Murder Among Friends Read online

  “What did people do before chocolate?” I asked, savoring one of Velma's mint chocolate cookies.

  “Chewed coca leaves,” Linda said with a smile.

  “Or drank ale," Army contributed. "We humans have always devised some sort of culinary pleasures.”

  "Or alcoholic ones." Linda sent her twinkling smile in Army's direction. "Rewards for hard work."

  Her voice trembled, as if the effort to speak taxed her strength. I reached over and placed my hand on her arm, concerned.

  “Should you be up?” I asked.

  The look in her eyes was pure Linda. “I’m not exactly up,” she said. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been relegated to a chair by my doctor.”

  “Maude would have you in bed.”

  “How is the dear? It’s the best thing Tom could have done, hiring her.”

  “I could do without being reminded of my limitations every day, however. Or being treated like a child,” I said.

  Linda only smiled at my petulant remark.

  “I was so sorry to hear about Evelyn," she said.“What a pity. She was so young. And Paul, too.”

  “What did you think of him?”

  “Paul?” She plucked at the afghan covering her lap. “I only met him once,” she said, “when Evelyn brought him over. It’s not fair to judge someone on the basis of one short meeting, Jennifer.”

  I remembered what Maude had said, about Paul and Dorothy. Was Linda really ignorant of their affair? Or simply trying to protect her daughter?

  In all the time I’ve known her, I’ve never heard Linda say a bad word about another human being. Tom says it’s because she’s older than Methuselah and knows she’s going to die soon. “Everybody’s on their best behavior in the home stretch, Jennifer.”

  I couldn't help but wonder if Linda hid behind her politeness as if it were a shield.

  As I sat there, drinking my tea in a ladylike fashion, listening to Linda speak of her African Violets as if they were individuals with all the foibles and idiosyncrasies of people, I wondered if I was hiding. Not behind African Violets, but grief.

  People tended not to bother those who mourned. The only person to pierce the fog around me was Evelyn with her determined friendship and her gazebo afternoons.

  No one else had ever come to me and said, "Jennifer, you need to go out with friends. You need to go to lunch, take in a movie, go shopping." The closest anyone, not connected to my life, had come was a carefully worded email from my supervisor. "Are you all right? Is there anything I can do?" I'd answered in the affirmative to the first question and negative to the second, which was just as well, because he'd immediately dumped a contract for galley fixtures on me with an insane turnaround date.

  I enjoyed working because it gave me a reason to get up in the morning. I'm not sure I would have without that all important contract evaluation due date.

  What did that say about my life?

  “My violets are doing quite well,” I said, finishing my last cookie. A bald faced lie. They had perished at various times despite my almost frenetic attempt to save them. I am the proud owner of the only artificial plant in the world that looks as if it's dying. I can't grow things, but I didn't want Linda to think I had willingly and easily killed off her presents to me. For the last three Christmases, I'd been the recipient of a prized African Violet. I prayed she wouldn't give me another one this year

  Army cleared his throat. A signal that the niceties were over. It was time.

  "We've been investigating Evelyn's death," Army said.

  "That murder club of yours?

  Army smiled. "We've missed your participation."

  Now, that was a surprise.

  "In the meantime," I said, wanting this to be over and done, "we've discovered something."

  Army reached forward, grabbed one of Linda's hands, sandwiching it between his own. He leaned closer to her and spoke in a voice not unlike a visiting minister.

  "Something that we need to ask you," he said.

  "Evelyn had a large mortgage on her house," I heard myself say. "You do, too, Linda, and we just wanted to make sure you knew."

  Army sent me a chiding look, but I glanced away. Sometimes, bad news just needed to be delivered all at once. Telling it a bite at a time was prolonging the torture.

  "I don't understand," Linda said, pulling her hand back from Army's grip.

  She sat up straight - as straight as anyone could be tucked into a chair - and gave us both a look that reminded me of being a child and stealing a piece of candy from the corner store. My mother had marched me back to apologize and be shamed.

  I was close to feeling the same humiliation right now.

  Silence was a sound. Silence, even stretched as paper thin as this one was, was high pitched and keening. Or maybe it was only my conscience screaming at me. What kind of busybody are you, Jennifer?

  Army wouldn't look at me. Linda wouldn't look away. Her face, pale when we'd entered the room, had taken on a waxy sheen. She looked jaundiced all of a sudden, as if her liver - and her other organs - were shutting down.

  My mind was racing, but my words sounded surprisingly calm. "It's none of our business, of course."

  She still didn't speak, and now Army reached out and patted her hand. She didn't react.

  I was going to keep babbling if someone didn't say something. I was going to open a verbal hole and dive into it. I just knew it.

  “Do you miss Barbara?" Linda abruptly asked.

  I stared at her, shocked by the question. Of course I missed her. But the second part of that answer seemed to thrum in the air between us. Part of me didn't miss the fear, the uncertainty, the frustration, and the anger.

  “Yes,” I finally said.

  Linda nodded as if she'd expected that response.

  She asked because of Dorothy, of course. Was her daughter a drain, as Barbara had been a drain? The admission chilled me.

  When had I become so unflinchingly honest?

  No, I'd always been honest about Barbara. I loved her with my whole heart, but my brain was never fooled. Not like Tom. I recognized those times when she manipulated me, lied to me, stole from me. I loved my daughter, but there were times when I hadn't liked her.

  Some days, I felt as if I were being scored by a thousand tiny knives and bleeding profusely from each one.

  "What would you have done to save her?" Linda asked.

  "Anything."

  We sat there, mothers, women, friends, alike despite the disparity of our ages. There was something poignant and sad about our unspoken communion, as if all the disappointments about our two daughters combined to create a vacuum of sound. Anything we said would sound disloyal about our children, so we sat silent.

  I wondered if that was the only answer we'd get about the loan on her house.

  My nose suddenly twitched in olfactory warning.

  I turned my head to see Dorothy leaning against the door frame. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the sun had hidden behind a cloud just then. Or a dead bird had struck the window.

  Even Army drew back.

  “Hello, Jennifer,” she said coolly.

  “Dorothy, how are you?”

  She didn’t answer as she came forward, bending to place a kiss on Linda’s cheek. She sent a quick look in Army's direction, but didn't speak to him.

  Lucky man.

  “You shouldn’t be tiring yourself out, Mother,” she said, then turned to look at me as if I was responsible for Linda’s health.

  I stood, sending Army a glance.

  “We have to be going,” I said to Linda.

  I circled the chair and placed my hand on her shoulder. She flinched away from my touch. An answer, then, to our question. She hadn't known and she didn't want to talk about it.

  Dorothy followed us to the door.

  As I made my way to the side door, I noticed the triptych, the Russian icon Linda prized so much was missing. Normally, it had pride of place on the credenza in the hallway. Th
e gold tri-fold Russian icon, depicting the virgin birth, was hundreds of years old and a family heirloom.

  The Lladro figurine in the niche between living room and dining room was also missing, replaced by a vase of autumn flowers. The Thomas painting that had hung over the mantle in the living room was gone. In its place was a portrait of Linda, one done years earlier.

  She was seated, a three-quarters pose that accentuated her bosom and the plunging neckline of her pink taffeta dress. Around her neck was a diamond necklace her husband had given her for their tenth wedding anniversary, and diamonds sparkled at her ears.

  “I don't like the damn thing,” she’d told me once. "It makes me look like a lady of the evening, buxom and all too eager."

  Maybe Linda had emulated Army and changed the furnishings in accordance with her mood.

  Or Dorothy had sold what was valuable.

  I should have been prepared for my anger, but I wasn't. Suddenly, it was all I could feel. Gone was Jennifer Roberts, polite to the core. In her place was one pissed off woman.

  Confrontation was not one of those sports in which I engage. In fact, I would rather cross the street then come face-to-face with someone who was angry at me. Call it cowardice, if you will. I chose to consider it prudent behavior.

  But I didn't need a psychologist to tell me the rage I was feeling was dual fold. I wasn't only angry at Dorothy for taking advantage of her mother, I was remembering all those occasions when I'd missed something, only to later learn it had been sold or pawned. A gold compact willed to me by my paternal grandmother was the first to go. Next, a pocket watch from my great-uncle vanished. In succession, I'd lost my IPhone, Kindle, watch, diamond earrings, and ruby ring.

  All stolen from me so my daughter could inject heroin into her veins.

  "What happened to the Thomas painting?" I asked.

  Even Army flinched at my tone. The disappearance of Linda's painting was none of my damn business, but that didn't seem to matter.

  Dorothy didn't answer.

  "And the Russian icon?"

  What I hadn't noticed on the way to the Violet Room was all too obvious now. A great many of Linda's treasures were gone.

  At the door, I turned and faced Dorothy. I took a few deep breaths, forcing myself to calm a little. Still, the words I spoke weren't the least bit conciliatory.

  "Are you stealing from your mother? Wasn't a few hundred thousand not good enough for you?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Is it for drugs?"

  She stared at me, her blue eyes narrowed into slits.

  "Where's the triptych?" I asked, waving toward the credenza. "And the Thomas landscape?"

  "I sold them, Jennifer," Linda said from the doorway. "Not that it's any of your concern."

  She faced me, even paler than before, her hands clasped together tightly as she leaned against the wall. The effort to rise had cost her, and it showed in her bluish lips.

  I turned, chastised into silence, and opened the front door. Velma stared at me. Even Army looked shocked.

  Get over it.

  Why should I be the only one who has to always watch what I say? I was damned tired of being polite all the time. It was time for a little honesty all around.

  Army took my elbow, but I shook off his touch, left the house, and was crossing the porch when Dorothy moved in front of me.

  "What are you talking about?" Dorothy said. "A few hundred thousand?"

  Dorothy had opted for a pugnacious stance, which wasn't a good idea at the moment.

  A wiser woman would have murmured something apologetic and retreated gracefully. But I was not, alas, a wiser woman. I'd been bludgeoned by circumstance, spit on by Fate, and I was pissed at my husband and life itself.

  I was not in the mood to have Dorothy stick her finger in my face and start screaming at me.

  I grabbed Dorothy's finger and bent it just a little, enough for her to yelp in pain. At least she stopped screaming. Actually, I didn't mind the screaming. It was the "Fucking bitch!" that was getting to me.

  At that point, I should have turned to Army, grabbed his sleeve and bid farewell to the entire insane scene.

  I didn't.

  She shoved me and I fell back against the wall of the porch.

  "Don't do that," I said, my annoyance growing.

  "Or what?" she said, the singsong of her voice bringing to mind the little girl who'd tormented Barbara when she was six. I'd wanted to slap that child then and I wanted to slap Dorothy now.

  I pushed her back.

  She stumbled, righted herself, and shoved me again.

  I wasn't the least bit afraid of her.

  All my life, I've heard the expression seeing red. Until that particular moment, I never realized you actually do see red when you're angry enough.

  I used both my hands and slammed into her with all my strength.

  I was vaguely aware of Army's shout, and Linda's faint murmur but I didn't care. No forty-year old Goth-a-like was going to intimidate me.

  She pushed me again. This time, I avoided the door frame, taking a few steps onto the porch. Dorothy followed me, grinning.

  I didn't like that grin one little bit.

  Linda's words didn't stop her. Neither did Army's. Velma reached out and gripped her arm, but she pulled away easily. She came after me both hands up, palms facing me.

  "I know you had an affair with Paul."

  Surprise stopped her. Her eyes widened, her face paled. I was prepared for her rage, but not the sudden burst of tears.

  That wasn't supposed to happen.

  I looked to the left, to see Linda staring at me with loathing in her eyes.

  I threw both my hands in the air, then turned to leave, my anger fading at the sight of Dorothy's tears.

  That's why I didn't see the person lunging forward to push me down the steps.

  14

  "Linda!"

  Someone punched me from behind, knocking the breath out of me. I had a moment to think, I'm flying! before realizing I was also going to land. Just a second away from striking the sidewalk, I reached out with both hands to break my fall.

  I managed a three point landing: both palms and my chin. Maybe I should be grateful it was the sidewalk and not the street.

  I did a rapid inventory. Discount the rapid heartbeat, to be expected when you're thrown down a steep flight of stairs. Also, it was a little painful to breathe, but I think it was because I'd tucked my elbows close and now they were digging into my ribs.

  I moved gingerly, continuing my self-inspection.

  My leg was stretched out behind me, as a leg should be. But no one's leg should hurt quite this much. Slowly, I turned over on my back, staring up at the bright afternoon sky.

  At least it wasn't raining.

  I knew I had to get up. I knew it was important to get up, but I just didn't know how I was going to get up.

  The last two weeks had been the most eventful of all my years living in the King Lion District. I'd endured an explosion and being thrown down a tall set of steps. I was almost afraid to think what else might happen.

  I raised my head to see everyone gathering around the porch. Someone was screaming. Someone was shouting. Someone else was crying.

  But no one was looking in my direction.

  Help, here, please. Even that thought seemed too difficult to translate into words. If I could sit up, maybe I could get to the steps. If I could get to the steps, maybe I could stand.

  If I could stand, I was going home, and I wasn't going to leave my house again for a very, very long time. I might even live in my closet. Right now, the idea had merit.

  The purr of a car engine was the only notice I had.

  A moment later, Talbot was peering down at me.

  "Talbot," I said, in my most proper Mrs. Roberts' voice.

  "Bill."

  "Wilhelm," I countered.

  "That's what my grandmother used to call me," he said, a curious upside down smile on his face.
>
  I turned my head gently to see him right side up. Before he could ask if I was hurt - it was amazing, but no one had come to my aid - he disappeared.

  Dorothy was still screaming something, but I decided to lay my head back down, close my eyes, and just wait until someone came to help. My leg was hurting bad enough I didn't want to move it just yet.

  "We're calling 911," Talbot said, returning to me.

  "I don't need 911," I said.

  I wasn't entirely certain that was a good decision. Maybe I should go get my leg checked out.

  "It's not for you," he said. "It's for Mrs. Hopkins. She's had a heart attack."

  I closed my eyes again.

  Beware the unintended consequences of a good deed.

  In the end, I didn't have a choice about going to the hospital. When Talbot and Army helped me up, my leg crumpled beneath me. Before I could put on my best martyr face, I was being transported in the same ambulance carrying Linda. I was an afterthought as they worked to start her heart again.

  Even I, layman that I was, knew it was a long shot.

  When Barbara died, I desperately wanted to believe in ghosts. I wanted her spirit to haunt me so I could apologize. I wanted to ask her forgiveness for my stupidity. I wanted to tell her, one last time, that I loved her.

  As the EMS technicians worked on Linda, I reached out one hand and touched her arm, feeling her already cold to the touch. I didn't fault her for what she did. I understood the fierceness of mother love. I knew what it was like to want to protect your child.

  What would you have done to save her? Did it also include mortgaging her house?

  After one last pat, I withdrew my hand, knowing I'd never talk to Linda again.

  Talbot, however, was another matter.

  After the surgery to repair the placement of one of the pins in my leg, I was visited in the outpatient recovery room by the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future. I'd had just enough pain medication to see Tom, Talbot, and Army in those roles, but not necessarily in that order.

  I think Tom said something husbandly and wise, judge-in-training that he was. He wouldn't allow others to know we were having a severe marriage meltdown.

  I wondered if he knew.