Triple Shot (17 page)

But I wax philosophical and thus digress.

Atherton shrugged. ‘Brigid and I did speak for a few minutes at Sapphire on Monday, but I really can’t afford to bring anyone on who doesn’t already have solid connections in the community.’

The definition of a potential rainmaker, as MaryAnne Williams had put it.

‘Brigid must have known at least Kingston Realty’s clients.’ Dumping the espresso in a glass, I added milk. ‘From what I could tell, she was practically running the place.’

‘Perhaps. However, as I tried to explain to Brigid, that doesn’t mean the clients would – or even legally
could
– follow her to Atherton.’

‘I suppose she didn’t believe you. I liked her, but Brigid came across a little too . . .’

‘Full of herself?’ Atherton said, pushing me a Splenda to supplement her drink. ‘I’d have to agree. Brigid practically bragged that she could take down Kingston Realty. Single-handedly.’ A tight smile. ‘Ballsy. It made me want to give her a chance. Almost.’

As Atherton opened her handbag to pay me, stirring chords from Richard Wagner’s ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ – the signature theme played during the sky cavalry’s helicopter attack on a Vietnamese village in the movie
Apocalypse Now
– rang out from inside the designer leather.

Atherton dug like a badger. Instead of her wallet, she pulled out a smart phone. ‘Gabriella Atherton.’

She listened. ‘I’m sorry, but you’re breaking up a bit. I’m at . . . yes . . . you’ve changed your . . .? But what about . . .?’ A glance at me. ‘Of course, dear. I’ll run right over.’

‘Need a to-go cup?’ I asked, wondering if Gabriella still got the same rush, as MaryAnne put it, from assignations with Robert as she had when they were cheating on his wife.

‘Yes, please.’ She stuck the phone back in her bag and this time did pull out her wallet.

‘Would you like me to remove the ice?’ Better to do it as I was pouring into the new cup, rather than trying to fish the cubes out after.

‘No, no. It’s fine.’ She slapped a five down on the counter, grabbing for the drink. ‘I need to run.’

‘Cover?’ I said, holding a clear plastic one in my hand. ‘So the doesn’t slop all over your Mercedes?’

‘Please.’

I held the cover where it was. ‘Did Brigid tell you where she was going after you spoke?’

‘Going?’ Impatience was palpable in her voice.

‘When Brigid left Sapphire Monday night.’ I tamped the lid at strategic points on the cup’s rim, but kept my fingers atop it.

Atherton shook her head, impatience now evidently growing inside her, as well. ‘Brigid wanted fifteen minutes of my time and I gave it to her. Then I went to join some friends and, so far as I know, our little schemer returned to the bar.’

Gabriella Atherton pulled the drink away from me and, with a machine-gun explanation whispered to her friends, left.

It was past noon now, yet I was still thinking about what Gabriella Atherton had said.

She’d given Brigid fifteen minutes of her time. What Brigid had done after that – with the remainder of the time the young woman had on earth, as it turned out – was anybody’s guess.

Except the killer’s.

According to Benjy the bartender, Brigid had spoken with Deirdre Doty until about midnight. Then, this time according to Gabriella Atherton, the two women had spoken for fifteen minutes. After that, Atherton said that Brigid returned to the bar where – back to Benjy – she’d closed out at twenty minutes after midnight and presumably left, never to be seen again.

Could Brigid have been abducted from the parking lot? If so, her car should have still been there.

Unless, of course, she’d been the victim of a carjacking.

I picked up my cell and pushed ‘1’ on its speed-dial. Nothing happened. Then I pushed ‘P’ and held it down. New smartphone, not so smart new owner. ‘Pav . . . I mean, Jake, this is Maggy.’

‘Good try, Maggy, but I’ve gotten used to Pavlik. What’s up?’

His voice, warm though it was, sounded hurried, so I cut to the chase. ‘Has Brigid’s car been found?’

A pause. ‘Why do you ask?’

Where had I heard that before? ‘Because I was talking to Gabriella Atherton and—’

‘What a surprise.’ You could tell from the tone of his voice that it wasn’t.

‘She stopped in for coffee,’ I explained. ‘Said how sad it was about Brigid. And how much she’d wanted to work for Gabriella.’

‘Ms Atherton volunteered that?’

‘Well, I guess I might have said it first,’ I admitted, ‘but Gabriella confirmed it.’

‘As she did when I spoke with her.’

So Pavlik
had
tracked her down, presumably before tennis. ‘Well, then you also know that Gabriella stayed at Sapphire with friends after Brigid left. It occurred to me that Brigid must have driven there, but I don’t remember hearing anything about her car.’

A hesitation. Then: ‘The car was found in a slot near Uncommon Grounds, Maggy. We towed it to the crime lab’s garage yesterday to check the vehicle for trace evidence.’

The white Toyota MaryAnne and I had seen go by on the flatbed truck. ‘What did you find? If you can tell me, of course.’

‘We didn’t find much, but there’s no way that Brigid Ferndale was killed in her car.’

###

I arrived at MaryAnne Williams’ house just a minute shy of four. When Amy had arrived to take over the shop, she’d asked for an update. Since I’d neglected to call our intrepid barista before she walked into a full-blown murder investigation the day before, I figured I owed her more than a cursory: Brigid bludgeoned, body moved, murderer at large.

Besides, there was that whole people-person issue.

It was nearly three thirty when Amy had helped me carry two platters of appetizers out to the Escape. I’d stopped home and let Frank out – food still safely sealed in the Escape – and then proceeded to the open house.

Or, open mansion.

MaryAnne Williams’ place was on Wildwood Drive, the same street where my ex-husband, Ted, had lived with his second wife. Wildwood was off Poplar Creek Road, but, instead of turning east, toward Ted’s, I turned west on Wildwood toward Poplar Creek, the stream itself.

I’d been to MaryAnne’s home once for a Historical Society fundraiser and, unlike many of the McMansions in this southernmost – and toniest – part of Brookhills, it wasn’t sandwiched in amongst other monstrosities. Instead, the house stood proudly at the center of a two-acre plot that bordered on the creek.

I parked my car behind Sarah’s in the driveway, noticing that there was a third car, a Mercedes, in front of that. It looked like Gabriella Atherton’s but then so did every other big, black Mercedes. Besides, what would Atherton be doing here?

Climbing out of my Escape, I opened the rear liftgate and considered trying to carry both platters. Nah. I was already late, but arriving with road-kill appetizers trailing behind me? Sarah would take that pistol . . . sorry,
revolver
, to my skull.

I carefully slid one tray out, leaving the lift gate up. My plan was to ring the doorbell, hand over the one platter to Sarah, and then run back to get the other, along with my handbag.

Only problem? No answer from inside.

Then again, maybe no bell had actually rung. Not wanting to take a chance on losing the platter, I’d punched the button with an elbow.

Now I set the tray down on a small, wrought-iron table to one side of the door and pressed the button again. This time, an audible, if muffled, ding-dong.

But still, no Sarah.

Opening the aluminum storm, I saw the lockbox dangling from the handset of the heavy wooden door. Knocking, I stepped back to survey the house.

Pink brick and really very charming, despite its size. I knew the inside to be the same. Six thousand square feet, but every room felt just right. Not overpowering, almost . . . cozy.

Around the back was a swimming pool surrounded by a tiled patio. From the fringe of the pool apron, a wide expanse of lawn sloped down to the creek. The day of the fundraiser in June, white tables with umbrellas had spotted both the pool deck and the lawn while a string quartet played beneath the tallest weeping willow tree I had ever seen.

I peeked around a corner of the house, but all I could see was MaryAnne’s high – not to mention legally-required – fence of wrought iron surrounding her pool.

Still no response at the door, and I was growing worried about Sarah. I left Tien’s platter of cheese cubes, vegetable tarts and miniature sandwiches to fend for themselves and followed the flagstoned path that led to the rear.

Because I’d arrived late, Sarah had likely been there a good thirty minutes before. The Mercedes, given that Sarah had boxed it in, must already have been on-site when she came. Had my business partner walked in on something? Or, had someone arrived earlier, hidden in the house and taken her by surprise?

Though if you were intending to be an assailant, parking your Mercedes where it could be road-blocked in the driveway didn’t seem part of a smart getaway plan.

The path brought me to a gate I hadn’t remembered seeing, though admittedly I’d come through the house that day, the better for Elaine Riordan and her minions to force you past the silent auction tables in the living room.

I pushed on the gate and was surprised when it swung easily open. Maybe the pool cleaners or lawn people had left it that way but, if so, MaryAnne needed to talk with them. Ted and I had maintained a large ‘umbrella’ insurance policy just because of our pool, but no amount of liability coverage would ever have made up for an accident resulting from carelessness.

I closed the gate tight behind me, making sure the lock engaged. I was fighting a building sense of panic. Three real estate agents had been killed and I couldn’t reach Sarah.

Should I call Pavlik?

Except . . . my smartphone was in my purse, which was next to the second platter in the back of the Escape.

I stopped, suddenly and desperately wanting to regain the safety of the front driveway where I could access my cell and be sure I had a getaway route of my own, while still blocking in the other two cars until help arrived.

But could the Mercedes belong to MaryAnne? Maybe she’d driven a different vehicle or gotten a ride to her other event. Or maybe she’d skipped it altogether.

So what if I telephoned Pavlik and he sent the troops, as he had called them? Deputies would find me cowering in the Escape, doors locked and windows up. Inside, of course, Sarah and MaryAnne would be opening the wine and arranging cocktail napkins, music turned up so high that they couldn’t hear . . .

A high-pitched scream pierced the stillness.

The cry had come from the back of the house. Forgetting about my cellphone and the cars and the trays of appetizers, I sprinted down the walkway to a break in the row of arbor vitae that surrounded the patio proper. As I did, I registered that the shriek I’d heard had not belonged to Sarah.

Should I be glad? I didn’t know, since at least the screamer, presumably, was still alive.

As was Sarah. As I broke through the hedge, I saw my business partner standing at the edge of the pool with another woman . . . Jane Smith?

The brunette, body language projecting horror, was backing away from Sarah. ‘What . . . What did you . . .?’

For her part, Sarah was doing . . . well, pretty much nothing.

I pulled even with her, me gasping for air. ‘What’s wrong?’

Sarah pointed.

I turned to see a redhaired woman in tennis whites, floating face down in the pool.

Chapter Fifteen

No more information seemed forthcoming from Sarah, so I turned to Jane Smith. ‘What happened?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Smith. ‘I came back here and saw her –’ she pointed at Sarah – ‘and then . . . her.’

‘So no one has . . .’ I broke off, not wanting to waste the time. Instead, I kicked off my shoes and jumped into the pool, ignoring the shock of the frigid water.

It only took two strokes to reach the woman. I’d taken life-saving when Ted and I had bought the house with the swimming pool, but that was a very long time ago. Still, I knew enough to grasp the victim and roll same onto her back.

If the red hair had been a strong clue, the face proved a giveaway.

Gabriella Atherton. There went my burgeoning theory that she’d been the one to kill Brigid Ferndale and try to pin it on Sarah.

Slipping an arm under Gabriella’s chin to tow her, I managed, ‘Call 9-1-1,’ as I side-stroked to the pool’s long side.

No one moved.

‘Call . . . 9-1-1!’ I sputtered on pool water.

This time, Sarah stirred. ‘I—’

‘Sarah!’ I said, reaching the stairs of the pool. ‘Call Pavlik,
now
!’

She nodded once and dug into the bulging pockets of her ‘uniform’ jacket.

Meanwhile, I signaled Jane Smith. ‘Help me get out.’

To the woman’s credit, she came forward, but shrunk back as she leaned down to grasp Atherton’s shoulders. ‘What’s that?’

She was pointing at the woman whose face I still held above water, despite the fact I feared it was too late.

An irregular pattern of stippling and, at its center, a dark hole in Gabriella Atherton’s temple.

The EMTs arrived first and took over. Though I’d started CPR – more pool-owner training – I hadn’t detected any response from the victim.

One of the emergency workers had seen I was wet and gave me a blanket to wrap around myself against the cold. As Jane Smith and I stood back to watch the med-techs work, I asked Sarah the same question I’d put just fifteen minutes earlier. ‘What happened?’

‘I don’t know. I went through the house to make sure everything was in order and put out the sell sheets on every flat surface. Then I came back to the kitchen and opened MaryAnne’s wine.

‘When you still weren’t here, I checked out back, because I’d asked MaryAnne not to close the pool for the winter so the house would show better. I wanted to make sure the water looked clean and nothing disgusting was . . .’

Floating, I finished for her mentally.

I’d pulled countless mice, voles, squirrels and even the occasional snake or crawfish out of Ted’s and my pool. This, glancing toward the EMTs, was far, far worse.