OUT ON A LIMB (9 page)
“Only a brief report on the radio. How distressing for his family.”
“Howie said that Adrienne Armstrong was here this morning,” I said, hoping the crick in my neck was temporary. “Did she speak to you?”
“Only to Howie, and they were so far away that I couldn’t hear them. It does seem that Phase Two may still be ongoing. Mr. Constantine was able to get an emergency injunction, but the judge has scheduled a hearing in five days to make a final ruling.”
“You can go home until then. Wouldn’t you like a nice hot bath and dry slippers?”
Miss Parchester gave me a disappointed look. “You haven’t thought this through, have you? If I were to leave the tree, I would be prevented from returning should the ruling go against us. No one has actually seen a migratory hawk in this area. Mr. Constantine is relying on an Audubon guide and EPA regulations regarding endangered species. Our case isn’t very strong.”
I heard Howie whistling loudly as he came in our direction. “I’d better go,” I said. “Is there anything you need?”
“It’s very kind of you to inquire, but I’m reasonably content. Run along before Howie gets here. I’m afraid he fancies himself to be a bounty hunter.”
I waggled my fingers at her, then went to my car. Since I was no longer in the commission of a misdemeanor, I sat and thought. Why had Adrienne Armstrong instructed hapless Howie to continue his vigilance when it might very well be months, or even years, before probate issues could be resolved and Phase Two continued? I’d seen their lawyer at the press conference the previous day, but his name had not been mentioned. Adrienne was long gone from the athletic club by now, and I was aware that I might not be welcome at the crime scene.
I had not come up with a plan of action (except, perhaps, buying a sandwich on the way back to the Book Depot) when a chubby young woman came out of the Scarpos’ unit. Her shirt and jeans were baggy, her brown hair uncombed, her eyes narrowed with muted hostility.
“Are you Claire Malloy?” she demanded.
“Are you Jillian?”
She came over to the car. “So where’s Randy?”
I resisted the urge to put up the window before she did something that might prove painful. “I have no idea whatsoever where Randy is,” I said. “I have neither seen him nor spoken to him since I gave him a ride to campus the other night. As I told you, I’d asked him to call me to report on Miss Parchester, but he never did. Why would you think I know where he is?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, beginning to snivel and, thankfully, backing away from the car. “I just thought after you called, that—well, that, I just thought…” She wiped her nose on the back of her hand. “I’m sorry. I can see now that you’re not what I suspected.”
Which I interpreted to mean that I was entirely too old to engage in frivolous romps with graduate students, which I most certainly was—but only because I found them tedious and pretentious now that I had achieved some degree of maturity. In our day, Carlton and I had swilled red wine and read poetry aloud on the banks of meandering creeks. We’d gone to parties where the favorite parlor game had been deconstructing innocent authors.
“Is something wrong?” I asked Jillian.
“No, everything’s okay. Randy left early because he had a meeting with a professor, and then he was going to the library. I gave him a shopping list, but he left it on the kitchen table. He’ll probably remember to pick up most of it before he comes home.”
“You don’t have a car?”
She managed a wobbly smile. “We can’t afford a second one until Randy has a real job. He’s already been approached by several companies, but he wants to finish his degree before he considers the offers. I don’t mind. Connor and I keep each other company. It’s not like we have anything else to do.”
I gestured at the signs warning trespassers to stay away. “But I guess you can’t take the stroller too far until this is resolved.”
“We don’t go outside much,” Jillian said. “Connor’s got all these allergies, and he had an asthma attack a few weeks ago. The doctor didn’t act like it was serious, but Randy and I agreed that we shouldn’t take any risks. Connor’s very delicate. He only weighed six pounds and seven ounces when he was born. I was in labor for seventeen hours. The doctor wanted to give me an epidural, but I refused because natural birth is so much better for the baby.”
“So I’ve been told,” I murmured. “I really must be going, Jillian.”
“Wouldn’t you like to come inside and see Connor? He’s napping right now, but we could have coffee.”
“Thank you, but no. I have a business to run.”
I felt like a coward as I drove back to the Book Depot, having left a lonely creature standing in the parking lot of Oakland Heights, Phase One. A better person than I would have admired the slumbering baby, sipped coffee, looked at countless photos, and tweaked a little cheek when the time came. But I had another cheek to tweak when the desire came over me, as well as problems of my own.
No one of any import came into the store the remainder of the afternoon. Luanne called to say that she, Caron, and Skyler had enjoyed their outing, and that Caron had broached the situation at the high school. When pressed, Luanne admitted that she’d offered little in the way of concrete advice. Neither of us could come up with a way Caron might quash the gossip without resorting to the truth.
Caron and Skyler were asleep on her bed when I arrived home. I retreated to the kitchen, poured myself a drink, and sat down on the sofa to hear what Jessica had to report.
She had the lead spot, and she would have been salivating had it not been unsightly. “This is Jessica Princeton, live from outside the Farberville Police Station.” She glanced over her shoulder, then gave us a recapitulation of what had been reported earlier, which amounted to nothing I hadn’t heard: Anthony Armstrong, shot twice, his body discovered by his wife, detectives investigating, and so forth. “Stay with me,” she commanded, perhaps not only to her viewers but also to the news director in the studio. “A police vehicle is pulling up behind me. Getting out of the vehicle are two uniformed officers.”
The camera shifted as figures emerged. The first two were as Jessica had said. One of them opened a back door and gestured for its occupant to climb out.
Skyler’s mother stared into the camera.
Once the officers and the girl were inside the police station, Jessica Princeton squared her discreetly enhanced shoulders and resumed. “That was Daphne Armstrong, daughter of slain developer Anthony Armstrong. We don’t know yet if she’s been charged with anything or has simply been brought in for further questioning. Lieutenant Peter Rosen, who was at the scene last night, has refused to comment. KFAR has been able to determine that Miss Armstrong was taken into custody this afternoon at the home of her mother, Sheila Armstrong, who was divorced from Anthony Armstrong three years ago. She also declined to speak to us.”
I must have resembled a pop-eyed koi as I gaped at the television screen. Skyler’s mother, taken into custody to discuss Skyler’s grandfather’s murder?
Jessica was running low on late-breaking news, but she continued to command the camera. “Daphne Armstrong is said to be eighteen years old and a former student at Disciples Christian Academy. Administrators at the academy did not return repeated calls. At this moment, officers remain at the scene of the crime, searching the yard, outbuildings, and nearby woods, presumably for the weapon. Let’s go to Chuck, who’s standing by on the road at the edge of the property. Has anything been uncovered at this hour?”
Chuck, who apparently had a fondness for pizza, beer, and pink shirts with tight collars, appeared on the screen. Behind him was an expanse of lawn, and beyond it a sprawling house with peculiar Italian accents, as if it had been transported under cover of darkness from Tuscany to the sylvan hills of Farberville. No one had thought to bring along an olive grove.
“Thank you, Jessica,” he said. “Things here are quiet at this hour. Documents at the county courthouse indicate Mr. Armstrong’s house is situated on more than three acres of mostly unimproved wooded hillsides, adjoined on the south by Oakland Heights and the proposed expansion. Officers continue to search for evidence, but thus far we’ve had no indication that they’ve found anything of significance. Mrs. Armstrong, her sister Chantilly Durmond, and the family lawyer are inside the house. No one has agreed to speak with us.”
I wondered if Mrs. Armstrong and company were having fettuccine primavera and a nice bottle of Chianti. But there was another Mrs. Armstrong, the mother of Daphne. For all I knew, there was yet another Mrs. Armstrong, the mother of the deceased, or a bevy of sisters-in-law with the same title.
Coverage returned to the studio for the forecast of impending rainy weather for the next few days. I stared with minimal comprehension until Caron came down the hall, Skyler tucked in her arm.
“What’s wrong?” she said.
“Everything.”
“Should I start packing?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. I left her standing in the middle of the room and went into the kitchen to pour myself a significant amount of scotch. When I returned to the living room, she’d put Skyler on a blanket on the rug and was sitting cross-legged next to him. Her eyes were intent on mine.
I sat down on the sofa. “You’d better know what’s going on.”
It did not take me long to relate what I knew. When I’d finished, she looked up and said, “So what are you going to do, Mother?”
“I wish I knew,” I said, keeping my voice even so as not to disturb Skyler—or send Caron thundering down the stairs to the nearest safe house (which would be Inez’s, where she could have halibut on a weekly basis). “Daphne wouldn’t have been taken into custody if the police didn’t have some reason to believe she killed her father. She might be released in an hour, held as a witness, or charged.”
“Skyler’s not a witness,” said Caron. “He has an alibi. Why should he have to suffer because of this?”
I propped my elbows on my knees and rubbed my face with my hands. That which had been perplexing, bemusing, intriguing, even amusing, was now deadly serious. Someone had murdered Anthony Armstrong, and the police had indicated that it might be Daphne Armstrong. At the moment, only three other people knew I had her baby in my care, but quite a few more people must have known of his existence. And my foray into the grocery store had not gone unnoticed. Even Sally Fromberger and Rhonda Maguire’s mother might begin to piece it together—along with the entirety of the Farberville High School community, upping the count to well over five hundred. Keeping a secret in a town the size of Farberville was, in my experience, harder than slogging in a scholarly fashion through James Joyce, Henry James, or even James Fenimore Cooper and every last one of his blasted Mohicans.
“Did they say she did it?” asked Caron, interrupting my addled thoughts. “Are they sure?”
“No, but she was brought in for questioning, and that’s a bad sign.”
“So call Peter.”
“And tell him what? I’m concerned because I’ve put down a deposit for a time-share in Phase Two?”
Caron, who had been convinced only a day ago that the universe existed solely for her personal gratification or aggravation, with an emphasis on the latter, said, “You can’t tell him everything, but you could find out what he knows. Daphne didn’t kill anybody, especially not her father. She wouldn’t have done that.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know. Maybe you can try to talk to her.”
“I’m not her lawyer.”
The following morning I once again called Caron in sick, but warned her that this would be the last day of malingering and made her promise to get her assignments from Inez. Then, dressed in the navy suit that I wore to funerals, and carrying one of Carlton’s battered briefcases, I went into the Farberville Police Station, nodded politely at the officer at the desk, and said, “I’m here to see Daphne Armstrong. I understand she’s been detained and has asked for counsel.”
“Your name is …”
“Ms. Miranda.”
No bells or whistles went off. The officer, who looked as though she should have been in classes with Caron, asked me to sign my name on a clipboard and gestured for me to follow her. The corridor was humid and reeked of misery muted by disinfectant. The cell doors were slabs of steel with openings large enough for only trays of food and periodic supervision.
“Do you want to talk to her in the conference room?” the officer asked.
“I’d prefer to see her in her cell. Please hurry; I’m due in court in half an hour.” Where, at some time in the future, if I failed to pull off this ploy, I would be consigned to one of these cells to sleep on a thin mattress and survive on baloney sandwiches and powdered fruit drinks. I wondered if I should have tucked my toothbrush into the briefcase.
“Up to you. Holler when you’re ready to leave.”
Daphne Armstrong was hunched on a corner of her cot, her hair brushing her bony knees. She flushed as she recognized me, and then averted her face. “Go away. I don’t have to talk to you.”
“Don’t you want to know how Skyler’s doing?”
She looked up. “Is he okay? He was getting a diaper rash, but I put some antibiotic cream on it and it was getting better. The tube was empty, or I would have left it in the diaper bag.”
I sat down next to her. “He’s fine. You, on the other hand, are not.”
“It’s not so bad here,” she said, ignoring the implications of my remark. “The food’s okay. We had beans and cornbread last night.”
“Have you been charged?”
“Right now I’m what they call a material witness, but that detective seems to think I did it. You have to believe me, Mrs. Malloy—I didn’t shoot my father. I may have wanted to, and I may have been there, but I couldn’t point a gun at him and pull the trigger. He just refused to understand, and Adrienne made it worse. She kept telling me that we should be friends, but she’s the kind that never bothered to look at me in the hall at school. She was a cheerleader, naturally, and the homecoming queen. She has all these albums with pictures of her sitting on the back of a convertible, wearing a rhinestone tiara. Like I was supposed to deal with a stepmother who’s seven years older than I am? She was in first grade when I was born.”