Nursery Crimes (16 page)

“And, Juliet, you probably won’t be surprised to hear that I’m running for Congress next fall. Richard Baker is stepping down, and I’m going to be running for his seat.”

“Now, that’s what I expected to hear!” I said. “I figured it was about time for you to be heading to Washington.”

“You know the plan, girl. You know the plan.”

We both paused, considering for a moment that, but for “the plan,” there was a good chance we would be living together right now, making little
café au lait
babies of our own. Ah, well, such is life. We were both happily married, at least I was, and the better off for our breakup.

I decided to get down to business. “Jerome, I have a couple of questions about a series of real estate transactions that I’ve been looking into, and I wonder if you might be able to give me some help.”

“Of course, baby.”

Baby again. He used to call me that in that same deep, sweet voice while we made love. Over and over again. Steeling myself, I got my mind out of the gutter and into the present and concentrated on my questions.

“Okay. First of all, do you have any idea what Moonraker, Inc., is? Have you ever heard of them?”

“Moonraker. Moonraker. That rings a bell. Hmm.” He paused for a moment. “I think I remember something about that company. Hold on a second, let me check a file.”

He put me on hold long enough for me to get a little too involved in a fond recollection of the past.

“I’m back. I just checked with a colleague. I thought
I’d remembered that name. Moonraker played a small role in a series of deals the firm did in the mid-eighties or so. Things got a little ugly when the market went bust in 1989, and we haven’t done any work with them since. They might have gone under. A lot of smaller companies did back then.”

Pay dirt.

“Do you happen to remember the name of the principal owner of Moonraker?”

“I didn’t, but my partner did. He told me that it was owned by a guy named Mooney. Hence the name. Cute.”

“Daniel Mooney?”

“He didn’t say. Maybe. Are you doing some kind of deal with Moonraker? Is he back in business?”

“No, nothing like that. Tell me, can you think of a reason why Moonraker would sell off its properties?”

“Well, that’s a no-brainer. Real estate transactions are highly leveraged. That means everyone borrows heavily to make each deal. If enough of its deals fell through to force Moonraker to go under, it would have to sell off its assets to pay off its debt.”

“That makes sense. Now, can you think of a reason why Moonraker would sell its assets to Mooney’s wife?”

“Interesting. Well, maybe Mooney wanted to protect his properties from creditors and was under the impression that if he made them the personal property of his wife they would be exempt from dissolution and distribution. That would have been a mistake on his part, however. You can’t protect property just like that.”

“Why not?” I asked. I didn’t do that well in property law.

“Well, think about it, baby. If you could just sell off your assets to your family, no creditor would ever get anything when a business went bankrupt.”

“Oh, right. Then why did he do it?”

“Maybe his wife bailed him out. That’s the only thing I can think of. Maybe his wife bought his properties to give him the cash to pay off his creditors. Does she have that kind of money?”

“I think she must have.” Abigail Hathaway had the money to pay off her husband’s debt, but instead of giving it to him, she bought his properties. So she ended up owning everything and he ended up owing her for the rest of his life.

“Juliet, what’s your interest here? Who are you representing?”

“Nobody. I’m not representing anybody. I’m just, well, I’m just sort of investigating a murder.”

“You’re
what?
”

“Abigail Hathaway, Daniel Mooney’s wife, was killed last week. I knew her and I’m sort of trying to figure out who killed her.”

“You know, I always thought you’d make a good cop. So you think this guy Mooney killed her and you’re going to cuff him and bring him in.”

“Ha, ha. Very funny, Jer. I’m not cuffing anybody. It’s just that the cops have decided that this is a hit-and-run, which it may well be. Nonetheless, I think it’s worth an extra look. I’ve been spending a little time nosing around. I think you’ve helped me discover something pretty important.”

He laughed again. “Juliet Applebaum, private eye. Hey, girl, don’t go getting yourself into any trouble.”

“You know what, I kind of like the sound of that: Applebaum, P.I. Anyway, don’t worry, I’m not getting into any trouble. And, Jerome?”

“What?”

“Thanks. You’ve been a great help.”

“You’re welcome, baby. Anytime.”

“Watch out or I’ll take you up on that. Regards to your wife and sons.”

“Good luck with your new baby, baby.”

Now it was my turn to laugh. I said good-bye, thanking him again for his advice, and hung up the phone.

I sat for a moment, staring into space, indulging a brief but nonetheless highly disconcerting fantasy about Jerome and the lazy afternoons we used to spend in his studio apartment in Cambridge. I had fond, very fond, memories of the god-awful, green shag carpeting. It was made out of some horrible acrylic and once gave me such a bad rug burn on my rear end that I could barely sit for a week. With a shiver, I realized that there was only one way I was going to exorcise the demon of Jerome Coley. After checking to make sure that Ruby was still busy with the number 16 and the letter R, I snuck into my bedroom and woke up my husband. Substituting reality for fantasy turned out to be just what I needed.

A
FTER
I had successfully reminded myself that I was happily married, Peter and I took a quick shower together. I grabbed a pink razor that was sitting in the soap dish and tried to shave my legs. I leaned over and, about halfway down toward my knees, I got stuck. I couldn’t bend over far enough. I looked up at my husband, who was rinsing the shampoo out of his hair.

“Um, honey?” I said beseechingly, holding the razor up to him. “It’s that time again.”

“Really? Already? Last time you could shave your own legs up until the last couple of weeks,” he said with a laugh.

“Well, I’m just fatter now, if you don’t mind.”

“All right, prop your leg up here.”

Groaning with the effort, I balanced my leg on the side of the tub. Peter bent down under the spray of the shower and delicately and carefully shaved my leg clean. I reached over and wiped the streaming water out of his eyes. What I really wanted to do was kiss the top of his head, but I couldn’t reach it. What a lovely man. How many guys do you know who would shave their pregnant wife’s legs? I know exactly one. And I married him.

Suddenly, with a crash, the bathroom door burst open. Peter and I both jumped, and I felt a sting as the razor sliced into my shin.

“Ow! Dammit!” I hollered. “Ruby! What in heaven’s name are you doing?”

“Nothing!” she wailed. “I’m lonely!” I ended up crouched on the bathmat, soaking wet and dripping blood and water, trying at the same time both to dry off and to comfort a righteously indignant toddler.

P
ETER
did me a favor and took Ruby out for the rest of the morning so I could do a little more research. I noodled around on the Internet for a while, trying to see if I could come up with some more dirt on either Daniel Mooney or his feline friend. After an unsuccessful hour or so, I was getting very frustrated. Looking at my watch, I realized that if I rushed, I could make my prenatal Yoga class. I definitely needed to clear my head, and moving my body probably wasn’t a bad idea. I hoisted myself out of my chair, waddled into my bedroom, and began the arduous process of cramming my body into my maternity Yoga cat suit. Getting my thighs into that Lycra outfit was an awful lot like stuffing a sausage casing.

I was stuck somewhere between my knees and my butt when the phone rang. I lunged over to the night-stand, and fumbling for the phone, knocked the receiver onto the floor. I spent a couple of frantic seconds on my hands and knees, tangled in my leggings, trying to reach
under the bed where the receiver had rolled. Finally, I managed to herd the dust bunnies into a corner and answer the phone.

“Yeah? Hello?” I was panting from exertion.

“Um, hello? Juliet? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine. I’m fine. Who is this?”

“It’s Audrey. Audrey Hathaway. Abigail’s daughter. I’m sorry. I hope it’s okay to call you. I mean, you said I could call but you were probably, like, just being nice or something. I shouldn’t have called. Forget it. I’m—”

“Audrey! I’m so glad to hear from you,” I interrupted her. “Of course you can call. I wanted you to call. Are you okay? Why are you calling? I mean, it’s fine, but is there something wrong?”

“No. Yes. I dunno.” And she started to cry. I sure had a calming effect on that girl.

“Honey, shh. It’s okay, sweetie. Are you just sad? Is that it?”

“No.” She hiccuped. “I mean, yes, I’m sad, but that’s not why I’m calling. I’m totally freaking out here and I have no one to talk to and then I found your number and you’re so sweet and I thought you maybe might be there because you’re, like, pregnant and can’t go anywhere anyway.” With that, she began to wail.

I looked down at my legs, still trapped in Lycra. She wasn’t far wrong—I certainly didn’t give the appearance of anyone who should be leaving the house.

“Should I come over? Do you want me to come over?” I asked.

“No!” she shouted. “No! Not here!”

“Can I meet you somewhere? Do you want to come over to my house?”

She was sitting in my kitchen, drinking hot chocolate, within twenty minutes.

I
let Audrey sit quietly for a little while, slurping cocoa and eating cookies. Her multicolored hair was shoved into a baseball cap, and she was wearing an oversized sweatshirt and a pair of pants so big they looked like I could climb into them with her. I wasn’t sure if she was pathologically ashamed of her body, or just expressing the height of a teenage fashion I was too clueless to even know about. Finally Audrey squared her shoulders and seemed to make some kind of decision.

“If I tell you something, like absolutely, totally insane, will you swear that you won’t think I’m crazy?”

“You’re not crazy, Audrey.”

“I know I’m not crazy. I just don’t want
you
to think I am.”

“I won’t. I don’t. What is it?”

“The cops are, like, all over my house and they won’t tell me why, but I think I know.”

“You do?” Did she? Could she know about her stepfather?

“Yeah. It’s Daniel. I know it is. He killed my mom. I’m so completely sure he did it.” She wasn’t crying anymore. She seemed grim, and certain, and scared.

“Your stepfather? Are you just guessing, or do you have proof?”

“Well, it’s not like he’s confessed or anything. It’s just that he hates me and my mom. He left once, you know. He was having an affair, and my mom threw him out.”

I decided that it was better to play dumb. “An affair? Really? With whom, do you know?”

“I don’t know her name or anything. But I know that he met her online, how lame is
that?
He’s like some pathetic old man having
cybersex.
It’s so totally gross.” Audrey no longer sounded upset. Just really angry.

“How did you find out about this?” I asked.

“My mom made him go to therapy and the two of them dragged me with them a couple of times. So we could ‘deal with our family issues.’” Her voice dripped sarcasm. “They were supposed to be talking about me, but my mom ended up screaming about his computer slut. The shrink made her shut up, but I heard enough to figure out what the creep was up to.”

“Creep is right,” I agreed. “Audrey, I think you should be telling this to the police. Don’t you?”

“No! No way. He’ll kill me if he finds out I told on him.” She started to cry again.

It occurred to me that she might be right. Kill her, as in really kill her, not just be angry enough to ground her for the weekend.

“Okay. Okay. Do you want me to tell the police, and leave you out of it?”

“Would you? Would you do that?”