OUT ON A LIMB (11 page)
In that she was wearing only black cowboy boots, gossamer harem pants, and a red bra, I was taken aback, to put it mildly.
“Not the terminator,” I said at last.
“I meant to say‘exterminator.’ The termites are eating up the foundation and the flour beetles are making me crazy. Do come in.”
Any sane person would have bolted for the sidewalk. I went inside.
All the drapes in the living room were drawn, leaving an eerie glow that suggested visitation at a mortuary. The furniture was an eclectic combination of battered wicker chairs, lumpy upholstered sofas, and stools from a longdefunct ice-cream parlor. The redolence was sour but bearable.
“You’re Sheila Armstrong?” I said as I perched on what proved to be a precariously wobbly stool.
She draped herself across a chair, oblivious of her lack of clothing, and pushed a tangled mass of graystreaked hair out of her face. Even in the gloom, her skin was so pale that I doubted she ventured out of her house until after sunset. Her makeup had been applied with a zealous hand. “Perhaps, perhaps not. Are you a terminator or an exterminator? I simply cannot make plans for the rest of the day until you explain your motives.”
“I was hoping we could talk about Daphne.”
“Yes, Daphne.” She lit a cigarette and blew a stream of smoke that seemed to swirl in the sunlight coming through a gap in the drapes. “She was here when they came looking for her yesterday. I told her to hide under the bed or in the attic, but she just sat and waited. She used to be high-spirited, but her father systematically broke her as one would a wild pony. She didn’t even protest when he forced her to attend that dreadful church school. If he had listened to me, none of this would have happened.”
“The murder—or the baby?”
“None of it,” she said emphatically. “Would you like some vodka?”
When I shook my head, she went into another room and returned with a glass filled to the brim with a colorless beverage that was not likely to be water. She took a drink, and then a long drag on her cigarette. “Just who are you?”
I told her my name and vaguely alluded to the bookstore. “Daphne came to my apartment several days ago because she needed help. She was worried about Skyler.”
“She should have been more worried about that boyfriend of hers. They should have kept him locked up for the rest of his life. After I met him, I warned her that he was disaster in the making. There she was, dating a boy nine years older who worked as a mechanic, when she could have been doing her schoolwork and thinking about college. That’s when Anthony sent her to that school, where they wear prissy uniforms and recite Bible verses every morning. A course in sex education would have been more pragmatic, wouldn’t it?”
I wasn’t sure what to make of her, dressed as she was in expectation of the arrival of an exterminator. The vodka was being consumed with practiced efficiency; the glass was already half empty (or half full, if she was an optimist). She hadn’t shown any concern for Skyler’s whereabouts or well-being. Or Daphne’s, for that matter.
“She lived with you for a time, didn’t she?” I asked.
‘That was several weeks ago. She seemed more like a feral cat than my little girl. I kept expecting her to hiss over table scraps. The infant screamed night and day. It was simply too stressful for me. Do you have children, Mrs. Malarky?” *
“Malloy,” I murmured, although I doubted it would penetrate her haze. “Yes, I have a daughter. I would do whatever was required to stop her from living on the streets.”
“Anthony’s problem. He wanted custody, and I never contested it. My share in the divorce settlement was laughable. He’s played golf with every lawyer and judge in the county for twenty years. Most of them have invested in his developments and come away with a profit. He built three quarters of the apartment and condominium complexes in Farberville, as well as several residential developments. His corporation owns dozens of rental houses. I accepted this one as part of the deal, since I knew I wouldn’t be able to afford anything better. Unfortunately, I’m finding it difficult to afford utilities.”
“But Daphne would have been better off living here,” I said.
Sheila snorted. “She was very angry at me after the divorce, and hasn’t gotten past it. I tried to continue our relationship, but she criticized me relentlessly. Our visitations became so antagonistic that I suggested she come less often and only stay for an hour. I hadn’t seen her in more than a year when she showed up on the doorstep with a newborn baby, if you can imagine. Suddenly I was supposed to live with dirty diapers and constant crying? When Daphne was born, I had full-time help to handle the more bothersome aspects of mothering. That was in Tunica, though, and help was affordable as long as one wasn’t too picky about references or prison records. Are you sure you wouldn’t like some vodka, perhaps with a splash of cranberry juice?”
The non sequitur, as well as her casual recitation, left me dumbstruck for a moment. “So you kicked her out, just as her father did?”
“He was the one with the grandiose house and fat income. He could have at least let her live in one of his apartments on the south side of town. It would have cost less than Adrienne’s athletic club membership or the lease payments on her Jaguar.”
“How long had they been married?” I asked cautiously.
Sheila stubbed out the cigarette in an overflowing ashtray and lit another one. “They started sleeping together the day after she came to work at his office about four years ago. Anthony was ripe for a mid-life crisis, and darling Adrienne smelled the money and the possibility of more plastic surgery for the few body parts yet to be lifted, tucked, or vacuumed. Six months after that, Anthony filed for divorce, and the day after the decree was final, they left for Tahiti on their honeymoon.”
“How did Daphne feel about it?”
“She didn’t say anything to me, and I didn’t ask. In their absence, I gather she found the key to the wine cellar and hosted a few parties. Poor Anthony must have been furious when he discovered his coveted vintages were depleted. He was always obsessed with serving the perfect bottle to those who could appreciate its cost. I myself preferred vodka, although a pricier brand than what I’ve been reduced to.”
“But he didn’t throw her out then?”
“She told me that Adrienne convinced him not to despite the damage to the house and the theft of several of his rifles and shotguns. Anthony always tried to be the epitome of a macho man, even though he loathed the hunting and fishing trips with his cronies. He would have much rather played poker at the country club.” She drained the glass. “He was fonder of waiters than waders.”
I realized I’d better get to the point before she got back to the bottle. “Do you have any idea why Daphne went to his house two nights ago?”
Sheila blinked at me. “How would I know? Until she showed up a few days ago, I hadn’t seen her in weeks. At least she didn’t have that baby with her. I do hope no one’s going to expect me to take it while she’s in prison. I can’t stretch my meager resources to cover diapers and that sort of thing.” Her eyes widened. “Anthony’s death won’t affect my alimony checks, will it?”
“Surely not,” I said soothingly. “What did Daphne say when she arrived here yesterday? Did she say anything about what happened?”
“Not that I recall. She was surly when I attempted to make conversation. She asked if she could have something to eat, and I told her to look in the refrigerator. She’d just finished the piece of chicken I was saving for my dinner when the police arrived.”
“And you didn’t know what had happened to Anthony?”
“I had no idea. My television is broken, and I keep the radio tuned to NPR while I do my yoga exercises.”
An authoritative rap on the door halted our conversation. Sheila wobbled to her feet and smiled at me. “The exterminator. I hope you won’t mind leaving, whoever you are. There’s nothing I can do for Daphne or her baby.”
“So I heard,” I said acerbically.
She threw open the door to both usher me out and usher in the exterminator. On the porch stood Sergeant Jorgeson and two uniformed officers.
“We have a search warrant,” he began, then spotted me hovering behind her. “Oh, dear, Ms. Malloy.”
Likewise, Jorgeson.
It seemed like the time to beat an auspicious retreat, but Jorgeson did not step aside. “Whatever are you doing here, Ms. Malloy?” he asked in a discouraged voice, as if, perchance, we’d had this exchange before. Despite his vaguely deferential demeanor, I’ve always suspected he’s more dangerous than Peter. Distracting him with a kiss was out of the question; I couldn’t remember ever so much as shaking his hand, and if he had a first name (which he most likely did), I didn’t know what it was. He had the tenacity of a bulldog, but also, unfortunately, a latent resemblance.
“Comforting my friend Sheila,” I said. “Whatever are you doing here, Sergeant Jorgeson?”
“We have a search warrant. This is a homicide investigation, and we do that sometimes.”
“Still no weapon?”
As I’d hoped, I was dismissed with a flip of his hand. Sheila was cooing in his ear as I got in my car and drove back down Thurber Street to my bookstore. All I’d learned was that Daphne’s mother was flakier than a stale croissant—and less appealing.
I fumed while I drank a cup of coffee, then worked off my anger by attacking the paperback racks with a feather duster until I was sneezing so violently that I had to go out to the portico and mop my nose with a tissue.
At which time, my life being congested with coincidences the past few days, Sally Fromberger came ambling up ever so casually, just as if she hadn’t been lurking in the municipal parking lot across the street. I wondered if she had binoculars in her ecologically correct woven handbag.
“I was surprised to find the Book Depot closed,” she said.
“Morning sickness!” I snapped. “The obstetrician thinks it’ll be twins this time.”
Sally’s perpetually jocular expression faded. “Are you implying that you …”
“You can’t believe the track and field team finds me desirable? Is that what puzzles you? I used to hurdle in high school.” I dried my eyes on my jacket cuffs. “I just wasn’t prepared for twins. The father will be graduating soon, and he’s taken an entry-level job in Atlanta. I’m counting on you, Sally Fromberger, to help me through this. I just can’t face the bookstore right now. Will you keep it open for me while I go home and eat crackers?”
“Yes, of course,” she said nervously. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”
I forced myself to give her a hug. “I knew I could count on you. What are dear friends for, after all?”
“But you’re coming back?”
“As soon as my stomach has calmed down. You won’t tell anybody about this, will you? I have to think of my reputation.”
Sally most certainly was thinking of nothing else. “Please don’t worry, Claire. I want to help in any way I can.”
“I know you do,” I said humbly, then hurried through the store, grabbed my purse, and went out to my car before she came to her senses. She might call Luanne, but she couldn’t lay her hands on my high school yearbooks to discover that I’d been no more involved in frack and field than I’d been a cover girl on
Field and Stream.
Perhaps it was the time to find Joey, although I had no intention of telling him anything more than necessary. Daphne and Skyler had been living in his car until a few days ago, when she’d decided to go to her father’s house. If Joey had kicked her out, she could have become desperate enough to beg Anthony for help. But she’d been seen driving away from Oakland Heights, and I couldn’t imagine Sheila allowing her to borrow her car. If Sheila even owned a car. It was not the time to swing back by her house and ask.
I decided to stop by Oakland Heights to visit Miss Parchester and find out if she’d seen Daphne running to the parking lot. Howie would have to be bribed, I supposed, but I would insist on a fair return for my investment this time.
“Hello, dear,” she trilled as I came up the slope of the parking lot. “Such excitement these last few days, don’t you think? I do believe that television reporter— Jessica, her name is—would have climbed up here to interview me if I’d permitted her to do so. I was obliged to threaten her with the thermos before she retreated.”
“Where’s Howie?” I called softly.
She blushed. “I think he went to the shed for personal reasons. Why don’t you scurry up here before he returns? He won’t be able to see you from the ground.”
My eggplant-hued bruises said no, but I nodded and watched as the rope ladder plummeted down. I scrambled up and then helped her retrieve the ladder before Howie appeared.
“How are you doing?” I asked between gasps.
“Very nicely, thank you. I’m out of lemons, however. Can you drink tea without it?”
“I’m not in the mood for tea, Miss Parchester. Have you been listening to the local radio station?”
She opened a tin and offered me a brownie. When I shook my head, she put the tin aside and said, “I’m afraid I have. First this murder, and now little Daphne under arrest. I can hardly believe it. I only hope that I am not in some way responsible. As a staunch supporter of the Green Party, I volunteered to do this in order to save trees, not destroy lives.”
“You aren’t responsible,” I said, surprised. “How could you be?”
“I may have given Daphne poor advice.”
I stared at her. “You gave Daphne advice?”
“Poor advice.”
“So you said. I didn’t realize you knew Daphne.”
Miss Parchester sighed as she nibbled on a brownie. “A year or two ago, I saw her stumbling down the sidewalk and invited her inside for a cup of cocoa. She’d just come from her mother’s house, and the visit had not gone well. She had no other adults with whom to talk. I listened to her that day for more than an hour, and again on subsequent afternoons. I could offer no solutions, but I could provide her with a sympathetic ear and a few words of wisdom. Neither of her parents was the least bit concerned about her feelings. Divorce is hard on adolescents as well as younger children.”