Deader Homes and Gardens Part 8

She didn't look all that embarra.s.sed, and I suspected she was covering a smile. I said, "You don't think anyone in the family murdered Winston. What about Terry?"

"Like I said, he shouldn't have come back."

"And you said that I should ask Nattie about it. Does she know something?"

"Do I think she poisoned him?" Margaret Louise lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. "No, I don't. She was grief-stricken when Winston died, but Terry had nothing to do with that. He had the best alibi of all of us."

"Were you grief-stricken as well?"

"Why would I have been? I'm just the bookkeeper." She stood up. "I didn't realize how late it is, Claire. I must change into suitable drabness before Jordan and Ethan get back from a delivery. I keep losing my d.a.m.n granny gla.s.ses. In the sixties, they were standard issue. I wore them to the March on Washington and listened to Martin Luther King Jr.'s speech on the steps of the Capitol."

"I believe it was at the Lincoln Memorial."

"Hey, I was stoned. It could have been the nearest McDonald's for all I cared."

She yanked off the black wig to expose thin gray hair as she went back through the living room to the front door. Once again, I followed her. I thanked her, but she was humming "We Shall Overcome" like a kazoo. I retreated to my car to consider what she'd said. I wasn't sure how much of it was true, or how much of it was permanent brain damage from hallucinogenics in the sixties. However, it didn't take much effort to imagine her in a graffiti-laden VW bus careening across the country, the windshield wipers slappin' time ...

It was still early enough for a surprise visit to the Finnellys' house-unless they ate dinner at six o'clock so they could tuck themselves in bed at nine. I had a brief flash of them in bed with Margaret Louise and her merry pranksters and started laughing. As long as I could keep the image in mind, Charles could not intimidate me. Which isn't to say he could in other circ.u.mstances. I do not daunt easily. I drove around the green and turned down their driveway. Unlike the more primitive road surfaces, it was made of pricey aggregate. The house was a large redbrick rectangle, reminiscent of a Georgian manor. The landscaping was perfunctory; there were no cheerful flower beds or window boxes. I surmised such things were frivolous and therefore vanity. I vaguely remembered that Job had worried about vanity as well, along with the death of his family and other minor inconveniences. The new gold Cadillac was merely a basic necessity.

I pushed the doorbell and tried to look as if I'd been in Sunday school all day (which was harder than it sounds, it being Sat.u.r.day; I certainly couldn't claim to be Jewish if I wanted to be invited inside).

Felicia opened the door with the same pained look I'd seen after the ambulance drove away. "You," she said. "Why are you here? We don't want to have anything to do with you or your kind."

"And what kind would that be?" I pictured her dressed in hot red lingerie, sprawled across a tangle of sweaty, hirsute bodies.

"You'll have to search your soul for the answer."

"I am kind of adorable, or so my husband says, and I'm kind to the elderly and the infirm. I'd like to talk to you about Winston's death. Is Mr. Finnelly here?"

"He doesn't want to talk to you."

I expected to be chased away with a broom, but she continued to watch me as if she were a buzzard and I were a baby bunny. "Are you afraid to talk to me?"

"Most certainly not," she replied, although her eyes were shifting rapidly. Her puckered lips reminded me of a cat's derriere. She took several minutes to come to some kind of decision. I antic.i.p.ated being ordered off her doorstep and was surprised when she suddenly smiled and said, "Wait here."

She closed the door, then locked it in case "my kind" stormed into any old house we chose. I watched squirrels leap from branch to branch for a good five minutes, prepared to stay on the doorstep all night, ringing the doorbell at random intervals. I had just dressed Charles in frayed cutoffs, with a peace sign on a shoelace hanging on his scrawny chest, when Felicia returned, her mouth tight. Her fleeting smile must have been a muscle spasm, I thought.

"We will give you five minutes. Please watch your language. This is a Christian household." She gestured for me to precede her into the living room. The furniture was as bland as she was, functional but unappealing. There were doilies on the arm rests of the brown sofa and straight-backed chairs. There were no photographs or artwork. I was told to sit down, so I complied.

She sat across from me, her hands folded in her lap. We looked at each other in uneasy silence until Charles Finnelly came into the room. He remained standing, his arms crossed and his stare contemptuous. Long live the king.

"You have five minutes," he said.

I wondered if he had a stopwatch in his back pocket. "Terry Kennedy died this afternoon from an unidentified poison. The lab is testing the contents of the vodka bottle."

"Oh, no," Felicia said, putting her hand to her mouth.

Charles handled the news without a twitch. "There has never been a bottle of alcoholic beverage in my house. Drunkenness leads to depravity and degeneracy. That it led to Kennedy's death does not surprise me. He and Winston flaunted their perversity, and they died because of it."

"Okay. I understand that you didn't approve of their lifestyle. Let's not get into a debate about it. Do you think Winston committed suicide?"

"My opinion is none of your business."

I felt my chin edge forward. "It may not be any of my business, but it is police business. You'll have to go to the department tomorrow to make a statement about it, and about Terry's death. You'll miss church, and we must pray that no one sees you entering or leaving. You know how your kind are. They might think that you're involved in an ugly crime. Someone might start a rumor, and rumors tend to grow tentacles with every repet.i.tion. What would the congregation do if they heard you were accused of possessing child p.o.r.n, for instance?"

"That's absurd!" Felicia said.

"Be silent," her husband commanded, then said, "Why is talking to you going to save me from further inconvenience?"

"I'm married to the deputy chief. He listens to me. If I tell him that you have no pertinent information, he may not send a squad car to pick you up in the morning." Odds were good that he wouldn't, since he'd be at the Atlanta airport. Besides, he never listens to me, even when I'm telling him what to buy at the grocery store.

"What I think about this suicide is not pertinent. We did not socialize with Winston and his 'friend.' He might have accepted the truth that he was an abomination in the eyes of G.o.d. Since he was unable to rein in his unholy l.u.s.t, he did the only thing he could."

"So he killed himself out of remorse?"

"Sadly enough, G.o.d will never allow him to enter heaven. There can be no forgiveness for such a sinner."

"Amen," Felicia said under her breath.

Charles swiveled his head to stare at her. "Go to the kitchen and see to my dinner," he said sternly, then watched her scurry out of the room. "She forgets her place, as do other women." We both knew to whom he was referring.

"Terry didn't commit suicide out of remorse," I said. "He was poisoned by someone who lives in Hollow Valley."

"That is a false utterance, Mrs. Malloy. If you repeat it, I will sue you for slander. You won't be able to buy a trailer when I'm finished."

"So sue me. I'd like nothing more than to see this in the local paper. We might even warrant the front page. No, it's more likely to end up buried next to the church listings. That'll put the Hollow family in the spotlight, won't it?"

"It's my dinnertime, and I cannot abide overcooked chicken. Your five minutes are up. Allow me to escort you to the door."

"Do you have a key to Winston's house?"

"Of course not! Do not require me to be obliged to forcibly expel you." He maintained his stare as I walked across the room.

"I can't see Winston giving you a spare key so that you could water the houseplants whenever he and Terry were out of town," I said as I stopped in the doorway. My elegant nose was in peril should he attempt to slam the door, but I found a high level of satisfaction from irritating him. "However, no one seems to allow locks to thwart them. Moses has no difficulty getting inside the house. He prefers merlot, but he was into the whiskey yesterday morning. He may not be the only Hollow who likes to snoop."

Charles's face turned redder than Caron's. "Snoop?" he sputtered. "I do not snoop! I set foot in that house one time, and it was adequate to satisfy myself that it was a warren of perversity. The very thought of what went on in that house makes me shudder. I felt a moral compunction to go there the next day, but I stayed on the porch while I offered Winston the opportunity to repent and become a true Christian. He had the audacity to smirk, Mrs. Malloy. No one smirks at me. After that, I forbade my wife to acknowledge their presence in Hollow Valley."

"Were you angry enough to whack him on the head and push him in the stream?" I asked, battling the impulse to produce the most superb smirk he would ever see until he encountered St. Peter.

Felicia appeared at his side, a dish towel in her hand. "Charles, your dinner is ready. Please come eat while everything's hot."

"Everything had better be hot when I choose to eat. Go back to the kitchen and wait there." He did not see the glare she shot at his back as she left the room.

He deserved a dose of whatever had killed Terry, I thought as I clenched my fists. "Well, Charlie, were you that angry?"

Purple blotches spread on his face, and for several seconds, he was speechless. I was glad we weren't on the bank of the stream. "Mrs. Malloy," he managed to say, "leave my property immediately. Should you return, I will have you arrested for trespa.s.sing and hara.s.sment. I don't care if your husband is a five-star general. Go home and become an obedient wife. Your lack of modesty is shameful."

"Shameful? You haven't seen the half of it, buddy boy." Since I had no idea what I had just threatened him with, the best I could do was spin around and stalk to my car. I slammed the door, started the engine, and drove back to the blacktop. Had there been dust, I would have left a cloud.

There were at least two hours before sunset. My best-laid plan had gotten me nowhere. I now knew that Margaret Louise was someone with whom to reckon, and that the Finnellys were as Nattie had described them. I turned in the direction of the Old Tavern and parked in front of the door.

Nattie came outside as I climbed out of the car. "What's going on? Is Terry okay?"

I related the bad news. She stared in disbelief, then finally shook her head and said, "There's something terrible happening here. I don't know what to do. First Winston, and now Terry. I liked both of them. They made the sun shine on this dreary place." She began to cry and made no attempt to wipe her tears as they coursed down her face.

I put my arm around her shoulder and led her to the chairs in the backyard. "I wish I knew what to say, Nattie. I can't stop myself from feeling guilty. If I hadn't fallen in love with the house, Terry would be sitting in a bar in Key West, drinking a margarita while he waited for the sunset."

"He should have stayed there and left us alone to mourn for Winston." She gripped the chair arms with such intensity that her knuckles were white. "What painful memories he brought back with him."

I put aside my sympathy and said, "I don't know what happened to Winston, but Terry was murdered. Someone is responsible."

"It's frightening," Nattie said as she gazed at the distant bridge. "The whole thing was nothing more than a spat over Winston's house and acreage. Ethan told me that he and Charles spoke to Terry the day after he arrived home from Europe. They offered him a fair price, but he became hostile and ordered them to leave. Two days later, he was gone. They filed the lawsuit when they realized that he wasn't coming back."

"How did Charles and Ethan know about the deed?"

"You'll have to ask them. I certainly didn't know anything about it until Ethan told me. It was the day after Winston's body was found. He was flabbergasted that Winston hadn't wanted to keep the valley intact, and very hurt. We sat here and talked about it for a long time that afternoon. I agreed that Terry might be willing to settle the matter as quickly as possible. I was wrong about that." She tried to laugh, but it wasn't convincing. "It was a painful situation for all of us, including Terry. He came home from his poker tournament, eager to see Winston, and then learned about his tragic death. He cried on my shoulder. I felt like his mother, even though I'm only five years older. I kept thinking that I had to bake for him-bread, m.u.f.fins, cinnamon rolls, something. I ended up burning a pan of brownies and dumping it in the trash."

"You did what you could," I said as I leaned over to squeeze her hand. I waited a few minutes to allow her to regain her composure while I mulled over what she'd said. "Did anyone try to get in touch with Terry after the death?" I'd long since stopped categorizing it as an accident, but I wasn't ready to use the other two theories: suicide or murder.

"How could I have done that?" asked Nattie. "All I knew was that he was in Europe."

"He would have left contact information with Winston, don't you think? Maybe on the desk in the library or on a kitchen counter."

She caught her breath. "It didn't seem right to go inside the house. Maybe someone should have, but we were in mourning. No one was thinking clearly. Charles took care of the funeral arrangements. Despite his antagonism, he was upset to lose a family member in such a horrible way."

"I've noticed how sensitive he is. You may not have been thinking clearly, but Ethan was. He could have been looking for guidance for the funeral service when he found the deed in a desk drawer or folder. It's public record at the courthouse, but he would have had to know the deed existed in the first place. Which n.o.body did, from what you said."

"Maybe Pandora had a vision while she was munching pokeweed berries," Nattie said. "You'll have to ask Ethan, Claire. I can't explain it."

I put that on my agenda, but I had a feeling I'd have no more luck with him than I'd had with Charles Finnelly. If I included Margaret Louise and Felicia, my batting average would send me back to the minors. Nattie excused herself and went into the Old Tavern. In the vicinity of the nursery, a truck rumbled to life. Minutes later I watched it drive across the bridge and around a bend. The driver must not have been thrilled to spend the remainder of the weekend delivering trees and shrubs to Missouri. I hoped he was getting overtime.

I was wasting time, I told myself sharply. I had less than twenty-four hours to find Terry's killer. Once Peter was back, it would be trickier to avoid violating his bureaucratic dicta while I sleuthed. There would be an official investigation once food poisoning was ruled out, although there might be a delay until an autopsy eliminated any kind of preexisting condition. Such things as blood clots and aneurisms could kill quickly. I knew perfectly well that Terry had been poisoned, but I also knew the police were sticklers for protocols and procedures. In the fable, the plodding tortoise won the race. I fully intended to be sitting on the finish line, nibbling a carrot, long before the investigation broke into a sweat.

There was one enormous hurdle in my path. No one in Hollow Valley knew that Terry had returned from Key West under the cover of darkness. The headlights of his rental car would not have been visible from the other houses, nor would the interior lights of the house. Billy Bobstay and his friends wouldn't have alerted any of the members of the family. I certainly hadn't. How long had the vodka bottle been lurking in the liquor cabinet like a brown recluse? Nattie knew about Moses's forays into Winston's house to drink whatever caught his rheumy eye. I'd seen him drink two bottles of wine. His tastes were likely to be eclectic, from absinthe to zinfandel. Other family members must have known, too. He was the reigning patriarch, for better or worse, and therefore to be protected-not poisoned.

I was not so lost in thought that I failed to see movement out of the corner of my eyes. "It must be uncomfortable sitting in that tree, Jordan. Come down before the starlings attack." In truth, I wasn't sure that it was Jordan, but it seemed like a logical guess. The Finnellys were having dinner, Margaret Louise was transforming herself from a well-worn flower child to a great-aunt, and Pandora b.u.t.terfly wasn't able to remain silent for more than a few seconds. I heard a thump, but I continued to watch the sunlight shifting on the woods beyond the bridge.

"I can't believe Terry's dead," Jordan said as she sat down in the gra.s.s. "I mean, what a b.u.mmer. I was thinking that he was cool and that I might survive the summer, as long as I could sneak over to his house sometimes. Now all I can look forward to is watching the geraniums wilt."

"Every once in a while, Jordan, it's not about you."

"Yeah, I know, but I can't show any weakness. If I do, they'll pounce on me like a pack of wolves. Terry was cool. He wasn't all snooty just because he'd lived in New York and hung out with famous people. I guess they're famous. I've never heard of any of them."

"You might if you go to school," I said.

"Sure, and sit in a row of identical desks and listen to a teacher drone on and on about stuff that's never going to have anything to do with my life. When's the last time you did an algebraic equation, Ms. Malloy? If I have a job that requires me to explain the impact of the Industrial Revolution on current economic policies, I won't have to hang myself. I'll slowly disintegrate into a pile of subatomic particles and be blown away by a solar flare."

"I admit that doesn't sound too exciting." I wondered what would have become of me if Peter hadn't blundered into my life. I'd grow too old to manage the Book Depot and end up in a dusty little apartment with cats and the last remaining book made out of paper.

"You two don't look very chipper," Nattie said as she placed a tray on the table. "You're too young for wine, Jordan. There's a pitcher of lemonade inside."

A croak burst out of my mouth. A pitcher of lemonade, a splash of vodka, and an ambulance. "Thank you, Nattie, but I have to drive back to town in a few minutes. My husband will fix a squeaky door, but he refuses to fix my parking tickets. If I were picked up for a DWI, he'd line up to testify against me."

"Wow," Jordan murmured. "That's hard."

I hoped it wasn't true, although I wasn't positive. Peter had arranged for my car to be towed, simply because he was in a snit. He'd stationed an officer to prevent me from leaving my apartment, which had required me to come up with a devious escape plan. There have been moments when he seemed to be picturing me in a holding cell. "I've changed my mind, Nattie. I'd love a splash of wine. Would you like a piece of cheese?" I asked Jordan as I held out the plate.

She looked at me as if I'd offered her a ticket to Hawaii (or a get-out-of-jail-free card). She glanced at Nattie, then grabbed the plate. "h.e.l.l, yes. All I had for lunch was-" She caught herself. "Thank you."

Nattie nodded. "I'll make it my responsibility to see that you have a decent lunch break. Ethan gets so pa.s.sionate about the plants that he forgets to eat. I've seen the workmen huddled behind an outbuilding, eating lunch."

"And chain-smoking," Jordan said. "They're real careful to pick up the b.u.t.ts so Ethan won't find them. When he caught Mariposa sneaking a quick cigarette near the red maples, he yelled at her until she burst into tears. I don't know if he fired her, but she never came back. I wouldn't have." She produced an admirably dramatic sigh. "I don't have that option. Ethan yells at me all day, no matter what. If I do a good job, he tells me that I was too slow. If I try to hurry, he tells me that I was sloppy and makes me do it again. When I get incarcerated in that boarding school, I'm going to read up on child labor laws."

I retrieved the plate of cheese. "Run along, Jordan. Aunt Margaret Louise is expecting you."

"Expecting me to do what? Clean the bathroom? Scrub the floor on my hands and knees?" She stood up. "I am so out of here. I wonder what language they speak in Oklahoma."

Nattie waited until Jordan was out of sight. "An idle threat. She stowed away on a delivery truck a while back. After six hours of bouncing into pines and holly trees in the dark, with no air-conditioning, bathroom facilities, food, or water, she concluded that it was a poor idea. She was lucky that the driver let her sit in front on the ride back."

"The workers loading the truck didn't see her?"

She carefully poured herself a gla.s.s of wine. "Apparently not. She might have crawled in at the last minute, just before they closed the door. For all I know, she could have been wearing a black ski mask to cover those ridiculous rings and studs-and that hair. Looking at her makes me feel old, Claire."

"I feel sorry for her. It sounds as though she and her parents are trapped in a futile cycle. They get mad at her for something, so she retaliates by doing something even worse. I hope she still has a few square inches of unsullied skin before she reaches maturity." Thinking about Jordan's angst-ridden adolescence reminded me of a question. "Nattie, from what I've heard, everyone in Hollow Valley knew that Winston was gay by the time he became a teenager. Did he announce it?"

"I knew Winston better than anyone, including his parents. We were practically soul mates, but I sensed that he wasn't completely open about ... certain things. Some of his poems hinted at his confusion and pain. I still have them in a box in my nightstand. I shall always treasure them." She realized she'd wandered off track and said, "I only came during summer vacations, so if there was a formal announcement, I missed it. I think maybe there was a vicious rumor at school. Ethan and Esther must have repeated it to their respective parents."

"Who's Esther?"

"Charles and Felicia's daughter. She's a year older than Ethan."

I was less than excited to hear that there was yet another Hollow. "Where is she? How did she escape from her parents' piety?"

"She ran away when she was seventeen. It's a touchy subject, especially for Felicia, so we never mention it."

"n.o.body knows what happened to her?"

Nattie shook her head. "All I can say is that I don't know what happened to her. I hope she's living in a million-dollar condo in Manhattan or with a disgustingly rich marquis in Tuscany. Anyone who survived seventeen years under Charles Finnelly's tyranny deserves all the worldly wickedness she wants. She and I talked quite a bit. She told me that she had to come straight home from school, wasn't allowed to partic.i.p.ate in any outside activities, and was dragged to church twice a week. She had long braids and wore dresses that covered her arms and knees. I felt just awful when I thought about her, and the other kids, too. They were required to put in fifteen hours a week at the nursery."

"It sounds pretty dreadful," I murmured. The last time Caron had worn braids was in kindergarten. I still remembered the day she brought them home in her lunchbox. "Did the police conduct a search?"

"Ethan told me that Esther's friends were candid with the police, who figured they weren't going to have much luck tracking down a runaway."

I sat back and took a discreet sip of wine. Now I had too much information to even begin to a.s.similate on my own. Peter was not a potential confidant, due to his obsession with the rules. "Okay," I said as if I were about to say something of profound significance, "what do you think about all this? I know that you believe Winston committed suicide, but Terry was adamant that he didn't. He said that Winston wasn't depressed and was looking forward to their trip to Rio. I met someone who played in Winston's string ensemble, and he told me that Winston was definitely expecting them that weekend. Have you considered the possibility that you caught Winston at a bad moment, or maybe misinterpreted his actions?"

"Two days ago I was convinced that Winston did indeed commit suicide, but after Terry's death ... well, we both know that he didn't poison himself." She gave me a perplexed look. "I suppose we know that. I've read that combinations of prescription drugs or illegal substances can be toxic. The police have searched the house and his luggage, haven't they?"