Murder Has a Sweet Tooth (10 page)

IF I WAS GOING TO FIND OUT WHAT REALLY
happened in that alley outside of Swallows and how Alex was involved, I had to get closer to Vickie’s life. I mean, closer than just claiming I’d moved into that fabulous Colonial with the brick walk.

This, of course, would have been easier to do if real life didn’t keep intruding.

Not that I’m complaining. When
real life
means my wedding . . .

I stepped back. Or at least I tried to. In the minuscule dressing room of that big-ticket boutique near Swallows, there wasn’t a lot of room to move. Still, I managed to give Eve a careful look.

She was standing in the center of the tiny dais in front of the full-length mirror, looking like a million bucks in that green cocktail dress with skinny straps and the neckline that was cut low enough to reveal not only some cleavage but, I swear, some of her abdomen, too.

“I don’t know,” I said, and because I knew the instant Eve’s golden eyebrows dipped that she was about to take the comment the wrong way, I jumped right in with an apology. “It’s not that you don’t look terrific. You do. You really do. It’s just that the dress . . .” I gave Eve and the garment in question another look. The dress still had the price tag attached and though I’d promised myself the first time I saw it and gagged that I would not look again, I couldn’t help myself. “It’s awfully expensive. And it’s awfully formal. When I told you to pick any dress you wanted—”

Eve wrinkled her nose. “You didn’t mean it?”

There it was again, that little look, and the tiny catch in Eve’s voice that betrayed the fact that I’d hurt her feelings. Like I had any other choice but to apologize again?

“Of course I meant it,” I said. It was true, even though looking back on the day I’d announced that Jim and I were not going to have a formal wedding and that any dress Eve picked to wear would work just fine . . . well, I guess I should have known then that my offer was going to be taken the wrong way. And that it was going to get me in trouble, to boot.

“My dress is simplicity itself,” I reminded her even though she should have known it since Eve was with me when I picked out the dress. “Sleeveless satin sheath. Little bolero with a bead-trimmed collar. It’s not that I don’t love the dress you’re wearing. I really do, Eve. It’s just that—”

“I get it. Sackcloth and ashes.” I would have been offended—or at least embarrassed—if Eve didn’t laugh.

Instead, I rolled my eyes. “You’d make even sackcloth and ashes look good,” I told her, and by the way she smiled, I’m pretty sure she knew it was true.

“So . . .” She carefully took off the green dress and even though she wasn’t considering it for the wedding, she’d brought another dress into the room with her. It was a cute (and very short) little silk sleeveless number with a gathered waist, tie-dyed in every shade of blue in the crayon box. The dress was too casual, even for my wedding, but in Eve’s book, that didn’t mean she couldn’t try it on.

She slipped her head through the V-necked opening. “Are you really going to try and find out what made Vickie tick? I mean, by hanging around with her friends?”

We’d talked about the plan on the way over to the boutique, but since Eve was driving at the time and since driving and Eve are almost as impossible a combination as Eve and not trying on beautiful clothes when they’re within an arm’s length, I knew she hadn’t been paying a whole lot of attention.

“It’s the perfect plan,” I reminded her. “And as far as I can see, it’s the only way to try and make some sense of this whole thing. What would make a perfect wife and mother hang out regularly in a bar with a man she had no intention of ever having any sort of real relationship with? I don’t know, Eve, I just don’t get it.”

Eve turned this way and that, the better to see herself from all sides in the mirror. Every side looked good. “Maybe Vickie was lonely,” she said. “Or maybe she hated her life.”

“What was to hate? She had a successful husband, two beautiful little kids, a fabulous home. I should know, I’ve driven by the house a couple times, just to try and get a sense of what kind of woman she was. And I’ve learned a lot. The house is showy. I mean, three stories, a circular drive, landscaped to the
n
th degree. So I know she liked things to be just so. And I know she and Edward must have a healthy income, because there’s no way anybody lives in a house like that unless they’ve got money to burn. What I don’t know is anything about Vickie personally. If I can get in good with Celia, Glynis, and Beth . . . well, they were her best friends. They knew her better than anybody did.”

“So you’re going to pretend you live in the neighborhood? That you’re one of them?”

The way Eve said it, it would be like admitting I was an alien being beamed down from a faraway planet. “Is it that weird? They’re women. I’m a woman. They’re wives. I’m almost a wife. And I used to be a wife, remember. They’re mothers and, no, I’m not. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t been paying attention all these years. Lots of mothers come into Bellywasher’s. I hear them talking about their kids. And lots of them used to come into the bank with their kids.” Some of the memories of those incidents made me cringe. “I’ve seen it all, Eve. I can talk the talk and I can walk the walk.”

“And you’re not just doing this to try and satisfy some fantasy you have about your dream life as a suburban wife and mother?”

When it comes to psychology, Eve is not usually so insightful. In fact, she’s not usually insightful at all. The fact that this was a momentous occasion showed just how close we were as friends. She could practically read my mind.

All the more reason I had to deny it.

“Really, Eve, you know I’m not that type.”

She gave herself another once-over in the mirror, then checked out the price tag on the dress again. “And what type is that?” she asked. “The type who isn’t afraid to admit that even though she’s practical and down-to-earth, it doesn’t hurt to dream once in a while? You know, go crazy and go after the wild impossibilities.”

“You mean like you wearing that green cocktail dress to my wedding.”

“I mean, there’s nothing wrong with saying you want a big house and a great, successful husband, and a whole bunch of wonderful, beautiful kids.”

“I am going to have a great husband,” I reminded her. “The greatest. And yes, I’d like a whole bunch of wonderful, beautiful kids. One of these days. As far as the successful husband, I’m willing to judge success any way Jim does. If that means Bellywasher’s turns a profit at the end of the year, that’s good enough for me. If it means some rah-rah write-up in one of the local papers, that’s OK, too. As far as the big house, I know better than that. I’m not kidding myself. And I’m not jealous of people who do have incredible houses. I’m happy with what I have.”

“That’s why you’re going to pretend you’re one of them.”

“It’s not like I’m trying to scam them out of their life savings or anything.” This went without saying, but I said it anyway. “All I’m trying to do is get close. To get information.”

Another look at the dress, and Eve made up her mind. I wasn’t sure if that meant
buy
or
don’t buy
, so I waited patiently to find out while she got dressed again. “You know you’ve got a couple problems,” she said as we walked out of the dressing room and back through the store. “When you ran into those women at the playground, you told me that you told them that you had kids.”

“And I do.”

When she looked at me in wonder, I had to laugh. The explanation was easy enough. “Fiona.”

“Oh, Jim’s cousin!” Eve’s eyes lit up. “Fiona has eight kids. I get it. You’re going to send Fiona to McLean to pretend she’s you.”

I bit my tongue. At least until I was sure I could speak without being too critical. “I stopped in and talked to Fiona this morning. She was frazzled. As usual. And who can blame her? Just the prospect of getting three of the kids out of her hair for a couple hours made her light up like a Christmas tree.”

When Eve is thinking very hard, her forehead furrows. If she knew it, she’d be appalled. That might explain why she tries never to think very hard. She set the tie-dyed dress on the counter, opened her purse, and pulled out her American Express. “So three of Fiona’s kids are going to go to McLean and they’re going to . . .” It was too much. She gave up with a shrug. “I don’t see how they’re going to find out anything about Vickie. Those friends of hers, they’re not going to talk about their murdered buddy with kids.”

About this time, my tongue was corrugated. I waited until Eve paid and the pleasant clerk packed the dress up in a shiny black shopping bag with the name of the boutique emblazoned on the side.

“I’m not going to send the girls in my place,” I said, leading the way out of the store. “They’re going to come with me.”

“Because . . .” Inspiration hit, and Eve’s blue eyes gleamed. “You’re going to pretend they’re your daughters!”

Now that we were on the same page, it was far easier to explain. “Lucy, Emma, and Doris have dance class after school on Thursdays, so I can’t take them. It’s probably just as well. They’re the oldest and it would be harder to pull the wool over someone’s eyes with three girls along who know enough about honesty—and dishonesty—to have the scruples to spill the beans.” We stepped out onto the sidewalk and headed toward where Eve had parked her car.

“I’m going to take Gloria, Wendy, and Rosemary, instead. They’re close enough in age to keep each other busy while I do what I have to do, and young enough—I hope—to believe me when I tell them I’m playing a kind of joke on some people and need them to pretend I’m their mom.”

Little did I know just how prophetic that statement would turn out to be. Later that afternoon, no sooner had I pulled out of Fi and Richard’s driveway than the girls started acting exactly like they do when their mother is in charge. In other words, they teased, punched, had a screaming contest, and generally carried on all the way to McLean.

By the time we got to the soccer fields behind the Spring Hill Recreation Center, I was grateful that I had my case to think about. I’d do it, too, as soon as my brain settled down and my ears stopped ringing. With that in mind, I told the girls they could go over to the nearby play area and turned my attention to the crowd of moms and dads watching the Tigers out on the field. Celia, Glynis, and Beth were there, just as I expected them to be, and I put on my game face (the one I hoped would make it look like I was surprised to run into them again) and headed in their direction.

Am I psychic?
Au contraire
, as our friend the former Jacques Lavoie would say. In fact, it wasn’t extrasensory powers or good luck I had to thank for this encounter. It was good ol’ detective work, computers, and a little psychology. See, I may not know the difference between a saucepot and a frying pan, but I’m pretty savvy when it comes to Googling my way around the Internet. That’s where I found the Tigers soccer schedule. And the psychology? Well, my ex, Peter, is a high school chemistry teacher, and back when we were together, we spent a lot of time with other teachers and their families. Being the only one at the time without at least one small child, I didn’t exactly fit in, but when the mothers talked, I listened. And learned. One of the things I learned is that friends often get their children involved in the same activities. If Beth’s Jeremy played for the Tigers, my money was on Celia’s and Glynis’s kids playing on the team, too.

Oh, how I love it when I’m right!

“Celia!” I caught her eye first and closed in. “And Beth and Glynis. What a surprise!”

“Your kids play?” Celia was dressed in blue and white, the colors of the Tigers uniforms. She beamed a smile at me and leaned nearer. “Not on the Rangers, I hope. I hear their coach is a real bear.”

“Oh, no. No soccer for us. The girls just needed to blow off some steam.” I looked over at the play area and at the exact right moment, Wendy waved. I couldn’t have asked for better proof that I was there with real, honest-to-goodness kids. “I didn’t realize there was a soccer game going on.”

“Over on the right, Eli!” Before she turned to me, Glynis yelled to a little boy who looked exactly like her, down to the ash-gray eyes. She, too, was dressed in team colors: blue workout pants, a matching jacket, and a white T-shirt. “Well, this is terrific. We were wondering if we’d see you again. We thought maybe we’d run into you at Churchill Road School.”

Not to worry. Like I said, I’d done my homework. If I found out these women’s children went to private school, I was all set to say mine attended public. If they said public, I’d say exactly what I said, “We’re at St. John’s.”

“Good school.” Beth, looking like the ultimate fan in a blue jumper and white blouse, with a huge Tigers button pinned to her chest, never took her eyes off the game. Jeremy was in the center of the field, standing as still as a statue and looking bewildered while the other boys raced around him and toward the goal. “Go, Jeremy!” Beth yelled, and when the little boy didn’t, she didn’t care, she just yelled some more.

Good friend or not, Celia rolled her eyes. Of course, since Beth was watching the game, she didn’t see it. That gave Glynis a chance to elbow Celia in the ribs.

I pretended not to notice any of it. Instead, I looked over at the play area to make sure the girls weren’t causing any trouble. When I looked back at the game, I realized Celia was looking at the play area, too.

“They don’t look a thing like you,” she said.

“The girls?” Of course she was talking about the girls. Who else would she be talking about? I laughed. “They’ve got my curly hair.” They did, but that had to do with chance, not genetics. “Everything else they got from their father.”

“He’s a redhead?” For one terrible moment, I thought Glynis had made some unlikely and mistaken connection between me and Alex. He, after all, had the flaming hair that cousin Fi inherited from the Bannerman side of the family and her children had gotten from her. If these women thought I had anything to do with the man who’d been charged with killing their friend . . .