Maggie Dove (12 page)

“Yes,” she said. “Thank you.”

The phone was ringing when she walked into her house.

“Just wanted to see how you were doing,” Frank Bowman said. “Did you recuperate from last night?”

“I had a wonderful time, thank you very much.”

“You sound upbeat.”

“I am, I just went to talk to Bender's widow and I think I got a clue.”

She could hear him smiling over the phone. Funny how changing the shape of your lips made the sounds come out differently.

“A clue?”

“A little clue, but it's something.”

“May I ask what it is?”

“I've found out that Bender's first wife used Ecstasy to treat her Parkinson's. Well, you would be the person to ask. Did Winifred ever meet her?”

“What's her name?”

“Char. Char Bender.”

“No,” he said. “I don't recognize the name. But I can ask around if you like. Maybe someone else knows.”

“That would be wonderful.”

“Now I'll feel like the real Inspector Benet,” he said. She started, wondering how he even knew who Inspector Benet was, and then she realized Winifred probably spent hours talking about her and Inspector Benet and her husband and his fingers. Good grief. She began to blush. “Perhaps we could discuss our findings over dinner,” he said.

“I'd love that,” she said.

Such a small step, she thought. But such an important one. So many small steps lately. And now for the next challenge. Now to see Walter Campbell.

It was 3:00 on a Friday afternoon, which meant Walter Campbell would be at D'Amici's Deli. Maggie knew that in the same way she knew that Agnes had her hair done at Iphigenia's every Friday, or that Allison Cooper had her nails done every Wednesday, or that the town drunk would be standing outside the marina around 4:00. Because part of the pleasure of living in a small town was knowing its patterns. Its rhythms. Like the tide. So many of the children of the village moved away because they craved adventure. But Maggie loved the order, loved the way everything made a sort of sense.

Maggie knew she needed to talk to Walter Campbell, but she didn't want to do anything as official as make an appointment. That would put too much on the line. But she figured she could stop by D'Amici's and grab a late lunch. She wasn't surprised to see Hal Carter there, and Joe Mangione, who had answered her call when she'd intended to call 911. And Walter, of course, and Agnes, which was surprising. Even more surprising was that Agnes seemed to be in the middle of laughing at a dirty joke. A surprising woman. Though they all quieted the moment Maggie walked in. She had that effect on people, she supposed, because she'd been a Sunday School teacher for so long, or because of her looks, which were patrician. She felt badly about that, but wasn't the sort of person who would cut loose with some foul noise just for a laugh.

“You're slumming,” Agnes said to Maggie the moment she walked in.

“Hello, dear,” Joe said. He was still wearing his Darby-on-Hudson ambulance corps jacket. He was very proud of it; said he'd be buried in it and she believed him. “Let me get you a cup of coffee.”

He didn't actually work at the deli, but when Mr. D'Amici was hung over, which was quite often, Joe stepped in. Now he went behind the counter and poured her a cup.

“Sorry about your friend,” he said, as he handed her the hot cup. He also set a corn muffin on a napkin. She knew he'd accept no money for either. Generous and kind. When her minister got sick last year, Joe had brought her meals for a week, and he wasn't even religious. He just thought things should be done in a certain way.

“That Winifred. She was a pip,” Hal said. “I had to fix her furnace right before her second wedding. Do you remember that?”

“She was one of a kind.”

“I remember the time someone stole her pocketbook and she chased him down the street,” Agnes threw out. “Doesn't seem like someone who would be poisoned.”

They were quiet then. A poster of a naked woman hung in the corner. Two winning lottery tickets and an autographed picture of Elvis Presley. Some muffins the size of pumpkins were set on the counter. Walter still hadn't said anything. From the moment she walked in, she noticed him standing in the corner, but he hadn't spoken, smiled or anything else. He just stood, watchfully. Which was unnerving because he was a big man. He seemed even larger up close than he did at church. He had a massive face, something that should be etched in a rock. When they sang hymns, he always turned north, away from the direction of the choir, toward something unseen.

“I wonder if I might have a word with you, Walter,” she said, after a while, when the conversation began to wind down. The deli closed at 4. They'd all been up since 4 a.m.

“Uh-oh,” Hal said. “You're in trouble now, Walter.”

“Of course,” he said, as though he'd been expecting her to ask.

He was supposed to be a genius, she knew. He taught Sunday School too, though he preferred the older kids, grappling with the more serious issues. She'd heard him once leading a discussion on faith by action. One of the confirmands refused to write a faith statement and Walter kicked him out of the class. She'd protested because she didn't think anyone should be kicked out ever, but Walter had argued that if the church didn't believe in anything, there'd not be much point. She knew he was right, which made her dislike him more.

“Do you want to come to my office?” he asked.

“I'd rather just walk and talk, if you don't mind.”

Going to the office would make it too official, she thought. Also, it would alert Peter's co-workers. She knew how visible she was walking on Main Street, but she thought her motive might seem more innocuous.

“I wanted to talk to you about Peter Nelson,” she said. “I'm a friend of his.”

“I know,” Walter said, his voice an ominous rumble. The good-natured persona he'd exhibited in D'Amici's seemed to have disappeared. “They tell me he's been like a son to you.”

“That's true,” she said, and felt a throb of emotion, though she forced it back. She didn't want to be sidetracked, didn't want to be pitied, in any event, by this man who had made his millions and then deposited them so he could toy with his life and throw away his family. She felt a crushing desire to explain Peter to this man. She knew Peter didn't like him and knew Peter well enough to know that where there was dislike, there was always impudence. How to mend that fence.

“His mother died young,” he said.

“Yes, that's right. She was a gentle woman and her life became too harsh.”

“She killed herself.”

“No. Not intentionally. She lost hope. That's all it took.”

“She overdosed.”

A young couple walked past them, so fresh and neat, with a little plump baby swinging in a carrier.

“She mixed drugs and alcohol, but no one ever thought it was intentional. She was medicating herself, the best she knew. You know,” she said to this man, who probably thought he had complete charge of his life, “I've never agreed with that proverb that God doesn't give you more than you can bear. It seems to me that quite often He does.”

“And you a Sunday school teacher.”

“I love God. But I'm not entirely sure I trust Him. Or I do trust Him, but I don't understand Him. All I know is that Bettina Nelson was overwhelmed by her life. That's all.”

“And then you stepped in?”

“Yes, that's right. I always saw something special in him, even when he was a little Sunday School student. He's one of those people who would be great in wartime, who would hurtle himself in front of bullets in order to break through a barricade, but he had a terrible time with the law and order of a community. Still, he always tried to do the right thing. He's passionate about kids. He's very protective.”

Campbell didn't speak. They continued to walk down Main Street, in the direction of the river. A boy shot by on a bicycle, without a helmet, his feet splayed wide as he soared past them, his laugh a desperate cackle. Without thinking Maggie reached toward him, wanted to slow him down, though he was beyond them before she could do anything about it.

“He was in the car when your daughter died.”

“Yes, but that was hardly his fault.”

“I just wanted to separate fact from fiction,” Campbell said.

“She was seventeen years old. They went to a party. It was raining that night. They left early because she had a curfew. Eleven o'clock. They were at a stoplight on the Saw Mill. A van, coming south, skidding, jumped over the island and rammed into her. She had on her seatbelt. She was trapped. Peter didn't have his on and he was flung from the car.”

“Why wasn't he driving?”

He said it gently, with just the same tone as a doctor might mention that, oh, that lump wasn't what it seemed to be and you might need some more tests. She thought of the way the snake whispered his temptations to Eve. She threw out her chest. She would not let this man make suggestions.

“He was high. But she wasn't. She was perfectly sober, the designated driver.”

“She was driving his car. So it was unfamiliar to her.”

“She was perfectly familiar with that car and they were stopped at a stoplight. No one could have got out of that.”

“He had Ecstasy in his urine.”

“Yes, he did. And he had to go to court and he lost his driver's license and after that he vowed he would go clean, which he did. He devoted himself to helping kids, which is how he came to be a DARE officer. It wasn't his fault, but he blamed himself.”

“You don't blame him.”

“There is nothing to blame him for. He didn't do anything.”

Campbell shrugged. “You're a good woman, then. There would be many who would blame him, who might think had he been driving they wouldn't have been stopped right there.”

“You could go crazy thinking about things like that.”

They'd reached the park. He sat down on the bench and motioned for her to sit down as well, though she didn't. She gripped the metal edge of the bench for support. An empty Circle Line boat went past. Automatically she raised her hand to wave at it but there were no passengers aboard.

“I'm new to Darby, Ms. Dove. But I've learned quickly that a town like this has its own rhythm. Frankly, that's why I chose to work here and that's why I'm talking to you about this, though in any other context I'd consider it inappropriate. You say that Peter Nelson is a good man, but let me tell you the side of him I know. He's been on probation three times. He's the DARE officer in this town, and yet he oversaw a party at which children were drinking. I don't know whether he killed Bender, or Ms. Levy, although I can believe it. I understand he and Ms. Levy argued. About money. But the shock to my department is not one that I will soon forget. That man may go to jail or not, but he will not be a police officer here anymore. I can promise you that. And I can also promise you that we will do a most thorough investigation into these deaths. If Officer Nelson is responsible, he will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”

She stood still for a moment, heart pounding with anger. “You had your mind made up from the beginning. You dislike him and so you assume he's guilty,” Maggie cried out. “But are you looking at anyone else?”

“Of course we are checking out all suspects.”

“Did you talk to Noelle Bender?”

“I will,” Campbell said, faltering for just a moment.

“Did you happen to ask her about her background as a stripper, and the fact that Ecstasy is quite common in that community, and what about Bender's first wife, Char, who takes Ecstasy for Parkinson's? Do you know about any of that?”

He stood up, swaying slightly, reminding her of pictures she'd seen of statues being pulled to the ground. Lines from “Ozymandias” popped into her head.
Two vast and trunkless legs of stone stand in the desert…

“This is not a game, Ms. Dove.”

She pulled herself up to her full height, which wasn't much, but felt surprisingly powerful, under the circumstances. “No, it's not a game. We're talking about a man I love, who has devoted himself to me and to this town and I am damned if I will see you railroad him,” and with that she turned and strode away from Walter Campbell, remembering, as she walked, an expression her mother used to say that summed up the situation perfectly.
Well, chuck you, Farley.

Sanctimonious son of a gun. She hated Walter Campbell. He reminded her of Sir Thomas More, who had always annoyed her. A man who put faith before his family, rules before love. Who made his wife and daughters beg when what was at stake was his honor. As though anything was more important than love. Why did she think a man like Walter Campbell could even begin to understand what she was feeling? A man who left behind his family, who clearly didn't know what it was to love.

One thing Maggie knew for sure. Campbell wasn't going to stop her. She would not be bullied into giving up her quest. He had nothing to hold over her. He was nothing to her. She wasn't going to leave Peter in the hands of someone like that.

Playing a game? If anyone was playing a game it was Walter Campbell, setting himself up in his ridiculous house. She'd heard all about it. He'd claimed he wanted a simple life, but then he bought Margery Rusk's old house and tore out the inside so that it would be environmentally correct, with a generator in case of storms and heated floors and screens that went up and down at the touch of a button. Two million dollars' worth of renovations so he could live simply.

The idea that Peter would have murdered Winifred. Or
Ms. Levy,
as Campbell put it, as though anyone in this world had ever referred to Winifred that way. She was anything but Ms. Levy. She was always a Mrs. So what if Peter had argued with her. They were both argumentative people. They could each argue with a tree; it didn't mean anything. None of it made sense. And why would they argue about money? Peter knew she didn't have any. He could have come to Maggie if he needed money. He would have come to her. But someone had killed Winifred. With malice, someone had chosen to take her life, to put a tablet of poison into her food or medicine, with the intention of hurting her. Maggie shivered, feeling both afraid and angry. It was so wrong. So cruel.

Maggie trudged up Main Street, back in the direction of her house, feeling as though at any moment she might collapse forward. The cherry blossoms had blown off after the last storm, leaving the trees almost embarrassingly naked, the green leaves struggling to make up for what had been lost. They bent toward her, haggard from the wind, apologizing, it seemed to her, for their shame. She knew she should ask Peter about the argument, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. She staggered forward, repeating Winifred's name until she felt a car gliding behind her.

“Hey,” she heard someone yelling. “Hey, Miss Maggie. How you?”

She looked over to see her favorite real estate agent cruising along in a Bentley.

“Want a ride?”

“No thank you, Sybil.”

“Get in, Miss Maggie. You look like you're going to blow a fuse.”

Maggie got into the car and sank into its plushness. “This is fabulous,” she said. “I feel like I'm being laid out at my funeral.”

Sybil laughed heartily at that, her whole body quivering with humor. She was a good-natured girl. Her laughter could be heard booming all over town. Her entire family laughed. Sometimes Maggie ran into them at Applebee's and the whole restaurant reverberated with the noise. They all argued and swore and fought with one another and then made up in dramatic fashion. She'd always thought if she could have voted to join a family, that would be the one she'd choose.

“You must have made a good sale.”

Sybil laughed again. She had three chins and a plump build, all of which made her look cheerful and young. She'd been a few years older than Juliet, in the fast crowd. Used to stand on street corners smoking. Always good-natured though. Seeing her made Maggie wonder what Juliet would be like now. Would she have changed? Would they be close or would it be like Amy and Winifred, two people who just couldn't seem to find a way to connect.

“I sold the Blackwell house,” Sybil said.

“No kidding?”

That house had been on the market for years. It was a strange property because although the house itself was beautiful, it was on the grounds of the elementary school, which meant whoever lived there would be surrounded by laughing and playing children. Not such a terrible penalty, Maggie thought, but it had been unoccupied for years.

“One of the hedge-fund kings,” she said. “He won't be home during the day so he doesn't care about the kids. He liked the bones of the house. I bet he won't ever be there.”

“Good for you. You were patient.”

“I knew it would sell. You just have to take a long-term view. Like writers, right?”

She guffawed at that.

“You planning on selling your place anytime soon, Miss Maggie?”

“No, I don't plan to be breathing when they drag me out of my house,” Maggie said.

“I could get you a two-bedroom condo. Right on the river. Or there's a nice unit up at Riverside, with a balcony and a pool. You wouldn't need to worry about anything, and it would be cheaper.”

“I'm not worried about the money,” Maggie said, which was true. Thanks to royalties from her late husband's work, she was well set financially. “That house has been in my family for generations, so I can't sell it, even though I know it's silly. It will pass out of the family when I die, but still, I'd like to keep it in the family as long as I can.”

“I'm sorry,” Sybil said. “I'm so stupid.”

“No, don't apologize. I didn't want you to feel bad. I just wanted to explain why I couldn't sell it.”

“You must miss her all the time,” Sybil said.

Funny, Maggie thought, how some people could say things and she'd feel insulted, and other people could say the same exact thing and it felt like a release. Something about this warmhearted girl touched her. Her eyes began to tear.

“Oh Maggie Dove,” Sybil said, wrapping her arms around her.

“You poor thing,” Maggie said, rubbing her nose. She was like a child. Her nose ran whenever she felt emotion. “You ask one question and I fall apart.”

They'd made it into her driveway at this point, and she wasn't sure whether she wanted to run into her house or sit in the Bentley a while longer. She suspected she looked like a raccoon. In front of her loomed Bender's house, deflated after Bender's death. Although only a week had passed, it already looked overgrown. There were some ash trees in the corner, rolled-up leaves still clinging to the branches, having survived winter somehow and unwilling to let go, not letting go until the green leaves pushed them out, and then their curled-up bodies would scatter everywhere, hunched up from their suffering.

“There's someone who's likely to need a real estate agent soon.”

“I thought that too,” Sybil said. “But she doesn't own the house. It belongs to the first wife.”

Again back to the first Mrs. Bender, Maggie thought. A woman with Parkinson's. A woman with more than enough reason to want to kill Marcus Bender. But not a woman who seemed to have a reason to kill Winifred.

“Isn't that unusual?”

“Nothing's unusual in real estate,” Sybil said. “I guess he wanted to make sure his young wife didn't have cause to murder him. So he arranged it that she wouldn't get anything if he died. Must not have trusted her much.”

“She didn't get custody of the children either,” Maggie said. “They must have gone back to the first wife. Did you meet her at the closing?”

“Not at the closing, no. She had a proxy acting for her because she had a harp concert.”

“She's a harpist?”

Sybil shrugged. “I guess so. She told me that she'd practiced for years and finally was making progress, when she found out she had Parkinson's. She wouldn't be able to use her hands much longer, so she wanted as much time to herself as she could get. I guess that's why she didn't care that much about Bender moving on.”

“That seems a little cold.”

“I once went to a closing,” Sybil said. “Man and wife, married thirty years. He told her he wanted her to improve the house, so they'd get top dollar. She spends a year fixing and caulking and painting. Goes to the closing, buyers write the check and he snatches it right away from her. Turned out he had another wife in mind. That was cold.”

“Let me ask you this,” Maggie said, “did Winifred have anything to do with Bender's first wife?”

“I don't think so. Maybe. They might have talked together on the phone.”

It made no sense, Maggie thought. Even if Winifred did talk to her, why would that make the first wife want to kill her? But somebody killed Winifred. And it wasn't Peter, and it didn't seem to be Noelle. The first wife was as close as Maggie had to a suspect. She had to pursue it. She would call her and set up a meeting. She spent an hour trying to come up with some reasonable excuse for wanting to talk to her, but then she had a burst of revelation. She would try the truth.

“I'm trying to figure out who killed my friend,” she said to Char Bender when she reached her. “Would you mind if I come by tomorrow afternoon and ask you some questions?”

“I'm very busy,” Char said.

But she relented.

For the rest of the night, Maggie went through her library, trying to understand what she was up against. She read through books about poisoners. She read about how Ecstasy might be introduced. It could be a pill, she read, or it could be in liquid. Death would be preceded by palpitations, blurry vision, dry mouth, confusion, agitation, dehydration, liver failure. Not an easy way to die.

Suddenly the force of losing Winifred smacked Maggie in the face. How she wished her best friend were here for her to talk to. She touched the window, cold and remorseless, and thought how she had stood by it, thinking to throw a rock at Bender. Grief gnawed her. This was the terrible part, that it throbbed. Never went away. She sank down on her couch and the phone rang and she lunged for it, hoping that it would be Frank, which surprised her. She hadn't realized until she picked up the phone how much she'd been hoping that he'd call. Foolishness. But it wasn't Frank. It was Harriet Evans from church, contacting her to say that they'd called an impromptu meeting of the Dining Out Club and they wanted to take her out to dinner.

“That's very sweet of you,” Maggie said. “But it's not necessary.”

“You've been through a hard time, Maggie Dove, and now's the time to have your friends around you. We won't take no for an answer.” Harriet was not a forceful person and Maggie suspected someone else had written out the words.

“We're going to that new Thai place. Helen Blake says it's good and Penny's gout is better so we're going to risk it. Next Friday night. Six o'clock.”

“Okay, thank you.”

“And you can bring that man with you, if you want. The one you went out with the other night.”

“Thank you,” Maggie said, wondering, as she hung up the phone how on earth anyone in this town kept a secret. She hadn't even gone out with Frank in Darby-on-Hudson. She hadn't even run into someone she knew. Was she being followed? Was there a secret Darby-on-Hudson cabal who kept track of 62-year-old Sunday School teachers and who they ate dinner with? Feeling rebellious and impulsive, two emotions she almost never felt, Maggie decided to make a call.