Martinis and Mayhem (25 page)

“I couldn’t sleep,” she continued. “Later that night I heard the garage door open. I got up and looked out my window. I saw Daddy’s car being driven into the garage. I thought it might be Daddy, but then saw that the driver had blond hair. I came downstairs and saw Nancy. And you, Mom. You looked so different wearing that blond wig. Remember? You saw me leaning over the banister and started screaming at me. Nancy grabbed the wig off your head and told me to go back to bed.

“I had plans to go shopping with Kimberly at the mall that morning. You’d said it was okay for me to do that. You even encouraged me to go with her. That was really strange because you were usually against my seeing her. While I was getting dressed that morning, I heard the car start up in the garage. I looked out my window and saw you drive off, Mom.”

Now she started to cry openly.

“What I didn’t know was that my daddy was in the trunk. You killed him that night. You and Mr. Frederickson and Nancy.” She buried her face in her hands, and Kimberly hugged her.

“I need to finish,” she said, taking a deep, prolonged breath. “I remembered at breakfast, you said I couldn’t go to the mall, Mom, because you said Kimberly had called to cancel and was worried about where Daddy was. I wanted to call her, but of course you said I couldn’t. You hadn’t told me the real reason I wouldn’t be seeing Kimberly, that Daddy was dead, and that Kimberly would be blamed for his murder.”

Now I took over: “I know what happened next,” I said. “I know it from the diary Kimberly has kept since going to prison. She gave me that diary when I visited her there. What you’d actually done that morning, Joan, was to call Kimberly to say that Ellie couldn’t join you. You told her Ellie was sick and still sleeping. A lie. But then you encouraged Kimberly to buy Ellie a little something to make her feel better about having missed out on her mall excursion with you. According to what Kimberly wrote in her diary, you sounded anxious that she buy Ellie a gift. A big change in what had been your earlier attitudes toward her and her relationship with Ellie. In any event, she took your suggestion and went to the mall in search of a gift for ‘the sick child.’

“Joan, you drove the car to the mall that morning and parked it in a remote spot in the lot, locked it, and went inside. Several hours later you called a taxi service. This gentleman, Mr. Fernandez, picked you up and. dropped you off at the health club. Knowing that Kimberly worked out at that same club, you went there hoping the cabdriver would recall having dropped you off there. You’d told Mr. Fernandez that your car had broken down at the mall, which was why you needed the lift. Of course, you were wearing the blond wig Mr. Frederickson purchased for you, and that had been cut to a shorter length to match Kimberly’s short haircut the day before.

“When Mark hadn’t returned home the night before, Kimberly called Ellie to see if he might be there. Joan told Kimberly that Ellie was still sick and in bed. Meanwhile, Mr. Frederickson here called the police to inform them that his business partner hadn’t shown up at the restaurant, and that he was worried because he wasn’t answering his beeper, either. The police found Mark’s car at the mall, and arrested Kimberly as a prime suspect in the murder.

“Everything was going smoothly for the three of you,” I continued. “Kimberly did shop at the mall that day, charging several items on her charge card, including a pretty shirt for Ellie. She shopped because you urged her to, Mrs. Steffer, lying when you said Ellie was sick and would appreciate a nice gift. So Kimberly did as you suggested, just as planned. The night you actually killed Mark also went smoothly. You, Ms. Antonio, got Mark to agree to meet you to talk about some bogus traumatic situation Ellie was undergoing. You thought this lie wouldn’t be noticed. But Ellie overheard your call to Mark and it puzzled her. What traumatic situation was she facing? None as far as she knew. But she rationalized it away. She was so used to dysfunctional family life that nothing was beyond possibility.

“Mark loved his daughter dearly. When he received that call, he readily agreed to meet with you. How sad. A loving father comes to discuss his daughter’s problems with someone he assumes has her best interest in mind, but instead faces a murderess. Is that when you shot him, Nancy, and dragged him into the car. Ellie saw you arrive at home that night wearing the blond wig. You pulled the car into the garage. What happened then, Ms. Antonio? Did you stuff his body into the trunk all by yourself, or did Joan help you?”

George, Detective Josephs, and I took in Frederickson, Joan Steffer, and Nancy Antonio. Their reactions to what had been said were markedly different. Joan Steffer, who hadn’t exhibited much bravado when the confrontation started, had now assumed a nasty, defiant edge. Robert Frederickson looked as though someone had pricked his confidence balloon, not sure whether to run, cry, or both. Nancy Antonio’s posture was what interested me most. This formidable woman’s face had sagged and softened. There was a vulnerability in her large brown-green eyes that wasn’t there when the evening started. She was staring at Frederickson as though expecting him to do something to put an end to all this. To snap his fingers and take her away from it.

I turned to Ellie, who was now composed. “Ellie,” I asked, “do you know any reason your mother, your godmother, and Mr. Frederickson would have wanted to kill your father?”

“I didn’t kill anybody,” Frederickson said sharply. “All I did was buy the wig for them because Nancy asked me to. There’s no crime in buying a wig.”

“Are you saying that it was these two women who murdered Mark Steffer?” I asked.

“I suppose so.”

“You bastard,” Joan Steffer snarled.

Frederickson held up his hands in mock defense. “Hey, no need to get testy, Joan. All I know is that if what Mrs. Fletcher and her Scotland Yard friend says is true, you’ve got yourself a pretty big problem.”

“Bob,” Nancy Antonio said in a surprisingly soft voice. “Please.”

“Please, hell. I’m not taking the rap for anybody.”

“How can you say that?” Nancy said.

George and I looked at each other. What we’d hoped would happen was happening. Their tight little group was unraveling.

“You were extremely jealous of Kimberly Steffer’s relationship with Ellie, weren’t you, Mrs. Steffer?” I asked Joan.

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“But Kimberly was aware of it. There are many entries in her diary that refer to it. You hated Mark’s new wife. Resented her creative success.”

“You bet I hated her.”

“And that’s why she killed Mark,” Nancy Antonio said. “I want a lawyer.”

“Sure,” Josephs said. “As soon as I take you and your friends downtown and charge you with the murder of Mark Steffer.”

As Josephs started the process of herding the three of them from the restaurant, I stopped Nancy Antonio by placing my hand on her arm. “What I can’t figure out, Ms. Antonio, is why you wanted Mark dead.”

She looked deep into my eyes. All the forceful posturing I’d experienced in the hotel lobby was gone. Two elongated teardrops left tracks on her face as they left her eyes and ran to her chin. “It was him,” she said, looking at Robert Frederickson. “I was in love with Robert, and would have done anything for him. He got me into this mess. He figured that if Mark was dead, and we could successfully frame Kimberly for the murder, Robert would get the business for himself, which he did. He promised me we’d be married once Mark was out of the way. He lied. The only thing I got was cancer.”

Once outside, Detective Josephs displayed a rare smile and slapped George on the back. “Nice job, George. Real nice.”

George ignored the compliment.

“Hey, Mrs. Fletcher. What about my manuscript?”

“I’ll return it to you in the morning,” I said. “In the meantime, I suggest you not give up your day job.” His grin was now wide and warm. “Yeah. Not very good, huh? Well, writing about murder is your game. Me? I’m better at the real thing.”

My raised eyebrows caused him to add, “You’re not bad, either—at the real thing. Have a nice night you two. Yeah, I figure you will. Good night.”

We were picked up at Bangor Airport by Jake Monroe, owner of Cabot Cove’s largest taxi service. That the service involved only Jake and his brother, Billy, and two cars, indicated the size of Jake’s competitors.

George Sutherland looked out the window as Jake entered town and headed for my house. It was a pristine Maine day, sunny and cool. The heat wave that had gripped the state when I left for San Francisco was probably making someone else’s life miserable.

Jake pulled into my driveway.

“No place like home,” I said with a contented sigh.

“I can see why you feel that way,” George said. “Cabot Cove is a charming village. What a pretty house.”

“Thank you,” I said after signing Jake Monroe’s voucher for the trip. Because I don’t drive, I’m Jake’s best customer, and have an account with him.

“Brrrr,” I said as George put down our bags in the foyer. “Let me turn up the heat. So damp. It may be summer, but the house gets damp when I’m gone.”

“Like Scotland,” George said.

“So I’ve heard.”

“Hopefully, you’ll learn firsthand.”

I took his tweed topcoat and hung it in the closet. “Make yourself at home, George. Everything’s ready for a fire. Just needs a match put to it.”

He ignited the newspapers and wood in the fire-place, and sat on a couch in the living room. “What can I get you?” I called from the kitchen. “Scotch? Glass of wine?”

“Scotch would be splendid, thanks.”

I was in the process of getting our drinks when George announced from the other room, “There’s someone at the door.”

“Get it please. My hands are wet.”

“Surprise!” I heard two male voices say. No doubt who the voices belonged to. I ran into the living room to greet Sheriff Mort Metzger and Dr. Seth Hazlitt, my two best friends in Cabot Cove, who stood on the front porch, quizzical expressions on their faces.

“Oh,” I said. “Sorry. Mort, Seth, I’d like you to meet my good friend, George Sutherland.” George extended his hand to Mort, who shook it. Seth had a problem because of the fruit basket. I took it from him, and he and George engaged in a firm handshake.

“Let’s not stand here like this,” I said. “Come in. I missed you. We just arrived. Jake picked us up in Bangor. I was just about to call you. I was dying for you to meet George. I—” I realized I’d been talking nonstop from front door to living room. “Thanks for the fruit,” I said. “Back in a minute.” I went to the kitchen with the basket, leaving my three male friends standing in front of the roaring fire.

“I understand you’re an officer with Scotland Yard,” Seth said.

“That’s the truth,” George replied. “Stationed in London. Scottish by birth.”

“Had a good friend used to live here who was Scotch,” Mort said. I heard it from the kitchen and wondered if George would correct him as he had Detective Josephs. I needn’t have worried. It wasn’t George’s style to create an uncomfortable situation with my friends.

I made drinks for all and rejoined them. “George will be staying here for a few days before he heads home,” I said.

“Heah?” Seth said. “In your house?”

“Yes. I want to show off Cabot Cove to him. You’ll have a chance to really get to know each other.”

“I look forward to that,” Mort said, laughing. “Anytime you want, come down and spend some time at the station. Show you how we police here in Maine.”

“I appreciate that, Sheriff,” George said. “I’ll take you up on it.”

I wasn’t sure how long they planned to stay. But an hour later the four of us were seated at my dining room table enjoying clam chowder and a clam pie from Sassi’s Bakery that I’d bought before leaving on my trip.

“Glad to see this travelin’ Gypsy lady hasn’t forgotten her roots,” Seth said as he helped himself to another slice of pie.

“No fear of that,” I said.

“What’s that stuff you Scotch people like to eat?” Mort asked.

George shot me a glance and a smile before replying, “You’re probably referring to
haggis.”

“Ayuh,” Mort said. “That’s it. Understand it’s not for everybody’s taste.”

“Including mine,” George said. “I never learned to enjoy a dish made of minced heart, lungs, and liver of a sheep. They add suet, onions, oatmeal, and some seasonings, then boil it up in the dead sheep’s stomach.”

There was silence at the table.

“Sorry,” George said.

“More pie?” I asked.

“Had my fill,” Seth said.

“Not hungry anymore,” Mort said.

“So tell me again, Jess, about almost gettin’ pushed off the Golden Gate.”

“I’ll leave that for George,” I said, standing and picking up dirty dishes.

“Give you a hand?” they said in unison.

“No. You gentlemen stay put. Tell them all about it, George.”

I listened from the kitchen as George filled in Mort and Seth about my—our—San Francisco adventure.

“... Jessica became so involved in trying to clear Kimberly Steffer, she dismissed her own near-death experience,” George told them. “We learned just before leaving San Francisco that the
bleck.
was a local hoodlum hired by Mark Steffer’s former partner, Robert Frederickson.”

“A bleck?” Mort said.

“A nasty fellow. A term we—Scotch—often use.”

“Uh-huh,” Seth said. “A some-ugly fella.”

“If you say so, Doctor Hazlitt. By the way, Jessica told you about Ms. Steffer’s former illustrator falling to his death from the bridge the same morning as her unfortunate incident.”

“Ayuh, she did,” Seth said.

“The police out there have decided that he jumped, just as his former male lover described it.”

“That threesome finally confess?” Mort asked.

“Indirectly. They keep pointing their fingers at each other. Adds up to a confession. I don’t think a jury will have trouble convicting them.”