He came back on. “Gotta go. Sorry.”
Of all the possible threads to pursue, I chose what seemed the most important. “Why’d she choose Cliff, do you know?”
“Some people say he was just ripe for the picking. You know, after losing his first wife that way.”
“What way?” I nearly shouted the question, in case the receiver was on its way back to the cradle.
“She committed suicide. Didn’t you know? He was the one who found her.”
“Rand, there’s so much more you want to tell me, right?”
“I’m here tomorrow until six.”
I had to let him hang up. I imagined the evening receptionist glaring at him. “Tomorrow, then.”
“TTYL, darling.” The line went dead.
I scribbled what he’d told me on the back of a Christmas receipt, which is what all good detectives do. Mabyn Ross. Cliff’s first wife committed suicide. Somebody named . . . what was it? Something odd. Cass? I held the paper a few inches farther away so I could focus on it. I don’t need reading glasses yet, but will soon enough if my arm shrinks.
I couldn’t do much about the last item until I talked to Rand tomorrow, but I could do something about Mabyn. I’m the church historian, one of those jobs that’s acceptable for the minister’s partner to take on since the parishioners I become intimate with are, for the most part, dead or gone. No one can accuse me of playing favorites.
I’m working on a church history, and because I’d rather work on it here, I keep a lot of the records on the premises. I know that Mabyn and Howard were married in the church by the former minister. Fern had mentioned this several times as in “You would think the church I give so much money to, the church where my only son was married would: 1) ask my opinion on every little matter 2) name the social hall after me 3) fire the minister if he gives a sermon I don’t like.”
Well, okay, even Fern never says these things. But she has mentioned Howard and Mabyn’s marriage. I believe the pews were not polished to her specification, and even though Ed wasn’t here at the time, she still holds him accountable.
Since Sid was still on her cell phone downstairs, I went to the guest room and retrieved the list of weddings that had been performed in our sanctuary starting in 1927, when the record first began, to the present. I scanned it quickly and sure enough, two and a half years ago, Howard Booth and Mabyn Ross had tied the knot at Tri-C.
Mabyn Ross. How many Mabyn Rosses could there be in the world? How many hailed from Cincinnati? I had the proof I needed. And now I had one more thing to do tomorrow.
12
The next morning Deena was the second one up. I was the first, starting with a quick trip to the bakery to make up for missing my chance yesterday. The day-old coffee cake is nearly as good as the fresh if it’s warmed in the oven. Until Luce and I flip a couple more houses, day-old will do nicely.
I had coffee brewing and orange juice in a pitcher by the time Deena shuffled in. My daughter’s not a morning person, but since this might be our only moment alone, I took full advantage. I gave her a hug with one arm and a glass of juice with the other. She poured it down her throat like a desert explorer between water holes. She had pulled her hair into an uncombed ponytail and wore khaki-colored sweats that were two sizes too large. She still looked delightful.
Deena plopped into a chair, and I served her a piece of coffee cake. She nodded and muttered her thanks. I gauged when the sugar would hit and a conversation could begin. I counted to thirteen.
“How did skating go yesterday?”
“Okay.”
My calculations had been off. I’d forgotten to factor in preadolescent disgust for adults. I busied myself silently setting out cream, milk, cereal.
Thirty seconds later Deena broadened her reply. “Maddie thinks because we went skating together I’ll invite her to the concert.”
May Frankel, Maddie and Hillary’s mother, had commiserated with me when I told her about Ginger’s gifts to the girls. But even though she’s a psychologist, she had little advice to offer. I think she’s watching to see what we do. If it works, she can include it in her clinical repertoire.
“I assumed Maddie would be one of your choices.” I kept my tone casual. For this I deserve a medal.
“Like I know right now. There’s so much to think about!”
Whew. All that on a nearly empty stomach. I could only imagine how much Deena was struggling.
The curtain closed on that particular drama when Teddy came in. Unlike Deena, she is fully alert on waking. She carried wide-lined paper with her, and I could see she had filled half of it with her careful printing.
“I’m writing my story about Cinnamon,” she said.
A story about angels, with all that vast potential for creativity, had morphed into the tale of an inanimate guinea pig. I could picture the look on Miss Hollins’s face.
“There’s an idea,” I said.
“He’s lonely.”
I didn’t know if this was true, but again, I was glad Ginger had only provided Teddy with one. “So what happens in the story?” I asked Teddy.
“He feels sad.”
“That’s not a story,” Deena said. “Something has to happen in a story.”
“He feels sad, then he eats, then he feels sad again.”
Deena snorted.
Teddy sensed her sister’s disdain. “Then he sleeps!”
I interrupted with a glass of juice and a slice of coffee cake before we heard about the bodily function that so far had gone unmentioned.
“Aunt Vel is leaving this afternoon,” I told them. “She thought the three of you might like to go shopping this morning.” Knowing Vel my girls would come home with cute tailored suits or chef’s aprons.
Both girls perked up, and I knew how I would spend the hour they were away.
I left Vel in charge of my daughters, Sid and Junie planning a walk around the neighborhood and Ed . . . where else? He showered, then took off for his office with his coffee in a go cup to polish up tomorrow’s sermon. Frankly I suspect he just wants to get away from the girls’ dorm we call a parsonage. Who can blame him?
I considered calling Mabyn to warn her I was on the way, but decided against it. I like the element of surprise. I might find her burying the murder weapon or changing Shirley’s diaper. I wasn’t sure which would be worse.
The senior Booths live in Emerald Estates, which is adjacent to our one and only country club. Their house is designed to look like a French chateau, with a mansard roof and a marble foyer large enough to host a meeting of the local Democratic party.
I turned the car in the other direction. Wisely Howard and Mabyn settled on the other side of town, in a suburb with smaller homes, fewer pretensions, and a rabbit warren of “Courts,” “Trails,” and “Places.” I found their house after fifteen minutes of asking every passerby the directions to Rosebud Ramble. Turns out the “Ramble” is a cul de sac with only three houses on each side. I suspected an attempt to confuse the senior Booths and foil their visits.
Mabyn and Howard’s house is contemporary in style, a one-story cedar with large windows and something of an Asian feel with its peaked roof and a dry stone stream with a decorative wooden bridge leading to the porch. I parked on the street and admired the effect as I crossed over. Everything was well cared for and of course, in excellent taste.
I knocked, and Mabyn answered quickly.
“Aggie?” She looked surprised but not sorry to see me. “You’re a long way from home. Don’t tell me you got lost back here.”
“No, I came to see you. Do you have a few minutes?”
“You’re in luck. Shirley’s watching
Sesame Street
.”
I remembered those days and the amount I could accomplish while my girls were entranced by Cookie Monster and Oscar the Grouch.
Mabyn opened the door wider to let me in. “I’ll make us tea. Sound good?”
I followed her to a kitchen that opened into a small family room where Shirley, dressed in comfortable plaid knit, was watching her show. She didn’t look up.
“Shirley looks like she’s feeling better,” I said.
“She’s definitely on the mend.”
I’d gotten a nice little tour of the house on the way. The interior decor was minimalist, but there were artful touches, a lacquerware vase of silk cherry blossoms, Japanese scrolls on the wall, a red and black silk kimono hanging over a fireplace in the living room. The effect was soothing, which would surely be a benefit after encounters with Fern.
“Who spent time in Japan?” I asked.
She waved me to a stool at the black granite island. The appliances were stainless steel, but the refrigerator was covered with Shirley’s coloring book scribbles. The counters were warmed by ceramic canisters in primary hues.
Mabyn filled an electric kettle. “I was an exchange student, and I lived there for a couple of years after college. I loved every minute of it, but I didn’t want to teach English forever.”
“You were in public relations, right?”
“More like marketing.” She pulled out a canister of jasmine tea and held it out for my approval.
“Wonderful,” I said.
I waited until the water had boiled and she’d poured it over the tea leaves before I began. “I came to talk to you about your working life.”
“I wondered. You have a reputation as a snoop.”
I didn’t hear even a hint of malice. We were going to have a grown-up conversation. “Snooping’s been pretty well foisted on me.”
“I heard that, too. But I’m surprised you figured out my relationship to Ginger so quickly. I’ve been trying to decide whether I ought to say something, but I wasn’t sure there was a point.”
“Fast is good. There’s not much time before my sister gets pinned for the crime.”
“I hate to tell you, but I didn’t kill Ginger.” She brought the pot and cups to the island and joined me on a stool. “Actually, I don’t hate to tell you. I’d be in big trouble if I had.”
“And feeling guilty?”
She cocked her head as if considering. “I’m sure I would be. Only I’m not going to pretend I’m devastated by her death. In a way it almost seemed inevitable. It’s hard to make that many enemies without repercussions. Of course death is the ultimate repercussion, isn’t it?”
“Unfortunately. Shall I ask questions, or do you just want to spill your guts?”
She laughed as if she were perfectly comfortable. “I was employed by WKLM in Cincinnati in their public relations and marketing departments. I’d gone to school there, so it was nice to be back after the years in Japan. I had such plans for that job. And when they gave me Ginger’s show to work on, I was ecstatic. I hadn’t met her, of course, I’d just seen a sample of her work, but I knew everyone had high hopes for
Spice It with Ginger
. She looked terrific on camera. I think management believed she’d pull in as many male viewers as female.”
“And then?”
“Then, I met her. Ginger was marking her territory, so to speak. Now I understand it. She wanted to make sure everybody knew who was boss. Nothing I suggested would have pleased her, because Ginger was determined to use whatever I came up with to show her muscle.”
“So you were fired.”
“I was so new, I was still on three-months probation. I made the mistake of losing my temper when the station manager came to tell me how badly my campaign had disappointed Ginger. At that point nobody but me had seen Ginger’s dark side. I cleaned out my desk, and that was that.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“What do you mean?” Mabyn poured the tea and handed me mine. The fragrance of jasmine filled the room. I inhaled with pleasure.
“That was some time ago, right? But according to somebody I spoke to, you and Ginger had an argument the day of the open house.
That
wasn’t
that
, was it?”
Mabyn sipped, but the tea was too hot and she set it on the island. “I lost my dream job because of Ginger Newton. I ended up with something I liked a lot less, although it paid the bills. For a year I was furious. I knew how unfair it was. That was what bothered me the most, even more than losing the job. The unfairness. When something like that happens, it just fills you up, like a balloon that keeps inflating, no matter how many times you tell yourself to let it float away.”
There might be enough outrage here to commit murder. But anger wasn’t reflected in Mabyn’s voice. I waited. She was staring into space, then she faced me.
“Here’s how I coped. I followed Ginger’s life, and I waited for her to screw up and the world to see what kind of person she really was. I kept track of her. I still had a couple of friends at the station. They kept me up to date on what was happening with her show and personal life. Every time something went wrong, I felt a little better. That’s awful, I know, but it was like I needed to see that the universe had some balance. I wanted to know she was getting a little of what she dished out.”
“Well, in the end, I’m afraid she got more than a little.”
“I couldn’t believe it when I walked into your house and saw her there. And you know what? She had
no
idea who I was. She didn’t bat an eyelash. I’d been nothing to her, just somebody to step on for a boost up. When your sister nearly drowned her in the punch bowl, I felt like somebody had finally set me free. Oh, I was over most of it by then, but there were still the tiniest vestiges lingering. And when Ginger took off outside afterwards, I followed her. She was in no mood to listen, of course, but I didn’t care. I told her who I was and what I thought of her, and I told her that she needed to get help before—”
Mabyn looked up at me. “Before the things she’d done to other people reaped something worse than a little eggnog up her nose.”
“Ooh . . .” I reached for my tea and immediately changed tack. “You weren’t at the Christmas Eve service.”
“No. I was here alone with Shirley, and unfortunately nobody can vouch for me. Howard came home after the service and told me about Ginger. Fern is still furious we missed her big Christmas Eve dinner.”