Murder in Pastel (20 page)

Adam needs to be needed,
whispered Brett’s ghost at the foot of our bed.

* * * * *

I met Mayor Cobb coming out of the Civic Center as I was pushing through the glass doors. He seemed surprised and uncomfortable when I greeted him. Perhaps he felt being seen with a murder suspect was unpolitic. If so he recovered quickly.

“Well there, young Kyle. Come to borrow the keys to the city, eh?”

“That’s right.”

He dropped the jolly old elf routine and asked rather kindly, “Holding up okay?”

“You bet.” Instinctively I rejected the kindness and its implication that I, or anyone at the colony, had need of it because we were more suspect.

“How’s MacKinnon doing?”

I shrugged noncommittally.

Mayor Cobb wore an odd expression. I wondered suddenly if the old Hon. knew what the sheriff’s next move would be, and if that move would be to arrest Adam. I feared only one thing had prevented Adam’s arrest so far: the theft of the
Virgin
.

Sheriff Rankin believed Brett’s death and the theft of the painting were connected. Since there was no reason to suspect Adam of hijacking the
Virgin
any more than the rest of us, he had not yet been cut from the herd.

“A terrible thing. Terrible,” the mayor said, shaking his head.

Thus far I had kept my mouth shut about Jack Cobb’s attack on me in the cemetery. I didn’t think Jack Cobb had killed Brett, but I would throw what I knew about him to the sheriff if it looked like Adam was going to be arrested. I guess I was having trouble believing that anyone I knew had killed Brett. Pretty naive, because Brett was dead, and his murder had been premeditated, which ruled out a passing psycho. So why not Jack?

The mayor spotted some solid citizens and excused himself. I headed for the Hall of Records. Our HR has been newly redone with hush-hush carpeting and Second Ice Age air conditioning. The walls are decorated with a giant mural of local flora and fauna painted by local high school kids while apparently dropping acid.

I knew the clerk, Cassie Heifetz, from my own high school days. She had been my lab partner in biology, and had Liked Me as I recalled from certain ornately folded notes passed around Home Room. So when I asked her if she remembered Brett coming in, she was helpful. Cassie remembered Brett and she remembered exactly what files he had been interested in.

“Birth records?” I echoed.

Cassie seemed gratified with my astonishment.

“Whose?”

“I don’t know.”

“What year?”

This Cassie could answer. Brett was interested in birth records of twenty-one years ago—the year of his own birth.

“Did he seem like he found what he was looking for?”

Cassie gnawed her lip. “I’m not sure.”

“Did he seem pleased? Disappointed?”

“He seemed pleased. Pleased with himself.” Cassie added, “Like he always did.”

* * * * *

A field trip to the county offices seemed in order. Steeple Hill’s records were hardly complete; the church registry was probably as accurate—or possibly sticking pins in a phone book. As I sped toward home, the summer sun beating on the bare skin of my arms and the top of my head, my mind turned once more to motive. As a mystery writer I know so-called “sane” people kill for one or a combination of the usual motives: money, sex (also called love), power, revenge or protection.

Brett had no money. He borrowed from everyone, including me, so I didn’t think money was a motive. Now if
Adam
had been knocked off, Brett would have been the number one suspect.

Power? I couldn’t see how eliminating Brett would change anyone’s position of power. It wasn’t like he was next in line for inheriting a throne.

Sex? My observation was anyone who wanted Brett could have him, at least on a temporary basis. Did that give Adam a motive? I didn’t think of Adam as being particularly jealous. I knew he loved Brett, but his passion seemed reserved for his art. Adam despised violence, yet I did believe he had been capable of strangling Vince the afternoon I had been poisoned. For a low-key and rational fellow, Adam’s level of rage had been alarming. But this was the guy who wore T-shirts that proclaimed “Harmony.” Life with Brett may not have been harmonious, but I couldn’t picture Adam bashing his lover’s head in to get some peace and quiet.

What about Joel? There was an uncomfortable thought. Like suspecting your favorite aunt of slipping razor blades in the brownies. Not that I believed Joel could hurt a fly. But Joel had been in love with Brett, he had suffered over Brett’s relationship with Adam, and over Brett’s humiliating treatment. There were two motives: sex and revenge.

Vince? Vince with his confused sexual identity. How deeply had Vince cared for Brett? Jenny said they had had a falling out. Jenny claimed she was afraid of Vince. How badly had Brett treated Vince? I could imagine a variety of cruel and denigrating scenarios.

And speaking of confused sexual identities, how about Jack Cobb?

How about Jenny who had seen Brett as a hated rival?

Or had Brett died to protect someone’s guilty secret? Why else the trip to the Hall of Records? Was Brett capable of blackmail? Morally, ethically, physically t’weren’t no doubt about it, but I couldn’t believe that Brett, an outsider, could discover a secret about the past that none of us knew. Something so dangerous it was worth killing for?

If Brett had died because of something that happened in the past, then all bets were off. Anyone who had been in the colony ten years ago was suspect. That meant the three people dearest in the world to me were suspect. If Cosmo had been murdered, then Joel, Micky and Adam were all under suspicion, and that I could not believe.

Because I didn’t want to believe it.

Chapter Fourteen

“I
s something wrong?” Adam asked after dinner that night.

“Hmm? No.” I refilled my glass and set the bottle of Clos du Bois on the table, avoiding Adam’s gaze.

We were sitting out on the verandah, watching the sunset. In a khaki shirt with vaguely military epaulettes, he looked handsome and austere. My heart hurt every time I looked at him, like I hankered for some mineral.

“I was wondering, did you ever find Brett’s anklet?”

“No.” Adam’s slim fingers played absently with the box of matches he had used to light the citronella candles. “He must have lost it on the beach that day.”

“It meant a lot to him.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know why?”

I thought for a moment that he wouldn’t answer, then he said, “It’s the sole link he had to his past.”

“What do you mean?”

“Did Brett ever tell you—no, he wouldn’t.” His smile was acrid. “Brett was a few hours old when he was left in a basket on the steps of a San Francisco orphanage. Real Victorian stuff.”

“I didn’t know.”

“No. He didn’t discuss it.”

Adam seemed disinclined to continue.

“What about the anklet?”

“It was part of a broken necklace. It was pinned to the blanket he was wrapped in.”

Real Victorian stuff was right. Maybe there was a clue in that kind of gesture. Maybe it indicated a certain mentality.

“Did Brett ever try to trace his parents?”

“Trace what? He was an abandoned baby. His birth certificate was a police report.”

“But do you think Brett ever tried to find his birth parents?”

“What are you getting at, Kyle?”

After a moment of hesitation I related my conversation with Brett following the night he had faked his near-drowning.

“401K?” Adam repeated thoughtfully.

I put my glass down harder than I meant to; Adam’s eyes never seemed to miss anything. “With what you’ve told me I think Brett must have believed one or both of his natural parents lived here in Steeple Hill.” I filled Adam in on my trip to the Hall of Records and my discovery of Brett’s interest in the birth records of twenty-one years before.

Adam said grimly, “And you think Brett might have tried to blackmail his father or mother if he successfully traced them?”

“I don’t know.”

“You think you do.”

Maybe I had said too much already. I could feel Adam’s tension from across the table. I finished my wine, waiting.

At last Adam said grudgingly, “It’s possible. He was bitter about being abandoned, about a childhood spent in an orphanage, about serial foster parents who used and abused him.”

Brett’s anger made him even more dangerous than his greed. If he did try to blackmail someone it might not be for money. It might be for the pleasure of watching that someone squirm.

I reached for the wine bottle again and Adam’s hand covered mine.

“Go easy, baby. You’re getting smashed.”

I snatched my hand away. “No I’m not.” Yes, I was. I was nervous and I was drinking too much.

“You hardly touched your dinner. Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine,” I snapped back. “Furthermore, I’m over twenty-one. If I want to get smashed—”

“Okay, don’t take my head off.” He spoke neutrally, even ruefully, and I reflected on his never-failing patience with Brett’s moods, Brett’s tantrums, Brett’s rudeness. Almost nothing seemed to get to Adam. Was that because of his core of inner serenity, or because he was actually a psychopath biding his time?

Now there was a freaksome thought. Anyway, you didn’t kill your significant other because he was rude. You didn’t murder your SO because he humiliated you in front of others. Oh, maybe in Agatha Christie. Maybe in
People
magazine. Not in real life.

Adam went inside and came out with another bottle of Merlot. There was an uncomfortable silence while he poured himself a glass, and then refilled mine.

“How did your appointment go with Dr. Hicks today?”

“What
is
this?”

“What is what?”

“This.”
I gestured edgily at the wine bottle, to Adam, to the world at large. “This Big Brother routine. This
inquisition
.”

I heard the angry echo of my voice in the pause that followed my words. Adam let the pause linger and then he said coolly, “If you’re not ready to talk about it…”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” I added hostilely, “My health is
my
business.”

Adam turned the glass stem between his fingers. “I see.”

What was I doing? I didn’t want to fight with Adam. I didn’t want to push him away. Was I afraid that if he had all the facts he might want to trade me in for a newer model? A racier edition with all moving parts and batteries included?

It wasn’t that my health had worsened; it was that de Chirico thing again. My perspective had changed.

Although the arrhythmia wasn’t in itself life-threatening, it was a strain on my already weakened heart muscle. And while there didn’t seem to be any new damage—yet—to my heart muscles and valves, my arrhythmia appeared to be worsening.

“What does that mean?”
I’d asked Dr. Hicks. But I already knew what it meant. Heart failure.

Hicks had avoided a direct answer. He talked about the importance of a positive attitude. He discussed getting serious about taking my medications—and new medications: beta-blockers and calcium channel blockers and blood-thinners. He talked about catheter ablation, electrical cardioversion, pacemakers and other fun stuff. He mentioned a cardiologist in San Francisco and the possibility of surgery. I’d stopped listening. Adam had already been caretaker in one relationship. Why would he want to play that gig again? Elementary, my dear Watson. He wouldn’t.

Or if he did, it would be for the wrong reasons.

I shoved aside the memory of this afternoon and my test results, propping my elbows on the table. “I found something out by accident while I was in the doctor’s office. Do you know Brett’s blood type?”

“AB.”

Of course he knew. And if we stayed together he’d know all the names of my meds and which drugs interacted with which; he’d find all kinds of tasty low-sodium meals to cook for me; and he’d become certified in CPR.

I said shortly, “Same as me. Same as Cosmo.”

Adam frowned.

“Only five percent of the population is AB.”

“And your point is?”

“Don’t you think that’s a huge coincidence?”

“What are you getting at?”

“How many times did you comment on how much Brett and I looked alike?”

Adam sipped his wine.

“Well?” I demanded.

Adam raised his eyebrows. “Well?”

“Am I crazy?”

“You think Brett was your brother?”

I felt a weird sort of pain when he put it into words; something I wasn’t ready to examine. “Half brother.”

Adam studied me without expression. I leaned forward on the table nearly tipping it in my eagerness. “It’s not as screwy as it sounds, Adam. You said yourself it was Brett’s idea to come to Steeple Hill. I think he came here on a mission. Micky said he was constantly snooping, asking questions, hinting.”

“Hinting what?”

“I’m not sure, but what was that bit about his retirement fund? What did he mean about finding out how good a friend I was?”

“Kyle, this is nuts.”

“I know, I know, but maybe it isn’t. I found a clipping in one of Brett’s books, an old interview of mine, and he had underlined the name Steeple Hill.”

I saw something flicker in Adam’s eyes.

“What?”

“I don’t know. Brett’s fascination with Cosmo. His jealousy of you.”

“Of me?”

Adam looked uncharacteristically uncomfortable. I wondered how many times I had served as a topic of discussion between him and Brett.

“I read Joel’s book again,” I said. “He paints a picture—”

Adam winced.

“No pun intended—of a Cosmo who got his rocks off every chance he could. Why would he be any different in Steeple Hill?”

“He was married.”

“And then he wasn’t. He slept with Micky.”

“You think
Micky
—”

It hadn’t even crossed my mind until that moment. I felt my face freezing. Brett had zeroed in on Micky for some reason. The timing would be right. Brett had been born about three years after my mother’s death, putting his conception right around the time Micky admitted she and Cosmo were giving comfort and succor to each other.