Let There Be Suspects (29 page)

“I don’t think anything. They teach us not to jump to conclusions.”

“A murder and an attempted murder, in practically the same place.”

“We don’t know that. And remember, you made an agreement. Leave this to us.”

“Yeah. Okay.” I smiled at him, dimple and all. “But you’re going to keep me in the loop, right? In case I have any final thoughts?”

He closed his eyes and shook his head.

“I keep your job interesting. You can’t say I don’t.”

He opened his eyes and checked his watch. He began the slide to freedom. “Then I won’t, on your say so. And I’m heading the other way.” He hiked his thumb away from the station.

“Thanks for telling me what you could.”

This time he did smile. Briefly. I watched him thread his way between toddlers clutching Happy Meals and an employee mopping up a spill. I realized I was alone, with no one watching what I did. I could have that Big Mac and no one would be the wiser.

I managed to hurl my body out the door just in time.

18

Junie made her wonderful Polish tomato soup for dinner, but Sid, ecstatic that she could finally go home, didn’t even wait for the first luscious slurp to make her announcement.

“I booked a flight out of Columbus for early tomorrow morning. It was the only seat left on the plane and the only flight that wasn’t filled.”

“I can get you there.” I passed a basket of day-old whole grain rolls from the bakery. “You’re sure you’re ready to leave?”

Sid’s eyes lit up as she smiled. I hadn’t seen a genuine smile since the moments just before Ginger walked through our front door. This visit had been hard on her in a number of ways.

“Can I go to the airport with you?” Deena asked.

“You’re already going to Columbus tomorrow, remember? Your dad’s taking you to the concert tomorrow night.”

“Not anymore.”

I looked up from my soup. The agreement had been that Deena could only see the Botoxins if her father or I accompanied her. “You know that was the deal,” I said.

“Chill, Mom. Daddy doesn’t have to go. Nobody’s going.”

I caught Ed’s expression. Rarely have I seen such unadulterated joy.

“Since when?” I asked.

“I sold the tickets to some high school girls. Yours, too. And I got enough money for mine that I can throw a party. A Friday night sleepover with all my friends. We can have pizza and rent movies and stay up. Maddie and I worked on it today.”

I beamed at my daughter, who had wrestled with this weighty challenge and come up with a solution that in the end, would bring her pleasure without hurting anyone else. Whether it had been intended that way or not, Ginger’s gift had helped her clarify her values.

Ed’s joy visibly dimmed. The reality of a sleepover with at last a dozen fifth-grade girls was seeping in. But good guy that he is, he reached over and ruffled his daughter’s hair in appreciation.

“I’m proud of you,” he said. “That was a great way to handle things.”

“And I’m going to buy Botoxins’ CDs with whatever money’s left so we can dance all night.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be in Hong Kong that weekend,” I said. “But I know your father’ll be here. Whenever it is.”

Only Teddy still looked unhappy, and I knew why. Every telephone pole in a four-block radius had a likeness of Moonpie stapled to it, but so far nobody had called with a sighting. Junie caught my eye. I nodded toward Teddy.

“Teddy, I want to make brownies tonight,” she said. “Will you help?”

Teddy picked up spoonfuls of soup and let them dribble back into her bowl. “I have to write my story.”

“You have all day tomorrow,” I told her. “We could use some brownies around here. It’s New Year’s Eve, and we’re going to be staying up late. You can, too.”

She didn’t say no, but she didn’t look happy about it.

After dinner I went upstairs to help my sister pack. Never has anyone enjoyed packing more. She was positively radiant.

In typical Sid style she was folding each item of clothing carefully. “Have you seen my rose sweater? It’s the only thing I can’t find.”

I remembered Sid wearing the cardigan the day she had helped me strip wallpaper. She had replaced it with one of my old flannels. “Did you bring it back from the Victorian?”

“Darn.”

“Easy to do. I left a shirt there last week.”

“Can you mail it to me? It’s one of my favorites.”

“I’ll do you one better. I’ll go and get it.”

Sid clutched a nightgown to her chest and tried to look thoughtful. “It’s New Year’s Eve. I know you want to stay home and celebrate.”

I didn’t tell her, but I wanted to run by the hospital first and see if anyone would give me news about Peter. Repeated phone calls hadn’t gotten me anywhere, but I might be able to sweet-talk somebody in person. When Ed had visited, Peter hadn’t yet come to.

I handed her the last pair of jeans hanging neatly in the closet. “I don’t mind a bit. Then we can spend our last evening together.”

She looked relieved. “That’ll be great.”

I was on my way out the door when the telephone rang. I grabbed it as I slipped into my winter jacket.

Lucy was on the other end. “Aggie, I’m stuck at the office waiting for a buyer who’s supposed to come over and write a contract on a house.”

I leaned against the wall since there were too many people around for me to sit on the counter. “You disappoint me again. I depend on you to have a life for both of us. You’re supposed to be off dancing and drinking champagne. Hopefully some place where the proprietor wasn’t recently arrested, but still.”

“Well, if this guy ever shows up, we’re supposed to go out for drinks to celebrate. But he’s close to seventy.”

“You can come over here and play Clue with us.”

“I’ve been playing my own version. I thought I’d check out some more stuff about Cliff and the lawsuit while I was waiting. It’s more interesting than I expected.”

I could almost hear Roussos whispering in my ear, and silently, I whispered back. Yes, Detective, I
am
done investigating. But you never said a word about Lucy.

I lowered my voice. “So, what did you find? Are his inventions worth even more than it sounded like the first time?”

“Not
that
lawsuit. The wrongful death suit for his first wife. I found an article about it in the Internet archives of a newspaper in Schaumburg, Illinois. Apparently that’s where Cliff and his wife Marilyn were living at the time. She owned a travel agency and went by her maiden name, which was Matthews. Anyway, it seems she had some neurological condition that causes pain in the cranial nerve. Something called
tic douloureux.
Have you heard of it?”

“I don’t think so. And it caused her death?”

“In a way. I guess even though there are treatments, nothing really helped her. So she saved up pills, and when she got enough, she ended her life. The antidepressant may have sped her along the road to suicide, which is what Cliff ’s lawsuit was about. But he also sued the practice. The doctor who prescribed it for her, a man named James Lawson, had been accused of not taking enough precautions once before; in fact he lost his license due to medical misconduct in regards to a different case, but that charge was dropped and he got it back.”

“So Cliff’s lawsuit against this guy is still pending?”

“Against his estate. He died just about a year after Cliff’s wife. A three-alarm house fire. The article said there was another doctor in the practice but he couldn’t be held accountable because he’d never prescribed for her.”

I wondered if this was just another story of a doctor who had been blamed for a death he’d had no part in. Or had Lawson carelessly refused to take the time that was needed to be certain the drugs he prescribed were safe and being used with care, the way Peter Schaefer claimed that he did?

“Anything else?” I asked.

“Just that Marilyn Matthews was loved by a lot of people. There was a big turnout at her funeral. The story quotes old friends, that sort of thing.”

I heard what Lucy didn’t say. What a contrast to Ginger.

Lucy promised to drop by later if nothing better came up.

This time I made it out the door. I drove to the hospital first, and did manage to find a sympathetic nurse who “couldn’t tell me anything,” but did let me know through a series of hand signals and throat clearings that although Peter hadn’t regained consciousness, his vital signs were stable.

The outside light was shining brightly at the Victorian, and I parked in the driveway. On the porch I fumbled with the key, but eventually I opened the door. Since it was dark and somewhat spooky, once I was inside, I locked it behind me.

The house still smelled like violet potpourri, although we had cleared away every trace of it weeks ago. Tonight it seemed more cloying than usual. I flicked on the stairwell light and went up to the master bedroom. The switch was off, but I flipped it and the light came on. Sid’s sweater was in the closet where I’d seen her neatly fold and store it.

“Gotcha, troublemaker,” I said, tucking it under my arm. I knew I was talking to the sweater because the Victorian seems eerily empty at night, almost depressed. Houses have personalities. This one wants to be filled with light and life, and it’s waiting for a better day. Lucy and I are like beauty consultants supervising a makeover, but the house is hoping for somebody to love it.

I might need to change professions if I start giving our houses names and asking them to dinner.

I left the switch turned on, and as if someone else had crossed the threshold—someone with less propensity for technology disasters—the bedroom light went off as soon as I exited. Downstairs with just the light from the porch bathing the room, I tiptoed into the kitchen and listened for the sounds of mice rustling in the cabinets. But either our mice were underachievers or running elsewhere tonight.

I was halfway across the living room when the master bedroom light came on and light poured into the upstairs hallway. I stopped and waited, reminded of the last time this had happened. Cliff said he had replaced the defective switch, but now it was malfunctioning again.

“Turn yourself off,” I shouted up the stairs, but of course, nothing electrical listens to me.

When I was halfway up, the light went off again. I waited, the room stayed dark, and I turned back, making a mental note to tell Cliff. When I reached the bottom, the bedroom light flicked on again.

“Okay, okay.” I marched back up, resigned to flipping the switch. If I was lucky, it would do the trick until Cliff replaced it.

I stood on the threshold and reached for it. Something furry and considerably larger than a mouse ran across the room and disappeared into the closet where I’d retrieved Sid’s sweater.

And the light went off.

“Eek” seemed too tame. Profanity wasn’t called for—I try to use it sparingly and only when blood or leaping flames are involved. I strongly considered vacating the house until I could come back with reinforcements.

I heard rustling at the same moment the light flicked back on. This time the furball was coming straight for me. I leaped to one side, and as I did, I realized what kind of furball it was.

“Whoa there, fellow.” I stepped forward, and the little animal didn’t run away. I squatted and reached for it, and it still didn’t run. Guinea pigs are tame creatures when they’ve been handled frequently at pet stores. This one was black and white with shorter fur than Cinnamon’s. It was probably starving, and it probably missed having a friend.

I stood, holding the little warm body against my chest, and went farther into the room where the light was better to examine it more closely. Why hadn’t Cliff told me that one of the
two
guineas Ginger had bought for Teddy had gotten loose in the house? Had he been embarrassed that one had slipped out of the cage on Christmas Eve while he was here working? As if, with Ginger’s death on our minds, any of us would care?

Then, with a sickening thud, I understood. Why the guinea pig had been out of its cage in the first place. Why Cliff still hadn’t mentioned its presence when I told him I found a rodent’s nest downstairs. Why Cliff had continued to work on the house. Why Cliff had stayed in Emerald Springs, even burying Ginger here where she’d had no connections except me.

“Yikes.”

I whirled and started toward the bedroom doorway. Unfortunately it was now occupied.

I stood very still, trying to figure out in a split second how to salvage this. I tried smiling brightly. “Cliff, good grief, you scared me to death! How long have you been there?”

He still looked like his lovable nerdy self. A little sheepish. A little befuddled. “You found the other guinea pig.”

I rued the day I had ever given him a house key, but clearly something as simple as a lock would never stop Cliff Grable.

I babbled. “Isn’t he cute? And you really should have told us. I wouldn’t have been upset he got loose. Now Teddy can have two, like Ginger planned.”

“I know I’m not very good at figuring out people,” he said in a conversational tone, like two old friends passing the time. “Even as a kid I never really understood what made my classmates or teachers tick, although I got a little better as I got older. Marilyn, she was my first wife, used to interpret for me. She said it was like trying to teach me Swahili. You would have liked Marilyn. Everybody did.”

“You’ve had a hard time.” I stroked the guinea pig, to keep my hands from shaking.

“But even
I
know you’re pretending, Aggie.”

“I’m not pretending. I’m not mad about the guinea pig. I—”

“You
know
why it was running loose, and you know I’ve been trying to find it. The lights were going on and off, weren’t they? When you came up? Or maybe after you came in? The way they went on and off Christmas Eve.”