This Little Piggy Went to Murder (11 page)

As far back as Sophie could remember, Chelsea’s manner had seemed entirely too sophisticated and world-weary for someone her age. It felt like a pose.

“Don’t worry,” added Chelsea, searching through the top desk drawer. “I figured Mother would be over sometime today. After all, it’s part of the family treasure trove. I’m not going to be unreasonable.” Her frown deepened as she yanked open one of the bottom drawers. “Damn. I was sure Grandfather had a stash of cigarettes in here. I don’t suppose you have any?”

Sophie shook her head.

“No. That would be expecting too much. So, I hear you’re the new managing editor of
Squires
magazine. Quite a coup. After all those years at that little left wing political rag, I guess someone finally noticed you.”

Stifling a snide comeback, Sophie managed a polite nod. Leftwing political rag, was it? Such a supercilious, condescending little snot. She smiled.

“Are you doing a piece on the reopening of Mother’s restaurant for the
Times Register
?”

“I am.”

“Staying at Brule’s Landing?”

“We are.”

“You know, someone asked me the other day if I missed living out there. I thought about it. I decided I missed the clematis on the north facade. That’s about it.” She leaned over to light the cigarette she’d finally found. “I assume you and Bram will be at the barbecue tomorrow.”

Sophie was glad for the change of subject. She rarely wanted to punch anyone out. Chelsea was the occasional exception. Something about her always seemed so unnecessarily critical. As she thought about it, Chelsea was doing a good imitation of her grandfather. “We will. I’m looking forward to it. Are you coming?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I’m told there’s going to be a pig roast. You’re going to miss a wonderful meal.”

Chelsea crushed her cigarette in a brass ashtray. “I understand my parents have another houseguest right now.”

“Sydney, yes. I suppose you know him.”

“I do.” She paused. “Sydney was around a lot when I was growing up. I think he was the first man to ever try anything with me. Sexually, I mean.”

Sophie’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding? God, that’s awful! How old were you?”

“Twelve.”

She swallowed hard. Was it possible Luther and Amanda didn’t know? Neither had ever said anything. “I’m so sorry!”

Not unaware of the effect of her last comment, Chelsea answered, “Don’t be. It’s all past now. Sex isn’t that important, anyway.”

“Do your parents know?” She had to ask.

Chelsea picked up a pencil and began drawing tight little circles on a notepad. “It’s all ancient history. Let’s change the subject. Grandfather hated having an office in his home.”

Surely she couldn’t be that cavalier about something so painful. On the other hand, if she didn’t want to talk about it, she had a right to her privacy. “I’m sorry about your grandfather’s death. I’m sure the police will find out who did it.”

“Thank you. But then, he lived a long time. He did just as he pleased and he answered to no one. I think a great many people would judge that a successful life.”

“Would you?”

Chelsea searched the desktop for an answer. “Yes, I think l would.” She looked up, smiling innocently.

“I guess I’ve been wondering about something,” continued Sophie.

“What’s that?”

“Well, your grandfather’s death followed rather closely on the heels of Lars Olson’s murder. I don’t suppose there’s any connection?”

“What do you mean?”

“Olson was doing consulting for your grandfather’s company.”

“
My
company.”

“Excuse me. Your company.” Kind of touchy, thought Sophie. You’d think she would try to hide her acquisitiveness for at least a few days.

“Darling!” Amanda’s voice echoed from the doorway. “How wonderful to see you!” She set the box she was holding on the couch and turned to greet her daughter. “Are you all right? Why haven’t you returned my phone calls?”

“Hello, Mother.”

Amanda glanced at the objects she’d brought down from the second floor. “Mementos, sweetheart. Look here at what I found. It’s that copy of Robert Louis Stevenson’s poetry I gave you when you were six — the very same book your grandfather gave to me when I was a little girl. How I loved it. I still remember many of the verses by heart. It’s funny. I found it on the nightstand in my oId bedroom, just like someone had recently been looking at it.”

“I was reading it,” said Chelsea. “Childhood is a crock. Your friend Claire sent me a signed copy of
her
new book and I mailed it back. It’s all a lie. There’s no garden. No beauty.” She stood and walked to the window, keeping her back to both of them. “I’m putting the house on the market next week.”

“What about the furniture?” asked Amanda. “And all your grandfather’s personal possessions?”

“Take what you want The rest will be sold.”

“Chelsea, I …”

“I didn’t expect to see you. I have some work l need to do in the office. Perhaps you and Sophie should leave. You can come back another time.”

“But …”

“Please.”

“All right, if that’s what you want.” Amanda’s voice was full of defeat. She glanced at Sophie for support. “I just thought maybe we could talk for a bit. I wanted to invite you out to the house. Both your dad and I miss you.”

“Later, okay?”

“I suppose. But will you promise to call me? Soon?”

“I promise.”

Amanda picked up the box and crossed to the door. “Right now this family needs to stick together. We’re all we’ve got.”

“If that’s true, Mother, God have pity on us.”

Shortly before sunset, Sophie found herself walking Jenny Tremlet back to the lighthouse-keeper’s cottage where she and Ryan Woodthorpe had lived for the past few months. Together, they strode briskly down the wide front lawn and headed toward the darkening lake.

Before they reached the pine woods, Sophie glanced back at the massive brownstone. The soft evening light made it look as if it had been carved out of solid cocoa. The three-story structure was a simple rectangular design, no gingerbread or ornate moldings. Except for the mullioned windows and the stained glass above the entrance, the house was unadorned. Perhaps Amanda felt the need for some kind of exterior decoration to soften the unyielding severity of solid stone. The perennial garden that circled the house did alter the appearance somewhat, but for some reason it seemed artificial, much like affixing a bunch of pink bows to a slab of concrete.

Sophie waved at Luther who was sitting in one of the redwood chairs on the front deck. He held up his bottled beer in a kind of salute. She was glad they’d had a chance to spend some time together earlier in the afternoon. They’d talked for hours, just sitting by the lake, tossing chunks of stale bread to the gulls.

The fact that one of Luther’s guns had been used for the murder of Herman Grendel had really thrown him. But, in his usual ironic style, Luther had made light of the intense police interrogation he’d been subjected to yesterday afternoon. Sophie could see him lean back and look up at the sky. It was good that she could be here now, when both her friends needed her so much.

Jenny pointed to the quickest path, which would take them into the woods, past a thick patch of wild raspberries. As they walked along, Sophie glanced now and again at her companion. Jenny was a quiet young woman with a slow, deliberate manner and a rather pudgy, childlike face. Most of her clothing looked as if it belonged to an older, much larger, sibling. Unfortunately, Jenny didn’t look fashionably sloppy. She simply looked lost.

“So, I hear you’re helping Jack pull together some of his journals and notes into a book. Is he going to write an autobiography?”

Jenny shook her head, brushing’a stringy, dark brown lock of hair away from her face. “Not exactly. Some publishing house in New York said that if he won the election, they might be interested in having something written about it. It’s still up in the air. The television ads he’s running right now are getting attention in Washington. They’re so fresh and innovative. Even funny. Have you seen any of them?”

Among other things, Sophie hated the political season because she couldn’t stand all the character assassination that masqueraded as political advertisement. She had to admit that Jack’s ads were different. They got specific points across without tossing acid in the face of his opponent. In political terms, it was a unique idea. “Yes, I’ve seen most of them. They’re quite good.”

Jenny nodded. “I offered my time in the evenings because I like to feel useful. During the day I run a day-care center out of the cottage. It’s for people who live up the shore and commute into Duluth. I need to support myself somehow and I really like children.”

“Was it your idea to start the center?”

“No, Amanda suggested it. After her father let me go —”

“I didn’t know you worked for Herman.”

“I was his housekeeper for about a year. I answered an ad in the Duluth paper. Amanda’s daughter, Chelsea, was the one who actually hired me. She fired me, too. We never got along.”

That was interesting, thought Sophie. “Any hard feelings?”

Jenny gave an indifferent shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe. If it hadn’t been for Amanda, I don’t know what I’d have done. Jobs are hard to come by up here.”

“Do you like living so far from town?”

“Oh, absolutely! Especially now that I’ve found Ryan.” Her voice turned wistful. “He’s the finest man I’ve ever known. He has such a passion for his work. I think that’s rare.”

As they strolled along, they came to a small clearing. Directly in the center stood a low, dilapidated log structure surrounded by clumped birch. “Ah,” said Sophie, “the old sauna. I’m going to have to take one while I’m here.”

Jenny shivered. “That cabin is creepy. Any place that doesn’t have a window makes me feel like I’m trapped. I suppose you’ve grown up taking saunas.”

Sophie grinned. “Since I was a kid. Both my mother and father are full-blooded Finns. There’s nothing like a sauna to relax you, make you feel like a new person.”

“Really?” said Jenny. Her enthusiasm wasn’t overwhelming.

Presently, they found themselves at the edge of a vast, red-rock beach. Instead of taking the path near the shore, Jenny pointed to a freshly mowed trail through the tall grass. About twenty yards before the lighthouse, they emerged into another clearing. The cottage appeared on their right, nestled snugly into the side of a hill. It was a charming building. Whitewashed walls and a red slate roof. It looked as if someone had recently built a greenhouse onto the south side. A swing set and an old-fashioned wooden teeter-totter sat empty next to a separate metal building Sophie assumed was the garage.

“How did you meet Amanda and Luther? Last time I was here, a young man was living in that cottage. A grad student at UMd.”

“Claire Van Dorn introduced us at a meeting of the North Shore Feminist Association. Amanda never came to the house while I was working for her father. Kind of funny, isn’t it? Of course, I’m not very close to my parents either. Anyway, Claire knew Ryan and I were looking for a place to live and that the cottage was empty. Amanda’s been so kind to us. Both Ryan and I are terribly grateful.”

“And that’s how you got to know Jack?”

“Ryan’s known him for several years, but since we’ve been living here, he’s taken a more focused interest in Jack’s campaign.”

“Say,” said Sophie. “Maybe you can clear something up for me. It seems I remember Jack was accepted at Stanford shortly after he returned from Vietnam. He got his undergraduate degree there in 1974, that is, if I recall correctly.”

Jenny nodded. “Yes, I think that’s right.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve come across anything about the year he spent in Green Dells, Wisconsin. He was donating time at a place called Damascus Gate.”

Jenny thought for a moment. “No,” she said slowly. “I don’t recall the name. I suppose I could check the records I have and see. Why are you so interested?”

Sophie pulled on her earlobe. “Oh, you know. I just have a mental block about dates sometimes. When I don’t remember things exactly, it drives me crazy.”

Jenny gave her a shy, sweet smile. “I know what you mean. Ryan is the same way.”

Sophie liked Jenny. She wished she could say the same for Ryan. On the other hand, they’d only just met. She knew she had to give him the benefit of the doubt. “I think I’m going to do a little exploring before I head back to the house. Is Ryan home tonight?”

“No,” sighed Jenny. “He’s been doing a lot of research for some of Jack’s speeches. I hardly see him anymore. I guess, for now, that’s to be expected.” She looked at her watch. “I suppose maybe I’ll drive over to the Mudlark later, just to get out. Would you like to come with me?”