“Stillborn. You must have been . . . oh, nearly four. Poor Betty was irrational. She and Chet had some terrible arguments. Chet didn’t know what to do. Betty wouldn’t see the psychiatrist; she just kept going to church every day. Chet couldn’t live with her anymore. We thought he was wrong to leave you. He said she needed you more.”
“That wasn’t the only reason he left. There’s more, isn’t there?”
Ruby took a sip of her tea, and then primly put the cup back on the saucer.
“Aunt Ruby,” I pressed.
“It’s not something a man could ever talk about.”
“She hit him, didn’t she?”
Ruby said nothing for a long moment. She wouldn’t look at me. “Is that what you remember?”
“I remember screaming matches. Dishes breaking, yelling and . . . I wasn’t sure if I remembered right.”
“Betty was different after they took her child away from her. It changed her. She may have loved Chet, but I think she loved her little boy more than anything or anyone else on Earth.”
“Me included?”
Ruby continued to stare into her teacup.
I let out a shaky breath. She didn’t have to say it. I’d always known who came first in my mother’s heart.
“Chet sent money, but all the envelopes came back marked refused. She didn’t want anything to do with him. She thought he’d betrayed her.” Ruby shook her head sadly.
“Patty said Joan didn’t want me to live with them. That after my mother died—”
“Joan was a good woman, but that wasn’t right. You were his son, his first born. He never even married her.”
That was a discussion I didn’t want to enter. But there were other things.
“After Dad’s funeral, Patty and Richard were looking at a photo album. Tell me about Chet’s mother—my grandmother.”
She smiled, relieved to change the subject. “I wish you could remember her. She loved you so. You were her favorite. It broke her heart when Chet didn’t bring you around any more.”
“When did she die?”
“Oh, over twenty years ago.” Her eyes darkened with repressed pain, like the loss was still an unhealed wound. “It was stupid. Mama did things her own way—you couldn’t tell her anything. If she’d only listened. How many times did I move that hot plate? How many times did we all tell her? But no, she knew best.”
“She was electrocuted, wasn’t she?”
Her eyes widened. “Why, yes.”
“She lived above a bakery, in Amherst, right?”
Ruby frowned. “No, Malczewski’s on Walden Avenue. It’s still there. Every time I go by there I think of her.” Her eyes had a faraway, empty look. “You never really get over losing your mother.”
I said nothing. Too many thoughts clogged my mind. My mother, Shelley—my father. So many emotional ties—shredded.
Somewhere a clock chimed three.
I thought about the old woman in the photograph. “My grandmother was special, wasn’t she?”
Ruby’s eyes narrowed with . . . fear?
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“She knew things—about people. About when things would happen. She knew.”
Ruby got up from the table, and started wrapping the cake in plastic wrap. “Would you like to take some home?”
She’d give me no more answers.
“Yes. Thank you.” I pushed back my chair, got up, and zippered my jacket.
She walked me to the door, and pressed a brown paper sack into my hand. “You’ll come for Hanukkah, won’t you?”
“I’ll try.”
Ruby kissed my cheek, and looked at me with such tenderness. Suddenly I realized who it was she reminded me of. But I’d have to wait until later to follow that lead.
CHAPTER
19
The cleaners were on my way home, so I stopped to pick up my jacket. The refrigerated glass case filled with pastries at the gourmet coffee shop next door reminded me of another stop I needed to make.
Emily Farrell answered the door after my second knock.
“Jeff? How’d you find me? I’m not in the phone book.”
“City Directory. I looked up all the protesters for the newspaper article. Can we talk?”
Emily glanced over her shoulder. Her daughter played with Legos on the spotless kitchen floor.
I stood there, clutching a white bakery box of goodies, not unlike the one Jean Newcomb held the day before, moments before she’d been murdered.
“I brought a peace offering.” I handed her the box.
Embarrassed, Emily opened the door to let me enter.
A pink valentine border lovingly stenciled near the ceiling, knickknacks and spice racks, gave Emily’s small kitchen an air of warmth and security. Pages torn from coloring books and other examples of Hannah’s artwork made a gallery of the refrigerator door. My single-parent home had had no such heartwarming touches. While immaculate, our apartment had been sterile by comparison.
“Would you like coffee or something?” Emily asked.
“No, thanks.”
She gestured for me to take a seat at the kitchen table.
Hannah was on her feet, drawn to the box like a magnet. “What’s in there?”
“Cut-out cookies. And a couple of chocolate chip ones for your Mom.”
“Can I have one?” Hannah asked.
“May I have one,” Emily corrected, “and it’s not polite to ask.”
Hannah hung her head, pouting.
“Sure you can have one,” I said. “If your Mom says it won’t spoil your dinner.”
Eyes shining, the little girl pressed close to her mother. “Please, mommy?”
“Just one,” Emily said, and opened the box. She placed a yellow-iced reindeer cookie on a paper napkin and set it on the table. Hannah climbed on the chair. She broke off the head, and nibbled on an antler.
Emily took a seat beside her. An open Bible lay on the table. She marked her place, and closed it.
“Looking for guidance?” I asked.
“The whole city thinks our group is responsible for what happened to that doctor.”
“I don’t.”
Relief played across her features. “Tonight we’re holding a prayer vigil for Dr. Newcomb. We took up a collection for her children.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
She stared at the Bible’s black leather cover for a long moment, her expression filled with indecision. “Were you really using me just to get information on our group?”
She looked up at me, her eyes troubled. Hadn’t Maggie asked me the same thing when I was investigating Matt Sumner’s death?
“I was worried about Brenda,” I answered truthfully. “I had to keep her safe. Getting information was part of the process.”
“Then all the things you told me were lies.”
“I never lied to you.”
Her gaze held mine. “You said that nurse was just a friend.”
“She is my friend, but she’s also my sister-in-law.”
Her eyes widened. Was she a bigot, as well as a religious zealot?
“I have to find out who killed her friend and caused Brenda to lose her baby.”
Emily’s sympathetic gasp was genuine. “Oh, Lord, she was pregnant?”
“They don’t only do abortions at that health center, they help women have healthy babies, too. She can’t have any more.”
“Oh, poor thing,” she murmured. She glanced at her own child, who was systematically reducing the cookie to mere crumbs.
“The theory is Lou Holtzinger pulled the trigger,” I said.
“I’ll admit he’s kind of a scary man, but I don’t think he’d stoop to—” Emily looked at her daughter, mouthed the word, “murder.”
“I don’t know about that, but I don’t think he’s responsible, either.”
“Then who—?”
“I don’t know.” I studied her face and sensed that she wanted to help me. “Did you see anything out of t
he ordinary that day? Was there anyone you didn’t recognize hanging around?”
Emily shook her head. “Just the regular clinic employees, the people who work in the next building, and members of our church group.”
I frowned. I hadn’t really expected more from her.
She glanced back at her daughter. “I won’t take Hannah to another protest. In fact, I don’t think I can go back again. Not after what I saw yesterday.” She looked up at me, and her eyes filled with tears. “You were right. It’s too dangerous. There’re too many crazy people with guns.”
I reached for her hand and experienced what she felt: a swell of fear and disappointment.
“That doesn’t mean you have to give up what you believe. There’re other ways you can work for the cause.”
She looked at me in surprise. “But, I thought you—”
“We may disagree, but that doesn’t mean I don’t respect you for holding onto your convictions.”
She offered me a small, shy smile. Her hand tightened on mine and the feeling I got was different this time. Attraction—to me.
Gently, I disentangled my hand and sat back, flashing an embarrassed smile in return.
Hannah was humming. She wet her finger, dipped it into the pile of crumbs, then sucked on it, taking delight in each sweet morsel. She looked up at me and a weird feeling of déjà vu passed through me. But it was another blue-eyed child who stared back at me in my mind’s eye. Dressed in a red polka-dot dress with a white pinafore, the little girl smiled, and lifted her chubby brown arms to me.
“Is something wrong? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost,” Emily said.
“Maybe I did,” I murmured. “Maybe I did.”
Plowing back into the glut of negative emotions that charged Richard’s house drained me. Maggie took her role as Brenda’s stand-in sister seriously, making sure Brenda’s time was occupied with projects and conversation that had nothing to do with babies or children. Brenda sat at the kitchen table working on needlepoint, while Maggie pulled together a gourmet dinner worthy of Julia Child.
The depth of Maggie’s maternal feelings startled me. Her presence seemed to have pushed Richard aside. I had to practically drag him from the solitude of his study to join us in the dining room.
Starched linens, antique silver, their best china, and tall, white candles in ornate holders graced the table. Maggie held court, roping me into polite, innocuous conversations on good books, holiday plans, and fabric choices for reupholstering the living room furniture.
Brenda’s gaze moved from Maggie to Richard, her attention divided between the ongoing conversation and her puzzlement at her husband’s unusually quiet demeanor. Richard and I are on different wavelengths, but I could tell he was annoyed about something. He barely touched his beef burgundy, but kept refilling his wine glass. Was withdrawal his survival technique for handling grief?
After dinner Richard retired to his study while Maggie and I hand-washed the tableware and Brenda looked on. Then, armed with a box of chocolate and a bottle of zinfandel, Maggie and Brenda headed for the master bedroom for a marathon Monopoly match. Never one for board games, I declined the invitation to join them. I’d already reached my emotional saturation point. Instead, I sat at the kitchen table and studied the new security system’s manual for the better part of an hour.
Rubbing my tired eyes, I noticed how eerily quiet the house was. I tossed the instruction book on the counter and went in search of Richard.
He was on the phone and didn’t bother to hide his irritation at being interrupted. “I have to go,” he said, and rang off.
“Who was that?” I asked.
Richard hesitated, looked away, and picked up a file folder on his desk. “Take a look at this,” he said and handed me a sheet of paper.
I read the e-mail’s subject line: Willie M. Morgan.
“What’s this?”
“It’s from Tomkins Investigations in Philadelphia. The firm my lawyer hooked me up with.”
I skimmed the terse paragraphs. Willie Mayes Morgan, husband of five years to a Vanessa Block, father of four-year-old Jason—he hadn’t mentioned those facts to Brenda. He had a good credit record, including a mortgage and car payments. He’d been an active member of Society Hill Baptist Church. The family home was up for sale, meaning his wife and son intended to join him in Buffalo. The report included character references from his former boss, the pastor of his church, and several family members. But none of it explained why he was so intent on seeing the ex-wife he’d abused more than a decade before? Did he want to apologize? Why hadn’t he done it the day he’d visited? Or had my presence disrupted his plans?
I handed the paper back. “What do you think?”
“They say a leopard doesn’t change his spots, but if you believe this report, and the fact he has an iron-clad alibi, Willie has,” Richard said.
No wonder he was depressed. The man he wanted to blame for all his problems was undoubtedly innocent.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I reminded him. “Who was on the phone.”
He looked away again, face coloring. “Patty.”
Just the mention of her name triggered my temper.
“She wants to see me,” he continued. “She said she had something important to tell me.”
My gut tightened. I tried to keep my voice level. “Such as?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re not going, are you?”
Richard looked guilty. “Well, I—”
My anger swelled. I was about to say something we’d both regret when he spoke first.
“Brenda’s not jealous of her. Why the hell are you?”
I ground my teeth. Would he even believe me?
He looked away, and rubbed his forehead. “Maybe I’ve had too much to drink. I’m not thinking clearly. I can’t leave Brenda here alone.”
“No. You can’t.”
He looked up. “Would you go for me?”
No, I wanted to shout, but then I thought better of it.
“Yeah. I’ll go.”
And I'd tell her off once and for all.
Newly remodeled, the Commotion Diner on Transit Road still managed to look shabby. Cardboard Santas decorated the cheap paneling while limp, crepe paper streamers hung from faux Tiffany lamps over each table. The vinyl seats were the hard, uncomfortable kind that make your ass cheeks fall asleep one at a time. The place reeked of stale grease and vile coffee. I’d just stepped into the joint and already I wanted to wash my hands.
Patty sat in a corner booth away from the plate glass windows, as though hiding. The beige jacket draped over her shoulders barely concealed an open-necked red blouse. Her short, dark skirt showed off her legs. She saw me and her features twisted into an angry scowl.
“What are you doing here?”
I slid into the hard seat across from her. The coffee cup in front of her was half empty—the contents looked cold.
A fiftyish, overweight waitress waddled over to the table. “Coffee, sir?” Even her voice was weary.
“Sure.”
She nodded and shuffled to the urns on a narrow table against the wall.
“Where’s Richard?” Patty asked.
“With his wife. Where he belongs. You can tell me whatever you wanted to tell him.”
The waitress was back with a cup. She placed it before me and took out several vials of non-dairy creamer from her apron pocket. “Get you anything else?” I shook my head. She frowned and walked away.
“Well?” I demanded.
Patty gathered her jacket and purse. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Well you’re going to have to.” I grabbed her arm before she could escape.
“Let go. You’re hurting me!”
“Leave Richard and Brenda alone,” I grated, still holding her forearm.
“Why? You want him all to yourself? Are you afraid I’m going to replace you or something?”
I let go as though burned. If she only
knew how close to the truth she’d come.
“Sit down!” Incredibly she obeyed. “Talk.”
For the first time since I’d met her, Patty looked unsure of herself. “I know something. Something that might help Richard.”
“Tell me.”
Despite the no smoking law, she shook out a cigarette from her pack, and lit it. “What’s it worth to you?”
I knew she’d eventually try to shake him down for money. “What’re you asking?”
“Are you in a position to negotiate?”
“Tell me!”
She tapped the ash on the table. “I don’t want money. I want to be his friend.”
“How close a friend?”
She took a deep drag, held it, then exhaled fully. “That’s up to him.”
I hoped my expression alone was enough to convey the depth of my contempt. “So tell me.”
She looked past me to the parking lot. “Ray’s been asking a lot of questions about you two. Being a real pest.”
Talk about something coming from out of left field. “The guy at Aunt Ruby’s?”
She nodded. “When he first came to work, he asked me if I had a brother named Jeffrey.”
“When was this?”
“A few weeks back—before I even met you.”
“The way Aunt Ruby spoke, I assumed—”
She shook her head. “He showed up at her house during Thanksgiving dinner. I must’ve mentioned I was going there. I never told him where she lived. I think he followed me there. Aunt Ruby was real nice, she invited him to stay. He behaved himself that night, but he asked a lot of questions. The night of the party, he wanted to leave before I was ready and we argued. Michael asked him to go. I told him I’d meet him at a bar later.”
“Did you?”
“Yeah. He was drunk when I got there. He kept asking about you and about Richard.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “He said you’d captured a murderer last winter. That Richard got shot. I didn’t know what he was talking about.”
“It was in the paper and on the news last Easter.”
“I was in Mexico with a friend,” she said, and this time tipped her ash into her cold coffee.
“Didn’t dad tell you?”
Cheated By Death Page 21
