the salad?”

  He smiled. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  While Michael rinsed lettuce leaves, one at a time, then drained and gently patted them dry, I checked on the pizza in the oven, which looked just as it had when I’d taken it from the freezer half an hour earlier—like a dish of plastic dog food. “The cheese hasn’t even begun to melt,” I grumbled.

  Michael, who regarded my culinary endeavors with more than a touch of disdain, had the good grace to simply smile.

  “I make an excellent enchilada casserole,” I told
him defensively. “It’s just that I was at work all day today.”

  “Hey, don’t worry. Generic cardboard with shredded imitation cheese topping is a special favorite of mine.” Then, before I had a chance to bean him again, he ran a cool, damp finger across my lips and kissed my nose. “The company’s what matters, not the food.”

  I kissed him back. “How do you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Make me want you so much.”

  “Do I do that?”

  “You most definitely do.”

  We stood with our arms entwined, smiling contentedly like a pair of matched Buddha’s.

  “Why don’t you open the champagne,” I suggested after a moment, my voice so throaty I hardly recognized it as my own. “I’ll get the glasses.”

  Michael had brought a bottle to celebrate the sale of my first painting, which I supposed was an occasion to be celebrated even if the exhilaration was tinged with regret.

  I’d stopped by Sondra’s house the previous morning to pick up a swatch of fabric I needed in order to match blue tones in a print we were matting for her. My watercolor was in the back of the car on its way to be framed.

  “Don’t tell me it’s already sold,” she shrieked. “I love it.”

  I couldn’t imagine the picture hanging in any room in Sondra’s house, and I told her so. Besides it wasn’t for sale; I’d painted it for myself.

  “But artists always sell their work,” she protested. “Name a price.”

  I thought of the check she’d written to Daria the previous week, and my fondness for the painting faltered. “One thousand dollars,” I told her, knowing full well the price was ridiculous.

  “I’ll take it.”

  “Unframed.”

  She nodded. “Will you take a check?”

  That Sondra’s taste in art was less hideous than her taste in other matters did little to comfort me. And much as I welcomed the money, it was an odd sensation to think a part of me, a part born of private, impassioned sentiment, would be displayed so publicly.

  Michael opened the champagne, poured two glasses, then handed one to me. “To your continued artistic success.”

  We touched glasses lightly while I tried to think of some pithy rejoinder. Finally I gave up and smiled instead. The champagne was very good, not the six dollar a bottle stuff I bought for birthdays and anniversaries. It went down smoothly and sent a silver tingle through my veins. I felt lightheaded after one sip.

  “What’s Barbara like?” I asked, running my tongue around the rim of the glass.

  “Who?”

  “Your wife.”

  He shrugged, very noncommittal.

  “Please, I want to know.”

  Frowning, Michael set his glass on the counter and steadied it with both hands. “Bright, competent.”

  “Pretty,” I added, almost without thinking.

  He ignored me. “Extremely self-centered and demanding. As the only child of wealthy parents she’s been indulged her whole life.”

  I watched the play of emotions on his face, quick and ephemeral, like firelight.

  “I was husband number two. I lasted longer than number one, but that’s only because he was a cad—whereas I was merely boring.” Michael was quiet a moment; then he took a long swallow of champagne. “I can’t wait to see who number three will be, probably some stockbroker or investment banker—that’s the phase she’s going through at the moment. Barbara tends to collect people the way a child collects playthings.”

  I was unable to detect even a trace of bitterness in his voice. Weariness, yes. Even bewilderment, as though he spoke the words while still pondering their meaning.

  “She wants us to remain friends,” he continued, his mouth curving into a half-smile. “In fact, she’s already invited me to the graduation party she’s throwing for herself next month. She told me to bring a date.”

  “What?”

  “It is weird, isn’t it? I sometimes lose track of what’s truly normal and what’s normal for Barbara.”

  That was a problem I was having myself lately. Not about Barbara, of course, but about life in general. Nothing was as I thought it was, but I couldn’t tell if the problem was in me or everyone else.

  Michael opened the oven door and peered in. “Pizza’s done,” he announced.

  I got a bottle of Kraft Italian Dressing from the cupboard and began shaking it.

  “You’re not going to use that are you?”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  His gaze shifted from the bottle to my face. He grabbed the olive oil, a lemon, some garlic and a few assorted spices, then began mincing and whisking and shaking. A pinch of this, a dab of that and he presented me with a fully dressed salad. Then we called Anna and settled down to serious eating.

  The salad was delicious, the pizza terrible. Michael made a real effort, but I noticed that he fed his second piece to Max, who liked it just fine.

  After dinner Michael cleaned up the kitchen while I read to Anna and tucked her into bed. He was standing in the family room when I returned, holding a picture of Andy and Anna taken in the fall.

  “Is this your husband?”

  Peering over his shoulder, I nodded. Blond, blue-eyed, and athletic. Movie star good-looking, even in the harsh white light of early November. I was used to the impression Andy made on women, but I’d never tried seeing him through a man’s eyes, and I was suddenly self-conscious. “It was taken at Tilden Park,” I said, not because the information was important, but because I needed to say something.

  Michael set the picture back on the shelf. “When’s he coming back?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not even sure that he is.”

  “And if he does?”

  I took a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

  A grim tautness rippled across Michael’s face and settled in his jaw. “Jesus, I wish I could figure out where you’re coming from.”

  There was a moment of silence while I studied my nails, which were short and unglamorous. Artist’s hands. A mother’s hands. Certainly not the hands of a hot- blooded adulteress. “Michael, I . . .”

  “Do you still love him?”

  Did I love Andy? I wasn’t sure. Certainly not in the way I once had. Not even in the way I had before he left. But there was history between us, and more than that, a daughter. There were things I couldn’t turn my back on easily.

  “He’s Anna’s father,” I said.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  I slouched against the fireplace. “Let’s not get in to all this right now.”

  “What do you mean ‘all this’? It’s what’s important here. At least it is to me. You can’t dismiss things simply because they make you uncomfortable.”

  “It’s just that everything’s so confusing.” I could see that Michael was watching me closely, and I shifted my position self-consciously. “Can’t we sort of do what we’ve been doing for a little while longer?”

  A curious, drawn expression settled over his face and he looked suddenly very vulnerable. “I don’t know that I can take being someone’s plaything again.”

  “You’re not that,” I told him, and pressed my head to his chest, feeling the soft, warm swoosh of his heart against my cheek. “Most definitely not that.”

  Slowly, Michael began to stroke my hair, pulling me closer.

  “We can’t,” I whispered. “The doctor said a couple of weeks.”

  “I just want to hold you, Kate. You’re so warm and soft, and you smell sweet, like apple blossoms.”

  I tilted my head and kissed him lightly. “That’s funny, you smell like generic cardboard with imitation cheese topping.”

  He led me to the couch, where we kissed and cuddled. And then cuddled some more. In fact, we ended up cuddling all night, warm and snug and content under the covers of my king-size bed. I woke once during the night and watched Michael’s sleeping face in the silver moonlight. It was a moment I wanted to capture and hold forever. And when
he left the next morning, early, before Anna could wake up and come into bed, I felt as though some part of me had been wrenched away.

  ~*~

  Daria was in no mood for a soul-searching conversation. “I’m really rushed at the moment,” she said briskly when I sat down in the chair next to her desk. “Is it something that can wait?”

  “Sure.” In truth, I didn’t know what I wanted to say anyway. But I felt the need to talk to someone. It was the only way I could think to ease the icy tightness in my chest.

  “How about tomorrow after work?” Daria asked, skimming through a sheaf of papers as she spoke. “You want to go out for a drink? We can catch up then.”

  “It’s not important anyway.” I pushed back the chair and stood. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  This time she looked up. “As a matter of fact there is. I hate to ask this, you should probably still be taking it easy, but there’s so much to be done before I leave for Mexico next week.”

  “I feel fine. What is it you want me to do?”

  “There’s a lawyer by the name of Gatskill out in Pleasanton. He’s in the process of setting up his own office and asked for help in selecting some artwork. I told him I’d be out there today, but it’s such a long drive and I have so many things to take care of here . . . Would you mind terribly?”

  By the tone of her voice, you’d think she was asking me to scrub the floors. “No problem,” I told her brightly. “It’s a lovely day for a drive. Besides, I work for you, remember? It’s not as if you’re asking a favor.”

  She hesitated. “But you’re my friend, too. My friend, first and foremost. You sure you don’t mind?”

  “Positive.”

  Daria stood and went to the file cabinet. “Get blueprints if you can,” she said as she handed me the file, “otherwise sketch the floor plan and take measurements. It would be helpful if you could get paint and fabric samples as well.”

  “I’ll take care of it all.”

  “Thanks, Kate,” she mumbled, her head already bent over the papers on her desk.

  ~*~

  Charles C. Gatskill, Esq. was a short man, with a substantial, rounded bottom and thinning hair. The gold chain around his neck and the diamond pinky ring on his left hand did little to improve the image. He was on the phone when I arrived, but managed to introduce himself anyway, cupping the receiver with his shoulder as he shook hands. He had a grin that flashed at unexpected intervals like a bulb with a loose connection.