Death Comes eCalling (19 page)

“Is that Tiffany’s husband?” Karen asked from the back seat.

“No, her boyfriend. They’re not married.”

“Do people tell lies in a lib’ary?” Nathan asked.

“What?”

“Why is it called a lie’bary? Why isn’t it a book-berry?”

“I don’t know.”

His voice was tensing. “Do people lie down in lie-berries?”

Cherokee’s mother strode up to the car. I rolled down the window. She said, “Hello, I’m Janice Taylor.”

“Why is it called a lib’ary?” Nathan yelled again,

“Hello, I’m—“

“MOMMY!” He started crying. “I just want to know. Why is it called a—”

I turned and snapped at him, “Because it was invented by some guy in Philadelphia named Ralph Woodwin Library, that’s why!”

Embarrassed, I returned my gaze to Cherokee’s mother, but she gave me a smile that was mothers’ nonverbal shorthand for “Don’t bother to explain. I’m a mother myself.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Molly Masters. I was just driving Tiffany home.”

Tiffany and Cherokee strolled over, hand in hand.

“She and my mom are good friends,” Tiffany said.

Her face fell. “I see.”

For Tiffany’s sake, I didn’t want to blurt, “Don’t worry. I can’t stand the woman, either.” So instead I asked, “Didn’t I see you at Mrs. Kravett’s funeral?” As if I could have seen anyone through all those tears, but it was a reasonable guess.

“Oh, yes. I remember seeing you now, too. That was so sad. She was quite a mentor to Cherokee.”

“She could recognize honesty and artifice,” I offered, hoping to elicit a response.

She studied my eyes. “So you know the story.”

“Not really.”

She said under her breath, “He’ll get his. He may have escaped on a technicality, thanks to that spineless cohort of his, but he’ll pay.”

“Mom!” Cherokee snarled.

She whirled toward her house without another word, forcing me to choose between calling after her, “Who are we talking about?” and driving away. Cherokee looked at Tiffany with, loving eyes as she got into the passenger seat, which quickly turned to an angry glare as he focused on me. I backed out of the driveway.

Cherokee’s mother must have meant Preston would “get his” and
Sam
was “spineless,” but I had a disquieting suspicion I would never know for sure. “Turn left here.”

Tiffany continued to give me directions. Granted, I have no sense of direction, but even
I
notice when I pass my own house. Tiffany navigated us back the way we came toward her house.

The next morning, I got word that my new bookkeeper customer wanted another eCard designed for her business, a friendly payment-overdue notice.

I’d gotten into the greeting card business as a writer, not an artist. One thing I had learned about cartooning was to draw as few pen strokes as possible. A character defined with a few deft strokes could look humorous, the anatomical exaggerations intentional rather than the result of the inadequacies of a self-taught artist.

For this particular job, I could use the ultimate minimalistic approach. Because we were in noncompeting businesses with different client bases, I didn’t need to do a new design; I merely emailed her the late-payment notice I use for my own customers. It showed a sad-faced man wearing pants with empty pockets pulled out and a T-shirt that read Bill. The caption read:
Please Don’t Forget to Pay Your Bill.

The entire transaction was handled before it was time to get the kids to the bus. I emerged from my office and swooped the mostly empty cereal bowls off my children’s place mats. “Okay, guys. Time to get to the bus stop. Run upstairs and brush your teeth while I grab your backpacks.”

The children obeyed me without complaint They were all zipped into their coats and ready to go in record time. I felt like Supermom. She cooks. She works. She—

“Where’s my lunch, Mom?”

—forgot to pack a lunch for her daughter. “You’re getting a hot lunch today.” She fakes it.

“No way! They’re having beef awk juice today!”

“All right, all right. I’ve got ten seconds. No problem.” I raced into the kitchen and flung open the pantry. “How about a can of tuna and a can opener?”

“Mo-o-omm!”

When Karen drags the word Mom into three-plus syllables, she means no. I grabbed a couple of slices of American cheese and an entire packet of soda crackers. “Here you go.” I chucked them into her lunch box. “Buy milk to drink. Rip up the cheese slices and make your own finger sandwiches.”

“But Mo-o-omm!”

“It’s that or the beef aus juice. Your pick.”

She grabbed the lunch box and frumped out of the house behind Nathan and me. I glanced back at her and tried to make her return my smile. She murmured, “Everyone else’s moms pack good lunches.”

We just made the bus. From the corner of my eye, I saw Lauren emerge from her house carrying two cups. She spotted me waving goodbye to some freckle-faced boy on the bus, since my own children didn’t even look for me, let alone care I was waving.

“Brought you a cup of coffee.”

“Thanks. You made my day.”

We sat on the curb and sipped coffee. Though I filled her in on my suspicions about Preston and Sam, Lauren was skeptical that the two men would resort to murder to hide Cherokee’s report. My theory was, indeed, something of a stretch, but Lauren’s husband might have been about to stumble onto a document that could destroy Preston’s company,
and
Preston was the rival for Lauren’s affections. Perhaps two weak motives added up to one murderer.

Speaking of the devil, his spouse, Stephanie, called as soon as I got home. She asked me to meet her in the lobby at school, saying she wanted to go over my duties as secretary/treasurer with me. This would be interesting. I wanted to see what kind of a dance she would do when I pointed out the creative bookkeeping that Denise had done to cover her gambling problems. Stephanie suggested we leave right away and meet at the school in fifteen minutes. Knowing she would no doubt arrive late and keep me waiting, I agreed to do so, but didn’t even leave my house for twenty minutes. She was just getting out of her car in the semicircle by the elementary school building when I pulled in. Her face fell for a moment when she spotted me.

Stephanie led me to a cozy room she claimed was time-shared by the PTA committee members and the school psychologist Along one wall, a blue corduroy futon mattress adorned with fluffy yellow pillows was so inviting I wanted to curl up and take a nap, but we sat in standard-issue plastic-and-chrome chairs at a round table in the opposite corner. At one point, Stephanie paused from her homily about the virtues of our giving preference to team-teacher projects that benefited the most students.

She leaned toward me and said in conspiratorial tones, “You really shouldn’t wear that blouse. The color is all wrong for you. I do color charts for people, you know.”

“Of course you do.”

“That blouse sucks all the color out of your complexion.”

“I like having a translucent face.”

“Offhand, I’d say you’re a winter. I’m, of course, spring. None the less, the blouse I have on would go much better with your colors than what you’re wearing.” She rummaged through her purse, roughly the size of a one-bedroom apartment She removed a compact, opened it, and shoved it into my hand, mirror facing me. “Here. I’ll hold my sleeve…” She held her arm out toward my face. Her wrist reeked of musk oil perfume.

I shoved her arm away. “Okay, you’ve made your point.” I pulled out my shirttails and unbuttoned my top button.

“What are you doing?”

“Take your blouse off right now and give it to me.”

“What do you—”

“I can’t go one more instant with this washed-out face of mine. My reflection’s starting to disappear. We’re trading blouses.”

“Don’t be silly. Your blouse would be too tight across the bust line for me.”

I gritted my teeth and counted to ten, to no avail. “Stephanie, has it ever occurred to you that I don’t need you to criticize my wardrobe, along with every little thing about me? I have kids for that.”

“I’m just trying to be helpful, Molly.”

“No, you’re not. You have a compulsive need to make yourself feel good by trashing everyone around you. The only reason I’m allowing my day to be ruined by being in your presence is to find out who killed Steve Wilkins.”

Stephanie tossed back her hair. “Well,” she sniffed, “the answer to that one is obvious.”

“Oh? Who killed him?”

“Why, Lauren of course. Everyone but you can see that plainly.”

“Why are you so sure? The police occasionally arrest the wrong person. That can happen.”

She snatched up her compact and dropped it into her purse as she rose. “Never mind about your blouse. Your bangs need trimming. You’ve got a big blind spot where Lauren is concerned. If you knew her as well as I do, you’d have realized long ago exactly what she’s capable of.” She opened the door, then paused and looked at me.

“And yes, I
do
mean she’s capable of murder.”

Chapter 15

You Call
That
an Unhappy Childhood?

To Karen’s delight, Rachel and Lauren spent virtually the entire weekend with us. My stitches seemed to be dissolving nicely, and even if I was maimed for life, my hair covered the scar. No one arrested, no one killed, no one threatened. So according to my new criteria, it was a great weekend.

Although Jim and I
did
have a very brief but aggravating phone conversation. He was in a vile mood from the start; complaining about test failures, schedule delays, and some Asian stomach flu he was battling. He never asked about how things were going at home, just said he had to get back to the bathroom so give the kids a kiss for him, then hung up.

Now that my marriage had become intercontinental, I was experiencing the negatives of marriage with none of the positives. It was like getting food poisoning from an intravenous feeding.

Sam Bakerton appeared at my door unexpectedly on Monday morning. His hair was slicked back on his egg-shaped head, and his bow tie emphasized his sharp Adam’s apple.

He smiled at me rather shyly from the doorway and said, “Hello, Molly. Preston Saunders said you were looking for me on Friday. Did it have something to do with Denise?”

“No, no, nothing like that.”

He stuck his hands into the pockets of his mud-colored suit jacket and stared at me. He expected me to expand on my answer. I was going to have to think fast to come up with some plausible reason for supposedly having. driven to Albany to meet with him, a man I barely knew.

“Come on in. Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, thanks.”

He followed me into the living room, sat down in the chair opposite mine, and watched me. He had the nervous bearing of someone applying for a job.

Maybe since
I
had no answers, I could keep
him
busy giving answers. “Why did you think my visit had to do with Denise? Is she all right?”

“She’s fine. I just couldn’t think of any other reason you’d come all the way out to visit me.”

His nervous demeanor gave me an idea for an excuse.

“I came to your office because I was thinking of applying for a part-time job. Do you have any openings?”
Please, say no.

“What type of job were you looking for?”

“Something that pays well, is fun, and requires only three hours a day.”

He raised an eyebrow but nodded solemnly. “I see. What are your qualifications?”

“None, really. Unless you happen to be looking for a greeting card writer. You’re not, are you?” Yikes. What if they wanted someone to write advertising copy? “Not that I can write just
anything
. My abilities are limited to greeting cards. Sadly.”

“I’ll check the job board, but that’s a fairly unlikely scenario.”

“Ah, well. It was worth a shot.” I smiled at him, but he made no move to leave. May as well check into my lead. “I just met someone who worked for you. Do you know Cherokee Taylor?”

“Sure. Nice kid. Sharp as a tack. Too bad be was willing to do anything for an A, including trying to send my company down the river.”

I was surprised he’d be this open about the subject. My face must have registered that surprise, for he added, “Preston mentioned you seemed rather curious about some of our import policies.”

“That was quite an intriguing report Cherokee wrote.”

“How did you read that? It shouldn’t be—” He stopped himself. “That report was libelous. The only reason Preston and I didn’t sue him was because Jack Vance agreed to silence it. Mrs. Kravett was going to print it in the Gazette, for God’s sake.”

“What exactly was untrue about it?”

“We haven’t shipped ivory for years. The government policy had a caveat that ivory imported prior to 1990 could be sold. Cherokee stumbled onto an old shipment that we didn’t sell because we felt, legal or not, it just wasn’t ethical. So we kept it in the back of the warehouse. He managed to find the one drug addict we’d accidentally hired, and the two of them concocted the whole thing.”

“Cherokee’s source for this report was a drug user?”

“That’s right. An addict and a habitual liar, as junkies tend to be.”

“So the ivory is still at your warehouse?”

“No, we unloaded it so we wouldn’t have to run the risk of any more scandals.”

“Sounds like you were being more than fair. So why is it that Preston and Jack are still carrying such grudges against each other?”

“Preston isn’t one to forgive and forget. Besides, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that Jack and Stephanie used to date in high school.” He got up. “It’s time for me to get to the office. I’ll check the job board for you, Molly.”

I thanked him and followed him out to the driveway.

I spotted Lauren through the window. She held up a coffee cup, pointed to it, then gestured for me to come over. I smiled and nodded, then dashed over without locking my house.

We chatted for a while over coffee. She chewed on her lip from time to time and frequently ran her fingers through her brown hair. These small nervous gestures were, to my eye, the only physical signs of the enormous emotional pressure she was currently under. As I watched her pretty round face, thoughts of what Stephanie had said about Lauren’s being in my blind spot kept nagging at me. Finally she asked, “Is something bothering you?”