PW01 - Died On The Vine (17 page)

“That’s Rene,” Mary said, following my glance. “He’s the chef at Grand Folly.”

“Grand Folly!” Andrew was impressed. “That’s one of the best restaurants in the District. Certainly one of the most expensive.”

“Before the war, he ran the best restaurant in Saigon,” Mary said. “He moved here a long time ago. Before the war ended, anyway. No leaky boat for Rene; he flew first class. He’s been wanting to marry Mom for years. Now maybe he’ll have his chance.”

“Why now?” Andrew wanted to know.

“Mom always insisted she was married to Obie. She’s Catholic, you know, so as far as she was concerned, they were married ‘till death do us part’.”

“Despite the inconvenient American wife?” Julia asked.

“Believe it or not. Mom and Obie were married in the cathedral in Hue, so I guess Mom always figured that made it legal. Or at least that God was watching and taking notes.”

“Hue,” Andrew said. “That wasn’t a good place to be a Catholic during the war. I’ve been doing some reading,” he explained.

“You’re right about that,” Mary told him. “Mom and Obie were married, and then along came the Tet Offensive and that’s when things really got confused. Obie was off with his unit, wherever they were, and the Communists took Hue and all the Catholics that were smart and lucky got out of there in a hurry. Mom never did track Obie down after that, and I came along just a few months later. I wasn’t exactly a nine-month baby, as they say.”

Julia leaned forward. “What’s Rene’s last name?”

“Phan,” Mary replied. Seeing Julia make an entry in her little notebook, she asked suspiciously, “Why?”

Julia flipped the notebook closed with a regretful head shake. “Well, dear, it is a motive.”

SIXTEEN

“You’d better be joking,” Mary said.

Andrew patted her hand. “Now, Mary – “

She jerked her hand away. “Now nothing! And don’t you pat at me!”

Julia just sat it out. Finally she said, “So we should just sit back and let the police arrest Cissy’s husband, is that what we should do?”

“No, of course not,” Mary said sulkily. “But I don’t like the idea of you picking on my mother’s sweet old beau.”

“I’m sorry,” Julia said, “but his name goes in the pot right along with the rest of us.”

And on that less than amicable note, our outing ended.

The next day I walked Polly down to Julia’s where we puzzled over the timeline like ancient diviners studying the entrails of a sheep. The timeline probably smelled better, but the signs were just as cryptic.

It was discouraging. But it was hard to stay discouraged on the walk back. The honeysuckle was in bloom, Polly was being bouncy and irrepressible, and it looked as if the eagles’ nest might have a few more sticks to it. And as we walked up the hill, I was passed at high speed by what seemed to be a large insect. It took me a moment to realize it was a hummingbird.

I made a mental note to get the hummingbird feeder out of winter storage and mix up a batch of nectar, and puffed on up the hill.

The back yard was occupied. Craig was at the picnic table, sitting at one end so he could keep his stiff leg straight. He was eating a bologna sandwich. And sitting opposite him was Andrew, who was questioning him about the VA hospital.

“No, they really did a good job,” Craig was saying. “Things got pretty crowded after Tet, but it wasn’t near as bad as some of the other places. Oh, hi, Miz Rayburn.”

Andrew turned and said, “Hello, Cissy. I’m just hearing about the VA hospital in my district.” (‘My district’, already! The kid’s pretty cocky!)

“They had some pretty old stuff back then, but they’ve been modernized,” Craig told him. “I’ve been back a few times, never had any problem with them.”

I took a seat at the table and Polly approached Craig to see if there was any bologna with her name on it. Craig scratched her ears. “Funny old Pol,” he told her and handed her a corner of his sandwich. She accepted it delicately and turned away to consume it. Then she returned to his side, her eyes beaming her total devotion.

“Now you’ve done it,” I told him. “She’ll never leave you alone again.”

“She’s okay,” he said. “I like dogs.”

Returning to their previous thread of conversation, I said, ”Funny, we were just talking about the Tet Offensive the other day. Was that when you were wounded?”

“I’m here to tell ya!” he answered. “ January of ‘68. Seems like everything went wrong in ‘67 and stayed wrong. My folks got divorced, I got drafted and my girl married my brother, and then I got wounded. I was in the hospital and saw an old magazine saying that ‘67 was supposed to be the ‘Summer of Love’. I thought, man, have I been in the wrong places!”

That was quite a speech for Craig. It seemed to use up his daily quota. He stared off into the distance and became his usual quiet self. But he kept stroking Polly’s ears in an absent-minded way. Polly settled down beside him, smiling appreciatively.

I stood up and said, “Things to do,” and headed into the house.

Andrew followed. “Cissy, can I talk to you?”

“Of course, that’s what you’re doing right now.”

We were in the kitchen now. Andrew eyed his feet, looking absurdly young. “It’s about Mary. Do you think she’s interested in me?”

“Andrew, I never met Mary till after Winslow was killed, so I’m no expert. But she did go out with you. Goodness, she even introduced you to her mother; that’s got to be a good sign.” I reached up to the top shelf of the pantry and felt around until I found the hummingbird feeder.

“Yes, but she’s so touchy. And we seem to argue a lot. Isn’t that a bad sign?”

“It depends on what you argue about, and how you argue, I guess,” I said, as I filled the sink with hot water and immersed the feeder. “Any nasty personal insults?”

Andrew looked shocked. “Of course not!”

“No ‘if you weren’t so stupid – ‘ or anything like that?” I was fetching coffee as we talked.

“Good lord, no!”

I handed him a cup and grinned. “That’s nice. I’d like to say that’s a good sign, but I’ve seen people call each other hideous things and stay married for years and years. But it’s pretty darn uncomfortable for their friends.”

Andrew sat down and sipped thoughtfully.

I sat down too. “This has all been pretty stressful for Mary. She seems touchy, true, but maybe that’s just since the murder and all this mess. Maybe she’s really a calm, angelic type.” Even before I finished the sentence, I was giggling. I had to add, “But I doubt it.”

Andrew smiled. It was a wonderful smile. Oh, if I was younger and single!

“Just be patient until this murder is cleared up,” I told him. “Then we’ll see what we’ll see.”

“Until this murder is cleared up,” Andrew echoed. “And when do you think that will be?”

“I wish I knew. Julia thought we could sleuth it out ourselves, but it’s harder than we thought. I’m just about out of ideas.” I leaned across the table and refilled his cup. “Andrew, are you sure Priscilla’s death was an accident?”

He was startled. “Well, sure. I was there. I saw it.”

“Oh! I didn’t know that.”

“And I’ve got to say that if it was anyone’s fault, it was Priscilla’s. What the FAA calls ‘pilot error’. Basically, she turned too sharply heading for a jump. The horse didn’t see the jump in time to collect himself for a good takeoff. So he refused the fence, like any horse would.”

“Oh. That sounds like it would be hard to fake.”

“Take my word for it. It’s something we’ve all done at one time or another. Only the crybabies blame the horse. I broke a collarbone once. But Pris just landed wrong and there it was.”

Tough Stuff appeared on the table in the magical way of cats. I reached over to remove him, but Andrew said, “Hey, what a great cat.” T.S. strutted by, dusting Andrew’s nose with his tail and accepting tribute.

“You were really fond of Priscilla, weren’t you?”

“Yes, I was. She didn’t know anything about raising kids, but did the best she could. When I read ‘Auntie Mame’, it reminded me of her. She was so understanding about things. Like being embarrassed about the wedding picture.”

“The wedding picture?”

“Yes. I was the ringbearer at Priscilla’s wedding. I was only five, and was all rigged out in satin kneepants, with a velvet pillow – you know the drill. At the time, I thought I was really hot stuff. Of course, just a few years later, I was hideously embarrassed by the pictures of the wedding party with me in my Little Lord Fauntleroy outfit. I would always take the big silver-framed picture off the piano when I had friends over, so I wouldn’t get razzed about it.”

“Aren’t little boys awful?” I asked nostalgically.

“Priscilla never said anything about it, but she put that picture away until I was old enough to have some perspective.”

“That was nice,” I agreed.

“And she always got along quite well with Obie, so I don’t want you to go around thinking he killed her. He seemed fond of her and he certainly didn’t start showing up with a string of girlfriends after she died.”

“Alright. But so far, all our leads have turned into dead ends. Everybody with a motive seems to have an alibi.”

“Even the chef?”

“Yes, dammit, even Rene Phan. I asked Luther Dawson this morning and they say he checks out.”

“Well, then, I don’t know what to tell you.” Andrew stood up. “I’m at the Washington House for a few days.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Oh?”

“You can classify me as in respectful yet hopeful pursuit.”

“Consider yourself classified. But if things don’t work out, I’ve got a daughter about Mary’s age. She’s seeing a real jerk at the moment, but I keep hoping she’ll wise up.”

Andrew bowed. “Noted for future reference.”

After he left, I thought about getting some campaign literature to send to Deb.

That evening, I tried to keep Jack entertained with speculation about Andrew and Mary. But he seemed absentminded, and didn’t even mention my lovely lamb chops. Jack is usually quite punctilious about complimenting the chef, so I knew he was worried.

I was restless that night. Jack was fast asleep, looking so sweet and innocent. I wanted to ask the Commonwealth’s Attorney “Is this the face of a killer?”, but of course it was after midnight and anyway, don’t some killers look like angels?

Polly was also asleep, with her paws twitching, dreaming about squirrels.

And I was wide awake, staring at the ceiling. For some reason I couldn’t understand, I had a phrase stuck in my head. The Summer of Love.

Deb was born in the spring of ’68. Conceived during the Summer of Love. I remember Jimmy laughing about that. Maybe that’s why Mary worked on my maternal instincts. Both Summer of Love babies. Mary born somewhere in the countryside around Hue, hiding from the Viet Cong, and Deb born in the Norfolk Naval Hospital, where I shared a room with a young thing who had just named her first-born son Frodo.

Finally I got up and went downstairs. Polly the faithful padded along beside me.

I turned on my computer and checked my e-mail, but the writers group had been wrangling for several days about a plagiarism case in Chicago. Dull, dull, dull.

The Summer of Love. Why was that resonating?

Poor Andrew. I hoped Mary wouldn’t be too mean to him. Of course, if he wants to be in politics, he’d better be tough, or get that way quick. He sure didn’t seem very tough. To me, he seemed like a baby, far too young for the rough and tumble.

Far too young?

Where was this thread taking me?

I chewed on it a bit more and it seemed to make an interesting counter-balance to the Summer of Love.

And it gave me an idea. I reached for the phone.

“Cissy, do you have any idea what time it is?” Julia sounded cranky.

“It’s 12:45 AM,” I said unrepentantly. “Listen, this could be important. How old do you think Andrew is?”

SEVENTEEN

“WHAT?” Julia shrieked. I covered the phone, sure she could be heard upstairs, if not in the next county. “You woke me up to ask me how old Andrew is?”

“Yes, because it could be important. What do you think?”

“Not much more than thirty,” she guessed grudgingly.

“Would you say thirty-four?”

“I doubt it. There’s not a single line on that sweet face. Why?”

“Listen to this. Andrew said that he was five when Priscilla married Obie. He was the ringbearer in a Little Lord Fauntleroy outfit. Now, if he’s thirty-four, then Priscilla married Obie in ’67, before he married Li Nguyen. If, on the other hand, he’s thirty-two – “

“Ooh!” Comprehension oozed from the telephone. “That is interesting! How are you going to find out?”

“Let me think a minute – “

Julia waited patiently, while I wrestled with my conscience. My conscience lost. “Listen,” I said. “There’s a database I could check.” I powered up the computer.

I left out one tiny detail. The database I could check belonged to the Commonwealth of Virginia, and I didn’t have any business being in there. But I still remembered the password posted so brazenly in the sheriff’s office.