Wreath of Deception (25 page)

“So we’re unsure of Betsy Davis at this point?” Gordon asked, referring to the basket maker who had called Jo yesterday. Jo had been able to reach her only this morning.

“I’m afraid so. She’s had some problems with her supplier, plus a recent flare-up of arthritis in her hands. She’s not a hundred-percent sure she’ll have enough baskets to set up a good table.”

“That’s unfortunate.” Gordon frowned. “Her baskets have come to be a big draw over the years.”

“She sounded like a person who would not consider showing up with less than her best presentation.”

Gordon nodded. “That’s her, though most of her customers, I’d say, would be thrilled with her rejects.” Gordon brightened. “Well, if she doesn’t pan out, I’m sure you could fill the gap with your own craft items.”

Jo gulped, though she hoped not visibly. In the past days she’d barely spared a thought for what she would bring to the show. “Certainly!” she said, in as sincere a tone as she could manage. Did Carrie have some needlework projects to contribute, she wondered? Preferably an eight-by-ten-foot afghan, or a quilt or two? She could only hope.

Gordon escorted her through the halls of the club, chatting on about finer details of the show and stopping to introduce her to various people, until Jo managed to tear herself away. She left Gordon at the door and trotted back to her car, eager to head for home. It was time to put her thoughts together.

As she drove, Jo wished she could talk to Carrie. But Carrie had told her she would be busy at Amanda’s soccer game that evening, because she was in charge of refreshments for the team. Jo was on her own.

She pulled into her garage and went through the side door into her kitchen, tossed her keys on the counter, and plopped on the sofa, carefully avoiding the broken-spring cushion. It was dinnertime, by the clock, but Jo had no desire for food. She
should
be celebrating, she reflected grimly. She may have finally discovered who murdered Kyle. Once she laid all the facts before Lieutenant Morgan, she would likely be off his hook. Unfortunately, it wasn’t turning out to be that simple.

But life never was simple, was it? Jo sighed. Long-term plans went awry; people you thought you could trust let you down. Deirdre’s husband, the man who had appeared so lovingly thoughtful by gifting his wife with a beautiful ring, had in fact been cheating on her. Bad enough, certainly, but as things often do, one wrongdoing led to another to cover up the first, and a young man ended up dead, and then an innocent young woman.

Now more lives were poised to be destroyed, this time through Jo. Could she,
should
she do it? Was she certain enough of her conclusions to set in motion things that could send someone to prison?

Chapter 28

Jo didn’t know how long she had been sitting on her couch, staring sightlessly at the drab wallpaper across the room, but she realized the once bright daylight beyond her windows had faded to dusk. She had been going over and over all that she knew about the murders. Was there something she had missed?

Alden Patterson had a strong motive for murder—to protect his career. But would he actually kill Kyle and Genna? It seemed unlikely. For one thing he probably wouldn’t mistake Genna for Bethanne, dog or no dog. Then, his visit to Bethanne that day Jo encountered him suggested he had no murderous intentions toward her and that he wasn’t terribly concerned about hiding their relationship.

On the other hand, Deirdre’s stake in covering up Alden’s affair was in holding on to her own way of life, which she liked quite well. Jo had seen that in her scrapbook. Instead of the record of Alden’s successes that Deirdre had claimed it to be, it had become in fact a testament to the distinctions of her own life. Every photo included herself. Every record of Alden’s step up the political ladder featured Deirdre front and center. Even her prized dogs had taken precedence over Alden, dogs that—according to Mindy Blevins—she had admitted he didn’t much like but that symbolized, with their uniqueness and expense, Deirdre’s own status.

Did that prove her to be a murderer, though? After all, Deirdre had been so helpful with Jo’s investigation. On closer examination, though, Deirdre’s “help” had always directed Jo away from the truth. She continually pointed Jo away from the clubhouse and toward the playhouse and Pete Tober.

Jo could imagine Deirdre, who knew neither of the women well, mistaking Genna for Bethanne. But could she see her committing such violence? Pushing a young woman to her death? Stabbing a young man dressed as a clown? Jo didn’t know.

Jo sighed, and pulled herself off the sofa, heading toward her bedroom. The phone rang as she walked in, and she reached for the extension on her night table. Her voice came out in a hoarse, “Hello?”

“Jo, sweetie, it’s me.”

“Mom? Hi, how are you?” Jo sank down onto her bed.

“I’m fine, dear. It’s been too long, hasn’t it? I’ve meant to call at least a dozen times. How are you doing there, in that little town you’ve settled in? What is it called? I keep forgetting.”

“Abbotsville.”

“Yes, that’s right. Is your shop all set up now?”

Jo thought back. It seemed like a million years since her grand opening. How excited she had been that day. How quickly it had all fallen apart. But her mother, she knew, hadn’t called to hear about problems. She didn’t want any specks whatsoever on her rose-colored glasses.

“Yes, the shop’s up and running, Mom.”

“Wonderful! I’m going to tell all my friends here to stop in when they’re in the area.”

Jo couldn’t picture anyone wanting to detour to Abbotsville on a trip to Washington, D.C., or Baltimore, just for Jo’s particular craft supplies, but the thought was there. Carol Wagner did what she could for her daughter, and her daughter accepted it, knowing her mother’s limits.

Jo heard the clink of glassware on the line and pictured her mother standing in the kitchen of her little house, designed for senior citizens who might have mobility problems, although Carol Wagner had no concerns in that department. Possibly the youngest member of her small, central Florida community, Jo sensed that her mother enjoyed her position of relative youth, as well as the ease of the maintenance-free situation and effortless sociability. She had moved down there shortly after Jo’s father died of heart trouble, and seemed to have never looked back, except for the occasional contact with her daughter.

“So, when will you be able to come down here for a nice vacation? We have a lovely pool you can swim in as my guest.”

“It might be awhile, Mom.”

“Oh, I do hope not too long.” Jo’s mother began telling Jo about the almost daily swims she had been taking since she moved into her home, and which neighbors she usually encountered, tales Jo had heard a few times before. She began to tune out, and when the story expanded to descriptions of recent ailments of said neighbors, Jo barely listened, simply filling in any pause with automatic “uhhuhs.” At one point Jo thought she heard a noise from the area of her backdoor and she cocked one ear to listen. Some little night creature, perhaps, looking for crumbs? The noise didn’t continue, and she tuned back in to her mother’s chatter, just in time to hear the finale on Harriet Kreitner’s knee replacement.

“Uh, Mom?” she broke in, when Mrs. Wagner took a breath.

“Yes, dear?”

“Remember when we lived in Larksdale? On Rosewood Lane?”

“Of course. You were in elementary school then, weren’t you?”

“Uh-huh. Remember the Milburn brothers? They went around one summer bashing mailboxes.”

“Oh, yes. Why do you mention it?”

Jo heard the tinge of annoyance creep into her mother’s voice.
Why do you mention things I’d rather not think about?
she might as well have asked.

“I was just wondering. Nobody knew for a long time who was doing the bashing. But then you happened to see them one night, right?”

“Yes.”

“Was it hard turning them in? I mean, you and Dad were friends with the family and all. But somebody had to stop them. Was it very difficult?”

“Oh, I sent your father to talk to that policeman we knew. I told him to make sure we were kept out of it. I think they kept an eye on the boys and caught them in the act a couple nights later.”

Jo should have known. Dad was sent to take care of it, and Mom, as usual, sidestepped the issue. Jo wouldn’t have that luxury, however. No sidestepping possible here, only a straightforward march to Russ Morgan’s gray steel desk.

“Why do you ask, dear? Has someone been damaging mailboxes there?”

“No, Mom.”
A murder or two, but our mailboxes are just fine.

“Well good. I want everything to be well for you, Jo. Especially after, you know.”

Yes, Jo knew. That little unmentionable incident up in New York. “Everything’s okay here,” she assured her mother. Jo had long stopped crossing her fingers when she said such things to her mother. They didn’t qualify as lies, she reasoned, when they were exactly what Carol Wagner wanted to hear. They always made her mother a little happier, and Jo was just as glad to cooperate. Unfortunately, they always left Jo feeling a little lonelier.

“I guess I’d better let you go, Jo. You probably have a lot of things to do.”

Jo didn’t argue. She promised to pass on her mother’s best to Carrie, and to think seriously about driving down to Florida. They finished with a breezy “love you” on each side, and ended the call, Jo’s hand lingering on the phone as it rested in its cradle. What if, she wondered, she had taken up her mother’s invitation after Mike’s accident to move somewhere near her? Would she have been better off? Would it have been worth it to live a life of pretend happiness in year-round sunshine in order to avoid the troubles that had rained down on her where she was?

Jo sighed, and dragged herself off the bed. Perhaps a little food and drink would help with the gloom, although the only kind of drink that would really help was not what she would allow herself tonight. A clear head and alcohol-free breath were what she needed for her meeting with Russ Morgan tomorrow, if she finally decided she should go.

She went to her kitchen and pulled open her refrigerator to stare inside: a few aging eggs, wilted lettuce, and a covered dish of leftover macaroni and cheese. She pulled out the dish and was heading for the microwave when the phone rang. Who would that be? she wondered. Her mother, with one more neighbor’s story she had forgotten to share?

Jo headed toward the phone, macaroni in hand. A figure suddenly stepped out of the shadows, and Jo screamed, dropping her dish, which clattered to the floor.

“Let it ring,” Deirdre said, her suggestion reinforced by the gun in her hand. “We have more important things to take care of.”

Chapter 29

Jo stared at the gun in Deirdre’s hand. A small, silver piece that fit easily into her palm, it looked almost like a toy. But Jo didn’t doubt the deadliness of it, nor, from the look on Deirdre’s face, her intentions. All doubts about the woman’s capacity to commit murder had definitely been erased.

“How did you get in here?”

“You’re careless with your keys, Jo. I borrowed the one to your back door one day during a workshop and copied it. How helpful of you to label each key. You thought it had slipped off your ring onto the shop floor. That was my way of returning it.”

Jo remembered the incident. She hadn’t even missed that particular key until one of the workshop ladies—Mindy?—spotted it lying near her desk. Jo had indeed assumed it had simply fallen off somehow, and tightened up her key ring with one of her jewelry pliers, apparently locking the barn door, in effect, after the fact.

“Why don’t you clean up the mess on your floor, Jo? I wouldn’t want you to accidentally slip and fall.”

Jo stared at Deirdre, wondering if she could be serious. A menacing wave of the pistol convinced her, and Jo grabbed a fistful of paper towels and mopped at the macaroni, all the time aware of Deirdre hovering closely. Jo’s mind raced, trying to think what she could do to get away from this woman who clearly planned to shoot her, but nothing foolproof came to mind. Karate kicks were not in Jo’s repertoire, unfortunately, and the only weapon she had at hand—her kitchen knives—were not faster than speeding bullets. Maybe she could distract Deirdre, somehow.

“How did you know I was starting to figure it out?” Jo asked, reaching for a final curled noodle with her towels.

Deirdre smiled an eerie smile. “You seemed so interested in my ring last night, Jo. And then my photos. It made me worry. The photo I put in my scrapbook of Alden and me at the Muscular Dystrophy Ball didn’t include Bethanne—I had trimmed her off, as she needed to be. But I looked up my original copy. Bethanne is wearing a pendant that Alden must have given her. I could see how similar it was to my ring, though I hadn’t noticed it at the time, since I didn’t have my ring yet. You saw that pendant, didn’t you Jo? When you visited Bethanne.”

Jo nodded.

“I thought so. I realized, then, you were starting to put it all together. Obviously, I had to stop you before you got too far.”

Obviously.

“I guess I can understand you wanting to kill Bethanne,” Jo said. “She must have made you furious, luring your husband into an affair. I presume you mistook Genna for her when she was walking the dog?”

Deirdre frowned. “Yes, that was a mistake. Unfortunate, since Bethanne quickly became less accessible.”

Jo caught the coldness of Deirdre’s attitude toward Genna’s death. “Unfortunate” and “mistake” instead of what it truly was: a terrible crime. It gave Jo chills.

“And Kyle was a threat for what he knew?”

“Of course. Would we want to be blackmailed the rest of our lives? And risk having Alden’s career destroyed? You know how the media is. Always looking for the least bit of dirt on candidates. Alden is heading for the governorship. Everyone says so. And after that—who knows? The Senate, or even the White House!”