Death of an Irish Diva (15 page)

Vera was not happy about it, but Beatrice insisted on having the Reillys over again.

“When I invited them, I didn't know you and Lizzie would be living here.”

Beatrice leaned into the open oven and pulled out her roasting chicken, then slid it back in.

Vera felt the heat from the oven in a wave.

“So maybe Lizzie and I will go to DeeAnn's Bakery or something,” Vera said.

“I won't hear of it.” Beatrice stood up and slid off her oven mitt. “What is the problem? They seem like nice people.”

“It's just awkward now that I know that Kelsey is their niece. I mean, how strange is that? And they are living in my house. The house I shared with Bill.”

“Life is full of these things, Vera. You've been too sheltered.”

“Sheltered?” Vera flung her arms around.

Jon walked in the room. “Wow, it smells very good in here.”

Vera smiled at him. “Is Lizzie awake yet?”

He nodded. “Soon. She's getting to be a good napper.”

“I think she's still in recovery mode,” Vera said, reaching for cornmeal. She was making corn biscuits to go with their chicken. The menu also included collard greens with bacon drippings and corn. There would be strawberry pie for dessert, already in the refrigerator.

Beatrice saw that Vera had everything under control with the corn biscuits, and so she and Jon sat down for some tea on the back patio and looked out over where their pool would be. Should have been by now. But the state archeologist had hit the mother lode in Beatrice's backyard. She never knew who would come traipsing through her yard next. Most of them were nice young men, but a few of them had foul mouths and once left some soda bottles lying around. That would be the last time they did that. She grinned.
Bet they don't know a sweet-looking little old lady even knows words like that.

“So have you given much thought to Willa Rose?” Jon asked.

“Yes, but not as much as you would think. But I did talk to Paige about it. I don't think she'd mention it to anybody else. With everything going on. Lizzie in the hospital. Them moving in. And now this business with Vera getting hypnotized.”

“What? I missed something,” he said. “Hypnotized?”

“Oh. Well, Vera wants to be led through the murder scene. She asked her shrink about it. He thought it would be best if she was hypnotized while they were doing it. It's very strange, if you ask me,” she said.

“Well, that is strange. Did I hear that right?” a new voice chimed in. It was Leola Reilly.

“Hey, hello,” Beatrice said. “Come in. Come in.”

After they were situated on the patio, with Vera still in the kitchen, the conversation resumed.

“So they are going to hypnotize Vera?” Leola looked a little too concerned.

“Oh yes. Well, you know.” Beatrice shrugged. She wasn't sure if she liked this woman knowing much of her business. “She's been sleepwalking, and they are just looking for the cause. Trying everything they can think of.”

She looked at Jon, and he nodded. “Well done,” his eyes seemed to tell her.

Just then Vera squealed, and a loud crash came from the kitchen.

When Beatrice arrived on the scene, Vera was helping a red-faced John Reilly up off the floor. He was slicking back his hair, which had been messed up a bit. A full head of gray hair.

“I'm so sorry,” a flustered Vera said. “I don't know what got into me.”

“What? What happened?” Leola ran to her husband's side.

“I—” Vera started to say.

“I'm sorry, Vera. I didn't mean to startle you,” he said. “I came up behind her to get a good look at what she was doing, and the next thing I knew, I was on the floor.”

Beatrice looked at her daughter and knew there was more to the story. “Never come up behind a Matthews woman,” Beatrice said after a few moments. “We're tougher than we look,” she added and managed a weak laugh.

“Now what can I get everybody to drink?” Jon said, breaking the tension. Jon led them all into the sitting room and took their drink requirements.

Beatrice watched him go, then spun around to face Vera, lifted her eyebrows.

“He pinched me, Mama,” Vera said.

“Surely not!”

“Shall I pull my pants down for you to see the mark I'm sure he left on my bottom?”

“Humph,” Beatrice said. “That's not necessary. But what on earth would get into a person?”

“Men, Mama,” Vera said. “None of them are to be trusted.”

She turned and poured her batter in the already warmed cast-iron skillet. It made a hissing noise.

What was the world coming to when a man pinched another woman while his wife sat in the next room? It was so crass.

Vera set the skillet in the oven.

“Now, give that about fifteen minutes,” she said, almost to herself. She then turned around and said to her mother, “I hope you won't mind if I leave now. I told you I don't like these people. I'd rather not break bread with them. Lizzie and I will go out, maybe to Annie's or DeeAnn's, but I can't stay here.”

What had gotten into Vera? There was a day when she'd have kept her mouth shut and stayed and helped out, like a good daughter. Well, she couldn't blame her for this. What right did he have to help himself to a feel of her daughter? She had no choice but to carry on with the dinner party; she didn't want to humiliate his wife. But she'd never ask them back here again. Beatrice took a deep breath. How would she manage not to throttle this man? Well, evidently, her daughter just about had. Beatrice beamed. She stood back and surveyed her daughter, a stronger Vera than ever before. Older. Wiser. A single mother. A woman who would not put up with a man pinching her bottom. Sometimes Beatrice caught glimpses of her daughter that almost took her breath away. She was so busy worrying about her that sometimes she forgot to see her for who she really was.

“Well, now,” Beatrice said, “I think you should go when Lizzie wakes up. And I wish I could go with you. I can promise you he won't be welcome in this house again.”

“Thanks, Mama,” Vera said, kissed her on the cheek, and exited the room.

“I have a bellyache,” Sam groaned when Annie tried to wake him that morning. She felt his head, and he burned with fever.

“Okay, sweetie, go back to sleep,” she told him. He slunk back into a sea of blankets, looking like a little rumpled ball.

Meanwhile, his brother was up, dressed, and hungry.

Mike was in the kitchen, pouring a cup of coffee. “What's wrong?”

“Sam's sick,” she replied, reaching for the Cheerios box and a bowl. “I told him to stay in bed.”

“This one will probably get sick, too,” Mike said, reaching for Ben, picking him up, and placing him on a kitchen chair.

She sighed, placing the cereal bowl down in front of her son.

“You have work to do?”

“I always have work to do, Mike,” she said, reaching for the cup of coffee she had poured herself before Sam called her back to his room. The coffee was already tepid. “Have you looked over your schedule?”

“Yeah,” he said, sitting down, pulling his chair in closer to the table. “Ben, eat with a spoon, please.”

“Ben!”

Yes, their child was lapping up his cereal like a dog.

“You know better,” Annie said, tousling his hair.

He looked at them and grinned. “Sorry,” he said.

“And?” Annie said to her husband.

“I just don't know when I can get away. Maybe two weeks. If the Grimsdale account goes well this week. Then I won't have to call on them that weekend.”

“Well, Mike, I can't make reservations without a definite date.”

“Yes, you can. Go ahead. Then we can cancel, if we need to,” he said in kind of a business tone, which annoyed Annie. You'd think she was asking him to a business conference rather than a romantic weekend.

“Well, do you even want to go?” she blurted.

He shrugged. “Obviously, it's important to you. So yeah, I want to go.”

Annie bit her lip. Ben was still there, finishing up his cereal. Was he going only to please her? Not because he wanted to spend time with her, get things back on track? Or didn't he realize they were as bad as what she thought they were?

“Oh, jeez,” he said. “I've got to get going. An early meeting.” He stood, then leaned down to kiss her.

“Have a good day,” she said, standing and placing Ben's cereal bowl in the sink. She glanced at her son's Cookie Monster backpack with the lunch box attached. She had remembered to pack it, sign all the forms, and send the money for a field trip next week, for which she was still awaiting word as to whether or not she'd be chaperoning.

Later, after Ben was gone and she'd given Sam a dose of Tylenol, she sat down at her computer to look up the Alicorn Agency. Very elegant Web site.

She clicked on the next page.

She clicked on
Partners.

Labs? Genetics?

So strange. An adoption agency partnered with labs? What were they doing? Growing children? What an absurd thought.

The hair on the back of Annie's neck prickled.

It was right there in black and white. What was their definition of
genetic purity?

Did she even want to know? And what was Emily McGlashen's interest in it? The coroner had confirmed that she was not pregnant when she was killed. Nor had she ever had a baby. Was she planning to adopt one of these children? That must be it.

Annie had read about successful women opting to adopt without a partner. She thought they were crazy, unless they had help. Single parenting was tough. Hell, parenting with two people was tough. She couldn't imagine embarking on parenting alone, although she had the utmost respect for those who did, like Vera. Even though Vera had a strong support system, when it came right down to it, she was alone.

But the question remained: what was Emily's interest here, and what did it have to do with her murder, if anything?

And...

There was this little piece of information that Annie could not seem to shake—that the NMO was also interested in genetic purity. A strange coincidence was that the investigation was leading her to an adoption agency and Emily was adopted.

No. Annie did not believe in this strong of a coincidence. There must be a connection.

She thought about Luther Vandergrift. Was Annie going to have to question him again? She dreaded it. Maybe she should take another tack. Look further into the adoption agency. The labs.

Man, it made Annie's head hurt. What a tangled set of circumstances. If she could just find the right thread to pull on.

“Mommy!” she heard Sam yell. Then came the horrible sound of him throwing up. She ran in the room just in time to see him and his bed covered in vomit.

“Mommy!” he cried.

“Hold on,” she said. “Don't move. I'll get the shower going, and we can just rinse it all off at one time.”

He sobbed, nodding his head, his face red from crying, and trying to stay as still as possible, difficult for any sick boy, but particularly this squirmy sick boy.

Poor boy. So sick.
Annie hoped that nobody else would get sick, but even as she hoped, she knew it was futile. She'd probably have Ben home tomorrow, as well. Maybe even Mike.

Annie held back the vomit she felt creeping up her throat. Happened every time one of the boys was sick. She could handle a lot of things, but puke was difficult. She'd find herself heaving soon enough.

When Vera opened the door, long-stemmed red roses met her, along with Eric Green's grinning face, which popped up around them. “Hello,” he said.

“Why, hello! Are those for me?”

“No, they're for me!” Beatrice said, coming alongside of her and laughing.

“Actually,” he said, “these are for Vera.” He handed them to her. “And these are for you, Ms. Matthews.” He handed her a box of chocolates.

“Well,” Beatrice said, “the boy's got class, just like his daddy. Come on in.”

Eric laughed as he entered their home. “It's been a long time since I've been called a boy.”

“C'mon in and have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?” Beatrice said.

“Thanks, Ms. Matthews, but our reservations are for eight and the restaurant is in Charlottesville. We'd better get going.”

“Let me just grab my purse,” Vera said, reaching for her handbag.

Vera's heart thumped. She'd always found him pleasantly attractive when she ran into him at the hospital, but she'd somehow not noticed his classic good looks. His hair fell in beautiful curls around his square face, and he had a dimpled chin, full lips, and those deep-set brown eyes. So intense looking.
Get a grip, Vera. It's just dinner. And remember, men are not to be trusted.

She wore a new old dress she'd found at a vintage shop in Charlottesville. It was a black, slimming little number that reminded her of Jackie O. She donned red heels, carried her red bag, and wore red lipstick, which used to drive Tony crazy.
Tony.
Funny, she hadn't even thought about him in months, and this time last year they were sleeping together every chance they got, given that he lived in New York and she in Cumberland Creek.

He drove a Mercedes, which was the beige one that Bill had admired over the years in various parking lots, mostly at the hospital. There was only one in town, and this was it. She had had no idea. She sank into the plush leather seat.
Yes,
she thought,
I could get used to this.
And she felt so comfortable with him.

“You know, Vera, I've admired you for many years,” Eric told her during dinner. “But you were always spoken for.”

“Thanks,” she said, noting the way the candlelight played against his skin. “I married Bill right out of college. Big mistake, I guess.”

He chuckled and took a sip of wine. “Well, my crush goes way back to high school.”

“High school? We didn't go to school together. . . .”

“No, but I saw you around, and our dads were good friends,” he said. “I remember reading an article about you in the paper when you were dancing in New York. And before that . . . well, you were always in the paper for winning awards, being homecoming queen, and I can't remember everything else.”

“Oh,” she said, feeling her face heat up. Was she blushing? And where had she been that she'd never noticed this Eric as a boy? Well, she always did have her head in the clouds, or rather on the stage. She didn't pay any attention at all to boys in high school. She did have a boyfriend, but nothing serious, just a boy to escort her to dances and parties.

“So, how is Lizzie?” he said, changing the subject, his dark eyebrows lifting.

“She is getting better, but she's still not quite herself,” she said. “Easy to get down to sleep these days, and that's not like her.”

“Active, huh?”

Vera nodded, noting the way his long fingers wrapped around his wineglass. A physician's hands. Hands that tended to the sick and traumatized. Just like her father's hands. She warmed.

“Where did you go to medical school?” she asked.

“University of Virginia. Where else?” he said.

“Oh my, yes. Where else?” she said. “Your daddy?”

He nodded. “I toyed with Princeton and even was accepted. But he wouldn't hear of it.”

Vera bit into her chicken, which, next to her mother's fried chicken, was the best she'd ever had. It was so tender that it almost melted in her mouth. The asparagus served alongside was cooked to perfection, as well.

He reached across the table and grabbed her hand. “You are such a beautiful woman. I just had to tell you that.”

Vera marveled at the sincerity of his remark, and the gesture seemed natural, as if they'd known each other for years.

Still, he was a man. Men were really not to be trusted.

He lifted her hand to his lips. She felt his breath with a soft kiss on her skin, and a tingle shot through her body.

Goodness.
She needed to be cautious. She felt her heart stirring just a bit.

There was a little weariness behind his eyes.

“Late night?” she asked.

“Delivering babies. It's not something I usually do,” he said. “But lately . . . well, I get house calls sometimes. And I've been doing some home deliveries.”

“Home deliveries?” Vera said, thinking of her own birthing experience. “What's wrong with people?”

He just laughed.

“It seems to be in fashion with some younger women,” he said, smiling. “What can I say?”

God, he was so handsome. Vera just wanted to bite his dimpled chin, but, of course, she held back.

Soft, jazzy music began to play, and several couples danced. The next thing Vera knew, she was swept away by her date, who happened to be a good dancer. She and Bill had never gone dancing. This was new, lovely, so divine, with their bodies moving together to the music. His touch was gentle but leading and strong.

Could she?

No. Of course not. Men were jerks. Led around by their interest in sex and not caring who they hurt in the meantime. Of course, some women were like that, too.

But when Eric grinned at her like that, it was hard to remember why she shouldn't trust him.

On the way home, she found out about his past. Divorced. No children. Just work and golf. She had always wished Bill had a hobby—other than the one that included his sleeping with young women.

When Eric pulled along the street and shut off the engine, she knew what was coming. Her heart raced. She started to sweat. He was going to kiss her. She didn't know quite what to do with herself. Should she lean into him? Open her mouth? Keep it closed? What if she had bad breath?

The moments between him stopping the car engine and him putting his arm around her were agonizing. But soon enough his lips found hers, and with just the gleam of the moon and a fading streetlight for light, they managed to find their way.

After necking in his car in front of her house like two teenagers, they said good night and kissed one more time. No, he wasn't Prince Charming, but this was a good start. A very good start.

After he drove off, she reached in her purse for the key and then dropped her purse on the porch. The door flew open. Beatrice stood there with her hands on her hips.

“Well?”

“Well, what, Mama?” She began scooting all the stuff into her purse.

“How did it go?”

“It was lovely,” she said, then touched some unfamiliar item. She looked at her hand, and there was a miniature gillie fashioned into a key chain. She gasped. “Where did this come from?”

“What is it?” Beatrice leaned over.

“It's a key chain made from a tiny gillie,” Vera said, holding it up.

“Well, what's it doing in your bag?”

“I've never seen it before in my life,” Vera said, a jolt of fear moving through her. Or had she? No. She was certain she'd never seen such a thing.

She shoved it into her purse and looked at her mother, who was shaking her head.

“It's not over,” Beatrice said, frowning. “I had hoped that when you moved in . . . Let me call Bryant.”

“Do we really have to? What can he tell us? Okay. Someone dropped this in my purse, but when and where? How long has it been there?”

“Didn't he record all the items in your purse? He should be able to tell us something.” Beatrice waltzed off to call him, leaving Vera holding her purse and sitting on the front doorstep.

She breathed in the chilly night air. It was a hell of an ending to a nearly perfect evening.