Death on a Silver Platter (10 page)

“Alex must be home,” said Sophie, slipping out of the cart and stretching her arms above her head.

“That isn’t Alex’s car,” said Elaine. The cell phone in the pocket of her shorts gave a ring.

“Whose car is it?”

“Three guesses.”

Clicking the phone on, Elaine said hello. “Who?” she asked, still sitting halfway in the cart, halfway out. “Oh, hi. Sure I remember.” She turned away from Sophie.

Sophie leaned against the rear fender.

“No, I thought the food was wonderful. Who would have thought an old monastery would make such an amazing spot for a restaurant?”

It had to be Nathan, thought Sophie. She was instantly annoyed. Why was he calling Elaine?

“Sure, I’d love to. But today isn’t good. My daughter is . . . ill, and well . . .” She paused. “Really? You know, I have a friend who sells pleasure boats. If you twist my arm, I might even be able to get you a deal.” She laughed. “Well, what are friends for?” Silence, then, “Look, I’m in the middle of something. Can I call you later? I’m sure we can figure out a time.” Again, she laughed. “I’d forgotten how funny you are. Good, we’ll talk this afternoon. Thanks for calling. Bye.” She clicked the phone off, then socked the air. “Score!” Swinging out of the cart, she turned to Sophie, a Cheshire cat smile on her face. “You’ll never guess who that was.”

“Who?”

“Hunky Nathan Buckridge.”

“Really?”

“Wasn’t that nice of him to call?”

Sophie wanted to ask what he’d said, but knew it was none of her business. Not that she couldn’t guess what the gist of the conversation had been about. Nathan had called Elaine to ask for a date.

“Maybe he’s just what I need right now. A little diversion.”

Sophie hated to think that Nathan would be Elaine’s “little diversion.” He deserved better. But then, that was his concern, not hers.

As they trooped up the paved walk, Roman Marchand stepped out on the front porch, ending any further discussion.

“Morning, Elaine. Hot day.” He nodded to Sophie. “Mrs. Baldric.”

He never seemed able to get it that Sophie hadn’t taken Bram’s last name. She let it pass.

Returning his attention to Elaine, he added, “If you’re looking for your brother, he isn’t here.”

Marchand was wearing a pair of black cotton shorts, sandals, and a black T-shirt. Not his usual business attire.

“Where is he?” asked Elaine.

“Your mother phoned him early this morning. Asked him to come up to the house so they could talk. Alex assumed she wanted to speak to him privately about her plans to sell the company.”

“That’s funny,” said Elaine. “She never mentioned anything to me about it.”

“Well, as I said, I believe the conversation was private. Just between the two of them.”

His comment seemed to make Elaine angry. “I’m here to show Sophie the house.”

Marchand moved in front of the door. “This . . . is not a good moment.”

“Alex knows the drill. So do you. I bring people by all the time. Alex keeps the place picked up. It’s the price he pays for living here.”

“But you always call first.”

“Well, I forgot,” said Elaine, trying to push past him.

He stood his ground.

“If you don’t get out of my way, I’ll call the police and have you forcibly removed.” There was acid in her tone.

“You would not do that.”

“Want to try me?”

“Alex will be angry, Elaine.”

“Do you think I care?”

They stood eye to eye. Sophie wasn’t sure who would blink first.

Finally, Marchand backed up. “Will you give me a minute to clean up?”

“No.” Elaine bumped past him.

As Sophie entered the house, she saw that the dining room table was cluttered with dirty breakfast dishes. The door to the bedroom was open. Elaine was already standing by the bed, looking down at a bunch of clothes on the floor. It seemed pretty obvious that Marchand had spent the night. Both sides of the king-sized bed looked rumpled. A bottle of wine and two glasses sat on the nightstand.

Elaine kicked the clothes out of her way as she returned to the living room. “I demand an explanation.”

Marchand sat down on the couch. He’d obviously cast himself as the reasonable one in this interaction. “What should I explain, Elaine?”

“Are you sleeping with my brother?”

He looked up at her with innocent eyes. “I do not think that is any of your business.”

“Are you?”

“I will not respond to such a question.” He pressed his lips together tightly and looked away.

“If I tell my mother what’s going on between you two—”

He stood to face her. “You know nothing.”

“I know you’ve single-handedly ruined my father’s company. If it hadn’t been for you and your destructive influence on my brother, my mother wouldn’t be forced to sell.”

“Are you so sure that’s the reason, Elaine? Have you ever thought that maybe there’s another one?”

“Like what?”

“Your mother is not a stupid woman. She can see what’s happening. She’s trying to head off an all-out war between you and your brother.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Am I? It is
you
who has caused her to make this sale. I’m surprised you cannot see it.” Poking a finger at her, he added, “I hold
you
responsible for the destruction of
my
company.”

They glared at each other.

The ring of Sophie’s cell phone broke the strained silence. “Excuse me,” she said, retrieving the phone from her pocket. She stepped out on the front porch. “This is Sophie.”

“Hi, it’s Glen Mortonsen—from the station.”

Glen was Bram’s producer. He sounded agitated.

“Is something wrong?”

“It’s Bram. The paramedics just took him to the hospital.”

The ground beneath Sophie’s feet vanished. “Is it his heart? Is he okay?”

“He was doing this interview with the parrot woman, Sophie, when he suddenly got dizzy. He said he had some chest pain, so I called the paramedics. I said I’d call you. He wants you to meet him at the hospital.”

“I will. Thanks, Glen.” All she could think of was that she was an hour away from the city. Too far. She had to get back to the main house, grab Margie and leave right away.

Hurrying back inside, she saw that Elaine and Roman were still sparring, but she couldn’t focus on anything but her husband. “Elaine, Bram’s been taken to the hospital. I’ve got to get back.”

Elaine seemed startled. “Oh my God.”

“You’ve got to drive me back to your mom’s house so I can get my car.”

“Sure. Right away.”

As they rushed out, Elaine called, “We’re not done, Marchand.”

12

Sophie dropped Margie off at the emergency room entrance, then parked the car in the lot. When she finally made it to Bram’s room, she found him sitting up on the gurney, fully clothed except for his sport coat. Margie was sitting next to him, holding his hand. A nurse stood on the other side of him taking his blood pressure.

Sophie gave Bram a kiss on his forehead. She wished Margie would move so she could sit down with him, but she didn’t look like she was about to vacate her spot anytime soon. “What do the doctors say?”

Bram’s expression was full of irritation. “This has all been a stupid overreaction. I had some indigestion, that’s all. I felt a little dizzy. So what does my producer do? He has a meltdown. Baldric’s on his deathbed again. Call the National Guard.”

“It’s important to be careful, Dad,” said Margie, slipping her arm around his back. “You’re a pretty important guy. I don’t want to lose you.”

He smiled at her. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

The nurse stepped in front of him.

“That goes for me, too,” said Sophie, waving her hand to get his attention. She couldn’t help but feel as if her comment was somehow lessened because Margie had said it first. Get a grip, she told herself. She was being entirely too touchy. What mattered was that Bram was okay. “You
are
okay, right?” asked Sophie.

“He had an EKG,” said the nurse. “Everything was normal.”

“See,” said Bram. “I’m fine. Can I get out of here now?”

The nurse checked the chart. “Your doctor’s in the hospital. She wants to see you before you leave. I think she may have ordered one more test.”

“Oh, just great,” said Bram, hanging his head. “Some new form of Chinese water torture, no doubt.” Looking up at her, he added, “Whatever it is, does it hurt?”

“
Daaaad,
” said Margie, her voice growing nasal. “You’re such a baby.”

“It’s part of my charm.”

“No, Mr. Baldric. It won’t hurt.”

Bram glanced at Sophie. “How’s Elaine?”

“Long story.”

“Oh, goodie. Save it for bedtime. I love juicy bedtime news.”

“If you ladies will step out to the waiting room,” said the nurse, pulling the curtain around the bed.

“Sophie, will you take my sport coat with you?” asked Bram. “One of the paramedics stuffed it in that bag over there. It’s probably wrinkled beyond repair.”

Margie hopped off the bed. “I’ll get it.”

As they were about to leave, a petite, attractive, brownhaired woman pushed her way in through the curtain. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this, Baldric. You’re wife’s going to catch on.” She winked at Sophie, then smiled at Bram, taking the chart from the nurse and giving herself a moment to study it.

Dr. Anne Schaefer had always reminded Sophie of Debra Winger. Throaty voice. Nice-looking—and with a great deal of intelligence behind those dark brown eyes. Sophie liked her. Most important, she thought Schaefer was a good doctor.

“Hmm, well, everything looks fine. Your EKG was normal. Blood pressure is good. Tell me about the pain. Where was it?”

He pointed to a spot closer to his stomach than his heart.

“Do you feel it now?”

“No. It’s gone. But earlier, it was like I’d eaten one too many bowling balls.”

“Have you eaten any bowling balls today?”

“No.”

“Have you had this same feeling before?”

He nodded.

“Recently?”

“Yes, but this was a little worse.”

“Instead of a one-bowling-ball pain it was more like a three-bowling-ball pain?”

“Exactly.”

“You don’t make my life easy, Baldric.”

“Haven’t you ever felt like you’d eaten a bowling ball?”

“Not that I recall.” She stepped behind him, pulled up his shirt, and pressed her stethoscope to his back. “And the dizziness. Have you had that before?”

“Never.”

“Breathe deeply.”

He rolled his eyes, but did as she asked.

“Yup, I can hear it.”

“Hear what?” asked Sophie.

“His heart. It’s still there.” She moved around to the front and listened to his chest again. “Sounds good.” Taking off the stethoscope and wrapping it around her neck, she added, “But there is another test I want to do. It won’t hurt and it won’t take long.”

“What do you think the pain was all about?” asked Sophie.

“It could have been gas. Or indigestion. But combined with the dizziness, we need to be sure this gets checked out thoroughly.” Narrowing her eyes at Bram in mock seriousness, she said, “So you can live to flirt another day.”

“It’s my raison d’être.”

“We’ll be in the waiting room,” said Sophie, giving Bram one last kiss. “Thanks, Anne.”

“I’ll have him back to you in less than an hour.”

Sophie and Margie found a couple of empty chairs near the windows. Margie asked Sophie if she wanted a cup of coffee, but Sophie was already so nervous, she didn’t want to add to it. She couldn’t believe this was happening. Bram had been feeling so well. She was glad Dr. Schaefer tended to be conservative, always erring on the side of caution. If there was a problem, she’d get to the bottom of it.

Margie returned with her coffee, grabbing a
People
magazine before sitting down. She flipped it open, looked at a couple of pictures, then turned to Sophie and said, “Dad looked a little pale this morning, didn’t you think?”

“Pale,” repeated Sophie. “No, not really.”

“He seemed upset. Stressed. I’m worried about him. Maybe he’s exercising too much.”

“I think he’s discussed all that with his doctor.”

“You mean that woman we just met? She’s his doctor?”

Sophie nodded.

“She’s really cute. I could tell Dad thought so, too.”

“Really.”

“Yeah.” Margie flipped to the next page. “Do you feel threatened when Dad finds other women attractive?”

“Excuse me?”

“I just wonder how it will be when I get married and my husband is so obviously flirty with someone who’s younger or prettier than I am.”

“I’m sure you’ll cope.”

“I suppose.” Margie read for a moment, then continued, “For an old guy, Dad’s pretty cute. He’s got that Cary Grant thing going. People used to tell him all the time that he looked like Cary Grant.”

“They still do. I think he’s sick of hearing it.”

“Oh, don’t kid yourself. He loves it.”

Sophie would have preferred a few peaceful moments, but Margie obviously wanted to talk. Perhaps it was the way she expressed her nervousness. Whatever it was, the inevitability of a lengthy conversation led Sophie to change the subject. “Did you and Mick and Tracy have a nice swim?”

“Yeah, it’s a great pool. Mick’s really lucked into a sweet situation, if you ask me. He’s not a terribly motivated guy, so hooking up with a rich girl was a stroke of luck.”

“I thought they were just friends.”

Margie snorted. “Hell, no. He’s head-over-heels in love with her. I mean, he is
totally
gaga, treats her like a princess. I don’t think she’s quite as hot and heavy for him as he is for her, but she’s lucky. He’s a great guy.”

“How well do you know him?”

“I haven’t talked to him in years.” She picked up her coffee, blew on it, then took a sip. “But the summer after high school, we were pretty close. I’d say we talked probably every day. I was dating Lance Crawford at the time, and Mick was dating a girl named Janna Eberly. The four of us did a lot of stuff together. Bars. Concerts. Janna loved to play miniature golf late at night. Sometimes we’d just sit on a bench by Lake Harriet and talk, or go back to Janna’s place and drink beer. Mick had a motorcycle back then and Janna and I would take turns riding it with him.”

“And what did you think of Tracy?”

Margie considered the question, taking another sip of coffee. “I liked her. It took her a while to warm up to me, but when she did, we really hit it off.”

“Did she talk about—”

“Her suicide attempt? Yeah. She said she’d been drinking. That it was totally dumb and she’d never do it again. She struck me as kind of young, you know, but she’s no dummy, that’s for sure. Actually, she did say something really interesting.”

“What?”

“Well, when she woke up in the hospital, she said it was like she’d become this new person.”

“In what way?”

“Like . . . she wasn’t going to be anybody’s victim anymore. She was going to take charge of her life. She said she didn’t know where it came from, but she felt this surge of power. Personal power. Mick’s into Eastern religion, and he had some name for it—I don’t remember what it was. But he said he was proud of her.” Margie paused, chewing on her lower lip.

“What?” said Sophie, sensing that there was more.

“Well, Mick saw Tracy’s change as positive. And, I mean, it is. But my take on what she was saying was a little different. When I looked at her, I saw—and I know this might seem melodramatic—but I thought she seemed dangerous. Like, not only was nobody going to mess with her, but she had plans for some major paybacks.”

“Did she give you any details?”

“Not really,” said Margie, her voice fading as she looked down at the magazine in her lap.

It was a tease, thought Sophie. Margie knew Sophie was dying to know more about what Tracy had said. Holding a piece back allowed her a sense of power. If Sophie pushed, it would only add to Margie’s general amusement.

Sophie hated herself for thinking such negative thoughts about Bram’s daughter. She wondered briefly if she was jealous of Margie’s relationship with him.

Leaning her head back against the wall, she closed her eyes. She was being too hard on the girl. Too analytical. She was seeing motivations that weren’t there. Sophie thought of herself as a good person. Giving. Generous. Generally patient. For some reason, Margie brought out the worst in her. She would simply have to turn over a new leaf, show Margie a kinder, gentler Sophie. In turn, Margie would respond by being kinder and gentler herself.

Right. And the earth was flat.

Pearl’s Notebook
March 29, 1972

On our way back to the house that last night, we were
met by a succession of cars going in the opposite direction. The bad weather had cut the evening short. Guests
were leaving the party. Everyone seemed to be crawling
along at a snail’s pace, trying to avoid ending up in the
ditch. I hate driving in treacherous weather, especially on
narrow country roads.

“Rats leaving the sinking ship,” Carl muttered, shielding his eyes from the oncoming headlights.

When we arrived at the house, Carl told me to park the
Cadillac across from the front door. We stayed in the car
for a few seconds, watching people trickle out. Some
stood beneath the porch’s overhang, waiting for the attendants to bring their cars around. It wasn’t a mass exodus, but it was steady.

Carl didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get inside. On
the drive back, he’d grown quiet again.

“What are you going to do now?” I asked, studying his
face. “You won’t . . . hurt Millie, will you?” It nearly killed
me to ask him that, but his emotions were all over the place.

“I’m going to ask her for a divorce,” he said.

“Tonight?”

“Yes, tonight.”

“But . . . this was supposed to be such a special
evening.” I said it more to myself than to him. He was already well beyond the gala celebration for his new house.
I looked past him out the window at his grand log mansion, wondering if Millie and the children would live
there without him when all the dust settled. It seemed like
just one more piece of bad luck. But a house was a house.
He could always build another. I knew that what had truly
gone wrong in his life had nothing to do with a piece of
property. He’d admired his wife once upon a time, but
he’d never loved her. I was amazed that they’d stayed together this long. But divorcing Millie was just the end
product of something far more serious. I thought I knew
what it was. “Millie’s been cheating on you, hasn’t she.”
Knowing Carl, that would have been the last straw.

He glanced over at me. “Pearl,” he said, “she’s been
lying and manipulating me from the day we first met. I
saw it . . . but I didn’t see it. Do you understand? She’s a
black widow spider. She eats her young.”

I gathered from this that she’d hurt him and the children in some profound way, not that it was a direct confirmation of my suspicions. I believe that he might have
forgiven Millie if it hadn’t involved his kids, but since it
so obviously did, I was starting to understand his anger.
I asked him how she’d hurt his children.

He looked back at the house. All he said was, “She’s
hurt them beyond anything I could ever imagine.”

We sat silently for a few moments.

Finally, he said, “I’ll get them away from her one way
or the other.”

I shivered at his words.

“Come on,” he said, climbing out of the front seat. “It’s
time to divest myself of that monstrosity.” Crossing the
drive in front of the house, he said, “You and Henry might
as well go home. The party’s over.”

Once back inside the warmth of the house, I tried to
brush the sleet off my dress. It was coming down pretty
hard now, starting to accumulate on the grass. As I was
looking around for Henry, I noticed that Carl had once
again made his way to the bar. He was downing another
drink—this one looked like a double. His speech had
never seemed slurred to me, but as he walked through the
thinning crowd, he looked like a man lurching across the
deck of an unsteady boat. A few of his guests seemed a bit
startled by his red face and his uneven gait, but nobody
said a word to him, or tried to stop him.