OUT ON A LIMB (25 page)

“What is it that you’re hoping to find?” I said. “There’s nothing in the abstract that you couldn’t have found in an extended search, and President Pierce is not going to revoke the grant.”

“Unfortunately, he is not,” Finnigan conceded. “I believe that somewhere in these files is a geological map that specifies the demarcation of the fault line, which will prove that Armstrong knew of the potential risk when he constructed Oakland Heights. It may be too late for the bastard to face criminal charges of reckless endangerment, but his estate will be subject to a civil lawsuit. We’ll see how many more condos Armstrong Development can construct after they pay a judgment of several million dollars. Juries can be generous to victims of callous disregard.”

“But you haven’t found the map?”

He shook his head. “I’d hoped it might be tucked in the abstract along with the survey maps, but it was not.”

“Did you mention this to the police or the prosecutor?”

“Ms. Malloy, I don’t think you could pass the midterm exam in my freshman botany class, much less the final. The chief of police played both golf and poker with Armstrong several times a month, and the prosecutor owns ten percent of the Phase Two limited partnership. If the authorities find the map, I imagine there will be a little bonfire behind the clubhouse, followed by a round of drinks in the bar.”

I found myself wondering how much Peter knew about the glaring conflicts of interest. Had he been instructed to charge Daphne on his boss’s orders, despite the dubious evidence of two eyewitnesses who’d been drinking margaritas for a couple of hours? Was convicting her the most expedient way to keep the development on schedule?

“Why are you so certain this map still exists?” I asked him. “Wouldn’t Armstrong have destroyed it a long time ago?”

“One of my sources said he did not, that he glanced at it, then dismissed it and put it away with other nonessential paperwork concerning Oakland Heights. The planning commission doesn’t require a geological survey, so why worry them?”

“And this source would be Sheila Armstrong, nee Zorelli?”

Finnigan replaced the abstract in a filing cabinet in the closet behind him. “I’m afraid I can’t answer that, Ms. Malloy. As much as I’ve enjoyed our conversation, I think I’d better leave before the hostess arrives home.”

I moved in front of the door. “Did the police question you about your whereabouts on the night of Armstrong’s murder?”

“As in my alibi? Dear, deluded woman, do you honestly think I crept into the house and shot the man because he wouldn’t hand over a map?”

“Did you?” I said bluntly.

“If I had, I most assuredly wouldn’t admit it, would I? The police did inquire. I was home all night, and on the Internet until well after two in the morning, networking with environmental and civil liberties groups to find a way to thwart Armstrong’s no-trespassing dictum. One of the officers confirmed that I was downloading documents at the time of the murder.”

“Unless someone else was using your computer.”

“All things are possible.”

After he left, I approached the filing cabinet in the closet. I’d noticed it the day before, but I doubted I would have examined it even if the telephone hadn’t rung in the kitchen. The clock on the desk indicated I had most of an hour before flowers were tossed onto the coffin and the gentlemen (in this case, limo drivers) started their engines.

The drawer in which Baybergen had replaced the Oakland Heights abstract contained several others of the same ilk. Most of them had notes stapled on the covers specifying names of apartment and condo complexes. Another drawer contained ledgers and thick files of bank statements. My accountant might have been able to find damning evidence, but I had neither the time nor the inclination to muddle through the various corporate records to determine Anthony’s bottom line.

The top drawer proved to be much more intriguing. I took out a file that pertained to the divorce, and sat down. A restraining order threatened Sheila with contempt if she came within a hundred yards of his house, office, or person. An audit seemed to imply that Anthony himself had almost no assets, and that various partnerships and corporations paid for the maintenance of the house, cars, country club membership, health insurance, and annual vacations to Baja and Bimini. I wondered if he’d played poker with the chancery judge who’d deemed him a veritable pauper when the issue of alimony arose. The remaining documents were dry: a copy of the divorce decree, a copy of the quit claim deed Baybergen had mentioned, a delineation of child visitation, and so forth.

I set the file aside and moved on. The next was marked with Adrienne’s name. Anthony had chosen his trophy bride with a certain amount of circumspection, having obtained a copy of a transcript of her grades (middling), a printout of her prior traffic violations (numerous), and a background check done by a private detective. This was more entertaining than fiction, I decided as I read the first page. Adrienne had been born in Memphis, and according to my calculations, was indeed twenty-five years old. Her parents had died while she was in grade school, and she and her younger sister (burdened at birth with the boring moniker of Carla Anne) lived with relatives until she enrolled at Farber College seven years ago. Adrienne had been popular with her high school peers, but less so with the faculty, who remembered her only as an uninspired student. She’d been arrested twice for possession of alcohol, once for attempting to forge a prescription for a narcotic drug, and once for shoplifting from a department store. Her driver’s license had been suspended for three months for driving while intoxicated.

Sadly typical, I thought as I turned to the next page. It proved to be a prenuptial agreement drawn up three years previously by a local law firm. I glanced at the clock. If Adrienne had rushed the Reverend Simpleton through any part of the ritual, she and her guests might appear soon. Even though I could see the driveway from where I was sitting, I got up and opened a window in case I became so engrossed in what I was reading that I failed to pay attention. The catering vans had been moved in order to provide more parking. As I looked, the KFAR van rolled up and stopped. Jessica did not emerge, but I was confident she would provide live footage on the six o’clock news that would rival the annual Oscar red carpet fanfare.

I realized I’d better sprint through the files if I didn’t want to be found with the equivalent of a smoking gun on the desk. The prenuptial agreement was padded with legal jargon, but it seemed to state that Adrienne would receive a piddly $50,000 if the marriage ended in divorce before its tenth-year anniversary, and a maximum of $100,000 after that. No alimony, although in the event of the birth of a baby that DNA testing confirmed to be Anthony’s, child support would be negotiated by the court. She would retain all gifts given to her during the duration, as well as her share of Oakland Heights Phase Two.

Attached was a bare-bones synopsis of the last will and testament of Anthony Armstrong, also written three years ago by the same legal firm. In the event of his death—I must admit at that moment I shivered, realizing I was reading the will as his coffin was being lowered— Sheila Zorelli Armstrong was to receive $25,000. A set of antique golf clubs was to go to one friend, $50,000 to the Disciples Christian Academy, $10,000 to an organization that gave the ACLU cause to purchase aspirin in bulk, $10,000 to a housekeeper whom I had yet to see, and a few minor bequests to civic clubs that subtly managed to exclude minorities and women. The remainder of the estate, which I sensed was not minimal, was to be divided between Daphne Armstrong and Adrienne Durmond Armstrong. Two rather chilling conditions were attached: Adrienne would inherit nothing if it could be proved that she had had an affair during the course of the marriage, and Daphne’s share was to remain in an impenetrable trust until she turned thirty or proved to the satisfaction of the executor that she was of pious and exemplary moral character.

If Anthony Armstrong had been on the carpet (and already dead, mind you), I might have struggled with the temptation to slap him with the will. If there’d been a marker handy, I would have written “pious and exemplary” on his forehead. All capital letters.

I rubbed my temples until my outrage—and that is exactly what it was—began to lessen. Had he been sitting behind the desk when he ordered Daphne to have an abortion in order to protect his reputation? Had he sneered when he reviewed the private detective’s report of Adrienne’s pitiful teenaged indiscretions? Had he and his lawyer chuckled as they filed the restraining order to prevent Sheila from setting foot on her grandparents’ farm? And how pleased he must have been when he enrolled Daphne in the Disciples Christian Academy, where she was buffered from anyone who might have darker skin or an accent—or a contrary opinion.

And what could he have thought when he saw the geological map that indicated the earthquake fault? Nothing worthy of the celebrated San Andreas Fault, obviously, but conceivably dangerous. Anthony Armstrong had not so much as hesitated. He’d tossed aside the pesky documentation and built Phase One. The fire was peripheral damage, but not reason enough to delay Phase Two. After all, despite a miscarriage, a broken bone or two, and significant lung damage, housing was still in demand. The very idea of preserving hundred-year-old oak trees must have bewildered him. Trees? What next— spotted owls and albino cave newts?

I stood up, feeling unclean from even minimal contact with his petty domain. He hadn’t been evil, but he had been hurtful. I felt as though I should don a white hat and ride out to save his daughter, grandson, ex-wife, and current wife, but I lacked a trusty steed—and a loyal sidekick, since my only candidate was baby-sitting.

As it was, I thumbed through several other folders and was beginning to think that a carrot stick might be welcome when I heard a gunshot. I say this, but there are sounds—and there are sounds. Nothing appeared to be happening in the driveway; no staffers collapsing, no television reporter clutching her helmet of hair and tumbling to the ground, no deer staggering out of the woods to take up valuable parking space.

I crammed the files back into the cabinet, closed the closet door, and went into the foyer. Laden trays were flowing smoothly from the kitchen to the buffet tables in the backyard. No eyebrows were raised, no eyes widened. Business as usual.

I was beginning to doubt myself when Caroii clutched my shoulder.

“Mother,” she whispered, peering over her shoulder, “I saw Daphne.”

“You saw her where?”

“In back. I was putting out silverware when I saw someone crouched behind the azaleas. I didn’t know what to do, so I just kept following instructions while I tried to watch this person. I wasn’t positive it wasn’t a dog or a cow or something silly, but then I saw this girl who fits your description. Somebody yelled at her and she took off, running toward the front of the house.”

“Did she have a gun?”

“I didn’t think to tackle her and inquire,” said Caron.

“I thought I heard a shot.”

“Lucky you. All I’ve heard is the proper placement of salad forks and the need to fold napkins with hospital corners. Does this make sense, Mother? Are really tiny sick people going to show up and tuck themselves into napkins? Promise me that you’ll never be this banal.”

“So Daphne ran across the driveway and into the woods? How long ago?”

“A few minutes ago, maybe five or ten. I didn’t want to get everybody else all agitated, so I waited until I could sneak inside and find you.”

“Keep folding napkins,” I said, then went out the front door and past the KFAR van. A path to Oakland Heights had been mentioned several times, and indeed there was one. I wasn’t precisely jogging, since I find it an abomination, but I was moving briskly as I pushed through tangles and progressed downhill.

I stopped abruptly when I realized I was under the platform of Miss Parchester’s contested oak tree. No bleeding bodies were splayed nearby. Squirrels were regarding me. Luckily, Howie was not.

“Miss Parchester,” I called softly.

“Why, Claire,” she said, appearing overhead to look down at me, “you do seem to visit often. As I said, I am not in need of anything at the moment, but—”

“I heard a gunshot.”

“Oh, dear, how distressing for you.”

“Miss Parchester, I was told that Daphne Armstrong came running this way—and I most certainly heard a gunshot not more than ten minutes ago. You must have heard something.”

“I suppose I must have.”

I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, resisting a sudden impulse to claw my way up the tree to her perch. “Would you please elaborate?”

“Daphne did come by here a few minutes ago. What you heard, however, might have been a backfire from a car. Hunting is limited to autumn and winter, and would never be allowed within the city limits in any season.”

“Can you describe the vehicle?”

“I do not have a view of the entirety of the parking lot.”

And I wouldn’t have been amazed if the theme music of
Twilight Zone
had begun to waft from the woods. Out from behind the construction shed would come Rod Serling, as opposed to Howie the Wonder Dogsbody.

“Daphne’s up there, isn’t she?” I said.

“Up here?”

“Yes, Miss Parchester.”

Her face disappeared. I sat down and listened to a whispery conversation, not at all sure what I was going to do if the rope ladder came tumbling down. Did Daphne have a gun? Was she holding Miss Parchester hostage? Was I less astute than an acorn to be forcing the issue? What I needed, I thought, was Caron, who, at her advanced age of sixteen, had one hundred percent of the answers. Multiple choice or true-false, the answer was always there somewhere.

“Claire,” Miss Parchester trilled, “it is possible that Daphne may be here. She would like to reaffirm that she did not shoot her father.”

“Where’s the gun?”

“The gun is not in Daphne’s possession.”

“The police aren’t so sure. At this moment, the word’s out that she may be armed and dangerous. She needs to turn herself in.” I looked up at the bottom of the platform. “I promise she can spend a few minutes with Skyler before we go to the police department.”