Aurora 08 - Poppy Done To Death (18 page)

Bryan didn’t respond, which was a relief. I didn’t want to hear any more discussion. I just wanted the absence of the Wynns. I nudged an open book with my foot. The house was in a terrible state now. I sighed, already guessing whose task it would be to set it to rights.

Sandy and Marvin took some time getting their coats; with Bryan and me standing there, there was little opportunity for them to take anything. I hated being so suspicious, but I knew I had to be alert. This situation was completely fishy. Sandy had seemed so broken up on Monday night, but now I knew she’d already been in Lawrenceton that morning. Marvin, too, had appeared grief-stricken and miserable, at least to my eyes. And yet here they were, trashing their daughter’s home.

Finally, they were at the door. Swaddled in all their winter gear (pretty much not necessary, for the night was in the fifties), the older couple looked harmless and beneficent with their silver hair and glasses.

Sandy opened her mouth to say something else insulting, but I preempted her. “What were you doing out at the Grabbit Kwik getting gas Monday morning? Have you told the police about your little trip to Lawrenceton before Poppy’s body was found?”

“We never came here Monday morning,” Marvin said with dignity. “I went to get my annual physical, and Sandy went to do some comparison shopping for a new stove.”

“Good cover story,” I said to Sandy. “Something you could spend a long time doing, with no tangible results.”

If Sandy had looked tense before, she looked beleaguered now. But her lips stayed pressed together. I couldn’t have wiggled one bit of truth between them.

“Key,” I said tersely, holding out my hand. Sandy fished in her pocket and dropped the key on my palm, which closed around it instantly. But then I had a thought, and I opened my palm to compare this key to the one John David had loaned me. They matched.

The Wynns gave us twin glares as they left.

I sat down on the stairs when the door shut behind them. This had shaken me more than I’d realized. I was actually surprised at how much the week’s events were depleting my normal energy. I’d had several of these shaky spells. Bryan sat by me. He put his arm around me, which I could have done without, but it was okay. It didn’t feel sexual, not until his fingers started playing with my hair, that is.

“Do you want to call John David from here?”

“Would you?” I was just plain being weak.

“Sure,” he said, but he didn’t move. “What do you think they were looking for?” he asked after a moment or two.

“I don’t know. Something small. And the person who was searching Poppy’s closet was looking for something small, too. Something that could be hidden in a book, or a shoe box.”

“Jewelry?”

“That would fit. Or documents.”

“What kind of documents? She left a will. Poppy and John David both made wills when Poppy found out she was pregnant.”

“John David tell you that?”

“Yes. But it wasn’t the first thing he said. He didn’t come out with it until I asked him that specifically.”

I thought Bryan was telling me that in his opinion, John David hadn’t been thinking of his possible financial gain from Poppy’s death. I had never considered the fact that Poppy might have some money stashed away, and I couldn’t imagine where such a stash could have come from. Her dad was a minister, so his pay had been low, and he and his wife were still very much alive. If Poppy had ever gotten any substantial inheritance from another relative, I’d never heard of it. And Poppy had worked for a few years, but working for a few years as a teacher and living off the proceeds were almost a guarantee you didn’t have a lot left over.

“What lawyer drew up the wills?” I asked.

“Bubba Sewell.”

“Hmm. You know what I wonder? I wonder if Poppy gave Bubba a key during the course of their affair.”

“I hope I don’t have to ask him that in court.” Bryan’s hand kept combing through my hair. I moved a little farther from him, and his hand dropped into his lap.

“I can ask him.” Especially after our confrontation the day before (or had it been Monday?), Bubba and I were quite ready to be rude to each other. My mind moved on ahead. “Do you think ... do you suppose . . . that Poppy gave a key to each of her, um, men friends?”

“There’d be quite a few around, if that’s the case.” Bryan looked thoughtful.

“Yes.” I had a lot of unpleasant thoughts circling in my tired brain. “But Bubba ...”

“Yes?”

Suddenly, I didn’t want to continue. “Nothing,” I said. “While I check out the house, why don’t you call John David and let him know what happened? Then we can go. I really appreciate your doing this.”

“This is just the kind of thing a good lawyer does for his clients,” Bryan said with a wide, sharklike smile.

“There must be a lot I don’t know about good lawyers.” I smiled back. I went up the stairs.

The closet, of course, was still in disarray. This time, even John David’s clothes and ties and coats and sweaters had been gone through. What the hell were people looking for? I was assuming that two different people (or groups of people) had gone through the house. The first intruder, the one who’d confined the search to Poppy’s half of the closet, had had a specific idea of where the object—whatever it was—had been stashed. In contrast, the Wynns had used a shotgun approach.

“You could find out,” Bryan said, and I looked at him blankly. I’d been lost in my thoughts. I didn’t even realize for a few seconds that he had followed me and was continuing the conversation. I was too slow responding. Bryan’s face wasn’t too happy. “Excuse me,” I said.

“I was wondering what they could be looking for.”

“Okay. Anything else you want to do here tonight?”

“No. I’ll clean it up Friday. I’ll see if my sister-in-law will help.”

“Then I’ll call John David.” Bryan went off to use the telephone.

I sat where I was and eyed the devastation around me. I didn’t see how the Wynns could have hoped to conceal their depredations. They’d have had to work all night to put things back. I wondered how they’d hoped to explain it. This looked like a go-for-broke situation. If they’d found what they needed, they wouldn’t
care
if they couldn’t explain it. For a couple who placed tremendous importance on community opinion, they were acting recklessly. That meant they were desperate.

So, they were searching for something of vital importance, something so significant to their future that their need for it eclipsed their daughter’s death.

I could not understand parents like that, though I reminded myself of the notorious struggles between the Wynns and Poppy when she was in her teens. And I recalled what Emma McKibbon had told me about the Reverend Wynn’s predilection for young women. Was there proof of the retired minister’s dalliance with female members of his congregation? Maybe such proof was what Poppy had concealed in her home.

I shook my head, all to myself. Why would she do that? What leverage would it give her with her parents? I couldn’t imagine what she would want from them; want it so badly that she’d keep such unpleasant things. And what could those things be? Pictures? I swallowed hard, disgusted at downing such an indigestible idea.

“Are you going to be sick?” Bryan, having returned from calling John David, sounded terrified at the prospect.

“No, just thinking bad thoughts.”

“I talked to John David. He’s baffled. I told him they said they were going home until they heard from him about the funeral—they’re reverting to the original plan—and he seemed relieved. I also called Arthur Smith again and left yet another message on his voice mail at work. So far, he hasn’t responded to any of my calls. I want to tell him what we found out about Sandy Wynn, and I want to tell him that the Wynns were here tonight.”

“I hope he calls back soon,” I said dutifully, though in truth I found it hard to care. I felt very tired, which seemed about par lately. I dragged myself to my feet. I didn’t want to ask Bryan for help. My stomach curdled with anxiety. Oh boy. Maybe I
was
going to be sick.

I managed to get to my car without disgracing myself, and after thanking Bryan for coming out and providing moral and tactical assistance, I drove home.

Phillip was on the phone when I walked in, and he was smiling broadly, so I figured the person on the other end was a female. After a minute, I deduced it was Josh Finstermeyer’s sister, Joss. After ten more minutes, I grew a wee bit exasperated and gestured to Phillip to wind up the conversation. He did so willingly enough, then told me all about what the Finstermeyers were doing for their Thanksgiving celebration—remarkably, almost exactly what we would be doing. He asked if he could go over to their house tomorrow afternoon, after we’d eaten, and I told him that would probably be okay. He beamed at me.

It was the first time I’d seen Phillip look carefree, and it made him very attractive. I felt sorry for Joss. I hoped she was a self-sufficient young woman.

“What happened with the Wynns?” Phillip asked. “I was sitting here watching TV when they came stomping in like someone had stuck a cattle prod up their—like they were really fired up.

They didn’t even speak.”

“They were mad at me,” I said, realizing I should have called ahead and warned Phillip what to expect. He didn’t seem unduly shaken by the incident, and I reminded myself all over again that Phillip had been raised in a different world from the one I’d been reared in. (That made me feel old, by the way.)

Robin had learned something about Phillip over lunch, I hoped, something worth telling me. I couldn’t picture my dad telling Phillip about the facts of life—well, Phillip knew the facts.

What I meant, I decided, was the responsibilities.

I was aware that I was absolutely exhausted. “Phillip, I have to go to bed,” I said.

“Sure, Roe. Anything you need me to do?”

“No. I just hope I’m not catching anything.”

“You look kind of, ah, tired.”

Nice way of saying I looked like warm Jell-O. “Yeah, I am. I’m going to call it a day. Come get me if you need me.” I went into my bedroom, and after a trip to my bathroom, I pulled on my nightgown and crawled into bed. No Robin to join me tonight, I reflected as I began to get drowsy (which was almost immediately). Maybe that was good. I didn’t feel up to making whoopee. I felt achy all over, my skin extra sensitive. As I drifted into sleep, I prayed that I wasn’t getting the flu.

I wasn’t running fever in the morning when I woke up, and I felt a lot better. Of course, I’d slept an hour and a half later than I’d planned, but somehow it was impossible to get out of bed in any hurry. I was sure Phillip wouldn’t be up yet. Sure enough, when I went into the kitchen in my fuzzy slippers and bathrobe, he was nowhere in sight. I made some coffee and put out some coffee cake I’d gotten the day before. It was pretty close to time to put in the turkey, so I preheated the oven before I sat down with my breakfast. It was a beautiful day, sunny, and the temperature was expected to reach the sixties, though it was about forty outside at the moment.

I sat gazing dreamily out the window into my backyard, ignoring a magazine lying by my mug on the table. A list of things I had to do was there, too, and not one item crossed off. I found it hard to care. I finished the coffee and a piece of the coffee cake. As a matter of habit, I went to pour my second cup. But I just didn’t want it today. Maybe this was the way my body was trying to get my mind to agree to get up and work. Actually, I needed to go to the bathroom anyway, so I figured I might as well get dressed.

In a matter of minutes, I was in my nice suede pants and orange sweater, my tortoise-rimmed glasses on to coordinate, all made up and ready—and with lots of messy kitchen work to do. I was just going to have a backward day. Normally, I wouldn’t have put on my good clothes until the kitchen had been cleaned right before my guests’ arrival. But I couldn’t bring myself to care about my impracticality.

I scooted up my sleeves, found the apron that provided the most coverage, and turned on the Macy’s parade to watch while I worked. I like that about my kitchen and den area; and that was another change from my former life, when I’d had no desire whatsoever for anyone to watch me while I was cooking, and I’d been glad my kitchen was just a kitchen. Now, I just didn’t care. My kitchen/den/informal dining area seemed just great. I enjoyed glancing at the parade while I worked, and I enjoyed the sun coming in through the big windows on either side of the fireplace. Cooking took me away from Poppy’s death and the mess and chaos surrounding it.

Two hours flew by before I knew it. I glanced at the clock with some surprise.

Time to take stock.

Pies ready. Cranberry sauce ready. Dressing ready, prepared with canned chicken stock just so I’d save myself last-minute rushing. I’d gotten the turkey greased and into the baking bag, and now I slid the big pan into the warm oven. Robin would bring the English peas, which just required heating with some butter, and the rolls, which only had to brown—so nothing to do on that front. He’d have the wine, and he would open that. I got out the corkscrew and the wineglasses. Only the sweet potato casserole needed some more fixing.

The sugar was already mixed in, and I tasted to make sure I’d added enough. I’d finished adding the spices and eggs when Phillip at last emerged from the guest bathroom, shiny and dressed. He poured himself a huge glass of juice and cut a piece of coffee cake. He gave me a sleepy smile and settled on a stool at the breakfast bar to watch the parade. After a minute, he flipped open the
TV Guide
and started looking at the football listings.

Once Phillip had finished breakfast, I asked him to help me with the big tablecloth for the nicer table in the dining room. I set the table slowly, trying to make it look correct. . . but not ridiculously so. This was not an imposing formal occasion. If I turned it into that, I’d have to go put on panty hose and a dress. Yuck.

Good silver, good china. (I’d be doing dishes all day.) I kept checking the table. Salt, pepper.

I got out the gravy boat. Glasses for Ice tea. Sugar. Dish for lemon wedges. Serving spoons.