ILL-TIMED ENTANGLEMENTS (The Kate Huntington mystery series #2) (7 page)

“I understand, Mrs. Carroll. I’m a psychotherapist so I am certainly aware of confidentiality restrictions on medical records and such. But anything you do feel comfortable sharing, such as your impressions of their personalities, would be very helpful.”

Despite her protests, once Kate got the woman talking, she was a fount of information. Kate scribbled notes as quickly and unobtrusively as possible, while nodding and making tell-me-more noises.

When Mrs. Carroll wound down a bit, Kate prompted, “What about the Morrises? I notice they were the only couple who were both in the writers’ group.”

“Oh, they’re a sad case. You know Mrs. Morris is no longer with us.” Kate shook her head slightly, even though she did know that the woman was dead. She wanted to keep the director talking.

“Yes, the poor dear, she died just a year after they moved here,” Mrs. Carroll said. “I feel sorry for Mr. Morris, although he is a bit of a difficult man. Quite frankly I don’t know how Mrs. Morris put up with him all those years.”

•   •   •

The rest of Kate’s morning was quite frustrating. At three of the apartments she’d tried, no one answered the doorbell. The two women she did catch up with said they hadn’t really known Doris all that well. But they’d only admitted that after they’d plied her with refreshments and tried to pump her for information about the murder investigation.

At eleven-fifty, Kate was sitting in the atrium in the center of Betty’s apartment building. She had just called in at the Franklins’ for an Edie fix. After Samantha had reassured her that the baby was doing fine, she had held the phone to the little girl’s ear so Kate could tell her how much Mommy loved and missed her.

Trying to distract herself from her homesickness, Kate was re-writing her scribbles from her interview with Mrs. Carroll, so Betty would be able to make sense of them. Her notes covered the small wrought iron table, nestled amongst lush plants that were thriving in the filtered light from skylights two stories above her head.

She was just finishing her task when someone tapped her on the shoulder. She jumped a little, then looked up into Skip Canfield’s smiling face.

Kate smiled back, glad that reinforcements had arrived and also, she realized, glad to see him. “Hi,” she said, gesturing to one of the chairs on the other side of the little table. She noted that changing roles from bodyguard to private investigator did not mean he was letting himself go. His tall body still looked quite buff. She blushed a little when she realized she had been staring a bit too long at his broad shoulders and muscular chest, clothed in a crisply ironed tan shirt. That matched the gold flecks in his hazel eyes, she noticed.

The hem of his shirt hung loosely over his dark slacks to cover the pistol that Kate knew, from their past association, would be tucked in a waistband holster at the small of his back.

Kate started filling Skip in on their efforts so far, but she was distracted by Frieda and another woman who were sitting on a bench across the atrium from them.

Frieda waggled her fingers at Kate by way of a greeting but did not interrupt her conversation. The other woman was apparently partially deaf because she kept saying in a loud voice, “What did you say, Frieda? Speak up.” It was also apparent that Frieda was trying not to speak up any more than was necessary, no doubt because she was gossiping.

Kate was attempting to ignore them so she could finish her report to Skip when the words, “Betty’s book” and “poker,” caught her attention. Frieda and her bench mate were apparently talking about the murder.

Skip had noticed Kate’s divided attention. He followed her line of vision. Just as he located the cause of her distraction, there was a rustling movement in the plants behind the women’s bench. Skip and Kate exchanged a quick glance, then went back to discreetly observing the ladies. Skip leaned forward, letting his straight brown hair, worn slightly longer than a traditional male haircut, fall across the side of his face. He could now watch the women out of the corner of his eye, while he appeared to be concentrating on Kate’s face.

Kate only caught the occasional word, mostly names, some of which she recognized from the list of the writers’ club members. Frieda said “Morris” at one point. That reminded Kate that they needed to try again to interview Mr. Morris. She and Rob had knocked on his door several times over the weekend, but no one had answered.

A couple of moments later, the plants moved again. There were no drafts that Kate could detect in the atrium, but maybe there was an air-conditioning vent near the plants.

The women got up and parted company. The plants rustled. Frieda headed toward a door that was adorned with a wreath of dried flowers. Before entering her apartment, she turned and gave Kate an exaggerated wink.

Kate and Skip discreetly watched the plants for another minute. They remained still. Kate looked at Skip. He shrugged, just as her stomach growled loudly.

“Still have a hearty appetite, I see.” Skip grinned at her.

“Yes, and I don’t have pregnancy as an excuse anymore. Let’s get some lunch in the cafeteria while I finish filling you in.”

“Mrs. Franklin isn’t joining us?”

“No, she’s eating her meals in her apartment for now. Says she’s not ready to deal with the funny looks and comments behind her back.”

Once they had selected their food in the cafeteria, they settled at a table some distance from those occupied by other diners. It only took a few minutes for Kate to finish her summary of what had been accomplished so far.

While they ate their sandwiches in companionable silence, Kate was reminded of another time, months ago, when they had sat eating sandwiches as Skip had explained his incongruous nickname to her. To make conversation, she said, “You told me before how you came by your nickname as a kid. But I’m curious. Why did you keep it as an adult?”

“Actually I talked to my dad about changing it, when I was a teenager. I was tired of being picked on at school because of it. By that time my grandfather, Reginald William, Sr., had died. I didn’t really want to go by Bill. That was my father’s name. And the last thing a teenager wants to be is more like his parents, so Bill was out.

“My dad suggested I go by Reggie, now that Gramps was gone. Well, that lasted less than a day. The bullies at school who had made fun of Skip went into hysterics when I informed them that my real name was
Reggie.
They ganged up on me and almost beat me to a pulp before a teacher finally intervened.

“I decided from that day forward, I would be Skip. I wasn’t letting a bunch of bullies define who I was. I also started working out, and then I had a big growth spurt. By the end of that school year, I was bigger and stronger than the leader of the bullies. Suddenly they weren’t so eager to pick on me.”

Kate laughed. “And heaven help anybody who’s snickered at your name since then, huh?”

“Any guy that is. With the ladies, I just charm them with the image of me as a cute little baby named Skippy,” he said, as an easy-going grin spread across his face.

Kate chuckled again and realized that she was feeling more relaxed than she had in days. She smiled back at him.

“I can understand the whole identity issue thing,” she said. “My husband was a junior. It
is
certainly tougher to sort out who you are as a teen when you’re carrying around someone else’s name. As a kid my husband was called Eddie to differentiate him from Ed, Sr. Once he was an adult, his mother and I were the only ones who could get away with calling him that. It got pretty confusing at family get-togethers whenever someone referred to Ed. You were never quite sure who they meant.”

Kate hoped she was successfully covering up the fact that her eyes were stinging with unshed tears and there was a lump in her throat from talking about her late husband.

Unfortunately for Skip, she
had
succeeded. His face now serious, he said, “Uh, Kate… I was wondering if you would consider maybe having dinner with me some time?”

One of the tears escaped and trickled down her cheek.

“Damn! Kate, I’m sorry. I guess it’s too soon, huh?” Skip handed her his handkerchief and scooted his chair a bit closer so he could pat her arm.

Kate nodded as she dabbed at her eyes, momentarily distracted by the random thought that men of her generation rarely carried cloth handkerchiefs. It was a dying tradition.

When she could trust her voice, she said, “I’m sorry, Skip. But thank you for asking. A girl always likes to know she’s still attractive.” She gave him a small smile, as she returned the damp handkerchief.

Skip flashed her his easy-going grin again.

She couldn’t help noting that his personality was very much like Eddie’s.
Cut that out,
she thought. It really was way too soon, and she wasn’t at all sure that any man could ever live up to her husband’s memory.

They became aware of the silence in the room and looked around. It was not because they were alone, but rather the other diners had stopped eating and were enjoying the show. “Oh, great. It looks like we’ve become the latest installment in
Days of Our Lives
,” Kate said.

Skip laughed nonchalantly. He stood up and said, in a louder than normal voice, “If you’re done, darlin’, shall we go?” As Kate rose to her feet, he took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm. She stifled a snicker as he escorted her from the dining room.

Once in the hall, Kate tugged her hand free and lightly smacked his arm. “You’re terrible,” she said, laughing.

“Aw, come on. We made their day.” He smiled down at her, his hair flopping onto his forehead.

“I gotta warn you, Kate.” His expression turned serious as he brushed the hair back with long slender fingers. “I’m a very patient man. I
will
be asking again.”

Kate wasn’t sure what to say so she opted for a small smile.

•   •   •

Back at Betty’s building, they headed for the second floor to interview Mr. Morris. His apartment was along a walkway that surrounded the second level of the open atrium area. He would have had a lovely view of the foliage and small fountain below, if it weren’t for more lush plants, in large clay pots, sitting on a small shelf at the top of the walkway’s railing.

Kate figured the community’s management meant well. They were trying to make the buildings attractive. But there was a little too much greenery in her opinion. She was starting to feel like she was in a jungle.

Skip rang Mr. Morris’s doorbell. After several moments with no response, he rapped on the door. A gruff “Go away!” came from inside.

“Sorry to bother you, sir,” Kate called through the door. “We just need to ask you a few questions.”

The door cracked open slightly. Kate had a quick impression of a lean, wiry man, average height, his weathered face scowling at her. “You the police?” the old man demanded.

“No but…” Before she could say more, the door was slammed in her face.

“Then go away!” came from the other side of it.

Now Kate knew what Mrs. Carroll had meant about Mr. Morris’s personality. Apparently “a bit difficult” was the local euphemism for totally obnoxious.

Skip and Kate succeeded in interviewing two of the married couples on their list, to explore the flirtation/jealousy issue. The others had not been home. Then they split up, Skip going in search of the maintenance man while Kate attempted to track down more of the women on her list of those who knew Doris.

As Kate walked past the door with the flowered wreath on the lower level of Betty’s building, the door opened and Frieda stuck her head out. “Hey, Kate, can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Sure.” Kate followed the older woman into her apartment.

Once they were settled in her living room, Frieda said, “I heard a rumor that the murder weapon was a poker. Have you heard anything about that?”

Kate wasn’t sure how to answer her. She didn’t want to fuel the rumor mill but she also didn’t want to lose Frieda’s trust. “The detective mentioned something along those lines,” she finally said.

Frieda nodded at this confirmation, then changed the subject. “Who’s that strapping young man I saw you with earlier?”

“He’s, uh, another friend of the family. Rob asked him to come up and help us clear Betty’s name.”

“Looked to me like he’s sweet on you.” Frieda grinned at her, a sly look in her eye. “The way he was leaning forward, gazing into your eyes.”

Kate resisted the urge to laugh. “No, he’s just a friend.” She wasn’t about to tell Frieda that Skip had been attempting to disguise his surveillance of her and her bench mate.

“Uh huh, you go right on believing that, honey, but I say he’s sweet on you.” Frieda glanced at Kate’s left hand. Her eyebrow shot up at the sight of a wedding band and diamond ring.

“I’m a widow,” Kate said. “A relatively recent widow actually, so I’m not ready to date yet.”

Frieda’s expression shifted to remorseful. “I’m so sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to stir up something painful.”

“That’s okay,” Kate said gently. “It’s not a completely healed wound, but it’s not a fresh one either.”

Frieda decided it was time for another change of subject. “The main reason I wanted to talk to you, Kate… I hope Betty doesn’t find out about this, but some folks are acting as if it’s a given that she did kill Doris.”

Shocked, Kate sat forward. “How could anybody who knows Betty assume that?”

“These weren’t people who know her all that well.”

“Who was it?”

“I’d rather not say,” Frieda replied.

Kate thought,
Hell of a time for a gossip to get coy.
Out loud, she said, “Frieda, this could be important. One of those people could be the killer.”

“Well, one of the times was when a group of people were talking. They were standing in front of me in line for dinner the other night. Can’t remember if it was Friday or Saturday. Their conversation kind of evolved from the police suspect Betty to maybe she really did it, and then to she must have done it. I don’t even know most of their names, they’re from a couple buildings over, but I do remember that the Forsythes were there.”