Caught Redhanded (6 page)

Mac pushed back his chair, rose and made for the rear door. His posture was rigid, his lips pursed. “See you tomorrow,” he muttered.

I watched the door close behind him. “He’s upset.”

“Wouldn’t you be if the police came to interview you?”

“The police have interviewed me lots of times.”

“Yeah,” Jo agreed, “but your name wasn’t tattooed on a murdered woman’s shoulder.”

SEVEN

B
y the time I walked from
The News
to Ferretti’s to meet Curt for dinner, I had regained most of my tattered self-esteem lost during the chase by Mrs. Wilson, eightysomething terrorist. After all, Mr. Henrey wanted me. And Curt wanted me.

I couldn’t wait to tell him about my job offer. He was always so supportive and encouraging, I knew he’d be delighted for me and would find the prospect of starting our marriage in Pittsburgh exciting. New horizons. New possibilities. The Steelers instead of the Eagles. The Pirates instead of the Phillies. The Penguins instead of the Flyers.

The Chronicle
instead of
The News.

And I’d be back in familiar territory again, no longer the outsider trying to find my place among the raised-in-Amhearst crowd. We could buy a house not too far from my parents. Curt could get to know my brother, Sam, a sophomore at Penn State. I could take Curt to my old church and show him off to all the people I’d known most of my life, especially to Jack, the old boyfriend. Of course, Jack already knew Curt, but still it would be sweet for everyone to realize I had chosen Curt over Jack. I could show Curt all my favorite places and take him to eat in all my favorite restaurants. We could ride the Duquesne Incline and I’d show him the sparkling city by night from the top of Mount Washington. I’d show him the confluence of the Allegheny and Monongahela Rivers as they formed the Ohio. I’d take him to the Carnegie and Andy Warhol museums. And the zoo. I loved the zoo.

When we had kids, they could go to the same schools I attended and I could still work because Curt would be home to watch them. Not that I expected him to be Mr. Mom, but after all, he was going to be there.

He’d already visited home with me several times. Mom and Dad really liked him as a person and as their son-in-law-to-be. We’d gone back two weekends ago and he’d had a great time playing golf Saturday afternoon with Dad and Sam while I was the guest of honor at a wedding shower thrown by all my old friends. Establishing ourselves would be quick and easy; our life would be built on a firm foundation of love, friendships and church. It didn’t get much better.

When Curt walked in the door, all tall, gorgeous and wonderful with his black curly hair and broad shoulders, I was feeling very, very good about our future. God was definitely smiling on us.

Curt leaned down and gave me a quick kiss before he slid into the booth across from me. When he reached for my hands, I gladly reached back.

When Astrid appeared to take our order, she looked at me with a mix of commiseration and curiosity. “Merry, you poor thing! I read about Martha Colby in the paper. It must have been so traumatic finding her.”

I knew Astrid was fishing—she was always fishing. She saw herself as Amhearst Central—but I liked her anyway because she was so here-I-am-people-take-it-or-leave-it. I, on the other hand, always felt like shouting, “Here I am. Please like me.”

“I’ve had better mornings,” I agreed.

“I’ll bet.” Astrid now oozed sympathy. “Any idea who did it?”

“Not a one.”

“Huh.” Obviously disappointed, she pulled out her tablet. “What can I get you?”

We both asked for spaghetti with meatballs and parmesan peppercorn dressing on our salads, another sign of our similar outlooks on life. I gave Curt’s hand a little squeeze.

“So how come you’re serving?” Curt asked the brassy blonde who usually worked as hostess.

Astrid’s smile was sour, as far from her usual sunny expression as could be. “Since Annie quit. She’s leaving town to go to college and needs extra time to get ready, whatever that means. She gave us two days’ notice—two days! What is it with people today?—and we haven’t found a new server yet.”

I smiled at her. “Well, think of the tips you’ll be getting.”

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “Ferretti’s is a hotbed of high rollers.” She turned to leave, then stopped in her tracks, staring at a thin woman with dark hair too long for her age and dark circles under her eyes. The woman was sliding into a booth, newspaper in hand. “Well, well, so it’s true. She’s back in town.”

The woman looked up, saw Astrid staring at her and gave a tight smile.

“What’s she doing here tonight?” Astrid frowned. “You’d think she’d be too cut up to go anywhere.”

I looked at the woman as she laid the menu aside, began to unfold her paper, a copy of today’s
The News,
then paused to pull a pair of glasses from her purse. “Who is she?”

Astrid leaned on our table with both hands and dished. “Esther Colby. Or used to be Colby. I don’t know what her name is now. She disappeared a long time ago, thirty years or something like that. Quite a scandal when she walked out on her family.”

Astrid shook her head as if she didn’t understand such behavior. “I always felt sorry for Steve Colby, who’s a nice guy, if you ask me. Left him with their little girl. Of course, he eventually married Nanette, and they have kids, too. But I don’t think he ever heard from Esther after she took off.” Astrid glanced surreptitiously at Esther. “And now that little girl is dead. Esther should just leave again and let Steve and Nanette grieve in peace.”

“Esther Colby?” I watched in fascinated horror as the woman began reading the paper. “As in Martha’s mother?”

“Yeah. Quite a homecoming present, huh?”

The dark-haired woman gave a sudden cry. She was staring at the front page of the paper and I knew exactly what she was reading because I had written it.

Her hand went to her mouth as her face became a mask of horrified disbelief. “Oh, no!”

Astrid paled. So, I’m sure, did I.

“She didn’t know,” Astrid said. “Now I feel terrible dissing her like that.”

I nodded as I watched Esther Colby grab her purse and bolt for the door, the paper fluttering to the floor forgotten. Of course the police hadn’t notified her. They probably didn’t even know she was in Amhearst. Maybe Steve Colby didn’t, either, or, if he did, didn’t know where to reach her.

Astrid shook her head. “I guess your daughter is still your daughter, even if you did abandon her.” Looking thoughtful, she wandered off toward the kitchen.

I stared at Curt, trying to imagine what it was like to find out your daughter had been murdered by reading about it in the paper.

Curt was watching me, concern evident in his eyes. “Are you okay?”

I nodded. “I just feel bad for her.”

He shrugged. “I feel worse for Steve Colby though. And Nanette. Astrid’s right. They are nice people.”

“How do you know them?”

“Steve was my high school math teacher, believe it or not. Then when I taught, he became a professional friend. Since I stopped teaching, we haven’t seen much of each other, but I’ve been thinking of him all day.”

“Did you know Martha?” He hadn’t mentioned knowing her earlier today when he stopped at work.

He nodded. “Not well, though. She ran with a different crowd than I did.”

“With Mac and his friends.”

He nodded. “All of them nice enough in their own way, but too wild for me, especially back then.” He grinned. “I was a good kid.”

I had to laugh. “I bet.”

Astrid showed with our iced teas, salads and crusty Italian bread. When she left, Curt asked, “Is there anything new on the murder?”

I blinked as every horrible memory rushed back like high tide streaming into the Bay of Fundy. I poked at my salad without much appetite.

“Not much new, but I did learn that there was a new boyfriend.” I told him all Mrs. Wilson had said, then proceeded to make her wielding of the burglar bar into a lighthearted story. Curt laughed in all the right places and telling the story replaced the image of Martha with that of a little old lady with too-black hair, restoring my appetite.

“Good grief!” I said as I finished. “I forgot. I can’t believe I forgot.”

I dropped my salad fork on my plate and reached into my purse. I pulled out the diary I’d trod on, taking care to hold it by one corner with my napkin. I showed it to Curt. “Martha’s, I think. I found it on the back patio just before Mrs. Wilson came after me.”

“How’d it get there?” He reached for it.

I pulled it back. “Uh-uh. Fingerprints. I think either Ken or the new boyfriend dropped it when they left by the back door. Photos were missing from in the house, too, and the bathroom had been ransacked.”

Curt looked at me thoughtfully and I squirmed under his gaze. I braced myself.

“I don’t think I’ll ask how you know all this, though I’m willing to bet William didn’t tell you.”

Relief swept through me. He wasn’t going to give me a hard time about my B and E.

He continued, “It sounds like somebody covering tracks.”

“I think so, too.” I frowned as I stared at the red book. “I leafed through it quickly when I found it and I saw the name
Mac.
That scares me, Curt.”

Curt looked thoughtful. “You said Martha was hit with a rock, right?”

I nodded, the vision of the blood and hair on the murder weapon making me shudder.

“I can’t see Carnuccio doing something like that. He certainly hasn’t always been a model citizen, but there’s a great distance between womanizing and drinking too much and committing murder.”

I nodded. “I agree. And I don’t think he’d be seeing Martha at the same time he was seeing Dawn. He’s too crazy about Dawn to do anything to jeopardize their relationship.”
I hope, I hope, I hope.

“Yeah, but he is used to women who will sleep with him—and Dawn won’t.”

Our spaghetti arrived and saved me from having to defend Mac. We spent the next few minutes eating and it was a relief to put the mystery aside. As I twirled my last few strands of spaghetti, I couldn’t keep my good news to myself any longer.

“You’ll never guess who called me today.” I knew I must be wearing a silly smile.

Curt paused with a forkful of meatball halfway to his mouth. He gave me the look that said, “You’re right. I can’t guess.”

“Mr. Henrey!” I gestured excitedly as I said it, forgetting the twirled spaghetti on my fork. The tail end lashed out and a great blob of red sauce flew unerringly through the air to land on Curt’s white polo right over his heart. We both started at the red mark, me appalled, he with resignation.

“I almost wore red,” he said. “But I told myself that I was mature enough to eat spaghetti without getting it all over myself. I forgot about you.”

He looked so forlorn that my guilt meter went zinging over the top. At the same time I had to slap my hand over my mouth to curb my inappropriate laughter. “I’m sorry!”

“I can tell.” His voice was sardonic.

“I am. Really. I’ll wash it for you. I can get the stain out.” I think.

He nodded. “You do realize that this wouldn’t have happened if you cut your spaghetti instead of twirling.” He pulled one side of his shirt out of his pants.

“I’ve worried about our union of twirler and cutter. Such a vast chasm of difference. What will it do to our children? And what are you doing?” By now his shirt was completely untucked.

“You can’t wash it with me in it.” He spoke with a perfectly straight face.

“No shirt, no food,” I reminded him and ate the offending forkful.

He gestured to his spaghetti, what little remained, all hacked into tiny pieces. “I’ve already got the food. What are they going to do? Take it back? And who’s Mr. Henrey?” he asked as he tucked himself back in.

I grinned at him. I loved this man. “My old boss at
The Chronicle.
”

Curt raised an eyebrow.

I took a deep breath and said with pride, “He offered me a job, a great job.” I gave him all the facts. “Isn’t that fabulous?” I leaned back as Astrid cleared our table. “We can buy a house with lots of windows and great light for your studio and it can be near my parents. We can go to my old church. You can paint western Pennsylvania things and have your work hung in western Pennsylvania galleries. And when I get an unexpected assignment, you can watch the kids for me because you’ll be home working. Can you imagine anything better?”

I looked at him expectantly and realized with surprise that he had pulled back, literally, leaning against the back of the seat, and figuratively, folding his arms over his chest.

“First,” he said, his chin raised in challenge, “if I’m working, I will not be able to watch kids, either in Amhearst or Pittsburgh or anywhere else. You need to understand that. When I’m working, I’m as unavailable as you are when you’re working.”

“Okay.” Inconvenient but understandable.

“I mean it, Merry. I may work at home, but that doesn’t mean I’m on call. I’m not.”

“I get it.” My voice was a bit tart.

“Good.” He added cream to the coffee Astrid had just brought. “And when does this marvelous opportunity of yours start?” His voice was still cool.

“As soon as.”

“Huh.”

That was it? Huh?

“I know it’s a surprise,” I said, leaning forward, trying to understand his attitude like a good fiancée. “I was surprised, too.”

“You didn’t contact him first?”

I blinked at the chill washing across the table. “You mean as in apply for the job? Are you kidding? Without consulting you?”

Curt just stared, his eyes sober behind his lenses.

I was offended. “Do you really think I’d do something like that behind your back? We’re getting married. Married people make decisions together.”

The frost thawed somewhat as he nodded, apparently satisfied that I wasn’t as nefarious as he’d feared.

“Give me some credit,” I muttered, peeved that he even thought I might do such a thing. And he’d squelched my joy. I felt flat where I’d expected to feel as if I were soaring. I swallowed my resentment, forced a smile and asked, “So, want to move to Pittsburgh with me?” Sensing the wintery atmosphere once again lowering to frostbite temps, I added, “Of course, we would have to give Mac plenty of time to replace me and you plenty of time to get used to the idea.”