Just Over The Mountain (21 page)

“But…why did they come back to Grace Valley?”

“I’m sure he couldn’t manage without Birdie.”

“But…” she stammered again. “Has he no concept of her age? She was no match for your boys. Meaning no offense—”

“Not to worry, June,” she said, holding up a hand. “It’s absolutely true. In fact, Chris and I together have proven no match.”

“Why did he say you were divorced? I just can’t imagine why—”

“Can’t you?” Nancy asked, knowing.

Sure, she thought. Some things never change. If he could get another woman interested, then he would
divorce Nancy. He’d replace her. It had always been that way. For two cents she’d tell Nancy that, right after he asked June for a second chance, she’d found him twisting his fingers in the tresses of some pretty young thing right on the streets of Rockport, but “Brother” was all she said.

“Yeah.” Nancy and June sat there looking at each other for a moment, a slow smile spreading across Nancy’s face. “I wonder if Chris really thought he might have a chance with you if he said we were divorced. It’s obvious you moved on. Who is it, June? Who’s the guy?”

“What?” she asked, but her lips curved in spite of herself. When you were feeling this much in love with life, it was impossible for it not to show all over your face. “What guy?”

“Never mind,” Nancy said, standing. “I’ve had a long day at the hospital and I’m going early tomorrow so I can be there to meet the physical therapist. I’d better get some sleep. I’m staying with Birdie, in case you’re looking for me.”

“What about Chris and the new house?”

“I don’t know…”

“You going to give him a second chance?”

“I don’t know,” she said again, adding a shrug. “My focus right now is on my sons.” Her eyes became moist. “Thanks again, June.”

“Hey. It’s what we do.”

“Do you think…” She paused, took a breath and said, “Do you think we’ll ever be friends?”

“I think we could be. Now.”

Jurea and Wanda shared a mattress on the floor of one bedroom while Clinton had another bedroom to himself. With the transformation that was taking over the town in preparation for the harvest festival, neither of the kids could seem to settle down to sleep. With the weather getting colder, they liked to burn a fire every night, but the fire in this fireplace didn’t fill the house with smoke the way it happened in their old shanty.

On the weekend, Clinton was going to help George Fuller in the café with dishes and cleaning up. There would be a million people in town, and even with all his employees and family, George wouldn’t be able to keep up.

Wanda was going to earn a little extra money by helping Julianna Dickson keep track of the children. After she completed the Red Cross baby-sitting course at school, she’d be able to do a little baby-sitting after school and on weekends.

Jurea, who was learning to use the gas oven, was going to help the Presbyterian women at the cake walk…and she’d provided a cake she’d made herself. Her very first.

There was only one pall on an otherwise vastly improved lifestyle for the Mulls—Clarence had chosen to remain in the forest. But in the early morning when Jurea opened the door to the brightness of dawn, she found some fresh trout from a forest stream and knew that he had been there. He was getting closer every day.
And one day soon he would knock, enter and perhaps decide to stay a while.

She smiled her little lopsided smile and blew a kiss in the direction of the trees.

M
yrna and her attorney had been investigating and plotting and were about to stage a coup so unconventional, it probably should be filmed. Alas, that wouldn’t do. It would only serve to distract the participants. But Myrna had taken copious notes and she would be writing another mystery next year, after all.

The only thing left to chance was the food to be served at this most unusual dinner party. Even with Myrna and both Barstows combining their efforts, there wasn’t a decent cook among them.

“I wish you’d told me,” Cutler said. “I can do a number of things with chicken breasts.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Myrna said. “But since I had already given you so much to do, it never occurred to me to ask you to cook, too.”

Once Myrna and Cutler had done their own research and investigating, Cutler personally issued invitations to this exceptional dinner party. Included were ADA
Marge Glaser, Paul Faraday, Cutler and Myrna, of course, and a certain forensic anthropologist by the name of Niles Galbraith.

“This could be construed as ex-parte communication,” Marge Glaser had said.

“How so?” Cutler countered. “I’ll be present as Mrs. Claypool’s representative.”

“Mr. Faraday is a prosecution witness and you have to have a court order to depose him.”

“After dinner, we won’t need one,” Cutler said. “Oh, speaking of dinner, I’m not sure how to approach this, but I’ve dined with Mrs. Claypool a couple of times and she, well, isn’t what I’d call the best cook in the world.”

Marge Glaser’s eyebrows lifted suddenly. “She isn’t planning to poison us all, is she?” she asked.

“Well, you might think so, but she’s merely a terrible cook. Have a little something on your way to the party so you don’t go away starving. That’s all.”

Paul Faraday had been much easier to convince. “Mrs. Claypool would like to have you to dinner and explain everything about the disappearance of her husband,” Cutler had said. “She thinks that, since your interest provokes this confession, you should be included.”

“Marvelous!” Faraday replied. “May I bring a tape recorder?”

“Oh, by all means,” Cutler assured him.

As they prepared for the evening, lighting the candelabra on the formal dining-room table, Myrna said, “I do wish this weren’t such a hectic week for our little dinner party. Ordinarily I’d invite my niece, my brother,
my poker table. But with the festival starting in just two days, they’re all much too busy. Tell me, Cutler, will you be attending the festival?”

“I wouldn’t miss it. Perhaps I should escort you?”

She pinched his roundish cheek. “Cutler, if I were sixty years younger and if you could tuck your shirt in…”

As had become something of a ritual, Cutler and Myrna had their martinis at five in the sitting room with a fire blazing in the hearth. Company would arrive at six. Cutler raised his glass to Myrna and said, “I want you to know, this has been a very pleasurable murder case for me, Mrs. Claypool.”

“And for me, Cutler,” she replied. “Once we’ve had done with these legal people and our bird-watcher, you must call me Myrna.”

“With pleasure. Will you call me John?”

“Cutler suits you so much better.”

“Then Cutler it is.”

The sound of something breaking followed by shrill bickering came from the kitchen. Cutler jumped, sloshing a bit of his martini onto the Oriental rug.

“My apologies, Cutler. It’s the Barstows. That’s why I always have them here one at a time. They can’t be in the same room together without constantly arguing.”

“Have they ever actually come to blows?”

“Several times. But with age, they do less damage. They do try your patience at times though.”

“Mrs. Claypool, just once more before the guests arrive…have you any idea whatsoever what might’ve happened to Morton? Mr. Claypool?”

“I’ve often suspected another woman, but I just can’t imagine what another woman would want with Morton. He wasn’t rich, handsome or humorous.”

“Yet you were fond of him.”

“Well, for a while I was. But you must remember, he read my manuscripts and offered suggestions to make them better. I found his input valuable.”

The doorbell rang and there was a rapid shuffling from inside the kitchen. Myrna and Cutler leaned forward in their chairs to view the Barstows both trying to be first to the door. They ended up stuck in the frame, wriggling to get free.

“Well, for pity’s sake,” Myrna said, disgusted. She got to her feet quickly for a woman her age and answered the door personally. The Barstows withdrew into the kitchen, grumbling. “Mr. Faraday, I knew you’d be the first to arrive! You must be eager to hear the story.”

He bowed elaborately. “I’m very enthusiastic. I thank you for including me.”

“It wouldn’t be a celebration without you,” she said, turning to walk back into the house, leaving him to follow.

“Celebration?” he asked eagerly. “What are we celebrating?”

Cutler stood, extending his hand. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, we don’t want to get ahead of Mrs. Claypool. John Cutler… How do you do? Martini?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Faraday said, his teeth appearing to grow even larger in his happiness.

The doorbell rang again and there was again a shuffle in the kitchen, but this time only one Barstow appeared. She made a face as she passed the sitting room. “How grand, Endeara. You’re learning to share,” Myrna said with a sneer.

Endeara took a wrap from Ms. Glaser and led her to the sitting room. Marge Glaser followed slowly, distracted by the old and eccentric arrangement of furnishings and doodads. The knight’s armor just inside the foyer had her attention for several seconds. Finally she made it to the room where the others waited, a rather glazed look in her eyes. Myrna and the gentlemen stood. “How do you do, Ms. Glaser,” she said. “It’s so nice to see you again.”

“Again? Have we been introduced?”

“Not formally, but of course you’re very well known around Grace Valley,” Myrna said, and enjoyed the way Ms. Glaser seemed to puff up a bit. “Martini?”

“Thank you, no. Have you something a bit lighter?”

“A Chablis, perhaps?”

“Perfect,” she said. She extended a hand to the men, each in turn. “Mr. Faraday. Mr. Cutler.”

The doorbell rang again. “Ah, the mystery guest,” Myrna said, nearly giggling. While Amelia brought the young gentleman into the sitting room, Endeara delivered the Chablis to Ms. Granger.

Cutler and Niles Galbraith shook hands, obviously renewing their acquaintance. “Drink?” Cutler asked him.

Niles carried a large accordion folder, which he put to rest beside a vacant chair before the introductions
were made. He accepted the offered martini, took a generous sip and sighed in appreciation.

“Ms. Marge Glaser, Mrs. Myrna Claypool, Mr. Paul Faraday, I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine, Niles Galbraith,” said Cutler. “Niles and I attended undergrad together at Stanford University. It’s been at least a year since we’ve seen each other.”

“Pleasure, Mr. Galbraith,” Paul Faraday said. “And what is it you do?”

With a slight nod of his head, he said, “I’m a forensic anthropologist. I specialize in old bones.”

Expectedly, both Marge and Paul frowned, but there was no need to panic. If they went to trial, naturally Mrs. Claypool and her attorney would supply expert witnesses of their own to try to rebuke the prosecution’s experts. This was only premature, not unexpected.

With precision timing, the dinner bell chimed and Myrna led her party into the dining room. “Cutler,” Myrna said, “you and I will share the heads of the table. Ms. Glaser, on my right, if you please. Mr. Galbraith, on my left. And Mr. Faraday, if you’ll sit beside Cutler, you’ll find there’s plenty of room for your tape recorder. How’s that now?”

“Tape recorder?” Marge asked, holding her Chablis.

“Mr. Faraday was most polite in asking,” Myrna said. “I suppose he could have hidden it and tricked us all. But I encouraged him. I told him if he wanted to, he could consider this a deposition.”

“Jesus,” Marge muttered, taking a drink. She looked
around the ornately cluttered dining room. “This is… really…quite something, Mrs. Claypool.”

“Isn’t it? After those investigators were here, it took Endeara and Amelia forever to put the place to rights again. They’ve been even grouchier than usual.”

One would think that salad could hardly be hurt by preparation, but unfortunately Endeara favored greens suspended in unflavored gelatin with a scoop of mayonnaise on top. It was during the salad that Myrna slowly told the story of how she met and married Morton.

Next came a rice soup with a bitter root added. It was Amelia’s contribution and made everyone at the table grimace. Fortunately, bread and butter, hard to ruin, came at the same time. During this course, Myrna told the story of how Morton seemed to drift off without anyone, including herself, seeming to notice.

“I know that seems strange,” Myrna said. “But to tell the truth, I didn’t mind that he was coming to Grace Valley less and less…and I didn’t rely on Morton for anything, really. Oh, it’s true that once I noticed he had been gone for several months, I was hurt. After that, I wouldn’t have welcomed him back unless he could come up with a story that included critical injury or imprisonment.”

“Did you search for him, Mrs. Claypool?” Faraday wanted to know.

“Not at that time, I did not. I was just a little miffed, you see. And I assumed if something terrible had happened, I’d have been notified. But remember, his
absences had been growing. I suspected another woman. Incidentally, I still do.”

Eyebrows lifted all around the table.

The main course was delivered. A savory roast smothered in onions and mushrooms with a halo of fluffy white potatoes surrounding it. To everyone’s surprise, it was delicious. It melted in the mouth. “Mrs. Claypool, this is delightful!” Cutler said.

“Ah, yes, Endeara’s mystery meat. Don’t ask.”

Marge Glaser, a pet owner and lover, put down her fork, but the others kept eating.

During that course, Myrna explained what she had learned in her more recent research, that Morton had taken retirement from his company and received a modest pension for five years after disappearing from her life. His check was delivered to a post office box in Redding, California. There didn’t seem to be anyone available to bear witness as to who had picked up that check, but the original contract for the box was signed by Morton. Myrna and Cutler had a copy of the signature and it appeared identical to other signatures in her possession. At the end of five years the company had declared bankruptcy. The pension funds had been mismanaged and were gone. At that time, Morton, who was a few years older than Myrna, would have been eligible for social security, but he didn’t collect it. “For the five years he collected a pension, he paid into social security, but when the pension was gone, he didn’t file to collect. We were unable to find a death certificate. Oh…and he never again filed a tax return.”

“Can you explain this?” Ms. Glaser wanted to know.

“I have theories, but they’re only theories,” Myrna said. “He might’ve left the country. He might’ve died. He might’ve died years before he stopped collecting his pension checks and perhaps someone collected them feloniously. But I can assure you it wasn’t me. And if you want a complete accounting of my financial affairs for the last twenty years, you are welcome to them.

“But now, with the dessert, I think it’s time to talk about someone else at this table.”

Myrna and Paul Faraday met eyes, but Marge Glaser only said, “What’s for dessert?” She hadn’t taken Cutler’s advice. She was starving.

“Peach cobbler and coffee,” Myrna said, smiling. “I admit to bringing some of this on myself,” Myrna continued while the Barstows served dessert. “I’ve had a good time at Morton’s expense in the plotting of my suspense and mystery novels. If you had known Morton, you’d know how much he’d actually
like
that! People around here have speculated for a long time. If he’s missing and she keeps writing these stories about missing husbands buried in the flower garden, could she have?”

“Hardly anyone has ever taken the bait as far as you, Faraday,” Cutler said. “Did Mr. Faraday tell you, Marge, that he writes true-crime dramas and hopes to do a story on Mrs. Claypool’s murder of Mr. Claypool? Of course, he would have told you….”

“Why else would I be investigating the widow and her property,” Faraday said somewhat shortly.

“Why else indeed,” Myrna said, dipping into her peach cobbler. “You haven’t had the greatest success with your books, have you, Paul? Pity. Seems you need something with more of a kick to it.”

Marge Glaser took a bite of her cobbler and made a face. “
Bllllkkkkk.
What in the world could you do to cobbler to make it taste like it has shoe polish in it?”

“Oh dear, I hope you’re not right. Though the Barstows do have very strange tastes. Well, the coffee is good, dear. If you don’t like the cobbler, we’ll leave it for the cats.

“As I was saying, Mr. Faraday was looking for a story with a little more kick to it, so he decided to dig up some proof that I murdered my husband and buried him on Hudson House property. But you couldn’t find any bones, could you, Mr. Faraday?”

Faraday frowned. “Where is this going?”

“But,” Cutler said, “Faraday has friends who teach at the college of medicine, don’t you, Paul? All you had to do was find the
right
bones. You asked for the twenty-year-old bones of a sixty-something-year-old man. Right?”

“Bloody nonsense,” he said, but he flicked the tape recorder off.

“Turn that back on, please,” Marge asked a little too politely. “Did you go looking for bones to plant?”

“That’s absurd. Why would I do something like that?”

“Mr. Faraday was seen visiting with friends around the anatomy, physiology and anthropology departments. That’s why I invited my old friend, Niles, to dinner tonight.”

All eyes turned to Niles. Niles, by the way, had eaten everything but the soup. He reached into his accordion folder and pulled out a thin stack of stapled pages with letters, numbers, symbols, dashes, dots and periods. “I learned from John—or Cutler, as he’s called around here—the name of the individual doing the tests for the prosecutor’s office on these old bones.” He handed the paper to Marge Glaser. “They’re the twenty-year-old bones of a man around sixty-five, all right. Or men.”