Murder in a Nice Neighborhood (20 page)

I hesitated, sensing a trap of some kind. The invitation might mean a change in our relationship from hunter and hunted to that of social near-equals. Or else I was meant to think that it would.

Either way, it was a change—and one I had a choice about. I do not voluntarily seek change; it’s usually forced on me by circumstance. The counselor I’d seen briefly when I’d filed for divorce told me I was too passive in my approach to life. Perhaps that’s true. After thinking about it, though I decided I was not so much being passive as seeking to camouflage myself, hiding as a threatened animal will. The animal’s choice is between passivity and death. For many years, I’d seen this as my only option, too.

Now I had to face the notion that passivity would no longer save me. It was time to make changes; I could change my relationship with Paul Drake, or I could back away and maintain the strained distance between us.

My inability to
choose was a choice in itself. Drake put the folder down on the table and turned toward the stove. “I’ll start the water,” he said. “Bathroom’s that way, phone’s this way. Help yourself to either.”

At least I had no difficulty making this choice. The bathroom was small, but there was a tub that would be just the right size for a short person—like me. The fixtures were the original ones, and could have used some caulk in strategic places. Turquoise had been a popular color when the trailer was built, but it wasn’t so attractive when discolored by age and hard water. I snooped through the medicine cabinet on general principles, but didn’t even find a box of Trojans—nothing but shaving cream, razor, toothbrush, and several different kinds of headache medicine.

Drake was pouring water into two mugs. There was a plate of scones on the table. I sat down at one end, and he put a mug in front of me.

“So what does this mean?” I dunked the tea bag up and down. Good Earth cinnamon—a little heavy on the flavor for my taste, but better than Red Zinger. “You’re breaking bread with the suspect. Can it be that you don’t suspect me anymore?"

“That’s a possibility.” He had his glasses back on, and with them his inscrutability. “Or else I’m planning to soften you up so I can extract more juice from you.”

“Sounds painful." The aroma of the cinnamon should have been pleasant and relaxing, but it was too strong. I fished the tea bag out and Drake pushed an empty saucer over to me.

“Have a scone.” He offered me one, and bit into his with obvious relish. The scone was dense but light, rich-tasting, studded with tiny currants.

“You’re a good baker." Whether it was the disarming quality of eating a policeman’s homemade treats, or delayed reaction from my swim, I felt much more relaxed. “I believe I’m softened up now.”

“Okay.” He reached behind him and yanked a small tape recorder off one of the shelves. My sense of relaxation seeped away, replaced by tension. He put the tape recorder on the table between us, told it my name and the date, and then asked me “Are you aware that this conversation is being taped?”

“Yes.” My lips didn’t want to move, but at least it was better than being in that tiny cubicle at the police station, with the wheels of Justice grinding away visibly.

“Is this okay with you?” He nodded, prompting me to reply in the affirmative. I said yes. The switch was within my reach. If I didn’t like the way it was going, I would turn off the tape recorder, walk out of the kitchen, away from my half-eaten scone and the overpowering scent of cinnamon.

"This conversation relates to the deaths of Eunice Giacometti and Vivian Greely, which may link with the homicide investigation of Gordon Murphy and Alonso Beaudray,” he intoned. “You are at liberty to refuse to answer any question that you feel may incriminate you. By consenting to this taped conversation, you have waived the right to
have an attorney present. This conversation will be considered admissible as evidence in a court of law. Do you understand that, Ms. Sullivan?”

I felt like turning the damned thing off then and there. But after all, I wanted the truth about these deaths as much as anyone. “I wasn’t aware of it until you said so, Detective Drake,” I barked into the tape recorder.

He turned the tape off and glared at me. "This is just the legal mumbo-jumbo I have to go through. Do you want to do this or not?”

“I don’t want to,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “But I will, if you’ll cut the cackle. How come you weren’t taping at
Claudia’s?”

"There was a witness there. This is my witness now.” He turned the tape recorder back on. "Tell me about your relationship with these two women.”

Haltingly at first, until I got into the monologue, I recounted the story of my writing workshop, summarized the personalities of Carlotta and the other ladies, and, at Drake’s request, described the stories Eunice and Vivien had written. I recounted everything I’d known or heard about each woman’s private life, down to Vivien’s love of sweets and the ridiculous feud between her and Carlotta over the retirement home. He asked about surviving relatives and I dredged up what I knew. Vivien had none. Eunice had a niece somewhere, but I thought I’d heard that the niece was mentally incompetent. Both of them had lived frugally on limited incomes, taking full advantage of the services the Senior Center provided. Both of them owned old houses free and clear, but had trouble with upkeep. Both had been approached by Ted Ramsey to sell to him for his new condo project. Both had elected to take out reverse mortgages with Federated Savings and Loan. And, it transpired, Eunice had been found in similar circumstances to Vivien, but after a couple of days had passed. Nothing in her death had seemed inconsistent with natural causes, but no one had thought to look for suspicious circumstances then.

That was all I knew about any parallels between them. I hadn’t known Eunice as well as Vivien. And I hadn’t been intimate with Vivien. We were friends, we talked mostly about writing, I did a few little things for her. What I knew about her wouldn’t be helpful to the police—the fine tremor in her thin hands when she cut slices of that cake she loved, her sweet tooth, her love of flowers and bright colors, the quiet way she had of seeing into people. She hadn’t judged or laughed at the foibles she uncovered—she simply used them to enrich her writing. More and more, I understood how I would miss her.

All this took only half an hour, though when it was over I felt wrung out. Drake had made notes while I talked and he questioned. He looked at them thoughtfully, his eyebrows pulled down over those blank glasses. Then he pushed back his chair.

“You’ve been very helpful.” He looked down at me and reached out a hand. I let him pull me to my feet, and I didn’t snatch my hand away afterward. Not for a couple of seconds, anyway. I could feel his eyes on my mouth. He rubbed one finger along my lower lip. “A little piece of currant stuck there.” His voice was gruffer. I jerked my hand free and turned toward the door.

He took the hint. There was nothing personal in the way he opened the car door for me, shut me in as if he was shutting a cell after me. While he walked around the car I stared out my window, my head averted from the driver's seat. The neighbor next to Drake’s had a big jack-o’-lantern on the stoop in front. A witch with accordion-pleated arms and legs hung from the door, jerking in a most realistic way when the wind blew, as if she’d been hung. The wind was cold, the sky was cold, and my arms were cold, even though I hugged them to my chest in the defensive posture that signals, so the counselor had told me, low self-esteem. At that moment, it seemed like the least of my problems.

Chapter 30

Bridget's
huge car was in Claudia’s driveway when Drake pulled over in front of the house, muttering angrily about the tailgater who sped insolently away in his shiny new car. “Someday,” Drake swore, “I’ll get a new car too and brush every old heap off the road. That guy’s lucky I didn’t give him a ticket.”

“Uh-huh.” I wasn’t listening. In Claudia’s front yard, a dwarfish space alien grappled with a foreshortened Batman. When I got out of the car, they stopped pointing explosive fingers at each other and raced over.

“Aunt Liz. What are you going to be for Halloween?”

That was Corky. He pushed back the Batman mask and grinned at me, showing a big hole in his smile where his front tooth used to be.

Sam, beside him, was still in character. He jumped up and down around me, chanting “Guess what I am. Guess, guess, guess.”

He had a purple papier-mâché head, a bit lumpy but impressive, with a huge cyclops eye painted in the center of what would have been the face, and a glitter-covered horn protruding from the forehead. His four-year-old body was swathed in purple long johns, purple turtleneck, and purple cape made from fake fur.

“Gosh, that’s hard.” I took a step back and bumped into Drake, who’d climbed out of the car and stood behind me.

“He’s a one-eyed, one-horned, flying purple people-eater,” Corky said impatiently. “That’s so lame.”

“Is not lame.” Sam turned on his brother. “I’m going to eat you next!”

“Great outfits, fellows.” Drake stepped forward and examined Batman’s utility belt, which clanked with a number of implements not commonly found around a six-year-old’s waist. I especially liked the bar strainer. “Who’s your
costumier?”

Bridget appeared in the front door. “I wondered who was out here. You boys were supposed to be playing in the backyard.”

“One of those old rose bushes grabbed my cape,” Batman complained. “And Sam keeps trying to get my utility belt off.”

“You should take off the costumes now.” Bridget waved us up the walk. “We’ll go home in just a minute. You don’t want to mess them up before tonight.”

“Trick or treat tonight!” Both boys forgot their grievances and danced around the front yard in a frenzy of anticipated pleasure.

“Candy, candy, candy!” Sam’s chant came out slightly muffled from his papier-mâchéd head, and Corky’s implements clanked.

“I’m going to every house for miles!” Corky ran up and down the sidewalk. “I’m going to get ten pounds of candy!”

“We definitely need some quiet time here,” Bridget said, shaking her head. “Thank God Halloween only comes once a year.”

Claudia was sitting at the kitchen table, the inevitable pile of rough draft in front of her. “Sounded like some kind of Druid rite going on out there,” she remarked. “Did you have a nice swim, Liz?”

“The swim was relaxing,” I said. Drake was watching Bridget, who had slung her bag over her shoulder and was hunting around the kitchen for something. Suddenly he turned to look at me, and I dropped my eyes quickly.

“Here it is.” Bridget found a small knapsack under one of the kitchen chairs. "What with parties at school today, and then all the candy tonight, these guys are going to be zombies tomorrow. Halloween at least falls on Friday this year.

“That’s right. I meant to get some candy,” Claudia said. “We’ll give any trick-or-treaters what’s left of the doughnuts.” I saw that the box was still on the table.

Bridget shook her head. “Never give out something like that,” she said seriously. “The parents will just throw it away. You only give trick-or-treaters wrapped stuff from the store. Even that isn’t safe from tampering, but it’s more likely to
be.”

“I thought no one went door to door anymore on Halloween.” Drake was investigating the doughnut box. “Heard it was all parties now.”

“We go out.” Bridget shrugged. “We go to houses of people we know, or whom we know have children. The boys really love it.” Loud shrieks from the front yard underlined her words. “I’d better go. I have to pick up Mick at Melanie’s, and Moira at Pam’s.” She hugged me, and patted Claudia’s arm. “You’re just about back to normal, aren’t you?’

I glanced sharply at my hostess. Once her ankle was better, I would have no reason to stay around.

“It still gives me trouble,” Claudia admitted grudgingly. “I can’t carry anything or it really hurts.” She turned to me. "Tomorrow afternoon,” she said sternly, “we must get to the roses. If that’s all right with you.”

“Fine.” If Claudia wanted to pretend she still needed me to hang around, I would pretend, too. The thought of being on my own again was too frightening, which was itself paralyzing. Was I going to lose my ability to make it in the world on my own? I didn’t want to start having to depend on people.

Claudia limped down the hall with Bridget. Drake shut the doughnut box and looked at me. “So you’re going to be staying for a while.”

“Looks that way.” I shrugged.

“That’s good. If you left here, you’d have to go to the Carver Arms or somewhere where we could keep track of you."

“Like jail?” I made my voice light, but Drake didn’t smile.

“That might be best,” he muttered. “I’m taking a real risk on you.”

“Thank you so much.” I straightened the edges of Claudia’s manuscript, waiting for Drake to leave.

He came to stand beside me. “You would be a lot safer in jail," he said, putting one hand on my arm. “I know you’re not going to do the fugitive thing, but someone just might be successful at killing you if I let you run around.”

“No one will kill me.” I shrugged off his hand. “I’m the scapegoat here.”

Claudia came back down the hall, carrying a small box in her hand. “Talk about providential,” she gloated. “Someone came by selling candy just after Bridget left. Now we’re fixed for Halloween.”

I reached for the box, but Drake was before me. He whipped it out of Claudia’s hands and used a dishtowel to protect the lid when he lifted it off. We all looked inside. Rows of normal-looking chocolate-covered almond clusters filled the box, just as the lid said.

“You couldn’t hand these out,” Drake said after a moment. “They’re not individually wrapped.” He looked at Claudia. “Who was selling them?”

“Some little school kid.” Claudia sounded defensive. “Raising money for a class trip to
Hawaii, I think she said.”

Drake took a pencil off the table and poked delicately at the line of chocolates. “This is the oldest, most hackneyed thing in the book,” be muttered.

“You think they’re poisoned.” Claudia looked pleased. “Just like Miss Silver.”