The Death of Perry Many Paws (28 page)

The phone rang several times and I was about to hang up when it was picked up, and I was greeted with a classy British voice. “Claudia Behrends Mack’s home. How may I help you?”

“Is this Sybil?” I tentatively asked. I couldn’t believe Claudia had actually hired someone to answer her phone.

“Yes it is. Who is calling, please?”

“Sybil. It’s Tamsen …”

“Oh, I thought you were someone else.”

“Who?” I couldn’t imagine what Claudia and Sybil had going on that required Sybil to answer her phone so formally and with a British accent.

“No matter. Did you want to talk to Claudia?” she asked.

“Yes, is she available?”

“Not really. She’s napping. She’s hosting the October bridge party here tonight so she needs her rest. She has twelve people coming, including Titus Strickland. He used to be the mayor of Birdsey Falls, you know.”

“Yes. I didn’t realize he was still … um … I didn’t realize he lived at Ashland Belle now.”

“Oh yes, he’s been here for ages. Very good bridge player.”

“He’s got to be at least hundred …”

“Not quite. He’s ninety-five. Still a sharp bridge player, too. And Marilyn Craig will be here. She performed on Broadway for decades and retired to Ashland Belle a couple of years ago.”

“I didn’t realize there were so many illustrious people living there,” I replied

“Oh yes, Ashland Belle is a very popular place for the right kind of people.”

Sybil was starting to sound like Claudia now. “What are you doing there, Sybil?”

“I’m baking Claudia’s famous chocolate cherry soufflé. She always serves that when she hostesses. It’s her signature dish. People expect it.”

“But why are you making it?” I asked.

“I always make it. You know Claudia can’t cook anything …”

“But then it’s
your
famous chocolate cherry soufflé, not Claudia’s,” I argued.

“No,” she answered patiently, “its Claudia’s. This is what she is known for at Ashland Belle. It’s just that she doesn’t know how to make it so I always make it for her. Everyone loves it. Even the chef here has asked for the recipe but she won’t give it to him. She hinted that when she passed on she might leave it to him and he always makes sure she gets the best of everything in the dining room in anticipation of it.”

“But it’s your recipe and you are the one doing the work. I don’t understand, Sybil. Why is she taking credit for your recipe and why are you the one making it?”

Sybil sighed a long and tortured sigh. “Because Claudia can’t cook. And she doesn’t know the recipe. My second mother-in-law, who was an assistant to a baker in Manhattan, gave it to me.”

“I still can’t understand why you’re doing all the work and letting Claudia take credit for it …”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Tamsen,” Sybil replied crossly. “It’s a recipe, not the cure for cancer. Who cares who gets the credit? It matters a lot to Claudia and it doesn’t matter to me. Now what did you want to talk to Claudia about?”

It had always been hard for me to picture Claudia having even one good friend, much less someone as devoted as Sybil. I let the subject drop and moved ahead. “I wanted to talk to her about Edmund Close but you probably know as much about him as she does.”

“I remember him, of course. He was Franklin’s best friend. They used to do all those treasure maps and plan all those games together.”

“Do you know what happened to Edmund? Did he go to college? Get married? Where did he end up?”

“Oh dear, is it important?”

“Probably not, I was just curious. Because of the photo of you five kids. Do you know what happened to him?” I prodded.

“Well, I know he went to college. I do remember him coming home once in a new car with a bunch of friends for Thanksgiving or something. I was probably around twelve, so the college kids were really intriguing. They seemed so sophisticated. And they were smoking. Claudia and I talked about smoking and decided we would wait until the next year, when we were teenagers, to start.”

“Did you?”

“Start smoking at thirteen? I can’t remember. I did eventually smoke but I can’t remember when I started. Claudia never smoked. She has a delicate system, you know. I’m sure it would make her ill.”

Since most things made Claudia ill in one way or another I was sure Sybil was right about the smoking. “Do you remember anything else about Edmund Close? Like what he did after college?”

“You are really hurting my brain, Tamsen. That was a long time ago. If I rub my head too hard, I’m going to ruin my hairdo.”

“I understand. Rub your neck. Maybe that will help,” I suggested. I didn’t want her to give up until I had pulled every memory out of her head. I was sure she would remember more than Claudia, who could probably tell you what party she went to and what she wore forty-five years ago but would not remember actual people other than herself.

“My brain isn’t in my neck but I’ll try rubbing it in case it works. Let’s see.” There was a long pause and I was afraid Sybil had fallen asleep. I waited patiently because I didn’t have anything else pressing to do. My nails needed filing and I lethargically searched around for a nail file but couldn’t find one. I was holding my double jointed thumb up to my ear so I could see if it still cracked like it used to when Sybil’s voice jarred me back to the present.

“I got it! I thought of something juicy.”

“Go on.”

“Edmund wanted to marry a girl after he graduated from college. I was about fourteen or fifteen and I remember it was so romantic.”

“Why? Did they have a big wedding?”

“No. There was no wedding. They were star-crossed lovers, like Romeo and Juliet. I remember Mr. and Mrs. Close having dinner with my parents and going on and on about it. The more I listened the more romantic it sounded. I wanted my first romance to be just like that.”

“Star-crossed?”

“Of course. What is more romantic than that? Two people who are in love who have no hope of ever being together in this lifetime. It’s the stuff that dreams are made of. I’m getting all tingly just thinking about it.”

“Why were they star-crossed? Did their parents hate each other? Were they different ethnicities or even … oh jeez, he wasn’t in love with another man was he?”

“Of course not! That didn’t happen back then. She was a lovely girl. I saw her in the car with him several times. Her father was a doctor in Boston. Very good family. Lots of money. My dad mentioned that more than once.”

“So what was the problem?”

“She was Catholic.” Sybil pronounced with a tinge of sadness.

“So?”

“
So?
Interfaith marriage was a huge taboo in the 1940s. Her family refused to let her marry outside the Catholic faith and Edmund’s family didn’t want to let a Catholic into theirs. It was doomed.”

“Did Edmund pine for her the rest of his life?”

“He married somebody but I don’t know who. I think he was in the army for a while then came home and got married. I think he moved to Chicago or maybe it was Kansas City. Someplace in the Midwest.”

“Did he and Franklin keep in touch?”

“No. Franklin didn’t keep in touch with anyone, including his own family.”

“Do you think Edmund might know why Franklin went into himself that way, why he changed?”

“He might have had some insight but he would be in his 80s now. He’s probably dead.”

I heard a voice floating in the background. Apparently Claudia was waking up from her beauty sleep. Sybil must have put her hand over the phone because I heard a muffled reply from Sybil and then some more background talk. In another minute Sybil came back on the phone.

“Tamsen? Claudia said that Edmund died about ten years ago.”

I was amazed, but not speechless. “How does she know that? She didn’t know anything about him when we were talking about his photo a couple weeks ago.”

“She said that after seeing the picture she was curious so she called Abbey and asked her to look him up on the Internet.”

“Why didn’t she tell me she found out he’d died?” Once again I heard Sybil’s muffled question to Claudia and the voice floating back.

“She forgot.”

I was obsessing about Claudia and her forgetfulness, wondering if it was intentional. It would be like her to use my own daughter to get that secret information. But then, she was seventy-four years old. Old people forgot things. Lots of things. Maybe she didn’t think it was as important as I did. But if so, why did she take the trouble to contact Abbey and ask her to look it up? Why didn’t she ask Cam? Or even me? Why didn’t I think of doing it for myself ?

I had a partial explanation for that. I write children’s books and everything in my books comes out of my head. There is no need for research or accuracy. My main character has six paws. Once you can accept that, you don’t spend a lot of time fact checking the other points in the book. Therefore, I’m not on the internet every day.

So, it made sense that Claudia hadn’t asked me to look Edmund Close up because she knew I was pretty lame when it came to anything other than word processing. But still, to call Abbey? And then to “forget” to tell me? I stretched out on the couch in the library and posed these questions to Mycroft who lumbered over to place his head on my ribcage and stare at me, soulfully.

“You’re the world’s most wonderful dog, Mycroft,” I crooned to him. “I hope you know how precious you are, you sweet, chubby little boy.” I continued to make lip smacking noises and coo chee coo sounds and he nuzzled into my tee shirt and left big wet spots all over
it. We had quite a love fest going when the phone rang and I had to abandon the couch in a hurry in to run into the kitchen where I left it.

“Hello …”

“Tamsen, it’s Syra. You need to come over here right away.” She sounded serious.

“Syra, what’s wrong? Are you okay? Bing? What’s the …”

“I think you know.” The line went dead and I stared at my phone like it might offer an explanation. I wasn’t sure if she was angry or afraid. I felt the need to hurry. I grabbed my jacket and scribbled “Syra’s” on a napkin and left it on the table for Cam. I shouted goodbye to Mycroft and dashed across the street much faster than is practical for a woman in my shape. Soaring blood pressure and a sudden burst of strenuous physical activity, I might give myself a stroke and a heart attack at the same time.

The door was standing open and I ran into the house calling her name. I stood in the living room twirling around trying to figure out where to look first. I heard the door close behind me and turned in that direction. What I saw scared me more than the frantic phone call. Syra stood there staring at me. Staring.

“I’m glad to see that your role as amateur detective hasn’t usurped your role as friend. Can I take your coat?” She held out her hand and I stood frozen in place. I could feel a trickle of sweat running down the middle of my back and every nerve in my body told me to flee. This was one of those fight or flee situations and I was a good fleer. Except my feet wouldn’t move.

“Suit yourself. Come to the kitchen. We need to talk.”

“Maybe we should talk at my house,” I suggested as she propelled me into the kitchen.

“That makes no sense.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re already here. Now sit down. I’ll get you some hot chocolate.”

I fell into the chair, the same one I had sat in a few days ago when I had interrogated Bing. The trickle down my back felt icy now. I pulled my coat closer across my chest.

“Where’s Bing?” I whispered. I didn’t mean for it to come out as a whisper but my voice seemed to be fleeing. I wish it would take my feet with it.

“In the basement,” she answered as she placed the hot chocolate in front of me. “Do you want something to eat?”

“In the basement?” I croaked. This didn’t sound good at all.

“Yes, in the basement. I had to get rid of him so we could talk and you know he won’t leave the house,” she patiently explained. I wondered if she meant that now he would never leave the house again. Ever.

“What’s going on, Syra? You’re scaring me.”

“Good. Drink your hot chocolate.”

By now I realized that the hot chocolate was poisoned, Bing was dead in the basement and Syra was a serial killer. You would think that this would be enough for me and that I would do something daring like throw the hot chocolate in her face or push the table over on her or throw my purse at her head. The woman had recently had a mastectomy and was undergoing radiation. She was weak. She was slow. She was deranged. But I couldn’t move. I had to know why. I now understand why curiosity killed the cat.

“Why are you acting like this, Syra? I don’t understand what’s going on.” I pushed the hot chocolate away to let her know that I knew what she was up to and that I wouldn’t go down that easily. I had read as many mysteries as she had, probably more.

She leaned back in her chair and smiled at me. “You’re going to want to drink that hot, Tamsen. Don’t let it get cold.”

Was there some kind of poison that got weaker as it got cooler? Or was this reverse psychology and the poison was weaker when it was hot but stronger as it got cold. Maybe she was giving me good advice warning me not to let it get cold. Maybe it worked quicker when it was hot and she was trying, for old times’ sake, to save me from an agonizing death. Had Bing drunk his hot chocolate hot? I hoped so. Poor Bing.