“I’ll try to find a box if you answer my question. Who’s Miss Prissy?”
“Don’t know her right name. You’re the one who ought to be answering my questions. Who’s Miss Prissy?”
He knew the names of all the distaff members of the Hollow family. Caron and Inez had not said a word to him. “This woman drives a silver SUV, right?” I asked him. “She has short, dark hair and carries a leather briefcase. Angela Delmond is the real estate agent who showed me this house earlier in the week. Do you know where she is?”
“No,” Moses whispered, staring at me. “Where is she?”
He was more than seriously annoying, I thought as I cut a sliver of cheese. He was extremely annoying—and then some. There was something cagey about him. Interspersed with his seemingly random remarks were nuggets of truthfulness. All I needed to do was identify them. “You said that Miss Prissy, also known as Angela, warned you not to come inside. When did she do that?”
“Morning, noon, and night. She’s a tough little broad, a real spitfire. One time she bristled like a darn hedgehog. I laughed so hard that I split my britches. Nattie stitched them up, but she was testy for a week. I told her that she was being stupid, since I have enough money in the bank to buy a rack of trousers. I reckon I could have more shoes than Winston and Terry had in their closet, and lemme tell you, their shoes didn’t come from a discount store. What’s more, they had so many silk ties that they could wear different ones every day of the month.”
“You were in their closet?”
“Are you accusing me of something?” His hand clasped the neck of the liqueur bottle.
“No,” I said, “and let go of that before you knock it over. Did you run into Angela when she came here to visit Winston and Terry?”
“Did I run into her or did I run over her? I may not be the saltiest peanut in the bag, but I ain’t senile. I used to see her after Terry ran off to Florida, and I saw her the day that you were here with her. She was real upset when she got out to the porch. She was still jabbering on her cell phone when she drove off.” He dribbled the last of the peppermint schnapps into his glass. “What we need is some wine, ’specially if you’re gonna keep on whining all night. I was thinking a pinot blanc might be tasty. Sit a spell while I go look in the cellar.”
“Moses, please let me ask you one more question. You told me that you’ve seen Angela in the last couple of months. What was she doing here?”
His lips parted as he gazed blankly at the ceiling. I was ready to shake him back into reality when he blinked and said, “Laundry.”
“She came all the way to Hollow Valley to do laundry? Think, Moses. Did anyone come with her? Did she bring an overnight bag?”
“Who’d you think brought the cheese and fresh fruit? Once there was half of a cheesecake, covered with plastic wrap. It wasn’t as good as Nattie’s, mind you. She puts fresh blueberries on top. Another time there was leftover steak.”
My lips may have been slightly parted as I considered what he’d told me. “You never saw her with anyone?”
“I thought you said you had one more question. You’re up to four, and I’m in the mood for pinot blanc, not some goosey game show. Next thing I know, you’ll be demanding my Social Security number and date of birth.” He left the kitchen and opened a door in the hallway. “See you later, crocodile!”
I reexamined the contents of the refrigerator. In the drawer where I’d retrieved the Brie, there were sealed packages of Gruyère and Gorgonzola. Moldy cherries were in a plastic container in a corner of a shelf, and apples were in the bottom drawer. I couldn’t tell the age of the condiments in the door shelves. The collection of condiments in my refrigerator might well have been served at the picnic after my wedding to Carlton. I moved on to the freezer, where I found sturdily wrapped filet mignons, a pair of lobster tails, and an assortment of frozen appetizers. I looked at the grocery label on the package of steaks. They had been purchased not in January or February but in May. Steaks, cherries, and imported cheeses were not the makings of a business lunch.
It seemed likely that Angela, who’d carried on for hours about Danny’s infidelities, was having a cozy affair of her own. I had no way to identify her lover, who could be any suitable male in her social circle or in a much wider circle. I toyed with the possibility that the culprit was Bartleby, but it was a stretch to envision them closing a real estate deal between silk sheets. The house was an ideal place for a tryst. It wasn’t visible from the blacktop road, and none of the Hollows had a reason to encroach. The exception (a glaring one), was Moses, who seemed to be a master of random acts of insignificance. He might have seen Angela and her lover arriving, cavorting, or leaving.
I would have questioned him had I not heard the front door bang closed. By the time I reached the veranda, he had disappeared into the darkness. I felt a twinge of pity for Nattie, who was obliged to hunt him down on a daily, if not hourly, basis. If I were in her position, I’d make him some sandwiches for the road. Luckily, I was not in her position, nor did I feel any responsibility to go after him. I returned to the kitchen to finish the Brie while I pondered Angela’s assignations in the house that was meant to be mine.
The call that she’d received had led to my abandonment. Danny claimed that he hadn’t called her, and I had no judges stashed in my back pocket who could be cajoled into signing a subpoena to have his phone records examined. From what she’d told me, the two of them communicated through their respective lawyers. If one of her friends had called to remind her of a social engagement, she wouldn’t have reacted with such urgency. Even a call about a relative’s health crisis, as distressing as it might have been, was not enough to send her racing away without a word to me.
That left the theory that her nameless lover was the caller. For reasons known only to her, Angela felt as though she could not offer me even a curt explanation. She’d jumped in her car and driven to … Maxwell County. It made no sense. Her car was found by an airstrip, but she had not leaped into a jet to be whisked away for a romantic interlude on a beach. The sheriff’s dogs had not been able to follow a trail from her car. Assuming the dogs hadn’t been smoking Maxwell County’s number-one cash crop, the obvious explanation was that Angela had not gotten out of the car on her own two Gucci-clad feet.
I crammed a cracker in my mouth and crunched fiercely. Someone had driven her car to Maxwell County, and a second someone had been there to collect the driver. If Angela had been a willing participant, she’d chosen a peculiar moment to launch the deception. Had she wanted me to assume that she’d been kidnapped? If that was the case, why hadn’t there been a ransom demand or some sort of communication? It was a very poor way to go about it, I thought as I dug another cracker out of the box. Danny worked in an office, so he probably had an alibi for the afternoon. On the TV cop shows, the prime suspect was always home alone on the pertinent night. I had a feeling Danny was rarely home alone. With a sigh, I scratched him off the list.
Coconspirators are not easy to find, particularly in matters of murder. They don’t advertise their credentials and availability, or even their fees. They don’t gather on corners in hopes of picking up odd jobs. Very few of us have friends who are obliging enough to commit a felony as a favor. I decided that Angela’s lover had to be one of the participants, although I lacked a compelling argument, much less proof. There was no way to slap a name on him, much less handcuffs. The only person who might have the information was Moses Hollow.
I put my cell phone in my pocket, locked my purse in my car, and started walking in the direction of the Old Tavern. I could have tried to follow Moses, but I was not inclined to risk encountering anything that growled, hissed, or nipped. As I passed the Finnellys’ driveway, I caught a glimpse of light through the dense foliage. I doubted they were rollicking on the floor or even watching depraved TV shows in which people behaved in an indecorous fashion (which eliminated ninety percent of them). No, Charles would be reading scriptures while Felicia knitted scarves for missionaries in Africa. I wished them both a sleepless night of heartburn and flatulence.
I slowed down as I remembered what Nattie had said about their daughter. Esther had run away from home, which was hardly astonishing. She and Ethan had been about the same age, so she was now in her midthirties. I wondered if she’d rebelled so vehemently that she joined a circus or took up with a motorcycle gang as her aunt had done. An unpleasant thought came to mind. Had she run away from home, or was that a cover story for something appalling? If she was incarcerated somewhere in Hollow Valley—or buried somewhere in Hollow Valley—it would explain why the family was so determined to keep their domain intact. Ignoring the inexplicable small noises coming from the woods on either side of the road, I stopped to examine the idea. Winston had known her when they were growing up. She could have confided in him, since they were both alienated from the clan. Later, he had begun to question the more benign account of her disappearance. Maybe after his return three years ago, he’d asked some uncomfortable questions and eventually found evidence that would lead to an obtrusive police investigation. Nattie had described how she’d encountered him in the woods one day, and how he’d been too distracted to acknowledge her. Stumbling across an unmarked grave would explain his reticence to speak. If Nattie had mentioned it to a family member, someone had a strong motive to murder him. His death had been staged as an accident, with the empty wine bottles handy should a second version be needed.
My brilliant theory explained several things. Nattie had misinterpreted Winston’s behavior as depression (although it would be depressing to discover that someone in one’s family committed murder). Terry had been correct when he claimed that Winston had been murdered. I felt as if I were in a haze of means and motives that needed to be dissected carefully. It took no leap of imagination to picture Charles Finnelly assaulting his daughter with such sanctimonious fury that her skull cracked against the hearth. Rather than calling for an ambulance, he’d chosen to conceal his crime. Had Felicia held the flashlight while he dug the grave? Charles had brainwashed his wife. Could he have brainwashed the entire family? Certainly not Nattie, I told myself, and Pandora and Moses would have been problematic. As for Ethan and Margaret Louise, I had no clue. Charles might have concocted a plausible reason why outsiders posed a risk to the family business. For all I knew, he had persuaded Ethan that the exotic plant collection would suffer from the proximity of anyone lacking the proper genes.
I was so impressed with my acuity that I felt radiant. I resumed walking while I tossed around scenarios. Clearly, the first order of business was to find the grave. I doubted that Jorgeson would send a convoy of CSI officers to start digging up the hundreds of acres of woods, nursery plants, and greenhouse floors. Peter would go so far as to imply that I was flinging about random accusations to compensate for the loss of the perfect house. I was quite sure I wasn’t.
As I approached the statue of Colonel Hollow, I heard droning noises and voices from the direction of the greenhouses. There was enough moonlight to make out the path, but I had no interest in watching ornamental trees and shrubs being loaded onto trucks that would drive through the night to retail nurseries in the adjoining states. If I was spotted, I would be required to defend myself from allegations of nosiness.
I turned toward the Old Tavern, hoping that Moses would be more cooperative with Nattie there to prod him. Someone coughed from behind the house. I detoured across the yard to the table and chairs. A small red circle was visible, and the redolence of tobacco smoke reached my delicate nostrils. Jordan’s silhouette was impossible to misidentify. She was draped in a chair, her bare feet crossed.
“I thought you didn’t smoke,” I said.
She scrambled to her feet and stuck the cigarette behind her back. “Who said I was smoking?” she asked, managing to sound both startled and surly. She needed lessons from Caron, who could convey a plethora of unspoken criticisms in a single word.
“My mistake,” I answered politely. “I smelled smoke. There must be a fire in the tobacco field. Should we try to find fire extinguishers?”
“There’s no reason for sarcasm.” She stubbed out the cigarette and placed the butt in the pack. “I wanted to find out what it’s like, that’s all. It’s really nasty, but it’ll be worth it when I light up in front of Aunt Margaret Louise. Do you know what she did? She screwed up my cell phone. Now I can’t call anyone on the outside. They might as well put me in solitary confinement for the rest of the summer.”
“In chains, while the rats gnaw on your toes,” I said as I sat down. “Where’d you get the cigarettes?”
She sat down in the chair farthest away from me. “I stole them from one of the workmen, an ugly old dude named Rudy. He’s usually drunk by the middle of the afternoon, so it’s not like he’ll figure out what happened. Why are you still here?”
I was surprised that Ethan would tolerate a drunk handling his precious azaleas and rhododendrons. However, experienced drunks could be deceptive. “I want to talk to Moses. Have you seen him?”
“No, but that doesn’t mean he’s not crouched under that table. He’s creepier than Gollum from
The Lord of the Rings
. He’s the one who should be in solitary confinement—for the rest of his life.” She coughed again. “Why do you want to talk to him? You must be really desperate for conversation.”
“I need to ask him some questions,” I said as I gazed at the stars. Without the light pollution from streetlights and neon signs, the stars were vivid. Had I any knowledge of constellations, I would have had a wondrous view of scorpions and horses and whatever else was up there. A meteor streaked across the sky. I felt sad that Peter and I would never sit on our terrace, commenting softly on the vastness of the universe and speculating about life on distant planets. Whoever had snatched away my dream would pay the price, I thought as the sadness gave in to anger. “You prowl around, Jordan. Did you ever see a short woman with dark hair at Winston’s house?”