The Devil's Interval (27 page)

“You didn't have a chance to tell her?”

She looked down at my right hand, busily pushing the cuticle back.

“No, I wanted to tell her, just as soon as I knew I was pregnant. But Steven, my husband, thought we should wait 'til I was past the first three months before we told anyone.”

“In case something happened?”

“Yes,” she said. “But that was so hard for me. Hard to keep something like that from Grace.”

I was quiet for a moment, watching Carol work. I'd heard something in her voice that seemed not quite right.

“Carol Ann,” I said. “Did you really keep that news from Grace?”

She looked up, startled. “What do you mean? I told you I didn't have a chance to tell her.”

I looked at her carefully. She broke eye contact and picked up my other hand.

“I think you couldn't stand keeping that kind of secret,” I said.

She kept her head down, but I could see the curve of her cheek turning pink.

“I assure you,” she said, still not looking up, “Grace died without knowing I was expecting another baby.” She put my hand down, looked up and met my eyes straightforwardly. “And I don't think it's very nice of you to come here and accuse me of telling a lie.”

Good going, Maggie, I thought. Nothing like insulting a lovely young woman who's had troubles you never dreamed about. I put my damp hand on Carol Ann's. Her eyes were blazing at me now.

“I'm so sorry,” I said.

She blinked quickly, and I realized she was about to cry.

“Carol Ann,” I began again. “I didn't mean to upset you. I just…” I trailed off, as tears began to run soundlessly down her cheeks.

“Why are you asking me about this?” she said. “Oh, never mind. I want to tell someone. But…” she snatched tissues from the box next to the manicure table, and blew her nose. “How did you know I told her? Well, actually I didn't tell her. But I almost did.”

And then the words came tumbling out. How her husband,
Steven, was studying at the library late one night. And her toddler was fussy, so she'd packed her in the car and gone for a ride.

“I didn't mean to go to Grace's,” she said, “but we ended up on her street. Jenny had fallen asleep, so I was just sitting outside Grace's house. I could see lights on upstairs, and her husband's car was gone, so I thought I'd wait 'til Jenny woke up, and surprise Grace by ringing her doorbell.”

I could feel my heart speeding up. The water was cooling, and feeling a little slimy, but I was afraid to move my hand out; afraid that if I made a move, I'd spook Carol Ann and she'd stop talking.

Carol Ann looked over her shoulder. “I can't believe I'm opening my mouth and all this is coming out,” she said.

“I'm listening.”

She gulped, the way kids do when they've been crying, and are ready to get control of themselves again. She sat back in the chair.

“I was going to call Grace from my cell, and tell her we were outside, but…”

I caught my breath. Mrs. Lomax had been right. The mystery car belonged to Carol Ann.

“But?”

She shrugged. “You know how you get some picture in your head sometimes? I just had this picture of waiting on Grace's doorstep, and as soon as she opened the door, saying something like ‘guess what? There's going to be another baby—and if it's a girl, we're naming her Grace.' So, I wanted to surprise her. I couldn't wait to see her face!”

“You didn't get a chance to do that, did you?”

She shook her head. “No. Jenny was just starting to stir, so I'd climbed into the back, to get her out of her car seat, in case she needed changing, before we went up to Grace's doorstep. The diaper bag was on the floor of the backseat, so I was bent down, rummaging in it, and when I sat back up, I saw someone standing on Grace's front porch. And then Grace was opening the door for him.”

“Him? You could see him?”

She shook her head. “No, I couldn't see anything really. It was dark, and he had his back to me, but I could tell it was a man.”

“Didn't you get out of the car?”

She shook her head. “No, it was weird. The man had clearly said something that upset Grace—she disappeared back into the house, came back with a coat, and literally ran across the lawn with this guy. She was moving so fast, I didn't even have time to call out to her. I remember,” she stopped and swallowed. “There was a scarf hanging out of her coat pocket, and she was running so it looked like a kite tail, floating out in back of her. I couldn't be sure because it was pretty dark.” She hesitated. “But it looked like a flowery scarf I had given her for her birthday.” She stopped. I hoped Carol Ann would never see the grim police photo I had seen, the one with Grace's hands bound in back of her—by a flowery scarf.

“Then what?”

“There was a van parked in the driveway, and they both got in it and zoomed away.”

Right again, Mrs. Lomax, I thought. There
were
two vehicles.

“What time was that? Do you remember?”

“Around ten, I think.”

“You didn't notice the license plate?”

“No, Jenny was awake, and had started to fuss, so I was dealing with her, and besides—it all happened so fast.”

“You never told the police any of this?” I asked.

She flushed. “I didn't. Wasn't that dumb? But Steven said they might think I had something to do with the murder. Since I was kind of lurking around her house. Plus, Grace's body was found in that guy's limo, and this was a van, so I didn't see how they could be connected.”

She was silent for a moment. “At least, I couldn't see how it would have anything to do with the murder. So, I really haven't let myself think about that night since then.” She hesitated. “And then, there was one other thing. It's odd but, as the van was pulling away, I thought, ‘Oh, that's funny, I think there's someone in the backseat.'”

“You mean you saw someone?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Not exactly. It's just that, as the van was driving away, I had this vague impression there was someone…” She paused to think. “A short someone, who must have been lying down on the seat, or something, because I had this impression of some figure cautiously sitting up. I assumed it was a woman, because the person was short. But, I guess it could have been a young person or a short man. I remember thinking, ‘Ah, somebody besides Jenny had a nap,' ” she finished. She looked at me. “What do you think?”

“I think you have to tell the police what you told me,” I said. “Or maybe the lawyer who's handling Travis's appeal. I don't really know. But somebody needs to know this.”

Carol Ann nodded. “I know,“ she said miserably. “It just didn't seem to have anything to do with the murder,” she repeated. “I mean, I assumed she'd run out that night on an errand or something, and then somehow, ended up with Travis Gifford later that night. I knew.” She hesitated.

“Knew what?”

“That sometimes, when Frederick wasn't home, Travis would come by and take Grace out. Just for a drive. Or…” she faltered.

“Or for a late date,” I suggested.

She looked uncomfortable. “Yes, I guess so.”

“Did Grace tell you about…those dates?” I asked. “Or you just concluded that?”

Carol Ann hesitated. “It's not like we had some big talk about her relationship with Travis. It's just that she didn't make it much of a secret. I guess,” she hesitated again. “I guess I didn't think it was a secret from Frederick, either. From Mr. Plummer,” she corrected herself. “I thought maybe they had some kind of agreement.”

“Did that bother you?”

She shrugged. “I loved Grace, and so whatever she did was okay with me. I don't mean I think it's great to be unfaithful or anything,” she amended hastily. “But I don't know much about the kind of lives people like the Plummers have. It's like a book Grace
gave me,
The Great Gatsby
.”

“The rich are different from you and me?” I asked.

“That's right,” said Carol Ann. “Or at least that's how I explained it to myself. But anyway, none of it seemed important—it didn't interfere with what a good person Grace was.”

“Except maybe it got her killed,” I mused.

“Maybe,” said Carol Ann, “but maybe not. Maybe Travis didn't even do it, is that what you're suggesting?”

“I didn't make the original suggestion,” I said grimly. “But people I respect are saying just that, and I have a feeling they're going to be glad to hear from you.”

I
had Michael on the phone before I was out of the parking lot at the Ocean View spa. All those mellow feelings, all that relaxation, all those unknotted muscles—vanished. I rattled out my report to Michael, dodging slow-moving Pacific Heights Lexuses, Baby Benzes, and enormous SUVs, so critical to navigating the off-road retail opportunities along Union Street.

“So what do I do now?” I demanded of Michael, sitting on the horn in hopes of persuading a double-parked gaggle outside of Stuart Hall School for noblesse oblige–to–be Boys to move on.

“Maggie,” said Michael. “Slow down. Stop driving like a NASCAR nutcase and calm down.”

“I'm calm,” I said, a little too loudly. “And I'm just trying to get through this after-school traffic mess. Geez, can't any of these kids walk home?”

“Oh,” said Michael, “you mean like our little princes? As opposed to having you, me, or Anya pick them up?”

“That's different,” I said. “It's not elitist if you're doing the schlepping in Oakland, instead of Pacific Heights.”

“Uh-huh,” said Michael.

“Okay, don't you think this is an exciting development?” I demanded. “I think I turned up something no one else had uncovered. There
were
two vehicles at Grace's that night.”

“You turned it up probably because you hectored the poor girl to death,” said Michael. “But yes, in fact, this could be very
important. And it's too damn bad she hadn't reported this to anyone else.”

“She didn't know it was important. She wasn't at the trial. She didn't hear Mrs. Lomax's testimony. Okay, so what do I do first?”

“Nothing. You drive home, and we'll talk about it tonight. You're already scaring me to death, this full of adrenaline and probably a couple of double espressos, talking on the phone and threatening the locals in Pacific Heights behind the wheel. I'll call Isabella—that's who you owe the information to first. She needs to talk to the trial attorney, and together, they can talk to the cops.”

“I think I should call Isabella,” I protested.

“Don't worry, you can give her word-for-word, play-by-play tonight,” said Michael. “I'm not stealing your Nancy Drew thunder, but let's get her going on things, and you just get yourself home.”

By the time I'd crossed the Bay Bridge, picked up the boys at school, and made my way home, Michael was in the kitchen, a bottle of Pacifico nearby, agitating something on the stove, with chopped peppers heaped on the cutting block. The kitchen was filled with the fragrance of cumin, chili, and onions.

“Tostadas!” yelled Josh, dropping his books, backpack and hockey stick in the entryway, and creating an obstacle course for his little brother. Zach dealt, as he always did, by nimbly leaping over each and every item. They thundered through the kitchen, swiped chunks of cheese off the counter, raced upstairs.

“Hey, guys,” shouted Michael. “Get your homework done and we can watch a movie tonight.” Vague calls of compliance and excitement drifted back down the stairs.

I stashed my briefcase under the kitchen table, greeted Raider, and made my way to Michael for a kiss. “Yum, smells great,” I said. “Thanks for getting things going.”

“And here's the most amazing part,” said Michael, “not only does Wonder Husband manage to get dinner well in hand, but he simultaneously acts as his wife's dedicated legal staff and supervises late-breaking bulletins from the ‘cold case' front.”

I dug a companion Pacifico out of the fridge, sat at the kitchen table and eased off my pumps.

“Okay, Wonder Dude, I'll wash up and help in just a minute,” I said, “but bring me up to date so I don't have to interrogate you.”

Michael raised his eyebrows, “Will tying up be involved in the interrogation?”

Between stirring the sizzling chicken, peppers, and onions in the pan and taking swigs of beer, Michael gave me the news bulletins. He'd reached Isabella, she'd reached the trial attorney, they were meeting this evening, talking to the cops tomorrow, and would keep us informed.

“Keep us informed?” I demanded. “What kind of deal is that? I'm the one out gathering intelligence.”

“And aren't you proud of yourself?” asked Michael.