“One of ’em. Or both of ’em,” came the reply, as the car pulled into the motel parking lot. “It’s too soon to tell. It’s too soon to tell.”
FORTY PLUS TWO
I
Recently married, Jerry Gordon was disappointed to awaken and find his wife no longer beside him: The other half of his king-size bed was empty. His disappointment turned to surprise when he discovered it wasn’t yet 6 a.m. Well … one more moment of warmth and he’d get up and find her, he promised himself, rolling over and tucking an extra pillow under his head.
Two hours later, daylight was illuminating Kathleen’s hair as she sat at their kitchen table, her coffee mug surrounded by legal-size pads of yellow paper. “Coffee’s made and there are some bagels and lox if you’re hungry,” she suggested, not looking up from her writing.
“I missed you this morning.” Jerry ran his hand through her lush blond hair.
“Hmmm.” The response was one of inattention, not pleasure. Jerry decided he could use that coffee after all.
“You’re going to go ahead and investigate Dawn’s death, aren’t you?” he asked, pouring coffee in a navy mug and heading to the refrigerator for some milk.
“And the burglaries.”
“You think they’re related?” The skim milk that Kathleen bought had turned his coffee a grayish brown instead of the dark beige that he preferred. She was convinced that it was better for his health and he was fairly sure the days of half and half were over.
“I don’t know.” She threw down her pencil in frustration. “I know that I can’t leave them out of my figuring, but I don’t see what they have to do with the murder.”
“Maybe Dawn knew about the burglaries and threatened to expose the burglars and so she was killed,” he suggested, trying to be helpful.
“Anything is possible. But Dawn wasn’t killed the day of the party, you know.”
“No, I didn’t.” He smeared cholesterol-free margarine on his bagel and leaned against the counter to talk. “How do you know?”
“The body was out of rigor mortis. She’d probably been dead for longer than twenty-four hours. I know,” she paused to shuffle through the papers before her, “that she was alive on Wednesday. Gloria Bower told me that she talked on the phone with Dawn that morning and … My God! What time is it?”
“Eight-thirty. Why? What’s wrong?”
“We’ve got to be at the Presbyterian church in an hour. Remember? The Bowers’ baby—Missy—is going to be christened after the first service. We’d better get dressed and get over there.” She was rapidly putting her papers in order.
Jerry took a large gulp of his coffee and hastily put the mug aside. “You’re right. I almost forgot. We’d better hurry if we’re going to be on time.”
Kathleen paused on her way out the door. “Do you think, if we rushed, we could be there early?”
“Sure, but …”
“Everyone we know will be there,” Kathleen explained, “and I might be able to find out more about Dawn and the burglaries and who was sleeping with …” Her voice became inaudible as she started upstairs.
II
“Chad was talking about something called a Vanden Plas all the way here,” Susan told her husband as they walked into the prim Colonial vestibule of the Hancock Presbyterian church. “You sounded as if you knew what it was.”
“A car.”
“Then he’s back to normal.”
“It’s the most exclusive of all the Jaguar sedans,” her husband answered.
“He says it’s the car Stephanie King’s driving these days. She gave him a lift to school last week and he was very impressed with the fact that it has tray tables that fold down in the backseats,” she said, wondering briefly if the same could be said of her new Volvo now stashed away somewhere in police custody.
“It’s very luxurious,” Jed commented, wiping his feet on the mat provided.
“Sound like an airplane and that’s not so luxurious,” she protested.
Jed laughed. “The trays are made of hand-polished walnut burl and the seats they extend from are made of soft glove leather. Very, very luxurious,” he insisted.
Susan tried hard not to compare the description of this car with the Volvo he’d given her as he continued. “But what’s important is that Chad’s back to normal. I guess that talk we had with him last night did the trick.”
“I hope so. But Chrissy’s still awfully quiet. I suppose she’s old enough to guess at how serious this could be for us.”
Jed looked intensely at his wife but didn’t say anything more.
“I guess we’d better go in now,” Susan continued. “I think most everyone is seated already. Are Chad and Chrissy around?”
“Here behind you, Mom,” her daughter answered impatiently. She and her brother were indeed right behind their parents, leaning against a wall and looking bored.
“How long …” Susan began.
“Well, now that we’re all together, let’s get going,” her husband interrupted and hurried his family ahead of him into the narthex of the church. “Look, Kathleen and Jerry are over there. Maybe they’ve saved seats for us.”
They never made it to the Gordons; about a third of the way down the aisle, Martha Hallard waved to attract their attention.
“Susan! Jed! I saved these seats. The kids can scoot in the pew in front. I need to talk to you,” she added, quenching any idea Susan might have had about passing her by. Martha was very direct; when she said she had something to say it wasn’t merely to pass the time. Susan nudged her husband ahead of her into the pew. Her children took the hint and slid into the spaces left open in front.
“Has something else happened? Did they find your jewelry or the person who did it?” Susan whispered beneath the organ music that had just begun.
“God, I wish,” Martha began, then, remembering where she was, added, “that’s a prayer, you know. I just wanted to know what Kathleen’s doing. Did the police hire her to investigate the murder? Or did you and Jed?”
“No, of course not.”
“Are you sure?”
Susan hesitated, taking the hymnbook out of the shelf in the pew before her. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, she’s been running around here with a notebook asking questions about Dawn and your party and the robberies. If she isn’t helping you or the police, what’s she doing?”
“Good question.”
The beginning of the service cut off any more talk and the minister’s calm voice read through the service, apparently putting Missy to sleep as the transition from gentle cooing to silence indicated. Sympathetic to the baby’s feelings, Susan’s head began to nod. She hadn’t gotten much sleep last night, what with worrying about Dawn and her husband and everything. Her eyes closed and she was just about to drift off when an unusual noise from the rear of the room startled her.
Susan turned, trying to track down the source of the sound. As far as she could tell, the disturbance emanated from the rear left side of the church. It sounded like an asthmatic cow and was getting louder. Even the front rows of the congregation were shifting in their seats. Susan exchanged looks with Jed, who had turned all the way around to look at the source of the noise.
“What is it?”
“I can’t see anything. See if you can,” was his reply.
Susan tried shifting her weight and looking over her shoulder as casually as possible. All she could see was that everyone behind her was also looking to the back of the room. But at what? Too many heads blocked her view.
“I can’t see either,” she whispered to her husband.
“It’s Richard Elliot!” Whoever had made this discovery was too excited to keep it to herself; the announcement chimed out over the congregation. Possibly the only person present who didn’t turn around and look to verify this statement for herself was little Missy, now completely asleep in her mother’s arms.
“And he’s crying,” someone else added, only slightly more quietly.
> “And so, ladies and gentlemen,” the minister’s voice rang out, calling his flock back to the matter at hand. Dutifully, heads faced front, but it would have been impossible to ignore the sounds, now louder than ever, and the minister speeded up the service as much as decorum would allow.
And Susan knew that what most people would remember about this morning was the sight of the baby’s adoptive father spinning around and glaring in the direction of the noise, almost before Reverend Cox was finished.
“He sure looks mad,” Susan whispered to her husband.
“Do you blame him?” responded Martha, having overheard her comment. “Here we’re all together to celebrate Missy being adopted—which is really what this is: Why else would all these people turn up for a baptism ceremony?—and then Richard Elliot grabs all the attention for himself.”
“Well, his wife just died …” began Susan.
“True. But Richard Elliot is just using that as an attention getter. You watch.”
But by the time Susan had pushed her way through the crowd, truly larger than usual for a baptism, Richard Elliot was no longer to be seen. She joined the line forming in the narthex to greet the Bowers, briefly wondering where Jed had gone. She’d thought he was following her, but they hadn’t ended up in the same place. Probably with the kids, she decided.
“Some service. Jerry said the crier is Richard Elliot.”
Susan smiled at Kathleen. “It’s the first baptism I’ve been to where someone cried louder than the baby.”
“I can’t wait to meet him,” Kathleen said.
“I don’t see him,” Susan replied, standing up on her toes to try to see over the heads of those around her. “I can’t believe that he’s left.”
Kathleen stared at her friend. “Susan,” she grabbed her arm, “he’s standing at the front of this line. It’s Richard Elliot we’re all waiting to see!”
“What? I thought this was the receiving line for Gloria and Harvey.” She moved out of place and peered through the crowd ahead of her. Sure enough, Kathleen was right. There stood Richard Elliot, shaking hands while mopping the tears off his face with a gigantic linen handkerchief, flamboyantly embroidered with his initials. She wondered for a moment why he wasn’t carrying one with wide black borders like a character out of Dickens. Probably couldn’t find one on short notice.
“He’s wearing a band around his arm,” Kathleen whispered.
“No!”
“I’m not kidding. Get in front of me again and look.”
Susan did as she was told and, sure enough, Kathleen was right: Around his Harris tweed jacket, Richard Elliot had tied a piece of black fabric, the traditional crepe unless she missed her guess. “I can’t believe it!” she said.
“Susan,” Kathleen whispered in her ear. “I have to meet that man as soon as possible. Invite him to your house for dinner tonight,” she ordered.
“What?”
“I said …”
“I know what you said,” Susan began.
“Susan, I do have to meet him as soon as possible—and have a chance to talk to him. The only way I know for that to happen is for you to invite him and Jerry and me to dinner tonight. Do it! I’m going to go over and see the Bowers,” she added, moving away. “Someone should pay them some attention.”
The entrance of the Bowers reminded the group of their social obligations, and evidently enough people agreed with Kathleen for the line before Susan to shorten considerably. She soon found herself face to face with Richard Elliot.
“Richard …” she started, silently cursing herself for not having prepared something to say. She took his hand in what she hoped was a comforting manner.
“It was your car they found her in,” he said, returning the gentle squeeze she gave him.
“Uh, yes,” Susan agreed, wondering if that drew the two of them together in some way.
“I had always thought she would be found dead in some place more appropriate. An Indian ruin. A kiva, perhaps,” he said, still not releasing her hand.
“I’m sure that would have been more appropriate,” Susan agreed. “I can’t tell you how sorry we are, Richard.” She took a deep breath and, remembering Kathleen’s request, continued, “Could you possibly come to dinner at our house tonight? Just something simple …”
“With a few intimate friends,” he continued the planning for her. “Yes, Susan, I’d like that. I would very much like to see the place where they found her. I’d like that very much. I’ll be there around five, if that’s all right?”
“Yes,” she answered, startled by his response. “The police … uh, the police impounded the car, but … you can see the garage if you want,” she offered.
“I will find her aura there, I’m sure,” he said and, giving her hand a final squeeze, moved along to the next person in his improvised receiving line.
III
“Just make something simple. After all, the man’s bereaved, he shouldn’t be eating like a horse,” Kathleen said, walking up behind Susan, who was standing before the meat counter at the local grocery store, contemplating rows of identical pieces of animal carcass.
“I must not be hungry; nothing looks good. I cannot believe I let you talk me into doing this,” Susan replied, ignoring the looks of the butcher, who obviously hoped she would make up her mind so he could help his other customers.
“How about a roast, maybe a …” Kathleen began.
“Good idea. A five-pound filet, please,” she said to the man. “I think I saw some new potatoes on the way in the door and I can steam them and toss them in butter … and some of those French rolls from the bakery … and cheese and pâté before … crackers … a big spinach salad with toasted sesame seeds and raspberry vinaigrette … maybe all the candies and cookies and stuff left over from my party for dessert …”
“Susan, this isn’t supposed to be the social event of the season. I just want a chance to get to know the man.”
“Well, I invited him for dinner and I have to feed him something, don’t I?” she replied, taking the package the butcher handed her.
“You don’t have to … oh well, do what you think best.” Kathleen gave up her argument, knowing that Susan easily put together a dinner that would have had her in a panic for days. “What I’m most interested in is getting him to talk.”
“That won’t be a problem. Richard Elliot loves to talk and, when he sees a woman with your looks, he’ll be inspired to new heights of verboseness. Verbosity? Well, whatever. But you may not be able to get him to talk about what you want him to talk about. He has a way of taking over the conversation and running with it—in any direction he chooses, if you know what I mean.”
“Then we’ll just see what he chooses to talk about—that in itself may tell us something. What are you looking for?” she interrupted herself to ask as Susan stood in front of a display of French food, intently studying the labels.
“Walnut oil … maybe some of that canned goose liver pâté …”
Kathleen left her to her mumblings and wandered across the aisle to a magazine rack, picked up next month’s GQ, and began thumbing through it.
“I think I have everything,” Susan said, joining her. “Oh, look, a magazine about Porsches. I think I’ll buy it for Chad. He’ll like it, and any reading is better than none.” She threw the magazine on top of her groceries and headed for the checkout. “Look at that. Sunday afternoon and only one checkout line open. We’ll be here forever.” She sighed and pulled her cart in behind the others. “Do you think they’ll miss us at the reception for Missy?” she asked, turning to Kathleen and leaning against her cart.
“Frankly, they’re probably glad you’re not there. That way Missy can get some attention. When you’re around, your party and Dawn’s death tend to grab all the attention.”
“Thanks a lot. You haven’t been helping all that much. Marty said you were running all over the church before the baptism asking questions about—actually I don’t know what you were asking about. W
hat’s going on?”
“I’m investigating a murder,” Kathleen answered. “Oh, look. They’re opening up another line. Let’s get over there.”
“I think this one is longer than the original one was,” Susan said, looking at the now shorter line she and others had just left. “Oh, well, I always pick the slow one.”
“Everyone says that,” Kathleen commented, picking up a Vanity Fair. “But it can’t be true. Someone must be in the shorter line.”
“Put down that damn magazine and start answering my questions,” Susan insisted. “What do you mean you’re investigating a murder? You’re not on the police force anymore. You can’t just take up an investigation.”
“Why not?”
“Because …”
“Susan! Kathleen! I guess I’m not the only person who can’t get organized today. I shop each Friday. I don’t understand why I always run out of food before Sunday evening. Although I think it’s having three teenage girls that does it.” The woman who had called out to them stopped her cart as she swerved around a corner and, pushing her frosted-to-cover-the-gray hair off her forehead, rearranged the dozen or more packages from the in-store deli so they wouldn’t fall onto the case of soda at the bottom of the substantial pile of groceries.
“I thought teenage girls were always dieting. I know Chrissy …” Susan began.
“It’s not the girls. They live on yogurt and diet Coke. It’s their boyfriends. Mandy’s just started dating so it’s not bad. The boys are still too shy in ninth grade to hang around much. But Jenny has three boys on her string and they rotate the days of the week that they hang out in front of my refrigerator. Monday it’s Keith, Tuesday it’s Brian, Wednesday it’s Jeremy, and so on. And Cindy is the worst of all! She’s dating Trevor Anderson and he’s captain of the football team, lead downhill skier on the ski team, and he’s just getting into hockey down at the Field Club. He’s impossible. Food just vanishes when he’s around. I think he eats through some sort of process of osmosis. My husband says that by the time he gets home from the city in the evening, the refrig is always empty.”
“Poor Colin,” Susan said, thinking of Maureen Small’s husband. An ex-jock himself, she wondered if it was harder on him to find the cupboard bare, or to see in all these young boys his life as it was before middle-age struck.
The Fortieth Birthday Body Page 9
