by Imogen Plimp
“I’ve missed you too,” I smiled. My little family—what’s left of them, anyway.
“Well?” Emma gestured impatiently for me to start dishing.
“Alright,” I sighed, but I was actually quite excited Emma was so interested—and I knew it. “There’s James Matthews. Businessman from Boston.”
“What kind of business?” She took a ladylike sip of tea.
“Don’t know, but something having to do with real estate.”
Emma nodded and gingerly took a nibble off the tip of a biscotto. “And what do we think of him?” she asked.
“I liked him from the moment I met him. Very kind, easy going, interesting. Just—I don’t know,” I blew gently on my tea cup. “A good, solid man.”
“Who would play him in a movie?” Emma inquired.
“What era?”
“Dealer’s choice.”
“Let’s say … a middle-aged Jimmy Dean.”
“Interesting.” Emma jutted out her chin and stroked it, engrossed in her thoughts.
“He came into town to check in on some of his properties in the county—he owns several and rents them out to locals and to tourists in the ski season. He was my first customer, stayed three nights.”
“Did he like your food?” Al cut in.
“Loved it,” I nodded.
“I like him already,” she said.
“Good girl,” Emma winked at her.
“So anyway,” I couldn’t believe how much I’d missed these two without even realizing it… “James took off early on a Saturday morning, said he was having trouble with one of his properties ‘up the hill.’ I heard him come in late that night, nothing unusual. Nothing unusual on Sunday, either.
“By 10 am on Monday, he still wasn’t awake for breakfast. I went to check on him—and he was dead on my floor. Poisoned.”
Both Emma and Al gasped. Emma covered her mouth with her hand—she’s always had a flair for drama. “Mon Dieu!” she breathed.
“Yes,” I concurred.
“Do the police know what kind of poison was used?” Al asked.
“No. But the following day, my friend Evelyn and I—” Emma raised a finger to interrupt, but I was way ahead of her. “Let’s say a cross between Emma Thompson and Carol Kane … But even spunkier.”
Emma nodded. “This is the woman at the post office you’ve become fast friends with?”
“Yes.”
She raised a thin, pointed eyebrow. “And you’re sure you can trust her?”
“Yes.”
“Not jealous at all. Continue,” Emma took another sip of her tea while sporting a faux-judgmental look as Al playfully swatted her hand.
“Evelyn and I went to scout out the property James was having trouble with—and it’s littered with nightshade.”
“How quaint!” Emma cried.
“I thought you might like that.” I grinned.
Al shuffled in her seat. “So you think a tenant or some other kind of enemy poisoned James with deadly nightshade?”
“Yes.”
“Sounds about right to me,” Emma agreed.
“One of the tenants is a boy named Ben. I’d say he’s … Kevin Bacon in Footloose mixed with, I don’t know, someone else… But he does have a Kevin Bacon thing going on. He wasn’t home the day we discovered the nightshade. But he had called in sick to work.”
“Suspicious,” Emma was rubbing her chin again.
“But his roommate, Leslie—a hard one… let’s see… I got it! Susan Sarandon in Alien.”
That one perked Al right up. “You mean Sigourney Weaver?”
“Sure,” I shrugged. “She was at work at the brew pub.”
“Brew pub?” Al asked, as if I were speaking Portuguese.
“It’s like a bar,” answered Emma.
“It is a bar,” I corrected. “She was at work—crying and slicing citrus in a murderous rage, while her best friend, Whitney—a kind of less despondent and more petite Catherine Zeta-Jones—looked on, worried. Evelyn and I asked why she was upset. She wouldn’t answer.”
“Would you say she was mourning, enraged, or afraid?” Emma pressed.
I sipped and nodded. “Good question. Whitney says she was enraged. I thought I saw a bit of fear, but I didn’t know her well enough to really…”
“Of course.”
I resumed the thread. “A week later, Leslie was pushed down the stairs in her home—one of James’s rentals—and killed. Ben found her. The next morning, the police picked him up for both murders.”
“Wow,” Al whispered as she reached for a biscotto.
I took a big breath and continued. “Then we have Ben’s uncle, Dale, who looks just like Ben but is older obviously and, well, more … granola, I’d say?”
“Got it,” Emma nodded.
“And there’s Henry Castle, who I believe has a couple properties, same as James did, but I haven’t interviewed him yet…”
“And is he the handsome man you met there?” Emma grinned suggestively over her tea cup, wagging her eyebrows.
“Oh he’s definitely handsome—very Robert Redford in The Way We Were. But I don’t see it going anywhere.” This was helpful—talking about my one-time crush aloud. I hadn’t really thought too much about what had or hadn’t happened between Henry and me, but talking was clarifying some of my petrified observations—you know, the half-formed thoughts you subconsciously store deep into the folds of your brain for later? “Come to think of it, I don’t see it going anywhere in kind of the same way you always know it’s never going to work out between Hubbell and Katie. Henry does have an air of mystery to him … a quality, for sure … but … He seems a little full of himself. Like he’d never be interested in someone like me.” I looked down at my hands.
“Hmm…” Emma placed her tea cup down on its saucer. “And yet Hubbell and Katie did have a whirlwind romance—before it fizzled. And one could argue theirs was one of the most significanct romances of our time.” Emma always had a way of looking at the objects of my affection in a way I hadn’t. She continued, “Are you sure you’ve given it enough time to know whether a romance is possible? To get to know him—and let him get to know you?”
“Possibly not. He does give me butterflies—I’m just not sure they’re the kind you get when you have a crush, or they’re the kind you get when you’re about to get crushed.”
“Gotcha,” Emma sat back, satiated.
Moving on… “Nina Delacroix.”
“What an awful name,” Al wrinkled up her nose. “I hate her already.”
“Yes, you would hate her. Think Cruella de Vil meets Anna Wintour—their sense of fashion, personalities, looks—the whole nine yards.”
“A tall order!” exclaimed Emma.
Al nodded enthusiastically. “So we’re anti, then?”
“Oh yes,” I said. “She used to be married to James. James told me they both cheated with other married people, but I don’t know with whom. And they ended their marriage fifteen years ago.
“Nina told me in no uncertain terms she thought Leslie had something to do with James’s death—before Leslie was murdered. Something about Leslie likes to stick her nose in other people’s business…” I trailed off, trying to remember the details of our awkward conversation at the café that afternoon. I couldn’t figure out why Nina had gone out of her way to tell me what she did. Was she just gossiping? Trying to get information out of me? Sending me a message—or a warning? And why did she call me a few days later? The thought sent chills up my spine, but I didn’t know why.
“And then there’s Ray.” Already, I knew I was blushing.
Both Emma and Al shot me an expectant, surprised look—and then looked at one another.
“I know,” I rubbed my cheeks with my hands. I couldn’t look at either of them. “He’s the repairman who fixed my busted pipe—that is, he’s fixing it right now. He has my spare keys.”
Emma gasped—with extra flair. “You’ve only been gone a month, and you alread
y gave a man your spare keys?”
Now I was getting flustered. Don’t blush. “It’s not like that … it’s … I …”
“Oh, Claire!” I hadn’t seen Emma this excited since she found out Brad Pitt was newly-single. It was one of my favorite traits about her—she’s always even more excited than her friends are for their own good fortune (contingent on the excitement’s subject matter, of course).
I recuperated. “Evelyn recommended him. He’s warm and kind and a good listener and … and he used to be a rancher in West Texas.”
“Oh, Lordy…” Emma said seductively, pretending to fan herself.
“I know,” I grinned down at my cup.
“All my favorite romance novels feature cowboys.”
“I know,” I said, still grinning at my cup.
Al nudged me with her elbow. “I’ll bet some of her favorite romance novels feature more than one cowboy…”
“You got that right,” said Emma—shameless. “Who’s your money on, Al?”
Al took a sip of her tea and then paused to think, chewing on her lower lip. “Catherine Zeta-Jones in the conservatory—with the candle stick.”
“You might be right…” Emma slid out of the booth to put on some more water.
“Mama, are you hungry?” Al asked, turning toward me.
“Starved. I’ve got some chili in the cooler in car—I should go bring it in. It’s still frozen.”
“We can eat it tomorrow. How about takeout for tonight?” she suggested. “Maybe Italian, or Indian … or Vietnamese?”
I put my arm around my daughter and squeezed tightly, then kissed her on the side of the forehead. “You know what I want more than anything?”
“What’s that?” She smiled at me.
“A good ole’ slice of New York pizza.”
Chapter Fourteen
I awoke the next morning savoring the feel of my own bed. Although the mountainous quiet of Galway was beautiful, I was enjoying the early morning sounds of New York: cabs honking impatiently, garbage men shouting and laughing at one another as they hoisted trash into the compactor, the whining grind of the garbage truck at work, the whir of a plane about to land at LaGuardia, the tableau of children giggling and screaming with delight as they threw and dodged snow balls while walking to school.
Al was already up, making coffee—I could smell it wafting down the hallway.
After one cup, I decided I wanted a big brunch—and I didn’t want to be the one to make it. It wasn’t a weekend, but this was New York—we could eat brunch anywhere, anytime we wanted.
We settled on a bakery in Red Hook—an old family favorite we had been schlepping to since Al was a kid. Afterward, we sauntered up 9th Street; ducking into a shop to riffle through used books, stopping into a thrift store to buy a sweater Al had eyed through the front window.
Al had to work in the coffee shoppe at noon, which left me a few hours to myself to walk Rupert in Prospect Park and give our poor apartment a good, deep clean. Al’s wonderful—and she does her best with cleaning, but it’s not exactly her strong suit.
Al had invited Emma back for cocktail hour that evening—and to meet her friend Ry. I, meanwhile, was craving Manhattans (cheesy, I know—so sue me), so I ran out to the wine shop around the block for a bottle of nice rye and sweet vermouth. Al brought maple maraschino cherries she’d concocted—as well as a batch of cupcakes she wanted to get rid of—up from the shoppe after close.
By 5:30 that evening, the four of us were settled in the sitting room in the back of the apartment, which has three big windows overlooking a little communal vegetable garden—the perfect spot for ogling a magnificent sunset in the winter months.
“Ry, is that OJ Simpson on your t-shirt?” I asked, shocked.
“Oh, no,” Ry laughed and stuffed a mocha cupcake into their mouth with aplomb. “It’s Kanye.”
I glanced questioningly over at Emma, who shrugged in equal-parts confusion.
In addition to the unique top, Ry was sporting a pair of hot pink jeans, and their plum-coloured hair had made a daring transformation to an almost blinding electric-green. I had to admire their pluck (bear with me with the pronouns—I’m still learning).
“These cocktails are delicious by the way, Mrs. A,” Ry sang.
“Thanks Ry, that’s sweet of you,” I smiled.
“Hey Mom, could you give me the names of some of your townsfolk again? I’m curious…” Al had pulled out her laptop and was already clicking away. “I was thinking we could look some of them up. You know, see if we can find anything interesting.”
Ry was nodding. “Al caught me up on some Galway gossip this morning, and I gotta say, it’s somethin’ else… I’m in!”
“Let’s start with Mom’s gentleman friend,” Al teased.
“Oooh!” Ry squealed.
“Well, one of her two potential gentlemen friends…” Al corrected herself.
Ry was delighted. “Girl, you gone to Galway to get yo’ groove back?”
I grinned awkwardly, trying not to betray my embarrassment with a blush.
“His name is Henry, right?” Al asked, ignoring Ry.
“Henry Castle,” I answered as calmly as possible.
“Let’s see…” Al said as she typed. Ry meandered over to where Al was curled up and perched on the arm of her chair, reminding me of an impossibly stylish flamingo.
“Found him. Oh Mom! He’s a looker…”
“Mmm,” Ry said suggestively, “Yummers.”
“He does look like Robert Redford!” Al exclaimed. “Henry Castle, former senior partner at Silverman & Roth, Cambridge, Massachusetts… Looks like he’s lived in Boston most of his life … He’s an Elk,” she said, to which Ry made a sour face, “and he’s on the board of the Boston Youth Center for the Arts. Not bad,” she said approvingly, looking up at me over her computer screen. She continued typing.
“What about that?” asked Ry, pointing down at something on the screen.
“Yeah… hmm… Looks like he’s had a couple properties in South Boston go into foreclosure … and then he bought them up again. Back in the late 90s. Here’s an article in the early aughts about gentrification in South Boston—he was accused of buying up lots and sitting on them, I assume in hopes he’d be able to flip them for a profit…”
“Why would he do that?” I asked.
“For money. It’s a real estate gamble,” Ry answered. “Get ahead of the market—buy up empty lots or crumbling buildings, don’t fix them up, and then sell them when the neighborhood flips. It’s annoying, but it’s not … well, it’s not unusual behavior for good ole’ white boys with money.” Ry rubbed their forefinger and thumb together like they were summoning cash.
“Worse case scenario, he might have been a slumlord back in the day,” Al suggested.
Ry rolled their eyes. “Ugh, snore.”
“Yeah so, probably not the best choice for our murderer. Moving on…” Al looked back up at me. “What’s Cruella’s real name again?”
“Nina Delacroix,” I replied.
“Got ‘er!”
“Ewwww…” Ry and Al sang in disgusted unison.
Al flipped the laptop around so Emma and I could see the photo of Nina she’d found.
“Oh. My. Gawd!” Emma bellowed. “Can you say ‘Stepford Wives’?”
“Wow!” I exclaimed, squinting at the laptop image. “This photo was taken over twenty years ago—yet she looks almost exactly the same...”
“Terrifying,” Ry said cattily.
“This photo is from the Warren County City Council’s archives,” Al reported. “1995. She was on city council… And… Yup, I can’t find anything else on her.” She paused for effect. “At all.”
“Weird,” said Ry.
“Kind of,” Al mused. “But … I don’t know … small town stuff … who knows how much personal information is readily available?” Al looked up at Ry, who was working with gusto on a red velvet cupcake.
“True,” Ry mumbled throug
h a mouthful of frosting.
“Who’s the guy the police accused of both murders?” Al asked me.
“Ben Duke.”
“Here … Found a Facebook page. Not much going on there. Yeah… he…”
“…really likes his beer.” Ry finished for her.
“Indeed he does,” Al said, scrunching up her face. “Like, in every single picture he’s chugging some can of … eww.”
“Boys will be boys,” Ry said sarcastically, raising an eyebrow and taking a delicate sip of Manhattan, the remnants of the cupcake balanced in the other hand.
“Mom!” Al exclaimed. “Did you know he tried to kill a guy?”
“Say whaaa?” Ry leaned in on Al’s shoulder to get a better look at the screen.
“Yes,” I nodded, unsurprised.
Al relayed to all of us the details of Ben’s attempted murder accusation from a couple of different county records. It was just as Evelyn had told it to me: Ben beat up a barfly with a bad reputation for beating women—and Ben’s case was dismissed.
“Well good on him!” Ry asserted.
“Wait a minute…” I was adding things together. “What happened to the guy—the one who got beat up? Ralph something…”
“Ralph Majors. Gross name,” Al shook her head in disgust. “He’s … around. Looks like he moved to the county to the west of Warren. Never charged for anything, but there’s stuff written about him for sure. Not much activity on his social media accounts either. Gross looking bro, though.”
“I’ll say,” Ry agreed.
“So, he’s still around…” I said, almost to myself. “What about Ben’s uncle, Dale Duke?” I asked.
“Dale… ” Al was on it.
“What an adorable older gentleman,” Ry commented respectfully.
“Yeah... Owner at the ski resort… Been there all his life… Mom! You’d better have a look at this.”
Al bounded out of her chair and made a beeline for me, delivering her mac into my lap. I perused the article she had pulled up, slowly scrolling down the page. “He had a wife…” I relayed. “She died five years ago…”
From the corner of my eye, I could see Emma leaning closer and closer toward me, perilously close to tipping off the edge of the couch and tumbling into the coffee table.
