Reading Up a Storm (10 page)

“First, Lucy, you can tell me about the relationship between Stephanie Stanton and Will Williamson.” Watson had not taken the seat behind Bertie's desk.

“Who?” I croaked. “I mean, who?”

“Please don't play dumb with me, Lucy. Earlier, when the name of your friend came up, you led me to believe you know something about her that I might want to know.”

“I never said—”

“You didn't have to. We were interrupted, and I didn't get the chance to ask further. I'm asking you now.”

I took a deep breath. I felt absolutely awful about it, but I had no choice except to spill the beans. “Stephanie is Will's illegitimate daughter.”

Watson's face was impassive. I might have told him that they both liked cream in their coffee. “Is this common knowledge?”

“No.”

“Why do you know?”

I tried to come up with some reason that wouldn't cast suspicion on Stephanie. I simply couldn't think fast
enough under the cool, unblinking stare of Detective Sam Watson. Something about Watson always made me hear the sound of cell doors clanging shut behind me. “I was there when Pat, her mom, told her. Stephanie didn't know who her father was until . . . recently.”

“How recently?”

“Uh . . . last night?”

“Why not until last night?”

I let out a long sigh. “Will was married when he had an affair with Pat Stanton, Stephanie's mother. He deserted Pat the moment he found out she was pregnant. He refused to acknowledge paternity, left North Carolina, and never had the slightest thing to do with them. Pat raised Stephanie on her own and never mentioned the rat who'd fathered her. She did a darn fine job, too. Stephanie's a lawyer. And,” I added, “a wonderful person.”

“All the more reason for me to wonder what happened last night, of all nights, to cause Stephanie's mother to reveal a secret she's held for, what, thirty years?”

“Pat was recently in a serious car accident. She was badly injured. She's going to be okay, but it'll be a long, hard process. That made Stephanie aware of her mother's mortality. Look, it was my bright idea to take Stephanie out last night after book club. Let her have some fun, I thought. She had too much to drink at Jake's, and when she got home, she wanted to know about her father. So Pat told her.”

“You're sure Stephanie hadn't known his identity before?”

“Yes, I'm positive. But that doesn't have anything to do with anything. She wanted to know. That's all. Wouldn't you want to know something like that?”

He didn't bother to comment. “You went with Stephanie to her mother's house after you left the restaurant?”

“Yes. She had . . . a drink or two, so I thought she shouldn't drive. I took her home, and came in to say hi to Pat.”

“When did you leave their house?”

“I can't have been there more than fifteen minutes or so. Bertie offered to help Pat get ready for bed but Stephanie said she'd do it.”

“Bertie? Bertie James was there also?”

“She'd spent the evening with Pat so Stephanie could come to book club. They're good friends.”

Watson shook his head. “So Ms. James also heard this story about Williamson?”

“Yes.”

“Ms. James didn't think to inform me of this?”

“Why should she?” I protested. “Nothing that happened last night between Pat and Stephanie, or Bertie and me, had anything to do with the death of Will Williamson. We just happened to be talking about him, that's all. Gee, you might as well be asking your wife. She was talking to the man at book club too, you know.”

“I have,” Watson said.

“Oh.”

“Is there anything else about Stephanie Stanton you're keeping from me, Lucy?”

I shook my head. “She lives in Raleigh now, but she's come home to care for her mom after the accident. She's a defense attorney.”

“Is that so? Thanks for your time, Lucy. I shouldn't have to mention that if you think of anything else that might be relevant to this case, you'll be in touch.” He
turned and opened the door. Charles was sitting in the hall, waiting patiently. I knew from CeeCee that her husband was not a cat person. Watson looked down. Charles looked up. His expression indicated that he was no fonder of the good detective than Watson was of him.

I jumped to my feet. “What are you going to do now?”

“Go on a Caribbean cruise,” he said dryly. “What do you think I'm going to do, Lucy? I intend to continue with a murder investigation.”

He walked away. I ran after him. Charles strolled along behind us.

When we got to the main room, Bertie was politely telling the old guy who'd been asking Watson about the case that if he wanted to take out a book, he needed to apply for a library card. Theodore had left.

Watson pulled his phone out of his pocket as he walked out of the library. Everyone stopped whatever they were doing to watch him go.

Bertie gave me a questioning look. I shook my head, and mouthed, “Stephanie.”

“Go,” she said.

I galloped upstairs to get my purse and car keys.

By the time I got outside, Watson and his car were nowhere in sight. I leaped into my Yaris and tore out of the parking lot. Once I reached the highway, I realized that excessive speed was probably not a good idea. Watson was sure to guess that I'd be following him, and he wouldn't be above asking the traffic cops to keep an eye out for me.

I eased my foot off the gas and proceeded into town at a statelier pace, keeping a sharp eye for cruisers waiting to pounce.

I made it to Pat's house without incident. Sure enough, Watson's car was on the street, so I parked behind it and got out of my car. Watson obviously hadn't broken any speed limits either, as he was still standing in the doorway while Stephanie asked him what he wanted. Pat's Neon and Stephanie's Corolla were in the driveway, so Steph must have hitched a ride to Jake's to pick up her car earlier.

She glanced over Watson's shoulder and spotted me parking on the street and hurrying up the path.

“Ms. Richardson.” Watson rolled his eyes. “Isn't this a surprise? Imagine meeting you here.”

“Your visit reminded me,” I said. “I have the book Stephanie asked to borrow the other day.”

“What book?” Stephanie said.

“The library makes home deliveries?” Watson said. “Isn't that nice?”

I opened my mouth to tell him I was entitled to visit the home of my friend, but snapped it shut when he said, “You're here now, you might as well stay. Ms. Stanton?”

“Stephanie, who's there? What's happening?” Pat called.

“It's the police, Mom. And Lucy.”

“Let them in, dear.”

Stephanie stepped back, and Watson and I entered. Pat was in the same chair she'd been sitting in yesterday, with a glass of tea and a stack of books resting on the table next to her and a book open on her lap. Sunlight streamed into the room, and something delicious simmered in the kitchen. Tomato soup perhaps. At the scent
of food, my stomach reminded me that I'd had nothing to eat since that granola bar with Butch hours ago.

Watson asked Pat and Stephanie their names. They didn't look at each other or at me. They knew why we were here. Stephanie remained standing, and she did not offer Detective Watson a seat.

“Are you acquainted with a man by the name of William Williamson?” Watson asked.

“Yes,” Pat said. “Although that was a long time ago, and we have had no contact for many years. I heard he was found dead this morning. I assume you're here about that?” She'd lost a lot of weight since her accident, and her deep brown eyes, so unlike her daughter's, were eagle-sharp in a face outlined by prominent bones.

“How did you hear?” Watson asked.

“A friend stopped by to tell me. Everyone's talking about it.”

He nodded, acknowledging her point. “Do either of you want to tell me about your relationship with Mr. Williamson?”

Stephanie glanced at me. I gave her what I hoped was an apologetic smile. It was all my fault that the police had come here. I'd had no choice, but I doubted Stephanie would be in the mood to forgive me. “Because you're here, Detective,” she said. “I assume you've been told that William Williamson was my father. That was in the biological sense only. I never knew him, and he was never in my life or in my mother's life after I was born.”

“When did you find this out?”

Stephanie gave me a look. “I assume you know that also. Thanks, Lucy.”

“I didn't . . .”

“If it matters,” Watson said, “Ms. Richardson spoke to me only when I asked. She's aware of her legal obligation to help the police in cases such as this.”

“I'm a lawyer,” Stephanie said. “I assume you know that too.”

“I do. Now, please answer my question.”

“My mother told me the details of my parentage for the first time last night.”

“The time?”

“Eleven, or thereabouts.”

“Why last night? Why never before?”

“Please, Detective,” Pat said. “This is extremely painful. I've kept this secret for many years.”

“It's okay, Mom. We have nothing to hide and you have nothing at all to be ashamed of.” Stephanie turned back to Watson. In the sort of clipped tones she'd probably use in court, she told him that her mother had come close to death, and if Pat had died, she would have never known who her father was. “So I asked her. And she told me.”

“Had you met Mr. Williamson prior to this revelation by your mother?”

“He came to Lucy's book club last night.” Stephanie let out a choked laugh. “There he was, my own dad, sitting down beside me and saying ‘nice to meet you' in a totally bored and disinterested voice, and neither of us even knew. Other than that, I've never laid eyes on him.”

Watson glanced around the living room. The house was small, the decor decades out-of-date, the old and well-worn furniture looked like the kind that was cheap
even when it had been new. “Were you aware that Mr. Williamson was a wealthy man?”

“I guessed so. He looked prosperous enough—nice clothes, big flashy gold watch. He had a girlfriend about my age, the sort of giggly blond airhead who wouldn't have given him the time of day if he didn't have money to spend on her.”

“Did you think you might be in line for an inheritance?”

Stephanie's back stiffed and she clenched her fists. She faced him, a tiny ball of fury, struggling to keep her redheaded temper under control.

“That is a preposterous suggestion,” Pat said.

“Is it?” Watson said. “What did you do last night, after Lucy and Bertie James left here?”

“I helped my mom get into bed, and then I sat in front of the TV and drank. It was very late when I went to my own bed. I didn't check the time.”

“Ms. Stanton?”

“As my daughter told you, I went to bed.”

“Did you get up during the night?”

“I did not. I have, you might have noticed”—she grimaced toward her legs, propped up and covered in blankets—“mobility issues.”

“Did your daughter leave the house at any time?”

“No,” Stephanie said.

“No,” Pat said.

“Would you have known if she had, Ms. Stanton?”

The two women couldn't help exchanging glances.

“Ms. Stanton?” Watson said.

Pat said nothing. Watson let the silence linger.

“My mother's in some pain from her injuries, so she takes a sleeping pill to help her sleep,” Stephanie said at last.

“Do you have anyone who can account for your movements last night?” Watson said. “After, say, eleven o'clock?”

“No,” Stephanie replied.

“In that case, I'm going to have to ask you to come down to the station with me,” Watson said.

“No!” I said. “That's ridiculous. I can vouch for Stephanie. She had a drink or two at Jake's last night. She wouldn't have been driving. When I left she said she was going to open a bottle of wine.”

“Drunk, was she?” Watson asked.

“Lucy, you're not helping here,” Stephanie said. “I can't leave my mother, Detective. You will have to wait until I can call someone to stay with her.”

“Lucy can do that,” Watson said.

“Hey!” I protested. “I mean, I don't mind looking after Pat, but I . . . have to get back to work.”

“You left your work quickly enough to come here, and uninvited,” Watson pointed out. “Let's go, Ms. Stanton.”

“Am I under arrest?” Steph asked.

“Not at this time.”

“Lucy,” Pat said, “bring my chair.” The wheelchair was in the corner of the room, where it had been yesterday.

“It's okay, Mom. I'll go down to the station and answer the detective's questions. He has to spend his time doing something, even though he should be out searching for a killer.”

Watson kept his face impassive.

“As for you, Lucy,” Stephanie said. “You might as well do something helpful.”

“I . . .”

Stephanie headed for the door. Watson followed.

“I'll call my uncle. Amos O'Malley,” I shouted after them. “He's a criminal lawyer. He'll help.”

Stephanie looked over her shoulder at me. “Thanks.”

And they left. Watson shut the door behind him.

“I am so, so sorry,” I said to Pat. “I didn't know what to do. I had to tell Watson what I knew.”

“Of course you did, dear,” Pat said. “Don't give it another thought. Stephanie will set everything straight, and that will be that. I suppose I should be grateful that no one can suspect I crept out of the house in the dead of night, drove into town, and murdered a man in cold blood. Believe me—there were times when I wanted to do precisely that, but those times are long gone. When I heard he was back in town, I surprised myself when I realized I had absolutely no desire to see him.”