“Was this aimed at your parents in particular?”
She snickered. “My father was the commander of the gulag, but the rest of them mindlessly obeyed his orders. He encouraged the other boys to harass Winston. They did ghastly things to him whenever they caught him alone in the woods. Aunt Margaret Louise, Nattie, my mother, Aunt Joanne and Uncle Sheldon, Aunt Misty and Uncle Syd sat in silence while my father vented his outrage at family meetings. Nobody said a word in Winston’s defense, not even his parents.” She noticed my confused expression. “Aunt Joanne and Uncle Sheldon are Jordan’s parents. They moved to Pennsylvania when she was a toddler. Aunt Misty and Uncle Syd were Ethan’s parents.”
I made no effort to add their names to my list of suspects, since they no longer resided in the “gulag.” “Was it worth it to Winston? From what Terry told me, they had a great life in Manhattan. Couldn’t he have confronted them for a long weekend?”
Loretta refilled my coffee cup and sat back down. “He wanted them to know that he had a right to live in Hollow Valley as a direct descendant of the old fart. They didn’t intend to live in the house for more than a year, but Winston discovered that he had a talent for landscapes. His paintings were a contemporary version of French impressionism. He wanted to put a lily pond out in back and cover the meadow with sunflowers. Terry flew to his poker tournaments. They had a lot of close friends. The last time I talked to Winston was the weekend before his death. He wanted me to take samba lessons with him. I said no.”
“And when you heard about his purported accident…?”
“I cried all night.”
“Then moped for a month,” said a woman in the doorway. She was tall and lean, dressed in sweats. “I’m Nicole. Loretta, we promised Samuel that we’d go to Joplin with him in an hour. I need to jump in the shower. Have you fixed food for the picnic basket yet? He’s counting on chicken salad, crudités, marinated mushrooms, Camembert and tomato sandwiches, and blueberry tarts. Billy bought the champagne yesterday.”
Loretta shrugged at me. “I guess I’d better get to work, Claire. For reasons known only to himself, Samuel demands a well-equipped entourage when he makes a dash across the border to buy cheap cigarettes. Because of the grueling one-hour drive, we have to spend the entire afternoon singing show tunes in the van and picnicking at a particular rest stop that has a splendid view of cows. Winston used to bring his pastels and do wicked caricatures of us.” Her lips were pursed, but her eyes were filled with tears. “Can you come back tomorrow? There is one thing he said that may mean something.”
“What?”
“I’m not sure. Let me think about it. The tarts need forty minutes in the oven, and I have to get started on the pastry right now. Samuel throws a fit when everything’s not exactly as he commands. I ought to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches one of these days.” She stood up and turned on the oven and then opened the refrigerator. “Tomorrow, okay?”
“Thanks for talking to me,” I said. “I’ll be back in the morning.” I gave her a brief hug and went out to my car. I’d solved one crime, or noncrime, anyway. In a perverse way, I was a little disappointed that I couldn’t point my finger at Charles Finnelly and accuse him of murder most foul. Maritodespotism was not a crime in the eagle eyes of the law, and the statute of limitations for child abuse had long since expired. I made a note to myself to ask Caron to come up with tips for Loretta to punish him someday in the future.
When I reached the bottom of the hill, I pulled into the stadium parking lot to think. One motive could be dismissed. Charles had not killed Winston because of a shallow grave in the woods, and it was hard to imagine that he had killed him because of his own religious fanaticism. Winston had not communicated a grisly secret to Terry. Therefore, Charles had no motive to kill Terry.
I moved on to the revelation of Pandora Butterfly’s secret life as a drug dealer (and other things). There was not one leaf of proof that she was selling marijuana grown in a greenhouse in Hollow Valley. I’d been dragged over every damn inch of the place, and I knew what marijuana plants looked like. I wouldn’t have missed acres of poppies or a coca plantation surrounded by tropical trees. Still if Jimmie John had been truthful, she was selling something illegal. It was Sunday, and the bar was closed. I felt Peter’s breath on my neck. I had less than twelve hours, and the clock was ticking. What I didn’t have was a clear-cut course of action. The idea of going back to Hollow Valley made me queasy. There was no reason to drive all the way to Maxwell County to talk to the sheriff. Angela’s car had been found there; Angela hadn’t. The sheriff would not take kindly to being interrupted during Sunday dinner, and I couldn’t so much as hint that his deputies were incompetent or I’d find myself in jail for impudence.
A skateboarder swooped by my car and cut a wide circle in the bottom of the lot. Seconds later, a veritable horde of them were skimming by my car so closely that I could see their acned faces and orthodontia. Their message was easy to comprehend. I was an invader and would be targeted until I removed myself from their sacred ground. I waved as I exited the lot and drove toward the campus—and toward Hollow Valley. I’d intended to search the desk in the library, but Pandora’s presence had distracted me. I doubted that I’d find anything to justify my effort, but I was down to ten hours and fifty-two minutes.
I hate deadlines.
I parked in what had become my personal parking space. There was no indication that anyone was present. That meant nothing, I told myself as I went around to the doors in the back. If the goddesses were on my side, Moses was sitting down to roast beef and mashed potatoes at the Old Tavern. I went to the library and paused to soak in the aroma of furniture polish and leather-bound books. There were empty spaces where Terry must have taken his treasured books to Key West. I found a complete set of Jane Austen and another of Dickens. An entire shelf was filled with biographies and histories. The collection of poetry included all of my favorites. First editions were shelved with battered classics from my childhood. I sneezed with delight as I thumbed through a worn edition of nursery rhymes. I would have died on the spot as long as someone was there to turn the pages.
It was not my time to rest in this blissful bed of literature, alas. I replaced the book and sat down to search the desk. The top drawer contained standard paraphernalia. There were enough paper clips to make a chain to encircle the house. Rubber bands nestled in profusion. Scraps of paper had illegible notations, e-mail addresses, and telephone numbers. The stapler lacked staples. When I pricked my finger on a thumbtack, I closed the drawer and moved on. Terry had overlooked a manila folder crammed with receipts for art supplies; oil paint was pricier than I thought. Another was dedicated to travel vouchers, creased boarding passes, and hotel bills. It hadn’t occurred to me that artists and professional poker players took deductions for business expenses. I smiled to myself as I pictured Winston tossing such trivial things on the desk for Terry to sort and file. A successful couple requires a word person and a number person. The poetry books most likely belonged to Winston, and the mathematical theory books to Terry. The odds were good that they’d been happy together.
The bottom drawer held a carton of cigarettes, minus one pack. I was dumbfounded, a reaction that I experience very rarely. When I’d first toured the house, I hadn’t seen any ashtrays inside or on the tables on the terrace. I hadn’t noticed any lingering odor of stale smoke in the drapes or rugs. I attributed the missing pack to Pandora. The carton might have been hers as well. I examined a pack, but there was no stamp advising that it was best used by such-and-so date. Cigarettes didn’t expire, but their users often did. Not that I was an authority, I thought as I replaced the carton and closed the drawer. Ethan could have found the deed among personal items that Terry subsequently removed. Winston had owned a current passport. Most people have copies of their birth certificates, car titles, piles of old bank statements, records of credit card purchases, and other things required to avoid the wrath of the IRS should they descend to audit. I didn’t, to Peter’s oft-vocalized distress. Some of us value poetry over mundane concerns.
I rocked in the chair, waiting for inspiration. When none came, I made sure that everything was back in its place and went out to the terrace. As I looked at the stream, I remembered what Moses had said about Inez and Jordan’s trek in the distant field. I found it hard to believe that Jordan would volunteer to lead a search party in pursuit of medicinal berries, or volunteer to do anything that required exertion. I could be wrong, I told myself, however improbable that was. Jordan might have been so desperate for a friend that she would have climbed a mountain. Inez was older, which mattered in the contorted teenage world, and she wouldn’t have hidden her disdain for Jordan’s hair and piercings. Or she’d hypnotized Jordan with an elaborate analysis of entomological metamorphosis.
I didn’t know if I was stewing over details of no consequence. Inez and Jordan had taken a walk, and Pandora had hidden her cigarettes in a safe place. I couldn’t pin down the correlation between Winston’s death in March and Terry’s death the previous day, but there had to be one. Charles and Felicia Finnelly weren’t going to offer me further information. Nattie had already told me what she knew. Unless a squirrel pegged Moses in the head with a two-ton acorn, his babbles would remain enigmatic, and I didn’t have time to dissect them. I couldn’t bear the thought of another round with Aunt Margaret Louise, who’d savor the opportunity to tell me how she was a Grateful Dead backup singer and slept with Eric Clapton every other weekend and six weeks in the summer. That left Ethan, and Pandora if she’d come home to braid daisies in her hair.
My only recourse required exertion. I drank a glass of water in the kitchen, looked sadly at the island over which I would never reign, and contemplated the best route to the greenhouses. When in doubt, snoop.
I made it across the blacktop road and into the woods that lay between the Old Tavern and Ethan’s house. I encountered no lions, tigers, or bears, but I had to fight through thorns, fallen branches, stumps, and holes concealed by leaves. I definitely preferred the Nature Channel to nature. By the time I emerged into neat rows of saplings, I’d accumulated an assortment of scratches on my bare arms and face, and dried leaves in my hair. My ankles were itchy. Worst of all, I was sweaty.
No one seemed to be working. I stayed in the minimal protection of the baby trees until I had a better view of the greenhouses and outbuildings. One delivery truck was parked nearby. Painted on its side was a depiction of the arched sign in an oval of flowering vines. Beneath that were an e-mail address and a claim that Hollow Valley Nursery had been established in nineteen sixty-four. Their fiftieth anniversary was approaching. I wondered if they’d give each other a dozen rosebushes to commemorate the occasion. Champagne would not be served within range of Charles’s sanctimonious nose, but blueberry tarts might be on the menu.
I sat down on a concrete block to pick the leaves out of my hair and to examine the red bumps on my ankles. Caron had blundered into a patch of chiggers when she and Inez had taken a shortcut home from school, and she’d spent the weekend with her feet in a bucket of hot water and Epsom salts. My maternal impulses had been sorely tested. Peter’s amorous intentions for our midnight assignation would require imagination (and agility) if I ended up in the same situation. I was grinning at the idea when I heard a delivery truck rumble up the hill from the bridge. I slipped behind the back of a greenhouse and peered around the corner. The cab door opened, and the driver grunted as his feet hit the ground. He glanced around and then flicked a cigarette in my direction. I did not take it personally, since I was operating on the theory that he couldn’t see me.
A minute later, Ethan called, “About damn time, Rudy. What happened?”
I resisted an urge to dive into the weeds and put my arms over my head. I wasn’t breaking the law, I reassured myself. I hadn’t scaled a fence or blatantly disregarded warnings not to trespass.
“Had to wait on Coop,” Rudy said. “I wasn’t gonna load the stuff by myself, was I? He said he overslept, but he looked worse than something the dog dragged in. He stank to high heavens and was real ornery.”
“You don’t smell all that good yourself,” Ethan responded. “If you get stopped for a DUI, you’d better be across the border before I hear about it. Grab the nursery receipts and come in the office.” He disappeared into a building that I’d been inside during my grand tour. It housed a desk, a filing cabinet, a squeaky ceiling fan, a wall calendar sporting the HVN logo, and a coffeepot so filthy that Mr. Coffee himself would have wept in shame.
“Neither do you, boss,” Rudy muttered as he stomped to the cab of the truck. He retrieved the documents and went inside the building.
I risked standing up, a move greatly appreciated by my knees. I wasn’t interested in the truck, so I had no reason to make any furtive attempts to gain access. However, I wasn’t sure why I was there or what I’d hoped to discover. I was feeling rather foolish when I was tapped on the shoulder.
My response shall remain unrecorded for posterity.
10
“Are you here to talk to Aunt Margaret Louise?” asked Jordan.
Justifiably startled, I reeled around, then gaped at her. “What have you done?”
Her hair was no longer purple, nor was it aligned in a rigid row across the top of her head. It resembled a shaggy brown pelt, but it was an improvement. The bling had been removed, exposing small holes that she’d attempted to cover with makeup. The rest of her face was clean. “Better?”
“Good grief,” I said, “did Uncle Charles convert you?”
Jordan blushed. “Not likely. I just decided I was too old for the goth crap. It took a lot of time to pull off, and after the initial horror, nobody seemed to care. Why are you looking for Aunt Margaret Louise here? She’s at the mill, getting ready to go play bridge with her cronies. We need to catch her before she leaves.” She tugged on my arm. “Please, Mrs. Malloy. You promised.”