Voice Mail Murder (16 page)

The remaining two interviews were with the other team members and sons of the voice mail mistresses. She had heard the recording of Demetrius Davis—son of the murdered Skye Davis. Now she listened to the conversation of Ricky Terlinger and Will Prescott. It was evident that Terlinger knew little, if anything, about the activities of the Coach and his mother—much as his mother had hoped. If he was lying, Pamela could detect no evidence of it. As for Will Prescott, he also appeared unaware that his Bostonian high-society matron mother had had a brief fling with his coach. Indeed, his major concern seemed to be to protect his family’s privacy. It was evident that Prescott’s mother had not revealed her indiscretion to her husband (she being the only one of the three voice mail mistresses who was married). She had, however, only recently since Shoop’s call, revealed her affair to her son in hopes that he would prevent the Reardon police from contacting her husband and further destroying their family unit. Apparently Will Prescott was following his mother’s orders and was going along with questioning on the assurance that his cooperation would keep the investigation local and that investigators would not question his father.

Also, it became apparent to Pamela from the questioner’s probes that neither Abigail Prescott nor her husband had ever visited their son Will in Reardon—to see any of his games or even just to visit. If travel records checked out this information that Will Prescott had provided about his parents, then both of them, at least, could be eliminated as suspects in Coach Croft and Skye Davis’s murders. Obviously, thought Pamela, Abigail Prescott was probably suffering more than necessary for what was no doubt a one-time fling with the Coach during one of the team’s numerous away games. If. . . and how many away games had there been to the Boston area, anyway?

“Jane Marie,” she said to her secretary, as the woman answered the phone with her standard, “Psychology Department,” greeting. “Do you have a list of the football team’s away games?”

“No,” replied Jane Marie, “but I can get them for you. Just this year? Are you hot on the trail, Dr. Barnes?”

“The trail is fairly cool,” she responded, “and maybe check a few years back, if you could. Call me at home.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be resting?” queried Jane Marie.

“I am. I’m in bed with my feet up.” The conversation drew her little friend out from under her bed and Pamela tossed him the last bite of banana on her nightstand. “But Shoop was over here a while ago with a new recording for me to analyze and now I’ve got some thoughts percolating.”

“Sounds dangerous,” suggested the secretary, “too much percolating can lead to . . .”

“An exploding coffee pot,” answered Pamela. She fingered her head bandage; it was still there.

“How’s your injury?” continued Jane Marie.

“I feel fine, but I’m evidently going to be black and blue, according to Shoop,” she replied.

“Like a war wound,” noted the secretary.

“Just,” agreed Pamela. “Call me when you’ve got that information, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Bye,” she said and quickly hung up the receiver.

Hmmm, she thought. From her nightstand, she retrieved the two plastic CD cases to add to the third she was presently playing. She removed the first disk and inserted a new disk from one of the other transparent boxes.

“Let’s take a listen,” she said to herself.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

As promised, Jane Marie called later in the afternoon with the information she had requested about the away games. However, by then, Rocky was home and she had had to put her detecting on hold. Of course, Rocky made being an invalid a pleasure because he indulged her every fantasy and she had enjoyed sending him scurrying around running little mini-errands for her. Angela had even come over with a bouquet of flowers—probably a suggestion from Kent, but whatever the prompt, she had appreciated it and had luxuriated in bed the entire day.

Now, days later she was feeling much better, although her face still bore the ugly bruise of her car accident—purples, greens, and now just around the edges, some yellow. Ick, she thought, I probably gross out my students something fierce. She’d told her classes that she’d been in a small fender bender and they had all cooed and awed appropriately. The little demons! They were no doubt all laughing at her.

But that was the week that was. It was now fabulous Friday and she was ahead of her friends—already sipping one of Pablo’s unbelievably scrumptious margaritas at their favorite booth at Who Who’s. She knew that neither Joan nor Arliss would be late. They’d both seen her face and they were chomping at the bit to hear all the juicy details of the accident—and she was anxious to tell them. Pablo whizzed past, giving her the eye as if to ask, “Are you ready for your second one?” She held up her hand and smiled and he floated on to the next table. She looked up towards the front door, where colorful streamers almost prevented diners from seeing the entrance of new guests. The music was loud, but not so loud that they would be unable to talk. Just then, she recognized the two women walking in the door. The hostess standing by her platform in front, holding a pile of menus, responded to Joan’s question with a hand in Pamela’s direction. Joan saw Pamela and headed her way. Arliss followed directly behind.

“You poor dear,” intoned Joan, “you’re every color of the rainbow!” Joan took Pamela’s face in one hand and examined her eye socket from various directions. Arliss slid in across the booth from Pamela. Joan remained standing, lifting Pamela’s hair over her eye so she could get a better view of the damage to her face. “Did you get a drink? Oh, I see you started without us!” She turned and caught Pablo’s eye and held up two fingers, pointing to Pamela’s margarita. Pablo nodded and headed off towards the bar.

“You’ll have to drink mine, Pamela,” said Arliss, scooting into the booth across from Pamela.

Joan removed her jacket and slid in beside her friend with a questioning look. “Are you kidding? It’s Friday!”

“I’ll just have a Sprite,” replied Arliss, removing her light sweater and reaching for a menu from the center of the table. “My God, Pam, you still look horrible!”

“Don’t remind me,” said Pamela, taking a big gulp of her margarita. “I’m trying to drown the pain.”

“Does it hurt?” asked Arliss.

“Not really,” said Pamela, “it’s my ego that’s hurt, if you must know. I look awful, don’t I?”

“But you have such a tale to tell!” said Joan with glee, also examining a menu over the tops of her gold-rimmed glasses. Pablo arrived with two more margaritas and plopped them on the table and instantly departed.

“You’ve been dangling this ‘fender bender’ thing under our noses all week,” said Joan insistently. “Now that we’re all here, you’d better fess up.”

“I will,” agreed Pamela, laughing. “Don’t worry.” She lifted her drink and held it up to make a toast. Joan followed suit and when Arliss wouldn’t take a glass, Joan thrust the beverage into her young friend’s hand. “Here’s to my two best friends in the world! You’re always there for me!”

“And you for me!” exclaimed Joan, looking from one to the other. They clicked their glasses together and Pamela and Joan each sipped their drinks. Arliss continued to hold her margarita, smiling.

“You’re not toasting to our friendship?” asked Joan.

“Of course, I toast our friendship,” said Arliss, “I’m just not drinking to our friendship—or anything.”

“For heaven’s sake, Arliss,” said Joan, “don’t be a party-pooper! This is the weekend and Pamela has survived another one of her close calls! We have to celebrate!”

“Wait a minute,” said Pamela, setting down her large glass with a little splash. Arliss followed suit as did Joan. “Arliss, you’re not drinking.”

“No,” replied Arliss, blushing.

“You’re pregnant!” exclaimed Pamela.

“What!” shouted Joan.

“I. . . I . . .” said Arliss, continuing to blush. “Really, Pam! I was going to tell you.”

“You just did!” said Pamela, smiling. She stood up and reached over the table and gave her friend a warm hug.

“Were you ever going to tell me?” asked Joan, getting in a sideways squeeze. “When did this happen? Well, I don’t mean actually—when--did this happen. I don’t need to know when, but when did you find out? When is the baby due? What does Bob say?”

“Could you get Pablo’s attention and maybe order me a Sprite?” whispered Arliss to Pamela.

“I’ll go get him,” said Pamela. She slipped out of the booth and accosted the waiter with a few words and then quickly returned to their booth.

“The answers to your many questions, Joan, are that the baby is due in May. We found out just a few days ago and Bob is thrilled.”

“Of course he is,” said Pamela. “How wonderful! Isn’t it wonderful, Joan?”

“It’s wonderful, all right,” agreed Joan, “It’s wonderful right up until the moment they turn thirteen.”

“Now, Joan,” cautioned Pamela. “Arliss, she’s just touchy because of Jack. . .”

“I know,” said Arliss. “I know all about it.” Obviously, Joan had bent Arliss’s ear about her constant altercations with her youngest son.

Pablo arrived with a Sprite and a slice of lemon which he placed dramatically on a small square napkin in front of Arliss. “For the new mother,” he said reverently.

“Good Lord, Pamela,” said Arliss, cringing when the waiter had retreated, “you told Pablo I’m pregnant.”

“I’m so happy for you!” declared Pamela, biting her lower lip, “I’m sorry if I just blurted it out!”

“No, it’s okay,” she responded, “but I’m not even showing. I’d kind of like to keep it quiet for a while, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course, Arliss,” said Pamela. “Pablo will never tell.”

“I can attest to that,” said Joan, bending close to Arliss’s ear, “that man knows things about me that the two of you don’t know.”

“I don’t believe that, Joan!” hooted Pamela. Joan merely smirked and took another swig of her margarita.

“Of course, Arliss,” pronounced Joan. “The most joyful part of parenthood is this part right now—the nine months before the baby arrives. You might as well enjoy it while you can. The impossible part comes soon enough.”

“Joan!” hissed Pamela. “You make it sound as if being a mother is a horrific burden.”

“It is when you have an ungrateful child, who walks in on your life and disrupts your every daily moment for months—then just as suddenly—and right when you’re actually becoming accustomed somewhat to their presence—storms out of your life without even so much as a ‘thanks for the grub, Mom’ as they slam the door.” Joan was getting worked up into one of her speeches, an occurrence that was much more common when she held an alcoholic beverage in her hand.

“Let’s order some food,” suggested Pamela and the three women suddenly buried their heads again in their menus. The perusal of the offerings was unnecessary as they ordered their typical entrees with chips and salsa as appetizers. Pablo being the perfect waiter had anticipated their order, and had brought their appetizers. They munched on the salty wafers while waiting for their meals.

“So, Pam,” said Arliss, elbows on the table, sipping her Sprite, “you were going to tell us the whole story of your car wreck.”

“I slammed into a lamp post on Jackson to avoid hitting a van in front of me. My brakes went out.”

“What happened?”

“To my brakes? They were cut,” she said succinctly and let the statement hang in the air. The women stared at her and then at each other.

“Someone cut the brakes on your car?” asked Joan, astonished.

“Why would anyone do that?” asked Arliss.

“That’s the question,” responded Pamela. “Shoop says somebody probably thinks that I’m getting too close to figuring out who the Coach’s murderer is.”

“Are you?” quizzed Joan, twirling the margarita glass by its stem, a devilish look in her eye.

“If I am,” she explained, “I don’t see it. I’ve been listening to recordings of everyone connected to the Coach—that is, the people the police have been questioning.”

“You mean,” said Arliss, leaning over the table, “you’re listening to all the suspects the police are interviewing?”

“That’s what I’ve been doing,” confirmed Pamela. “And from what I’m hearing, the man was a saint! At least, that’s what everyone says! But obviously, he wasn’t. He was cheating on his wife with multiple women. Somebody must have been mad at him.”

“You’d think,” said Joan, slurping down the last of her second margarita.

“And somebody killed him and now that somebody thinks you’re on to them,” whispered Arliss, eyes agog.

“But I’m not,” said Pamela.

“It must be something on those recordings,” observed Joan, ever the scientist. “Can’t you just play them over and over until you figure out who killer is?”

“How?” asked Pamela. “I’ve listened to the recordings dozens of times already. The mistresses, the co-workers, the family—everyone who was connected to the man. I don’t know what it is I’m supposed to hear that I’m not hearing.”

By now, the women had made short work of their main courses and three large oval platters sat empty in the middle of the table. Pablo delivered espresso in small delicate cups (decaf for the expectant mother-to-be) and removed the plates. The three women were head to head over the steaming brews.

“Thank God it’s Friday,” mumbled Joan, “caffeine will keep me up until the wee hours.”

“Not that you’d be heading to bed anyway,” said Arliss, punching her in the ribs.

“You have a date?” asked Pamela of her friend.

“I thought I might stop by the Starlight Ballroom,” responded Joan. Pamela knew that Joan had often ventured out to local singles’ hangouts before Jack had started to live with her. Now that her son had departed for his new job in Seattle, it appeared that Joan was back to her old weekend activities. The Starlight Ballroom was an elegant dancing club located in an old downtown hotel devoted to an older, more sophisticated clientele. A live orchestra typically played on Friday nights and both couples and singles could pay an entrance fee and dance the fox trot and other elegant partner dances. Joan specialized in the samba and had more than once found a gentleman friend at one of these events.

“Jack has moved out?” asked Arliss.

“Oh, he headed back to Seattle,” answered Joan. “Same company, new title. If you ask me, they just uproot people and re-name their positions to save the company a few bucks. He’ll probably be back in a week or two.”

“Oh, Joan,” intoned Pamela, sympathetically. “Let’s hope not—for Jack’s sake. What a nice young man he is! I know he drove you crazy but I met him, remember, and he was thoroughly charming. . .”

“He didn’t drive me crazy!” cried Joan, “I loved having him around. He just . . .”

“Cramped your style?” asked Pamela. “Yes, I know. Anyway, your life is back to the way you like it.”

Joan sighed and shook her head. A moment of honesty. “I can’t say that. It gets old after a while.”

“Oh, Joan,” said Arliss, and gave her friend a hug. “If you need your life cramped, you can always come babysit for me.”

“Yes,” noted Joan, turning and eyeing Arliss’s stomach “I suppose you’ll need a babysitter from time to time. You surely won’t want to take an innocent baby outside when you and Farmer Goodman go out to tend your critters!”

“Joan!” cried Pamela, aghast.

“Joan, our farm is a perfect place to raise a child.”

“Of course, dear,” shrugged Joan. “A simply perfect place!” She smiled beatifically for Arliss as she continued to sip her coffee. “What things we mothers won’t do for our children!”

“True,” agreed Pamela. She thought of herself, Joan, and Arliss. Now that Arliss was pregnant—all three of them would be mothers. Being a mother changed the way you saw the world, she realized. It changed the way Joan behaved in the presence of her son—even though he was an adult. What about those three women who had slept with Coach Croft? They were more than just any three women, Pamela realized. They were three mothers. They all had sons. Maybe the motivation behind the murder wasn’t jealousy. Maybe it was mother love.