Murder on the First Day of Christmas (Chloe Carstairs Mysteries) (11 page)

    
“Really?”

    
I had nodded, not quite able to meet her mascara-smeared eyes.

     “Really sorry?”

     “Really, really sorry.”

    
At this point, she had pushed herself off the bed and come over to me. “Bitch,” She had slapped me across the face.

    
Before I could even react, she had shoved me out of the room, slammed the door and locked it.

    
I remained in the hall for a while, heart pounding, hand to my face, until I identified the emotion churning inside me - relief.

    
But now, thirteen years later, I wondered if that slap had let me off the hook the way I had thought it had. Maybe it had just bought me a little time until I was more emotionally equipped to atone for hurting Angela.

    
That I still felt guilty about the situation surprised me. Maybe the holidays, my break-up with Jacob, seeing two people die right in front of me and my mother’s stare had left me feeling more raw and vulnerable than I realized.

    
So, what the hell. I would make a cute P.I. I had my Austen Healey, and even if our streets were tree-lined and safe enough for dog walkers and bike riders, I could be sly and sophisticated. Plus, I could finally set things right with Angela, regaining some karma points where she was concerned.

    
“I’m in,” I agreed.

CHAPTER 11

    
Like everyone else in our family, Mom drove one of the restored cars Dad loved so much and cared for so compulsively. I had barely made it from the bed to the settee Monday morning when I saw Mom’s British racing green MG convertible whip into a parking place on the street below.

    
Straight up nine a.m., you could bet on it. The only thing less likely than my running early was for Mom to indulge my habit of running late. I watched her feed the meter, trying to gauge the weather from her outfit: a coral twin set, chocolate skirt. Pearls probable or at least implied. No coat. Looked like another a typical Birmingham December day, mild and breezy, the first real cold snap still weeks away.

    
As soon as Mom walked in, I eyed the shopping bag she hoisted onto my counter with grave disappointment - nothing edible or wearable inside. “What, no bagels?”

    
“What, no shower?” she countered.

    
I chose to ignore her remark, shuffled to the pantry and scrounged for food.

    
My loft isn’t the cool, sleek urban dwelling you sometimes see on television. More like glorified office space - eleven hundred square feet with hardwood floors and one wall of exposed brick, another of floor-to-ceiling windows. I love the open, airy feel and the lack of structure. Plus, I can keep the loft as office space after I get married, God willing.

    
Dad built two interior walls, ten-feet-tall banks of sleek mahogany cabinets placed at a right angle to delineate my bedroom and give me some storage. Or really, a place to shove my clothes piles when Mom came over.

    
I’m into Seventies chic, so the place is decorated in what Bridget calls “Early Brady Bunch.” Unlike my sister and mother, who are obsessed with cleanliness, order and the way the toilet paper should face on the roll (new sheet forward, pull from the front), I’m not much of a housekeeper. I seek only peaceful coexistence with the dust bunnies. And though my bathroom is clean, I have a feeling Mom fights the urge to paper the toilet seat before using it.

    
There’s only one other loft in the building, since a pet grooming shop and a health food store reside below. Dad describes the foot traffic on my street as the “hippies and yippies.”

    
Mom walked around checking out my Christmas décor, which included a large Fraser Fir decorated only with colored balls, my snowman collection lining the console table in front of the window, and lots and lots of candles.

    “Nice job,” she said.

    
I hadn’t even realized I had been holding my breath.

    
While Mom got comfortable on a boxy sofa with the same coloring and cushioning as a Granny Smith apple, I munched Frosted Mini Wheats out of the box and fired up my MacBook.

    
“So we’re really going to do this?” I asked.

    
“We’re really going to do this.”

    
I hid a smile. Who would’ve thought my straight-laced little mother would want to get involved in something so harebrained. I mean, Amanda Carstairs Girl detective? Amateur sleuth? Shameless shamus? Or worst yet - busybody? Get outta here.

    
“This isn’t a midlife crisis, is it?” I asked. “You’re not going to run off with a cabana boy, are you?”

    
“Chloe Elizabeth, the things you say sometimes.”

    
“It happens. People think this retirement thing is going to be great - a chance to do all the traveling you’ve put off, spoil the grandchildren, remodel the house. Then boredom sets in.”

    
“I assure you, my life is very full as is your mouth, dear. Please swallow before you spew any more talk show psychology at me.”

    
“Just know that I’m here for you.”

    
“I appreciate that, and if I come across any cute cabana boys, I’ll send them your way.”

    
I laughed and pulled the MacBook onto my lap. This could be fun, or it could be a complete disaster.

    
Mom and I had never shared the easy camaraderie she and Bridget enjoyed. They’re both levelheaded, direct, disciplined, maternal - things I’ve never been. Our night-and-day personalities caused conflict between Mom and me from the beginning.

    
On the other hand, when introduced to a tidier, more efficient alternative to diapers, Bridget had potty trained herself. While Bridget never missed a curfew, I had had trouble mastering the concept.  Bridget had known from childhood she would be a nurse. I had changed college majors three times and my career twice. With this decorating thing, Mom and I had finally discovered a somewhat shaky common ground.

    
“Perhaps you’ve finally outgrown the phase when tantrums, slammed doors and rejecting everything your mother stands for are knee-jerk reactions,” she had told me, when I announced my plan to go into the business full-time. “Since that phase has lasted roughly twenty-nine years, you can see why I’m be grateful for the respite.”

    
Mom emptied her shopping bag on the coffee table. “I brought over Saul’s books that he gave us as Christmas and birthday presents.”

    
“Have you read them?”

    
“Are you kidding? Saul quizzed you on them and pouted if you hadn’t done your homework.”

    
I flipped through a couple. “Are they any good?”

    
“They’re not really my thing.”

    
“Pictures?”

    
She nodded. “Most of them have some in the center. They range from the lurid.” Mom flipped open
Kill or Be Killed
and showed me a crime scene photo. The grainy, black and white pixilation did nothing to lessen the horror of a smashed skull. “To the melodramatic. Caption: ‘Shearer, 36, is led off to death row as his mother holds a crying Sandy, age five.’ That’s from
We, the Jury
, his first book.”

    
“Right. Saul was on that jury, wasn’t he? That’s what started his fascination with true crime?”

    
“And fifteen books followed. Like
Lady Killers
, which he dedicated to Robin.”

    
“He did not!”

    
“’Fraid so.”

    
I took the book from her and read the dedication. “‘To Robin. Your secrets are safe with me.’ That’s sick.”

    
“That’s amoré.”

    
“You think his death could be connected somehow to one of his books?” I asked.

    
Mom shrugged. “It’s hard to say, but they’ll help us get to know him better. Oscar, too, since he provided source material.”

    
“These books are so old, though.
We, the Jury
was published twenty years ago.”

    
“But
Lady Killers
was published within the last five.

    
“What about the book Angela said he was working on when he died? That’s the one we should be examining.”

    
“My thoughts exactly, especially if it involves Tony Trianos.”

    
“Think about how paranoid Saul was about his files,” I pointed out.

     “I have been.”

     Saul had been paranoid, but in light of what had happened, had he also been justified?

    
Having seen one gruesome picture too many, I closed the book I was skimming with a snap. “Ok, let’s do Oscar. Why would someone kill him?”

    
“He’s a former prosecutor. Lots of enemies there.”

    
“And he was pushing the investigation of Saul’s death pretty hard. Maybe that made someone nervous.”

    
Mom nodded. “And he really had it in for Tony Trianos. A dangerous pastime if ever there was one.”

    
I frowned. “What about Gavin Beaumont’s theory? That the murders may not be connected at all.”

    
“I’m not buying it. It’s incredible enough that there’s one murderer running around Arbor Farms. Two unrelated ones? Hard to believe.”

    
I picked up another of the true crime books,
Deadly People. Deadly Passions
, and flipped to the center. “Gross.”

    
“Another skull?”

    
“Worse. Hot-roller hair.”

    
Mom opened her notebook. “So. Where should we start?”

    
“Who knows? It sounds pretty overwhelming.”

    
“We just need to start poking around and see what we learn by talking to people.”

    
I pushed the books and my laptop aside and got a folder from my desk. “This morning, while decent people were showering, I googled everyone we’re interested in, thinking that might be a good place to start.” I passed over a small stack of handouts I’d printed out the previous night.

    
“And I thought cyber-stalking your ex-boyfriends was a waste of time.” She flipped through the papers. “You’ve honed your skills.”

    
“Nice to be using them for good instead of evil.”

    
“Is Leo still doing personal injury law?” she asked, referring to an ex-boyfriend.

    
“In a storefront office right down from the Dollar Tree. And, yes, I take great satisfaction in that, no matter if it seems small and petty. It’s who I am.”

    
“Jacob better watch his step.”

    
“Why? I’m watching it for him.”

    
“So, what’s in all this?” She indicated the stack. “Anything interesting.”

    
“No smoking guns. Nancy is listed in the minutes of about thirty clubs. Gavin Beaumont has published a couple of articles in peer review journals about a new form of birth control. Angela once signed an online petition requesting a new vampire slayer.”

    
Mom raised a questioning eyebrow.

    
“Robin’s condo was featured in a local magazine last year,” I continued. “Saul’s books got reasonably favorable online reviews, except from one guy who called them schlock. He also had a web site that’s a shrine to himself.”

    
Mom flipped through the stack till she found printouts of the site. “I see what you mean. His author’s photo is hilarious. He looks a foot taller and thirty pounds lighter.”

    
“I know. That must be a Matchbox version of his Maserati. He’s towering over it.”

    
“Look at this one. He didn’t even own a dog.”

    
“He references Angela, although it took seven clicks to find it.”

    
“Is this her in the picture?” She showed me a tiny shot of Saul with an even tinier woman in the background. The caption identified Saul and his research assistant.

    
I took a deep breath. “There’s something I didn’t tell you at the party. Something about Angela.”

    
Mom met my gaze.

    
“I think she and Saul might’ve been involved.”

    
“Oh, God.”

    
“I mean, she didn’t say it right out. But the way she talked about him sounded, well, familiar.”