He walked her to her car door and said, “Thanks.”
“I’m supposed to say thanks,” she corrected him with a smile. “You bought me a drink. I didn’t do anything.”
“You helped me decompress.” He regarded her thoughtfully, stroking his thumb against his chin. “Any chance we could do this again sometime?”
Have a drink together? Decompress? Peer into each other’s eyes over a candlelit table? When he wasn’t busy being a family man, cheering on his daughter at a high school softball game?
The creep. He was a family man and he was looking at her that way—which she didn’t deserve, given that she was tired and depressed about Arthur’s murder, and her hair lacked Marianne’s wonderful coloring product—and he was asking her to have another drink with him. He was looking at her that way and asking her to get together with him. As in, asking her out. On a date.
Had she actually believed a man and a woman could swap confidences over beverages in a tavern without anything improper going on?
If she and Bill Stavik couldn’t, Arthur Cavanagh couldn’t, either. She could no longer deny that what she’d witnessed at Olde Towne Olé last night hadn’t been innocent. Whatever fragile illusions she’d been clinging to disintegrated into dust and blew away.
“I’m sorry,” she said tersely. “That won’t be possible.” Turning from him, she unlocked her car door, got in, and revved the old Volvo engine, wishing she had a more powerful car so she could make the engine roar and leave him standing in a cloud of exhaust fumes.
Chapter Five
NOT SURPRISINGLY, practice was grim. But a practice field was a practice field, and Coach Thomaston wasn’t going to let Minuteman Field go to waste.
Tommie Thomaston was nominally a woman, although Lainie wouldn’t be surprised to learn the coach had a Y chromosome lodged in her cells. She was tall and lantern-jawed, with short cropped gray hair and a gruff voice. If Lainie’s breasts were softball sized, Coach Thomaston’s were more on the order of Ping-Pong balls. A retired Marine drill sergeant, she taught physical education at Rockford High. Rumor had it that the students there were terrified of her. The Colonielles were, too.
“I know you’re all worried about Patty Cavanagh,” Coach Thomaston barked at the team as they mustered on the field. “Take it out on the ball.”
Lainie did. She ran like a demon and kicked like a fiend. Her first few lateral passes went flying past their intended receivers, and she realized she was taking out on the ball more than just her worry over Patty. The ball also represented Bill Stavik’s head. The bastard, asking her out when he was already married.
Were all men like that? All men other than Saint Roger, of course. And what if she’d been wrong about Roger? What if her naïveté had blinded her to his bad behavior? What if he was no better than any of them?
No, she couldn’t believe that about him.
None of her teammates seemed terribly committed to practice. Coach Thomaston reminded them they had a game Saturday morning, but winning against Burlington didn’t seem all that important when Patty’s husband had just been murdered. After an hour and a half, the entire team told the coach they couldn’t concentrate anymore. A single player wouldn’t have had the nerve to say so, but all fifteen of them together could stand up to Coach Thomaston.
Reluctantly, after a few warnings about an infamous player on Burlington’s team—“She nearly made the U.S. national team ten years ago”—the coach dismissed them.
As they collected their gear and guzzled their water and Gatorade, they discussed driving over to Patty’s house. The debate centered on whether everyone should go home and shower first or head directly to her house. The consensus was to go home and shower.
Lainie beckoned Angie and Sheila to join her as she loaded her bag into the trunk of her car. “I think maybe we should go on to Patty’s house now,” she said.
“And tell her about last night?” Angie looked appalled. “The guy isn’t even cold in the ground, and you want to destroy her memory of him?”
“But the woman we saw him with—she could have been the last person to see him alive.”
“The last person to see him alive was the person who murdered him,” Sheila pointed out.
“You know what I mean,” Lainie said. “The blond woman might know something. It could help the police.”
Angie pulled a pair of sneakers out of her duffel and leaned against the Volvo bumper to remove her cleats. “If you want to help the police, tell the police about Arthur’s arm candy. Why tell Patty? Let the poor girl grieve in peace.”
“If we tell the police,” Lainie argued, “they’re going to tell Patty. Which would be better for her—to hear it from us, or to hear it from them?”
“If we tell her,” Sheila added, “it might make her feel better. She might decide she’s glad he’s dead. She did say she’d kill him if he ever two-timed her, remember?”
The three women shared a look. Lainie didn’t even want to think about Patty’s tossed-off remark, not now that someone had killed Arthur. “Look,” she said. “Telling Patty is the right thing to do.”
“Last night you voted not to tell her,” Angie reminded her.
“Last night Arthur was alive. Things have changed.” She pulled the scrunchie from her hair and ran her fingers through it, unraveling the short braid she’d woven it into for practice. “I’m going to her house now. You can join me or not. Your choice.”
“I’m with you,” Sheila said. “We should have told her last night.”
“Great,” Angie muttered, stuffing her cleats into her bag. “I guess we’re going, then.”
WHEN ARTHUR Cavanagh built his family’s home, he must have wanted to show off the full range of his construction and design skills. Like a home décor showroom that crammed Colonial, Shaker, Regency, and modern furniture onto one floor, the Cavanagh house crammed pillars, stonework, crown moldings, floor-to-cathedral-ceiling fireplaces, skylights, and baroque newel posts into one house. It was like Tara on an acid trip.
Lainie had been inside Patty’s house a few times for team parties. Patty had generously hosted these gatherings because she owned the largest house of any Colonielle. Lainie considered the grandiose circular driveway, the herringbone bricks of the front walk, and the doorbell that gonged like a church summoning congregants to prayer terribly nouveau riche, but for all she knew, it was a marketing strategy. People wondering what Cavanagh Homes was capable of producing could get a good idea from the actual Cavanagh home.
A few seconds after Lainie pressed the doorbell and heard carillon-like chimes reverberating through the house, Patty opened the door. She appeared pale and drawn but dry-eyed, dressed—like Lainie, Sheila, and Angie—in warm-ups. Hers were violet velour with sleek beige trim, much more stylish than what Lainie and the others were wearing. She smiled weakly and beckoned them inside. “Hey, girls. Come in.”
“Are you okay?” Angie asked as they stepped into the two-story entry. It was as large as the lobbies of some commercial buildings and floored in glossy marble tiles, with twin bridal staircases arching upward on either side. “Why are you answering your own door? Are you all alone here? Someone should be with you.” Angie punctuated this harangue with a hug that pinned Patty’s arms to her sides. Patty sent Lainie a mildly frantic look, but before Lainie could rescue her, Angie released her.
“I just sent my next-door neighbor home,” Patty said. “The woman was driving me nuts.” Her taut expression hinted at her fear that Angie might also drive her nuts. “People have been here all day. If you want a casserole, I’ve got plenty to choose from.”
Lainie suffered a hunger pang at the mention of casseroles. Once she’d abandoned Bill Stavik and driven home, she’d changed into her sweats and then wolfed down the tuna sandwich she hadn’t eaten for lunch. But she’d burned the sandwich off during practice. Karen
and Big Brad had eaten the leftover lasagna yesterday, so supper tonight was probably going to amount to another sandwich, or something equally uninspiring.
Casseroles could be pretty uninspiring, too, and Lainie wasn’t about to accept Patty’s offer. Patty needed those casseroles for herself and her son. Lainie knew from experience that new widowhood didn’t inspire a woman to get creative in the kitchen. Having something she could pop into the microwave and eat five minutes later might keep her from starving to death.
“I just don’t understand it,” Patty said as she led them into her kitchen, which was as large as the gym at Hopwell and arrayed with every state-of-the-art appliance available, all of them stainless steel. “What is it with the casseroles? Why do people do this?” She waved at the lidded dishes and Rubbermaid containers lining the granite counter.
“It’s a reflex,” Sheila explained. “Whenever I hear that someone’s died, I start opening cans of cream of mushroom soup. I can’t help myself.”
“Jews do cold cut platters, not casseroles,” Lainie noted. After Roger’s funeral, family members had gathered back at her house, all the Lovett relatives armed with casseroles and all the Sokolow relatives brandishing platters of sliced turkey breast and roast beef, loaves of fresh rye, and tubs of dill pickle spears. All the Lovetts and Sokolows wound up devouring turkey and roast beef sandwiches, leaving Lainie and the kids with several weeks’ worth of tasteless casseroles.
She saw no evidence that Patty and her son might have eaten any of their casseroles. What she did see was evidence of drinking. Several stemware glasses with traces of red wine in them stood along the counter.
“Do you want me to wash those glasses?” she asked, reaching to carry a few to the sink.
“Leave them,” Patty said, beckoning the women to the octagonal breakfast nook at the far end of the kitchen. “They’re the cheap stuff, not my Baccarat. I’ll stick them in the dishwasher. You guys want some wine?” She proceeded to uncork the bottle of wine on the table.
A glass of wine might make a discussion about Arthur’s Olde Towne Olé escapade a little easier to get through. Lainie accepted her drink with a quiet thank-you. Patty filled glasses for Sheila and Angie, then topped off a half-full glass for herself.
“How is Sean doing?” Sheila asked.
Patty shrugged. “He’s not talking much—to me, at least. One of his friends is over now. They’re upstairs playing computer games. This is his computer game time. Every day. It’s like a religion for him. I go off to a soccer game or practice, and he shuts himself up in his room and does this. If it makes him happy . . .” She shrugged, dropped onto one of the chairs and drank some wine. “Usually he plays by himself, but today he has a friend over, which I think is good for him. Tucker Mickelson. You know him, don’t you?”
“His younger brother is on Brendan’s soccer team,” Sheila said.
Lainie sipped her wine. She was no expert, but to her uneducated palate it tasted wonderful. The bottle had a faint residue of dust running its length on one side. No doubt Patty had retrieved it from a climate-controlled wine cellar. This house would likely have one.
“So, how was practice?” Patty asked. “Am I going to get thrown off the team for missing it?”
Lainie dutifully smiled. “I think Coach Thomaston will cut you some slack. How are you, Patty?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice was as vague as her words. “I feel like I’ve been through the wringer.” She didn’t look wrung out. Her expertly streaked blond hair was neatly combed and her manicure was impeccable. Her eternity ring glittered blindingly whenever she moved her hand.
“Have you been in touch with your family? Your lawyer?”
“My parents are flying up from Florida. They never liked Arthur, so . . .” She shrugged, leaving Lainie and the others to complete that sentence as they wished. “And I called our attorney. Would you believe I got a call from Arthur’s first wife’s lawyer? I think our attorney notified him. He was checking to find out how Arthur’s death will affect her alimony payments.”
“How does that work?” Angie asked. “Does she get to make a claim on his estate?”
Lainie gave Angie a scathing look. Sheila must have kicked her under the table, because she flinched in her chair and shifted it closer to Lainie.
Patty accepted Angie’s tactlessness without blinking. “I really don’t know how it works,” she said. “I think her alimony was based on his earnings. If there are no more earnings, what’s she going to collect? On the other hand, if she stops getting alimony, what will she live on? It’s not her fault he’s dead.”
“It’s not your fault, either,” Lainie said. “You have to protect Sean and yourself. That’s what you’ve got to focus on, Patty—what’s right for you and your son. I’m sure your attorney will be looking out for you.”
Angie and Sheila offered murmurs of agreement. Patty fluttered her hands through the air, dismissing the subject. “I’m not going to think about this stuff now. It’s just . . . God. This is so surreal. I can’t believe he’s dead.”
The poor woman. How could they spring their bad news on her when she was in shock over the man’s death? Yet when better to tell her? She was already devastated; what difference would a little more devastation make?
“Patty,” Sheila said, evidently interpreting the situation the way Lainie did, “we came here not only to make sure you were okay and see if there was anything we could do for you, but because we have to tell you something important.” She reached across the table to give Patty’s hand a comforting squeeze.
“What?” Patty’s gaze circled the table.
“Tell her, Lainie,” Sheila said.
Why did Lainie have to tell her? Because she was the oldest, she supposed, trying to suppress her annoyance. Because she was the wisest. Because she was the one with the most experience when it came to dead husbands. “Last night, when practice got called off,” she said in a gentle voice, the voice she used when one of her students was in tears, “Sheila, Angie, and I decided to go to Olde Towne Olé for a drink.”
“That dive?” Patty pursed her lips in disapproval.
“Their margaritas are really good,” Angie pointed out. “We didn’t order the nachos yesterday, but I’ve had them there before, and they’re wonderful. The fajitas aren’t too bad, either—the steak ones. The chicken fajitas are kind of fatty—”
“While we were having our drinks,” Lainie continued, cutting Angie off, “we saw Arthur there.”
“Arthur? My Arthur?”
What other Arthur would they be talking about at a time like this? “He wasn’t alone,” Lainie continued. “He was with a woman.”
“Who wasn’t you,” Sheila added for emphasis.
“Oh, shit.” The skin at the bridge of Patty’s nose puckered as she frowned. She stared into the bowl of her wine glass as if she wanted to dive in, then let out a long breath and lifted her face to Lainie. “You’re sure it was him?”
Lainie nodded solemnly. Telling Patty pained her more than she’d expected. “We have to notify the police about this, Patty. They need to speak to the woman. She might know something. And we couldn’t tell the police without telling you first.”
Rather than diving into the wine glass, Patty tipped it against her mouth and took a lusty swig. She shuddered, sighed, and touched the crease between her eyebrows as if she could rub it out with her fingertips. “When I got home from our canceled practice yesterday, he wasn’t here. I asked Sean where he was, and he said Arthur had left to go to a meeting. I assumed it was a business meeting. You don’t suppose this woman might have been business, do you?”
“Depends what kind of business you’re thinking of,” Sheila said. The way she jumped suggested that Angie had retaliated for the kick Sheila had given her earlier.
“It didn’t look like a professional situation,”
Lainie said delicately.
“She was a platinum blonde with tits out to here,” Sheila said, miming the woman’s dimensions with her hands.
“Shit. Shit and hell. Forgive me,” she said to Lainie. Everyone knew Lainie didn’t swear.
“After this morning,” Lainie said, “do you think a few curse words can bother me? I’m so sorry, Patty,” she added, not sure if she was referring to Arthur’s death or the news she’d just delivered.
Patty’s eyes grew misty, but no tears spilled through her lashes. “This woman he was with had big tits, huh.”
“I’d say bigger than average,” Lainie answered tactfully, while Angie commented on the woman’s need to lean backward to remain upright when she stood, and Sheila repeated her pantomime of the size of the woman’s bosom.
“That doesn’t sound like a business meeting,” Patty muttered. “Why didn’t you tell me last night? You could have phoned me. I would have gone after him. Maybe I could have prevented his death.”
“Or wound up dead yourself,” Angie said. “Besides, we remembered your saying last year at the sports bar that you’d—” She flinched and slammed her mouth shut. Sheila must have kicked her again.
“We had no idea what was going to happen today,” Lainie explained. “All we saw was Arthur with a woman. It could have been nothing. And we didn’t want to hurt you.”
“Okay.” Patty nodded vigorously and batted her eyes. “Did anyone else see them together? At Olde Towne Olé, I mean.”
“The bar was pretty crowded,” Lainie said. “Someone who didn’t know Arthur probably wouldn’t have paid any attention.”
“So . . . no one else from the team was there? No one else from Hopwell or anything?”
Lainie, Angie, and Sheila exchanged questioning glances. “Not that we noticed,” Lainie finally said.
“Good.” Patty let out a long breath. “The fewer people know about this, the better. I mean, the man is dead. I sure as hell don’t want the whole town buzzing about how the night before he died he was with a chesty blonde. It’s humiliating.”
Dead Ball Page 5
