Tying the Knot (12 page)

“Which means a very slow intro to our questioning,” said Beatrice, staring absently out the windshield in the direction of the community-center entrance.

“To keep him from being suspicious of our motives. Like you were saying.”

Beatrice said, “The only problem is that he's going to be in a hurry, won't he? He's been playing racquetball. He's likely going to be pretty sweaty and ready to hit the showers before he takes patients in the afternoon. Much as I hate to say it, we're probably going to have to take the direct approach.”

Meadow grinned. “Where I explain that you're helping Ramsay with his inquiries? I've always wanted to say that. It makes both of us sound official. You're the detective, and I'm your loyal sidekick.”

“I suppose that's what we should do. There aren't a lot of good options. But no running at him. I think that will scare the man to death,” said Beatrice.

Of course, it was at the moment when Beatrice had her mouth completely full of blueberry muffin that
Meadow plastered herself across the window and said, “He's here! He's coming out.”

Meadow, naturally, completely forgot their no-running plan and was immediately out of the van and trotting toward the sweaty Patrick Finley. Beatrice frantically grabbed her thermos of lemonade in an attempt to quickly wash down the blueberry muffin. Unfortunately, the lemonade set off a coughing fit, which took a minute to clear. Eyes watering from the coughing and feeling as if she were covered in muffin crumbs, Beatrice hurried to join Meadow, wondering what Meadow might be telling the doctor and how far away it veered from their planned script.

Meadow filled her in. “I was just telling Doctor Finley that you were a superb investigator, Beatrice. Hardworking and astute, and really much more into police work than my policeman husband. And that you had a few questions for the doctor and that I knew where to find him.”

Patrick Finley was wearing a white T-shirt and blue workout shorts. Despite this weekly exercise, he had a figure that was trending toward stout. His shaggy hair was plastered to his head from perspiration, except for the bit that was standing on end from where he'd pushed it out of his face. His deep-set eyes, which already had a tendency to appear concerned, regarded them warily.

Beatrice decided not to extend her hand for a handshake. She cleared her throat, hoping the coughing fit wouldn't return. “I'm sure you're probably needing to get ready for work, so I'll keep this short. I've seen you
several times lately, although I didn't know who you were until Meadow identified you. You were arguing with Trevor Garber the night that I was out to dinner with friends of mine.”

Patrick interrupted. “Trevor
Garber
was arguing.
I
was being very even-keeled and trying to make him see my point of view.” He swatted the air a few times with his racket, as if swatting away annoying flies.

“Obviously, your discussion with him ended poorly, because Trevor was incapacitated by that point. But you continued trying to see him, didn't you?”

Patrick said stiffly, “Trevor was a colleague. All the doctors on staff were very concerned by his behavior. I was one of the doctors who cared enough to follow up—that's all.”

“I don't think so,” said Beatrice. “Why would you have followed up at a stranger's wedding, for instance? Surely that seems like an odd place and time.”

Patrick frowned and studied his tennis shoe with rapt attention. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I saw you at my friends' wedding. Harper and Daniel were also friends of Trevor's—in fact, he was supposed to be Daniel's best man until Trevor's erratic behavior made Daniel change course. But you were there at the reception, standing outside the tent and looking in from the shadows,” said Beatrice.

Patrick drawled, “That's rather fanciful of you, isn't it? It all sounds very mysterious. I can tell you that I most certainly wasn't at . . . whoever's wedding. I'm not much of a fan of weddings in general and surely wouldn't attend one when I wasn't even invited. It's
hard enough to get me to attend a wedding that I'm
supposed
to go to.”

Beatrice gave him a piercing look. “And you were at Trevor's funeral, too.”

“Naturally. To pay my respects to Eleanor. And because Trevor was a colleague . . . formerly a respected one.” Patrick looked longingly at his Mercedes.

Meadow opened her eyes wide and made a
get on with it
gesture with her hand.

Beatrice took a deep breath. It was time to prevaricate to try to get some real answers. “There are two people who can identify you as having been at that wedding.”

“Then those are two people who are wrong,” said Patrick simply.

“One of them is Eleanor Garber. She certainly knew you well enough to correctly be able to identify you, didn't she?” asked Beatrice.

Patrick made a choking sound, and a momentary rage stained his cheeks red. “What?” His voice was furious. Beatrice could see that he was working hard to control his temper. Patrick took a few deep breaths and released them after a short interval. It had the effect of making him sound like a locomotive.

Finally, he calmed down enough to respond. “Let's say that I
was
there. At that wedding of those people that I didn't even know. What possible reason would I have to kill Trevor?” As he spoke in an angry whisper, his gaze darted around the parking lot, making sure that no one could overhear their conversation. Satisfied, he whispered again, “What motive could I possibly have?”

“Fear,” said Beatrice.

His stunned expression told Beatrice that she had stumbled onto the correct answer. Some of the wind had definitely come out of Patrick's sails at the word, and he slumped ever so slightly. “What do you mean?” he asked, without looking Beatrice in the eyes. But by his voice, Beatrice could tell that he knew exactly what she meant.

Meadow nodded encouragingly at her.

“I mean that Trevor Garber knew something about you. And Trevor was in a dangerous place. Although he had been a respected doctor, he'd abruptly strayed off course and started making a series of bad decisions: an affair, stalking the woman after she'd broken up with him, drinking too much, not going to work. And blackmail.”

Patrick's face, still flushed from exercise, went white underneath.

“Trevor knew that you'd made a terrible mistake during surgery. You and he had been drinking together. He was the anesthesiologist in the operating room, and you botched a surgery because you weren't clearheaded enough to have operated on the patient. Trevor saw what happened and figured it would be a great way to use leverage to force you to pay him hush money. Trevor really needed the money. He and Eleanor had a lot of debt. Blackmail became a logical means to an end for him.”

Patrick shook his head. “You'll never, never be able to prove it. If it
were
true, which it's not, then Trevor was the only witness to any of the behavior you've mentioned. And Trevor, of course, isn't around to tell what he saw.”

“Conveniently,” said Meadow succinctly.

“Look, I'm not going to admit to anything,” said Patrick. He pulled out his car keys and hit the Unlock button for the Mercedes, still casting it longing looks. “But I can tell you one thing: You're way off track here. There are other people with more motive than I have. Lyla Wales, for instance—she was having an affair with Trevor, and he wouldn't leave her alone after she tried ending it. And I even saw Eleanor around Trevor's drink.”

Beatrice raised her eyebrows. “Eleanor around Trevor's drink? At a wedding reception you deny attending.”

Patrick shrugged, looking flustered. “Okay, maybe I was there. But I had other reasons, all right? Maybe I still wanted to talk to Trevor about his behavior—wanted to persuade him to clean up his act and get back to work. You know?”

“He did it,” pronounced Meadow as she drove back to Beatrice's house. “Sure as anything. Pass me one of those deviled eggs.”

Beatrice absently handed over an egg and then ate one herself. “What makes you think he's the murderer?”

Meadow finished chewing and then said, “Trevor obviously was blackmailing him. And he's now admitting he was at the scene of the crime. That's motive and opportunity. And the means? I think any physician could get his hands on some sleeping pills pretty easily, don't you?”

Beatrice nodded. “Probably.”

“Besides, I don't want Lyla Wales to have killed Trevor, because she's a quilting sister. And I feel sort of sorry for Eleanor, and I don't want to see her get into any trouble. And Daniel . . . he's Daniel. For your sake, I don't want him to have killed Trevor . . . Daniel being
family and all,” said Meadow, pulling into Beatrice's driveway. She gave a light tap on her horn, and little corgi ears immediately appeared in the picture window at the front of the cottage. “I just love doing that,” she said, grinning at the sight.

“So, your basis for deciding that Patrick Finley is the murderer has to do with the fact that you like the other suspects too much,” said Beatrice with a sigh.

“No, not only that. I also admit some natural resentment that I can't schedule office visits with Dr. Finley because he plays racquetball on Friday mornings. That's rather annoying,” said Meadow thoughtfully. “Anyway, what's next? Oh, never mind. I know what's next—your date with Wyatt. Tomorrow at lunch, right?”

“Date with Wyatt?” muttered Beatrice.

“At the retirement home. You remember.”

“Meadow, that's volunteering. Not a date,” said Beatrice. It was really time for her to leave the van. Meadow was getting too exasperating. But there was something about those miniature lemon meringues that kept her in the car, eating.

“It's helping others and helping yourself at the same time, Beatrice. I think that any time you spend with Wyatt, it's a date. Besides, you're eating a meal with him in the dining room there, right? Sounds like a date to me,” said Meadow. “Let me know how it goes. And here—I can't eat all this food. Let's put some in a grocery bag for you.”

Meadow loaded what looked like enough food to feed Beatrice for the next couple of days into a bag. She said briskly, “Now mull over what I said about Dr.
Finley. Women's intuition is a powerful thing, you know. And let me know how the date goes.”

Before Beatrice could even formulate an answer, Meadow was already backing out of the driveway, calling “Bye!” through the open passenger's window. Beatrice fished out her keys and patted an excited Noo-noo as she opened the door. “Hi there, girl. It's always very flattering that you're so excited to see me.”

She walked into the kitchen and unloaded the bag of food. Beatrice spotted something at the bottom of the bag that made her smile and shake her head. “Meadow didn't forget you, Noo-noo. Look what she stuck in there.” It was a bag of dog treats. Sometimes she didn't know whether she wanted to hug Meadow or strangle her.

The Mountain Vistas retirement home was right outside of Dappled Hills. The home was a sprawling, one-story stone structure with courtyards and well-maintained grounds and did indeed, as the name implied, have a beautiful mountain view. It was a lovely day, and Beatrice had walked to the church and then ridden in a van with Wyatt and about five other church members to Mountain Vistas. When Beatrice had sat next to Wyatt in the van, Miss Sissy had given her an onerous glare. Apparently, Beatrice had taken Miss Sissy's usual spot.

“I'm so glad you came,” said Wyatt warmly, as they walked into the retirement home together. “I've missed seeing you lately.” He shook his head ruefully, “It seems like just when I think things are going to quiet down at the church, they get busy again.”

“I've had a lot going on myself,” said Beatrice. “I'm glad that we can spend some time together today.”

Everyone else in their group was a regular volunteer and seemed immediately to know what they were doing. “Where is everyone helping?” asked Beatrice with a frown. “I sort of thought our visit would be less structured, but the rest of the group is acting like they have a clear-cut duty to perform.”

“Jane always calls out bingo for the weekly bingo game. Sally gives manicures to residents at the salon here. Paul enjoys playing cards—the residents are always looking for more players for bridge or canasta. If no one is playing cards, he'll play chess or checkers, too. Trina plays the piano in the dining hall, and usually there's a whole crowd of folks who come over to hear her,” said Wyatt. “And Miss Sissy heads immediately to the dining room to ‘help' the staff there by sampling the menu for the day.”

“What do you usually do?” asked Beatrice. She was feeling rather unqualified at this point. Meadow had mentioned that the volunteers mainly provided an ear for residents, and she was beginning to think that may be all she was capable of doing.

“I like visiting with everyone,” said Wyatt, simply. “I go to one of the common areas where residents gather and sit and talk. That's the direction we're walking in now. Sometimes I barely even talk—I just listen while the residents talk. They've got some amazing stories.”

“That's what I'll do, then,” said Beatrice, feeling relieved.

“After that, we all meet in the dining room for lunch,” said Wyatt. “It makes for a nice visit. Actually, I feel very centered when I leave. Here it's not so much hustle and bustle—the slower pace is welcomed.”

The common room was large, with comfortable sofas against the walls and tables with chairs scattered around the room. Residents were visiting with each other, reading, knitting, and playing cards. Beatrice wondered if it might be a good place for Posy to do a quilting workshop in the future.

Beatrice wasn't sure at first exactly how to join in with some of the groups of people, but they quickly introduced themselves and pulled her right into conversation. She did notice a few curious glances as she sat next to Wyatt. Did they look that much like a couple?

The next hour passed quickly. Beatrice was glancing at a clock to see if it was time to head over to the dining room when she spotted Daniel Kemp pushing a wheelchair containing a much older lady. He saw her looking in his direction, and Beatrice could have sworn that a look of consternation passed over his features for a moment before he smiled at Wyatt and her.

“Beatrice and Wyatt! What a nice surprise,” he said smoothly. He carefully wheeled his mother toward them. He then absently straightened his already perfectly straight tie. “Mother, you remember Harper's brother, Wyatt. And this is Wyatt's friend, Beatrice.”

His mother smiled a greeting at them. She was a smartly dressed woman in a red suit and gold jewelry. She appeared to be in her late eighties. Beatrice could tell that although her appearance was carefully maintained, Mrs. Kemp appeared very thin and frail.

“Were you on your way to the dining room?” asked Wyatt. “We're heading over there in about twenty minutes.”

“We actually had an early lunch,” said Daniel with a smile. “Mother tends to be an early bird, so she's ready for lunch when the dining room opens at eleven thirty.”

“And now I'm ready for a nap,” said Mrs. Kemp with a short laugh. “It's one of the pitfalls of being very old.”

Daniel quickly said, “How about if I go ahead and take you back to your room, Mother? That way you can lie down for a while.”

“Actually, I'd rather Wyatt take me, if he doesn't mind,” said the old lady, raising her eyebrows. “He was so busy at the wedding . . . understandably. I never really got the chance to visit with him then.”

“We can all go back to your room and visit,” said Daniel with alacrity.

Beatrice was starting to wonder if perhaps Daniel was trying to avoid a one-on-one conversation with her. But considering the fact that she was planning to ask him more questions, perhaps he was being smart.

Mrs. Kemp looked at her son with surprise. “You know my room isn't large enough to host much company. I'll catch up with Beatrice another time. Besides, when everyone is talking, I can't really hear the conversation. No, I'll have a short visit with Wyatt before he goes to the dining hall.” Despite her frail appearance, her voice was still strong and commanding. Beatrice saw that Daniel was reluctantly coming to the realization that he'd lost whatever battle he was waging.

“All right, then.” He leaned over and gave his mother a kiss on a powdery cheek.

As Wyatt gently wheeled Mrs. Kemp away, Daniel
gave Beatrice a slightly uneasy look. “Well, I should be getting along home, I guess.”

“Would you mind waiting with me for a few minutes here in the common area?” asked Beatrice quickly. “I've got some time to kill until Wyatt gets back and we go to lunch.”

“Of course I will,” said Daniel perfunctorily. He seemed to be the prototype of the perfect gentleman—even when facing a task he didn't want to do.

Beatrice knew that she didn't have much time with him until Wyatt returned. She also may not have much time before one of the residents tried to engage them in conversation, since a few were already curiously looking their way. As they sat down at one of the small tables, she decided to do what she'd done with Patrick Finley: launch quickly into direct questions.

“I wanted to ask you something,” said Beatrice, taking a deep breath. “As you know, it's very likely that Patrick Finley, the doctor I was telling you about, was being blackmailed by Trevor. And I have the feeling, Daniel, that there's something you're holding back—something you're not telling anyone about. Was Trevor also blackmailing you, or trying to?”

The color drained out of Daniel's face before it came rushing back in. He glanced around them quickly to ensure no one was able to overhear them before he answered, “How on earth did you get that information?”

Beatrice lifted her hands in appeasement. “It was just a hunch, Daniel. Although it's a hunch that you seem to be confirming.”

Daniel stared at her silently for a few moments. Then he said, “It's so crowded in here right now,
Beatrice. Can we take a short walk to the courtyard? It will be a lot quieter there. I don't want to raise my voice over all the conversations in here and risk being heard.”

They walked quickly out of the common area and down the hallway to a door leading out to a small courtyard with a fountain, beds of impatiens, and a glider-style canopy swing, which they both sat in.

After a moment's pause during which he seemed to be figuring out his words, Daniel said slowly, “What I'm about to tell you needs to go no farther. I'll tell Harper myself—I don't want her to hear it from you.” He stopped and gave Beatrice a somewhat combative look. “The truth is that Trevor knew a family secret. It's something that I trusted him with completely. After all, I'd known Trevor since childhood. I'd discovered, upon finding some old letters when I was helping Mother move here, that the man who had raised me as his son was actually not my father at all.”

Beatrice nodded. She'd wondered if Daniel's secret had had something to do with Mrs. Kemp. Daniel was clearly so fiercely protective of her. “Did you confront your mother about it?”

Daniel gave a short laugh. “I don't know if
confront
is the right word. But I did ask her about it. I couldn't help myself. I'd always thought I'd resembled my mother much more than the man I knew as my father, but in the letter that I'd found, there was a picture of a man I didn't recognize. And I looked exactly like him.”

“What did your mother say when you asked her about it?” asked Beatrice as they gently swung on the glider.

“Mother said she'd made a mistake. She'd gone
away one weekend to a class reunion a couple of weeks before my father and she married. An old boyfriend of hers from school was at the reunion. After that weekend, she never saw him again, although he'd given her that letter and a picture of himself before she'd left to return home.” Daniel looked absently across the courtyard.

“But you were born nine months later,” said Beatrice.

Daniel nodded. “Mother said that the man I knew as my father never knew the truth. She had a good life with him, and we were happy together. Mother kept the secret. And now, at the end of her life and when she's so frail, I'm trying to keep the secret, too. To have this get out in connection with a murder investigation when she's worked hard to keep my parentage under wraps . . .” He shook his head.

“How did Trevor find out?” asked Beatrice.

Daniel rubbed his temples with the heels of his palms, as if his head hurt. “I stupidly confided in him. It was when I'd just moved back to Dappled Hills—long before Trevor started acting oddly and before I started dating Harper. I had no one else that I felt I could talk to. Mother specifically asked that I not tell Harper—she didn't want Harper to think any less of her, although I assured Mother that Harper wouldn't. I did respect her wishes on that, although now I feel I don't have any choice but to tell Harper, and then ask Harper not to let on to Mother that she knows.” He sighed. “I was out one evening with Trevor after work, having a drink. I told him that I'd just discovered that
the man who'd raised me as his son was not actually my father.”

“What was Trevor's reaction?” asked Beatrice.

“Concern. And he told me all the right things—that the man who raised me
fathered
me, supported me, encouraged me. Which was the only thing that mattered. And he was right.”

Beatrice said, “But at some point, Trevor must have changed his message.”

“That's right. Well, as soon as he started acting so erratic and out of character, I was immediately sorry that I'd told him anything at all. But it never occurred to me that he would use my secret against me. That's the thing about living in a small town—it's so easy for any gossip to make the rounds. The night we saw Trevor at that restaurant, I drove him back, and he started taunting me about my father. And then he asked me for money to keep quiet about it.” Daniel's mouth tightened in anger.