Pink Balloons and Other Deadly Things (Mystery Series - Book One) (9 page)

My own EDR went through the roof. “Why all of a sudden?”

“Instinct. And the fact that it would have been very easy for you to have thrown suspicion on your husband just now. But you didn’t. Let me know if you hear from him.”

“I will.”

After he left, I started shaking again. But this time it was with relief.

“DAVE’S CLEANERS WAS in the Cahill’s’ driveway. I told the police that. I told them about you being parked at the Millers’ too, Carrie. I had to. You can’t withhold information, you know. It would’ve made me an accessory. It’s not that I think you did it, you understand—-though, God knows, no one would blame you if you’d cut her head off.”

I was sitting at my desk in my home office going through my mail. I held the phone away from my ear as Sue Tomkins went through her litany. Sue wasn't one of my favorite people. Over the years her efforts at friendship with me had increased in direct proportion to the success of Rich’s business. It didn’t surprise me that I hadn’t heard word one from her since he’d left.

When she finally took a breath I jumped in. “Sue, I appreciate your—-uh-—interest, but what I really need you to do is go over in your mind what you saw on Saturday. See if you can remember anything else.”

“Why do you care? I should think you'd be out partying.”

I kept my voice solemn. “Having a killer running around loose isn’t my idea of a reason to celebrate.”

I could tell from her silence that this was an angle she hadn’t contemplated.

“I—-I assumed it was a crime of passion directed at Erica,” she murmured after a minute. “I hadn’t considered the possibility there’s some loony-tune out there.”

“Well, just between you and me, that’s the feeling in the department,” I prevaricated conspiratorially. “I’m kind of working with the police, because I was there just a while before she was killed. They keep asking me if I saw anything unusual-—you know, a car or something that didn’t belong. You’re such an observant person,”--
when all else fails, try flattery--
“I thought you might have noticed something I missed.”

“Dave’s Cleaners. That’s all I remember.” Then, with a note of suspicion in her voice. “How could you be working with the police? Aren't you...” She let it hang.

“What?”

“Well...a suspect?”

I forced a laugh. “Come on, Sue, I may’ve hated Erica, but I'm no killer. The police know that.”

“Really.”

I held on to my temper. “I’m sure they’d appreciate any help you could give.”

“Well, of course, but---”

I got creative. “If you helped break the case, I bet you’d get your picture in the paper. Who knows, they might even do a TV thing,” I added.

“What do you mean?”

“One of those reality shows. TV people pay big money for stories like these.
‘Crime solved by local housewife.’
You know how they eat that sort of thing up.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. I let it linger.

“You know,” she said after a very long pause. “I think I do remember something.”

My heart stopped beating, then resumed an uneven
ta-dum, ta-dum, thump, thump, ta-dum.
“Yeah?”

“There was a car cruising the street.”

“What do you mean, cruising?”

“You know, it went up and down the street a few times.”

“You sure?” Maybe I’d painted too alluring a picture, and this was all a figment of Sue’s greedy imagination. “How come you didn’t tell the police about it?”

“I just thought of it. At the time it barely registered. I thought it was some guy looking for the Lambert kid. You know which one I mean, Paige---”

“She's away at college.”

“So it couldn’t’ve been for her!” Sue was caught up in it now. Her voice cracked with excitement. “I think I’m onto something. Maybe it was---”

“What’d the car look like?”

Long pause. “I think it was dark green. Or maybe black. It looked new.”

“What make?”

“Hell, I don't know. One of those Japanese things—-like a Nissan. Or a Toyota.”

“For heaven’s sake, Sue, can’t you tell a Toyota from a Nissan?”

“No, I can't! I buy American!”

I tried to repair the damage. “I didn't mean---”

“Maybe I'll just call that cop myself.”

“Did you see who was driving?” I asked before she could hang up on me. “A man or a woman?”

I could hear the wheels whirring in her head. Why should she share the glory, much less the TV money, with me?

“I don’t know. A guy, I think,” she muttered finally. “I’m really not sure.”

“Did it slow up in front of my—-of Rich's house?”

“Didn't notice. That's all I can tell you, Carrie. Fang’s crying at the door. I gotta take him for a walk.”

Imagine naming that cream puff Fang. Damn, I was mad at myself. She'd shut down like a computer screen in a blackout. “Okay, Sue,” I said, with false heartiness. “You've been great. Knew I could count on you. Give me a call if anything else occurs to you, okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” she responded unenthusiastically, and hung up.

I wondered what to do with the information. Maybe I should tell Brodsky, let him follow up on it. I was reaching for the phone when my eye fell on a familiar logo:
Arthur Carboni, Attorney at Law.

A bill? I knew I still owed Arthur money, but I was paying him in installments, and I always paid him on the fifteenth. Why would he be sending me a bill now? Slitting open the envelope, I withdrew a neatly typed invoice for eighteen hundred and fifty dollars. Eighteen hundred! Where did that come from? I’d put down seventy-five hundred at the initial hiring, and he’d gone through that like Matt through a heavenly hash sundae. I studied the bill. Itemized, one hundred fifty for two phone calls, two hundred for my installment payment, and fifteen hundred for the services of an investigative firm called Mirimar, which Carboni had hired to look into Rich’s finances. I scanned the page. For fifteen hundred dollars, these charlatans had spent several days observing 101 Deerview Place and discovered that Rich was living with Erica there, noted that his office building actually did exist and that the sun was shining on the days the investigator visited it, searched the refuse bin outside the building and found it contained nothing incriminating, and after a visit to the hall of records, learned that Rich had a mortgage of four hundred ninety thousand dollars left on the house. They'd also called his stockbroker--who had refused to disclose information on a client--and pulled his TRW, coming up with the savvy conclusion that Rich was solvent and had no judgments against him. All of which they could have found out by asking me.

There was one eye-stopper on the sheet. The investigator had followed Rich to a restaurant called
Haji's Corner
on MacDougal Street in Greenwich Village.

He had watched Rich meet with an attractive young woman. No further description of the woman was given. The investigator had noted that they’d left separately. I was curious. Was it a business luncheon, or had Rich been cheating on Erica? Could this be important?

The report, except for this piece of information, was a rip-off. I went through it in detail, making note of the hours the investigator allegedly had spent over several days alternating between watching Rich’s building and his home. I checked the dates; March 28 through April 12. The whole thing was a scam, I thought disgustedly. If Rich had hidden money, which I was sure he had, looking through his company garbage wasn't going to unearth it. And watching our house...

Suddenly, sunlight bursting through a raincloud-— if there had been a new dark-colored Toyota or Nissan parked in Rich’s lot or parked near the house at any of these times, surely a trained investigator would remember. Maybe, if we were really lucky, he’d have noted the license plate number. Mirimar had been no help in my getting a better settlement, but maybe, just maybe, they’d earned their fifteen hundred bucks after all.

WEDNESDAY IS MY DAY OFF which, as any working mother will tell you, means errand day. As soon as Allie and Matt left for school, I called Tina Moscone about switching car pools. Tina’s one of those friends you make because your kids are in the same class and on the same Little League team, so you’re driving the same car pools. We’ve worked on a couple of PTA committees together. She’s easy to get along with and I was pretty certain I could count on her.

“I’m sure everything will be straightened out in a couple of weeks, Tina. I’ll drive for you for a month if you’ll cover me.”

“Forget about making it up. Everybody has times they need a little help. Are you--is everything okay with you and the kids?”

“We're managing. But I don't want to be responsible for getting the children to school and practice and everything in case—-something comes up.”

“No problem,” she said, tactfully refraining from asking embarrassing questions. “Tell Allie and Matt they can come here if you're going to be late. Italians never run out of pasta.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

I hung up, determined to get to know Tina better after all this was over.

A quick glance at the calendar showed a ten-thirty appointment at the vet's. All three cats were due to have their shots.

I had a moment of panic. I’d let them out this morning. Heaven knew where they were by now. I flew out of the house in my robe with Horty in hot pursuit. Placido was sunning himself on the front porch. I made a grab for him, but he took off like a cheetah who's spotted his dinner when Horty came charging out the door.

“Sit, Horty!” I yelled in frustration. But sitting was the last thing on Horty’s mind.

Three-quarters of an hour later, with Horty safely locked inside the house, I’d rounded up the yowling trio, won the battle of the carrier cages, and lined them up on the front porch. Their ear-splitting complaints followed me into the house.

I telephoned Meg and asked her if she could get free for a few hours. I wanted moral support when I faced down the Mirimar investigator. She promised to arrange for Franny to relieve her by noon.

Good as his word, Brodsky had had my car delivered. It was parked in front of my house, the keys pushed through my mail slot, but I took Meg’s car so I could return it.

As I backed out of the driveway, I was surprised to see Ruth-Ann standing at my curb putting something in my mailbox. She started almost guiltily when she saw me. I pulled to the top of the driveway and stopped the car.

“Looking for me, Ruth-Ann?”

“Yes...no, that is I-—left something for you.”

“Why didn’t you come to the door and ring the bell?”

“I know today’s your day off. I...thought you might be sleeping.”

From the backseat came the protesting chorus. “Not with this family.”

“Oh, you have cats!” She peered in through the window. “I love cats. How many have you got?”

“Three. On their way to the vet. And I’m afraid I’m late. What is it you have for me?”

She opened the mailbox and pulled out a newspaper with a card attached. “It’s the
Phoenix,
” she whispered. “That reporter wrote a story about you.”

I tried not to look, but my eyes refused to obey my brain’s command. The headline struck me with the force of a whirlwind, sucking the breath from my body.

LOCAL LADY IN LURID LOVE LIAISON

A picture of my back as I’d scurried up the stairs to my office, with my name boldly printed under it, stared back at me. I could feel the heat creeping up my neck to the roots of my hair. “Throw it in the garbage, Ruth-Ann. I don’t want to know what it says.”

“I showed it to my uncle. That’s his card. He’s a lawyer. He says you could sue for defamation of character.”

“I’m not suing anyone. No one I know reads that trash anyway.” My breath was coming in short gasps. I couldn’t bring myself to look at Ruth-Ann. “I’m really late. I have to go. Tell your uncle, thanks anyway.”

I felt her hand on my arm, her voice soft, urgent. “You shouldn’t let them get away with slandering you. You should fight back.”

“I know you and your uncle mean well, and I appreciate it, really I do, but I don’t have the time or the money to go up against the
Phoenix
. So please just forget about it. I’ll see you in Group tomorrow.”

And I took off as though pursued by all the paparazzi in the tri-state area.

As I hit the accelerator my foot came in contact with a hard object wedged between it and the brake pedal. Rattled by the headline and what I imagined was contained in the
Phoenix
article, I kicked it aside. It wasn’t until I had driven through town and stopped at the stop sign on Broadway and Piermont Avenue that I tugged it loose and saw what it was. Dot’s key ring must have fallen out of my pocket as I drove back to my office Monday afternoon. The light changed, and I tossed the keys onto the passenger seat.

The three girls who work in the office at the animal hospital all know me pretty well, but today they hardly glanced up from their computers.

“Hi,” I faltered after I’d deposited the carriers on the bench. “I'm here for my cats’ shots.”

“Dr. Stoner’ll be right with you, Mrs. Burnham,” Holly replied, without moving from her desk.

“Thanks,” I muttered, and sat down on the hard bench next to my three loyal furry friends.

Dr. Stoner had nursed one or another of my four-legged family members through many a crisis, the last being a really mean eye infection José had contracted and passed on to his brothers. The vet was a jovial man of gargantuan proportions, with a touch as gentle as Florence Nightingale’s. He took us right on schedule. The cats carried on as though they were being sent to the gas chamber.

“Blow in his face,” Dr. Stoner instructed me as I struggled to keep a noisy, squirming Luciano on the slippery metal table.

“They’re worse than usual today,” I panted between breaths. “I don't know what's gotten into them.”

“Animals are pretty sensitive. They pick up on tension they feel from their owners.”

“Really?” I mumbled, resolved to show no emotion.

Dr. Stoner paused, needle in hand, and smiled at me. “You just hang in there. This’ll all blow over before you know it.”