Purls and Poison

by Anne Canadeo

  But she quickly guarded herself from showing her reaction and admitting her disappointment. He was obviously angry, but she wasn’t going to unpack that now and make a big thing out of it.

  “I have a lot to do tomorrow, too. It has been a long week.”

  “A very long one. Always is when we have a murder case going on,” he added in a quieter tone. “Thanks for dinner. It was terrific. As usual.”

  “No trouble.” Maggie had followed him to the foyer. He took his jacket and hat off the coat tree, then planted a quick kiss on her lips. It was something, she thought. Maybe he wasn’t that mad? Though there was no lingering embrace as she’d come to expect.

  He stepped back and tugged on his hat brim. “I’ll call you.”

  Maggie didn’t feel reassured. Was he really going to call her? Or had he tossed off the phrase the way men do when they mean just the opposite?

  “Good night, Charles.” She looked up at him, feeling sad and empty. And frustrated about the way the evening had ended up.

  She felt even worse as he stepped outside and she watched him walk to his car.

  What had just happened here? Maggie was confused. It felt as if some small but very important cog, deep in the machinery of their relationship, had gotten stuck. Worse yet, snapped and broken.

  But so quietly, one would hardly notice.

  It would have been better if we’d had a screaming fight, Maggie thought. At least then, everything would be out in the open.

  But now, she wasn’t sure where things stood. Except that it was Saturday night, barely eleven o’clock, and Charles was not at work, but he wasn’t with her either.

  That didn’t seem right at all.

  Chapter 6

  Suzanne was so nervous about attending the memorial service, she changed her outfit three times, finally settling on her “go to” navy blue suit, with brand new black heels that pinched a bit, but did make the most of her figure. She wanted to look respectful but not overdo it in “widow’s weeds.” Everyone would know that wasn’t genuine.

  She usually wore pearls with the outfit—large earrings and an opera length strand—and reached for the set automatically. The glistening string hung in midair, but she couldn’t put it on. She put the necklace back in its case, the reminder of Liza much too strong.

  Since Suzanne’s SUV comfortably sat five, she was usually the chauffeur for outings with her friends. Today she was especially happy to play that role. While everyone chatted, she kept her eyes on the road, not saying much. No one remarked on her quiet mood.

  As they approached the church, Maggie said, “How did it go at the office yesterday? I bet it was a very somber atmosphere.”

  Suzanne nearly laughed at the understatement. “Let’s put it this way—the Devereauxs didn’t need to hold a wake; we had one at Prestige Properties. Harry wasn’t exactly carrying around a box of tissues, but he should have been.”

  “He’s taking it hard? Interesting.” Dana sat in the front passenger seat. She glanced over her shoulder at Maggie and Lucy in back. Phoebe had never met Liza and events like a memorial service made her uneasy. She was content to take care of the shop and keep it open regular hours.

  “Sounds as if he was carrying a torch, as we said back in the day,” Maggie replied.

  “No news there. Truth be told, we were all bummed out and the office was upside down from the police pawing through everything. That didn’t help morale much either,” Suzanne added. “All my records had definitely been tossed and the police took the tower from everyone’s office computer. I guess they’re going through the files.”

  “Probably looking at phone records, too,” Lucy remarked.

  “I’m sure.” Suzanne had already thought of that.

  Dana glanced at her. “You sound nervous. You shouldn’t be. Once the investigators sift through everything with a fine-tooth comb, they’re bound to find clues that point away from you. I bet the person who’s trying to frame you has messed up somewhere. There’s no such thing as a perfect crime.”

  Her words made sense and gave Suzanne a bit of hope. But she also knew there were a lot of “ifs.” “Let’s hope the culprit messed up a lot. Sometimes the police get tunnel vision. They just want the pieces to fit so they can get on to the next crime.”

  “Any ideas at all who it could be?” Lucy asked. “Seems to me it has to be someone who knows both you and Liza. And who has access to the office. Someone who knows what goes on there. Probably a coworker.”

  “And who had motivation to harm Liza. Let’s not forget that,” Maggie chimed in.

  “And motivation to screw up my life, too,” Suzanne pointed out.

  “Not necessarily.” Dana had been looking out the window but quickly turned. “You were a good target for the blame. But that doesn’t mean the killer has anything against you.”

  Suzanne laughed, her gaze fixed on the road. “I see the logic in what you’re saying. But being framed for a murder sure feels personal.”

  “Hang in there.” Maggie’s voice was full of sympathy. “Maybe we’ll get some insights at this gathering. Everyone from your office should be there. Sometimes you just have an intuition about these things.”

  Suzanne didn’t want to depend on the intuition of one of her friends to save her. But it appeared she didn’t have much else to pin her hopes on right now.

  The church parking lot was almost full, but Suzanne spotted a space not far from the entrance. She slipped out of the driver’s seat and quickly scanned the parking lot. “I don’t see Charles or Detective Oliver. I expected them to be here, making a guest list.”

  “Charles told me he was coming,” Maggie said. “Maybe they’re not here yet.”

  “Maybe because they’re so sure it’s me?” Suzanne asked.

  “Don’t be like that.” Dana took her arm. “You know what she meant.”

  Suzanne sighed and allowed herself to be led into the church. It was hard to attend this event, but the company of good friends did cushion the sharp edges.

  The church was classic New England, with a tall, peaked spire and large wooden doors. Whitewashed clapboard outside and creaky floorboards within.

  Soft organ music played as she and her friends entered the narrow sanctuary. Hazy autumn afternoon light filtered in through long, arched windows. Suzanne thought they were on time, even a little early, but the pews on either side were practically filled, so many had come to honor Liza’s passing.

  Suzanne and her friends found seats toward the back, but still had a clear view. Several large flower arrangements were displayed on the altar. Suzanne had heard that Liza’s body had not been released yet by the police, and when it was, she would be cremated. The family had wanted the service carried out promptly, for a sense of closure.

  A minister walked to the center of the altar and welcomed everyone, particularly the Devereaux family, who sat in the front pew on the pulpit side.

  Suzanne spotted an older woman, with upswept silver hair and a clear-eyed, striking profile. A black shawl rested on her shoulders. Ruth Devereaux, Liza’s mother, she guessed. Next to her, she saw a younger woman with long, dark hair, also wearing black. Suzanne could only see her from the back, but assumed it was Liza’s sister, Kira.

  There were a few others nearby who looked like they might be family or close friends. Still, Ruth and Liza’s sister seemed solitary, and very much alone, Suzanne thought.

  She noticed her office mates, scattered among the crowd. Anita had come with her husband and they sat with Beth a few rows ahead. Lyle and his wife sat on the opposite side of the church, and Janine sat closer to the front, not too far from Harry and his wife, Claire.

  The minister spoke glowingly about Liza’s life and achievements. Nothing that was a surprise to Suzanne after hearing the obituary. He also noted her intelligence, charm, and “sparkling sense of humor.”

  Suzanne had to acknowledge the first two traits but had never seen the latter. But maybe Liza could be funny and clever when she wanted t
o. She just didn’t feel relaxed enough around me to show it, a small voice noted.

  Life was mysterious. That’s all you could say. One minute you’re screaming your head off at someone, trying to pull their hair out, and the next . . . you find them stone cold dead.

  Suzanne could hardly believe she’d never see Liza again. She’d never bicker with her, or be looking over her shoulder to make sure her rival was not gaining the advantage in some shrewd way.

  Liza had been a sharp salesperson, maybe the best Suzanne had ever seen. She had to grant her that. Suzanne knew she ought to feel relieved that she didn’t have to compete with Liza anymore. But she didn’t feel that way at all.

  She felt . . . lonely. Deserted. As if she’d lost a partner of some kind. Wasn’t that strange?

  Liza had not been her friend. Anything but. But she had been an impressive adversary, one who had pushed Suzanne to do her best, and then some. Now it felt as if she was Serena Williams, all set to receive a smoking first serve, and left staring across the net at an empty court. Her most worthy opponent had vanished.

  The minister announced the hymn “Amazing Grace” would be performed. While a local soprano offered a respectable rendition of the ageless song, heavy thoughts of mortality circled Suzanne, like dark winged birds.

  She was hardly aware that the music had ended, when she heard the minister return to the pulpit. “And now, Kira Davenport will read a poem in honor of her sister.”

  As Suzanne expected, the woman seated beside Liza’s mother rose. Before she had even turned around and started walking toward the pulpit, Suzanne felt her pulse quicken.

  When Kira had taken her place behind the microphone and looked out at the gathering, Suzanne’s heart skipped a beat.

  It was Liza. Her exact double.

  Kira Davenport squared her shoulders and unfolded a single white page. Even her gestures and postures seemed the exact same as Liza’s. When she spoke, thanking everyone for attending to honor her sister, it was as if Liza’s voice was being channeled from some distant dimension.

  Why didn’t anyone tell me? An identical twin. A complete doppelgänger. Suzanne realized her mouth was gaping open and quickly shut it.

  Maggie sat to her left and leaned closer. “Did you know?” she whispered.

  Suzanne shook her head and whispered back, “At least, hearing you ask, I know I’m not hallucinating.”

  “It is . . . eerie,” Maggie admitted, then turned and faced forward again.

  “My sister loved poetry,” Kira told the audience. “She even wrote poems from time to time and gave poems as gifts in our family.”

  She wrote poems as gifts for her family? Really? The woman was truly a saint. How wrong could I have been?

  “This is one of her favorites, by Emily Dickinson. It’s in the program, if you’d like to follow. I know it would have pleased her to hear me share it with you today.”

  As Kira began to read the poem, Suzanne noticed that it was printed out in the program for the service, and she followed along.

  I’m Nobody! Who are you?

  Are you—Nobody—too?

  Then there’s a pair of us!

  Don’t tell! they’d advertise—you know!

  How dreary—to be—Somebody!

  How public—like a Frog—

  To tell one’s name—the livelong June—

  To an admiring Bog!

  Suzanne felt confused. That was Liza’s favorite poem? Had she felt invisible, like a “nobody”? To the contrary, Suzanne thought of her more as the head frog, croaking on the biggest bog at Prestige Properties. She’d been a private person. Aloof, one might say. But never a wallflower. She’d been out there, networking, socializing, doing what good salespeople do in a small community like Plum Harbor. Had that all been an act? Suzanne would have never guessed.

  And why “a pair”? Who was the other nobody—Harry? Suzanne could see it that way. They did have a secret, didn’t they? She’d have to ask her friends what they thought. Perhaps there was some cryptic meaning here that would help them understand who had killed Liza. Or, maybe it was just a poem that she had enjoyed. Sometimes, you can’t read too much into these things, Suzanne reminded herself.

  She sighed and sat back as Kira, Liza’s body double, left the pulpit. A latecomer made his way up the center aisle, a bit noisy and distracting as he hobbled along on a cane, with one arm in a sling. He took a seat in one of the pews a few rows up and across the aisle and Suzanne soon recognized him.

  Liza’s estranged but not quite divorced husband, Nick Sutton. Tall and dark, he was very well dressed in a navy blue, pin-stripe suit that looked custom made. Stark white shirt cuffs secured with gold cuff links extended from the suit jacket sleeves just the right amount.

  She could only see his face in profile but he was as handsome as she remembered—in a shady, slick way. He’d come to an office Christmas party before the breakup with Liza and she recalled now how Janine and some other women there had been smitten. That had been a few years back. But his good looks were not marred much by time or a black eye, among other injuries.

  She wondered if he’d been in a car accident, or maybe taken a bad fall. He still had good hair, dark and thick, touched with silver at the temples. Maybe at a hair salon? Lucy would have called it the “gravitas sideburn” look. But he wore it well. Suzanne could understand how Liza had been attracted, though from what she’d heard, it was hard to fathom why they’d stayed together so long.

  The service ended soon after Kira’s recital. Most who had attended filed into the church hall for the reception. Suzanne stood with her friends, wondering if they should go in as well.

  “The service is one thing. But we don’t really know her, or the family. It might be awkward,” Lucy said.

  Maggie nodded. “I know what you mean. But I came to offer a word of sympathy to Liza’s mother. I think I’ll do that and then go.”

  “My coworkers are heading in. I guess I should go in, too. At least to offer condolences,” Suzanne decided.

  Lucy and Dana agreed to tag along. “We’ll just mingle and eavesdrop a bit,” Lucy said quietly. “You never know what you might overhear at these things.”

  Suzanne knew she was only joking, but secretly wished that Lucy did overhear some valuable tidbit.

  Talking in the car, it had seemed very obvious that Liza’s murderer would be here. But in the midst of the crowd, Suzanne realized how naive it was to think that either she or any of her friends could easily pick that person out.

  Unless they wore a stick-on badge, like the ladies from the church who manned the refreshment tables. “Hello! My name is Betty. I killed Liza Devereaux!”

  It was a typical church affair, with big coffee urns, small sandwiches, and cookie platters set out on folding tables. The offerings were good quality, Suzanne noticed. From a high-end catering shop in town. Harry’s contribution, she guessed. She hadn’t eaten lunch yet and would have been tempted, except for the cement mixer churning in her nervous stomach.

  Maybe being the prime suspect in a murder investigation would help her shed a few pounds? It wasn’t a diet she’d recommend, but she was trying to look at the upside.

  Suzanne helped herself to a cup of coffee, then scanned the room for her office mates. Anita stood near the door with Beth and Janine. Lyle was already waiting to talk to the family, angling for a quick exit, she guessed.

  Harry and his wife, Claire, walked in and Harry stopped for a brief word with his employees.

  “Lovely service,” she heard him say to them. “Just lovely.”

  He kept tugging at his collar, as if his tie was too tight. Suzanne thought he looked nervous. But maybe that was because she rarely saw him dressed so formally?

  Claire gazed around with a placid expression, her eyes wide behind her large, tortoiseshell-framed glasses. She wore one of her many, very expensive, nondescript suits. It hung on her thin body without any style or flair.

  Not the type for makeup either. Though
her straight, fair hair and blue eyes screamed, “Make me over! Pl-eeeze,” to Suzanne each time they met.

  Those eyes would pop with a little mascara and smoky shadow, Suzanne always thought. And her hair just needed a better cut and some product. Today it was tied back in Claire’s usual style, a haphazard ponytail.

  Harry’s wife was an academic, everyone knew, with a master’s in education and a PhD in child psychology from Ivy League universities. She was devoted to her school and theories about teaching gifted children. She’d even been the subject of a documentary that had played on WGBH, the public broadcasting station. Suzanne had taped it, but never watched.

  At the end of the day, she needed something light and amusing, with plenty of romance. Or a thriller that kept her on the edge of her seat, knocking back the popcorn and digging her manicure into Kevin’s arm.

  Claire leaned toward her husband, then pointed across the room to where Ruth sat in a large chair. Kira stood beside her, talking to the minister. An older woman, who looked like she might be a relative or a member of the church, approached with a little girl whom she held by the hand, leading the little one’s careful steps.

  The child was adorable, not more than two years old, Suzanne guessed, wearing a fancy dress, tights, and patent leather Mary Janes.

  “There’s Mommy. We found her, Emma. Mommy is right here.” The older woman’s tone was comforting and singsong. “And Nana is here, too. See?”

  Ruth turned and waved a vein-covered hand, offering the child a thin, shaky smile. Kira lifted the little girl and balanced her on a slim hip. She kissed her daughter’s cheek and smoothed her hair back with her hand.

  “Liza’s niece. Cute little thing.” Suzanne turned to find Anita standing beside her, balancing a cup of tea in one hand and a finger sandwich in the other.

  “She is cute. I barely knew Liza had a sister, no less a niece,” Suzanne replied honestly.

  “She didn’t talk about her family much. The twin thing is hard for some people to handle. I’ve heard Kira is the artistic type. Not big on nine-to-five, cubicle life. She paints flowers on silk fabric, or something like that. Liza was paying all the bills in that big house on Hickory Hill.”