Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_02 (15 page)

“Yes, ma’am,” the lawyer said briskly. “I’ve got what you wanted.” His voice oozed satisfaction. “An old friend from law school’s in the D.A.’s office. Now, in answer to your specific question, the lab didn’t find any trace of the stuff in the kitchen on Patty Kay’s clothes. Ditto her shoes.”

“That makes an enormous difference.”

“It does?” He sounded skeptical.

“Look, Desmond, the police theory is that Craig arrived home, he and Patty Kay squabbled about the fruit basket, she was cooking, he lost his temper and started flinging stuff around, and she ran out to the playhouse to get away from him.”

“Right.”

“So picture it. If Craig and Patty Kay quarreled and Craig started throwing liquids around, surely at least a bit of it would have splashed on her. Even if not, how could she have been standing there cooking and not have had to walk through the stuff to run out to the playhouse?

“The fact that her shoes have no trace of chocolate or
cream cheese or liqueurs has to mean that when she left the kitchen,
nothing had yet been thrown
.

“And the only reason to throw it
after
she’d been killed had to be to incriminate Craig. Besides, the timing doesn’t work. I’m going to check that out later today. If we get definite testimony about when he left that deli and when the police arrived on the scene, it won’t leave enough time for a quarrel, the mess in the kitchen, and her murder.”

“You should have been a lawyer.” The highest praise any attorney ever gives. “I can use this today with the judge.”

“Good.”

“Oh, one thing more. The state police found a sweater in a roadside garbage bin that matches the snagged thread on the murder weapon. The sweaters stained with Patty Kay’s blood.” He sounded queasy. “The police think it belonged to Patty Kay and Craig tried to dump it because he’d used it to try to stop the now of blood after he shot her. You know, remorse. Then he just took it with him in a panic.”

A sweater. Patty Kay’s sweater? If this were so, why on earth was Craig stubbornly refusing to admit it?

“Do you have a description of the sweater?”

A pause, a rattle of paper. “Here it is. One hundred percent cotton cardigan, beige, size large. Label from Lands’ End.”

I recalled Patty Kay’s closet. Crammed with gorgeous, vivid clothes. Lots of natural fibers, of course. All designer label and extremely expensive.

I didn’t recall a single item that looked like Lands’ End.

I’d not checked all the labels. I could do that. But I was certain what I would find.

Nothing from Lands’ End.

I’m not knocking the clothes from that giant catalogue
company. I’m very fond of them myself. There was a black Lands’ End cardigan upstairs in my suitcase.

But it wasn’t Patty Kay’s kind of sweater.

“Desmond, are the police sure the cloth fragment on the murder weapon came from this sweater?”

“Yep. Absolutely. They’ve got details about microscopic evaluation of fibers in here.” The papers rustled again.

“All right,” I said slowly. “We’re on to something here. And the police have it all wrong. Craig may have grabbed that sweater up in a panic, that’s true enough. But the rest of their theory’s wrong. Either the sweater belonged to the murderer or the murderer brought it to the scene and deliberately sopped it in Patty’s blood, then left it.”

“Jesus, why?”

“Because, Desmond, the police will discover ultimately that the sweater didn’t belong to Patty Kay.”

“Why not? It’s a woman’s sweater. It must be the right size—”

“It isn’t the size that matters. It’s its modest provenance. And its color.”

“Huh?”

“Desmond, Patty Kay never owned a beige sweater ordered from a catalogue in her life.”

“But why would somebody leave some other woman’s sweater there and why would Craig—” He stopped short. “Oh, Christ. You mean it belonged to some other woman and Craig recognized it?”

“I’m afraid so.”

He groaned. “God, that’ll make it worse for Craig.”

“Not if we can prove that sweater was a plant and Craig ran away because of panic over the presence of the sweater and not because he shot Patty Kay.”

“Oh, sure. Walsh is really going to believe that.”

“Don’t sound so glum, Desmond. Panic is better than guilt.”

“But I can’t go to the police and say there was another woman—you know damn well how that’s going to sound—and Craig was trying to protect her. Hell, Mrs. Collins, that’s all he needs.”

“Don’t do it, then. Let’s keep poking around.” I had one final question. “Obviously, someone who knew Patty Kay well murdered her. Who do you think it might be?” My tone was encouraging.

I expected the usual lawyer’s spate of words ending in a firm refusal to do anything as outrageous as make an accusation against anyone.

Instead, after a somber, lengthy silence, Marino surprised me. “She made enemies. You’ll find that out. The problem was that Patty Kay never took anything too seriously and she didn’t have the imagination to see how other people could be so, well, so
deadly
serious. I’m thinking about a preacher here in town—”

“The Reverend James Holman?”

“So you’ve already dug that up?”

“It didn’t take genius,” I said dryly. “And I’ve not only dug it up, I’ve reburied it,” and I told him why.

“Oh.”

“Is there anyone else Patty Kay had infuriated?”

“No. No, I don’t think so.”

Craig had said to Brigit,
It’s a small town, for chrissakes
.

But not small enough, apparently, for Desmond to offer any other suspects. The Reverend Holman was the only candidate Desmond was ready to propose. His lawyerly instincts hadn’t deserted him. Far be it from him to focus on anyone in his own poker group.

“In any event, we need to check on the whereabouts of
the poker players when Patty Kay was shot. Will you do that?”

He didn’t sound overwhelmed with joy at the task, but he gruffly acquiesced.

“What are you going to do?” he demanded.

“Talk to people. Lots of them.”

The funeral procession was a long one. I pulled over to await its passage. The heavier rain had eased, but a steady sprinkle spattered against the windshield. The trees along the street looked sodden, their spring glory dimmed. It was a fitting day for grief. Patty Kay’s funeral would be tomorrow. Surely Desmond would be able to get Craig out of jail by then.

Finally, the long cortege was past. I drove out to the Fair Haven Mall. There were plenty of parking spaces in front of Books, Books, Books.

I shook my umbrella and left it dripping in the entry-way. Books, Books, Books was a booklover’s dream. Perhaps twenty thousand square feet, islands and islands of books face out (book business lingo for the cover showing instead of the spine), and a coffee and surprisingly lavish dessert bar.

It took only a moment for me to find Amy shelving new books in the history and politics section. The clerk Craig had mentioned was small, dark, and very thin. She wore her hair in two lengthy braids. Oversize glasses magnified her eyes. She wore a name badge: AMY FOSS.

“Pardon me.”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Amy, I’m Mrs. Collins, Craig Matthews’s aunt.”

Amy got that look of dumb anguish that afflicts people confronted with a situation they haven’t the faintest notion
how to handle. I couldn’t fault her. Even Miss Manners might find it hard to know what to say to a relative of a man accused of brutally murdering his wife. “Nice day” doesn’t cut it.

I flashed a reassuring smile. “Don’t be upset. Mr. Matthews will soon be out of jail.” This was a rumor I didn’t mind starting. Who knew what effect it might have. “We both know he’s innocent.”

“Oh, yes, ma’am.” Behind the glasses, her eyes remained wide and anxious.

I glanced around. “So if we could find a quiet spot—”

She gulped nervously, then led the way to a bench in the deserted poetry section. She perched at the far end of the bench, her hands twisted tightly in her lap.

“How long have you worked here, Amy?”

“Two weeks. I’m part-time during the week because of school. All day on Saturdays and Sundays.”

There’s a feeling when you draw a straight flush. It’s the way I felt at her answer. Amy was new. She wouldn’t recognize voices, not even that of Patty Kay Matthews, the store’s owner. Certainly not those of longtime customers.

An essential element of the murderer’s scheme.

“College student?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Now, tell me about Saturday afternoon—and the phone calls.”

She peered at me uneasily. “I can’t say about the calls Mr. Matthews got. I mean, I wasn’t watching him or anything. He may have answered the phone just like he says, but I didn’t see it.” Defensiveness threaded her high voice.

“No reason you should have,” I agreed easily. “Whose job is it to answer the phone?”

“Whoever’s standing there.”

“Where?”

She stood to point. ‘There are phones at the information desk and the coffee bar and the office and the main desk. Some are different lines. For example, in the office. Anyway, whoever’s closest to the phone that rings, they answer it.’ She shrugged.

“Where were you?”

“I was working the main register.”

“Tell me about the call where you took the message for Mr. Matthews.”

She sank back onto the bench, misery in her eyes. “Everybody keeps asking me and asking me. But I didn’t pay a lot of attention. It was just a message—he was to go to this shop over by Green Hills and pick up a basket of fruit—but I don’t exactly remember what she said.”

“She?”

“Yes. A woman. I think. I mean, it
sounded
like a woman. She spoke fast, like she was in a rush. She said something like”—the clerk’s face tightened as she strove to remember—“ Tell Craig to go by Finedorff’s and pick up a fruit basket and bring it home pronto. Thanks.’ That’s all there was to it. And people keep asking me and asking me about it. They ask if it was Mrs. Matthews. I don’t know. How should I know? I met her only once and I don’t even remember if she said anything. She smiled. She had a nice smile.”

“You’re doing fine, Amy. No one could expect more. So, you took the call. Then, when Mr. Matthews had finished with his customer, you told him about it. What did you say?”

“I told him his wife wanted him to pick up a fruit basket at this shop and bring it home right now.”

“So he would have thought the call came from Mrs. Matthews.”

She clasped her hands together and stared down at
them. “Yes. I guess. But I didn’t know, I mean, I just gave him the message.”

“Yes, of course. Did he leave immediately?”

For an instant laughter touched her eyes. “Yes, ma’am. He was out of here in a flash.”

“And that was around …”

“A quarter to four.”

She spoke with utter confidence.

And Craig had just as definitely and strongly told me he’d left the store at four o’clock.

An extra fifteen minutes could put Craig in prison, possibly on death row.

“I thought it was closer to four.”

“No, ma’am. It was exactly a quarter to four. I know because I’d just looked at my watch.”

“Why?”

A tiny flush of pink edged her cheeks. “I break at four. I was going to go into the coffee bar and have a caramel brownie. And then I couldn’t when he left. I had to stay on the floor.”

“I see. Mr. Matthews thought it was a few minutes later than that.”

“No.” Her voice was sharp. “It was exactly a quarter to four.”

And she’d swear it today and tomorrow and forever. She might be young and uncomfortable. She was also stubborn.

I changed course. “How do you like working here?”

“Oh.” She was surprised. Understandably. After all, what did her appraisal of the store have to do with anything? But, the customer is always right. She brightened. “I like it a lot. At least, until all this happened. I wasn’t sure I would. They’re all so rich, but they’re nice.”

They?

“Who?” It was my turn to be surprised.

“The ladies who work here. I mean, in addition to us. Me and Jackie and Paul and Todd and Candy. Oh, and Stevie, the assistant manager. She does most of the work. We’re all just regular people. But all these rich ladies who work one day a week. I thought they’d be snotty. But they’re not, they’re real nice. At least, most of them are. I handle the scheduling.” She grinned, and I caught a glimpse of a likable, fun girl when she wasn’t under pressure. “It’s like musical chairs. You’d think anybody could always be sure of one day a week, but they have Conflicts.” Her voice capitalized it, making me smile too. “Like going to Atlanta to shop. Or they need to sub at tennis for a friend. Or their rottweiler’s having pups. So Mrs. Forrest switches with Mrs. Hollis, who switches with Mrs. Pierce. But they’re mostly nice. And they know everybody who comes in.” She looked suddenly shrewd. “That’s a big plus in a retail store.”

Yes, it was smart marketing.

And now I had the funny little tingle you get with a full house.

This was Patty Kay’s store. The rich women who worked here would be her friends. Were some her enemies?

I asked for the list of part-time employees.

Amy hesitated. “I don’t know—Stevie’s not here. She’ll be in at noon and she probably—”

I headed off a declaration I wouldn’t like. “Mr. Matthews knows I’m here,” I said firmly.

That was enough to satisfy her.

She led me back to the office and quickly found the right file on a computer. As the file was being printed out, I said loudly, “A wonderful convenience, but noisy, isn’t it?”

She nodded.

“I wonder—when you took that message Saturday, was
there any noise behind the voice? Music? Traffic? Phones ringing? Anything like that?”

She was relaxed now. She didn’t feel badgered. I wasn’t pressuring her to identify a voice—or not identify it. “No, ma’am. It was real quiet.”

The printer clattered to a stop, and she ripped off the sheet and handed it to me: Edith Hollis. Brooke Forrest. Louise Pierce. Pamela Guthrie. Cheryl Kraft.

Two names surprised me.

“Louise Pierce. Is that Mrs. Stuart Pierce?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Amy’s face was placid. Old marital history meant nothing to her.