Closely Akin to Murder (27 page)

“Yeah, Chico. Why On Earth didn't you hand him over to the men in the other car? I'd have dumped him on the road with a bow in his hair.”

“He's close to seventy years old, dear. Sacrificial victims tend to be young and virginal. He's hardly either of those. He suffered as a result of what happened, too. His daughter was imprisoned, his wife was killed, his savings were depleted, and his career was ruined. He had nothing to go home to except vicious rumors.”

Caron came to the kitchen door. “I'd like to think you wouldn't forget about me if I were locked up.”

“Have you done something in the last few days that you'd care to discuss?”

She rolled her eyes at the absurdity of my question, but before she could voice her opinion, the telephone rang and she skittered into the living room.

As the teapot began to whistle, I heard her say, “No, trust me on this. All we do is keep telling Rhonda that she saw us in the parking lot when she pulled out with the guy. We'll remind her of what we were wearing and how windy it was and stuff like that. She'll let something drop.”

I retreated to my bedroom.

 

It might have been more civilized to warn Ronnie of my impending arrival, but doing so would have led to questions that I did not want to answer on the telephone. I'd spent the previous night rehearsing my presentation, but I was not going to win a Nobel prize. The thick wad of notes was in my carry-on bag, along with the last of the paperbacks I'd purchased at The Poisoned Pen in Scottsdale. Other than those, I had only a single change of clothes, a toothbrush, and a nightgown; one night, either
at Ronnie's house or in a hotel, would have to suffice. The bewildered retiree had accepted the news of his extended employment at the bookstore with a sardonic smile and an obscure reference to a new customer with “an untamed raven mane and emerald eyes that sparkle like a starry sky.” I didn't recognize the source, but I had a feeling he wasn't quoting Shakespeare.

The late afternoon flight to O'Hare was packed with fussy babies and loquacious couples willing to share their innermost secrets with those of us in adjoining rows. As I emerged from the gate, I saw a young black man holding a sign with my name printed on it. Had it only been nine days since I'd looked around the airport in Acapulco for such a sign? What had taken place since then could never be made into a movie; even by Hollywood standards, it was too outlandish.

The driver took my bag and led me to a white Cadillac. Peter had called that morning with Ronnie's address. I shared it with the driver, then got in the backseat and tried to avoid fretting about the upcoming encounter by mentally casting the movie.

I was debating between Jodie Foster and Inez for the role of Gabriella as we turned down a street lined with century-old trees and imposing homes. Spotlights illuminated lawns that advertised the daily attention of gardeners. Rolling into driveways were Mercedeses, Rolls-Royces, Jaguars, and others of that variety. Every driver on the street had a cellular phone in his or her hand, most likely notifying a spouse of momentary arrival so a chilled martini could be presented at the front door. Even the perfectly synchronized joggers carried cellular phones. It was a matter of time before their pedigreed pets had beepers clipped to their collars.

The proximity of affluence did not make me nervous,
but the conspicuous consumption was oppressive. The last time I saw Ronnie, she'd had braces on her teeth, acne on her forehead, and a stain on her blouse. Now she was more likely to answer the door in a tiara and silk dressing gown.

“This is it,” the driver said as he stopped in front of a faux Tudor monstrosity and switched on the light above his head. “Shall I wait?”

I took out my compact and repaired my lipstick. “We may both have to wait. I'm not expected, and it's possible no one is home. I don't see a car in the driveway.”

“The garage door is closed.”

“I see that,” I said sternly. “My vision is quite good for my age.”

“There could be two, three cars in the garage.”

“There could be a herd of camels in there, too.”

The driver looked at me in the rearview mirror. “Yes, ma'am, there sure could be. I don't see any dung on the driveway, though.”

“In
this
neighborhood?”

“I guess not.”

At some point I was going to have to get out of the car, walk up the brick sidewalk, continue up the steps to the porch, and ring the doorbell. For some inexplicable reason, I felt as anxious about facing Ronnie as I had about the nuns at St. Martin's Academy. Possibly more so. I thought as my stomach began to churn.

I picked up my purse, then put it down. “I think it might be better to find a pay telephone and alert my cousin that I'm coming.”

“Yes, ma'am,” the driver said without inflection. “I've got a phone right here.”

“No, I've changed my mind. Let's just sit here for a few minutes, shall we?”

“Suits me.” He took a paperback out of the glove compartment and opened it.

After five minutes of silence, I said, “I'm going to go ring the bell now. If my cousin isn't there, we'll just have to hope she's on her way home instead of working late or going out to dinner.”

“Don't see what else we can do, ma'am.”

“Please wait here. No doubt I'll be back in less than a minute. You don't have plans, do you?”

“I'm at your disposal as long as you're here. I'll take you wherever you want, including back to the airport.”

“Oh,” I said. “Are you a Catholic?”

“Methodist.” He got out of the car and opened my door. “I'll be waiting right here.”

“Thank you,” I said as I reluctantly stepped onto the curb. “I'm a little nervous.”

“You're concealing it real well, ma'am.”

There were lights on in several rooms, but the porch was dark and uninviting. I went up the steps, took a breath, and reminded myself that a seven-year difference in age was significant during childhood and adolescence; it was not a factor during adulthood. I repeated this several times, then rang the doorbell.

Porch lights came on. I made sure I was visible through the peephole and forced myself to smile like a wholesome housewife collecting donations for a charity.

The door opened a few inches. “Who are you?”

I recognized Ronnie's voice. “Claire Malloy,” I said. “I have some good news for you.”

“Why didn't you call?”

“I could have, but I preferred to explain things in person. May I come inside?”

“This is not a good time,” she said slowly and carefully, as if she'd only recently mastered the English language. “It would be better if you called me at a later date. I'm busy at the moment.”

“I spent more than nine days trying to sort out the truth about Oliver Pickett's death. Surely you can allow me a few minutes of your time, no matter how busy you are.”

“I'm very busy.”

“Polishing your next presentation—or your silver tea service?” I hadn't expected to be greeted with bells and whistles, but scotch would have been nice. When the door did not open, I said, “I don't suppose this is the sort of neighborhood where eavesdropping is condoned, so let's get this over with right now. For starters, your father is alive.”

“No, he can't be! How could you say such a sadistic thing? Did you come here to torment me?”

The bells and whistles that had not been used to herald my arrival now went off inside my head. I hoped she wasn't watching me through the peephole as I put my hand on the wall to steady myself. It was fortunate that the wind was cold; the steamy heat of Acapulco would have been my downfall (in the literal sense of the word).

I finally found my voice. “My mistake, cousin dearest,” I said. “I was referring to Arthur Landonwood, not Oliver Pickett. It's very unpleasant standing here on the porch. May I please come inside?”

The door opened. I stepped inside and studied my hostess. Fran must have known I would never be fooled in a face-to-face meeting. Her hazel eyes dominated
her face. In high heels, she would be several inches shy of Ronnie's stature; in slippers, she barely reached my chin. Her hair was more gray than blonde, and pulled back in a utilitarian bun. The unnatural paleness of her complexion was emphasized by her long, navy blue robe. The overall effect was that of a petrified porcelain figurine.

“Shall we sit down?” I said.

“Uh, yes,” she mumbled, then went into a dim room and switched on a solitary lamp. “Would you like a drink?”

I requested scotch. She went into another room. I wasn't sure anyone had ever sat on the antique furniture, but I decided it was high time and picked a chair of Louis the Something vintage. The bells and whistles were fading, but I was still overcome with shock.

Fran returned with my drink. “I'm sorry you came here, Claire. It only complicates things.”

“How does it do that?”

“You obviously think you know who I am—or who I used to be, anyway. I'm no longer Franchesca Pickett. I suspect I never really was. My mother and stepfather forced me to comply with their ideal, as did the sisters. My father preferred a more glamorous version, although only at a superficial level. He wanted a sophisticated, charming daughter who could be paraded in front of his friends before being packed away in a convent until the next performance. Did you have Barbie dolls when you were a child?”

I shook my head. “I wasn't interested in dolls.”

“My father sent them for Christmas and my birthday every year, even when I was much too old. It was partly because he couldn't bother to keep track of my age, but also, I always believed, because he subconsciously
wanted me to realize this was his idea of a perfect daughter—well dressed, perpetually cheerful, and just the right size for a shoebox.” She began to move around the room, picking up objects off the tables and then replacing them. “But you said you had things to tell me. I am busy, you know. I'm awaiting a call from a colleague in California. Our research has taken us in a similar direction, and we need to make arrangements to exchange data.”

“Your mother told me what happened in the bungalow on New Year's Eve. I came here because I wanted to tell Ronnie that she didn't kill Oliver Pickett.”

“Yes, I killed him—my own father. I never lied to you or denied my guilt.” She made a fist and held it over her head. “I grabbed a knife off the bar. My arm went up like this, then I plunged it into his throat.” She completed the pantomime and stared at me as if anticipating a compliment. When I failed to comply, she slowly uncurled her fingers, regarded them with a sublime smile, and sat down on the sofa. “So, did you have a chance to meet the Reverend Mother? She was rigid and uncompromising, but we had some fascinating discussions on the impact of feminism on contemporary theology.”

I wondered if the driver outside would put down his book when the medics carried out my body in a canvas bag. “I met the Reverend Mother, and also Sister Jerome. She was gracious enough to allow me to look out a window at the convent grounds.”

“She and I had tea in the garden on many occasions. Did she offer you tea?”

“No, but I was in a hurry,” I said. I took a sip of my drink and listened to a clock chiming somewhere in the
house. I also made sure there were no letter openers or other sharp objects within her reach.

“I did tell you a lie,” Fran said abruptly, widening her eyes as she must have done in the Reverend Mother's office thirty-odd years ago. “Ronnie and I were cellmates for two years. To keep our sanity, we talked for hours every night about our families, describing in detail birthday parties, vacations, school, television shows—anything that allowed us to forget where we were.”

“She must have been upset when you were released,” I said.

“I was scrubbing pots one morning when a matron came and took me to the warden's office. My mother was there. I didn't understand what was happening until we were in a taxi, driving down a rough road. Even then, it seemed unreal. We went straight to the airport. As soon as we arrived in Phoenix, I was put in a hospital to be treated for malnutrition and internal parasites. Later, I was treated for depression and psychotic episodes.” The sublime smile returned to her lips. “But I'm fine now.”

“That's good,” I said warily. “You don't need to worry about being blackmailed in the future. Your mother was responsible.”

“My mother tried to blackmail me? I let her have the money from my father's estate. Criminals can't profit from their crimes, you know. She reminded me quite often that I had no moral right to the money. Why would she think she has any moral right to the money I've earned over the years? There are no bloodstains on it.”

“She was about to lose the development. I don't
know how she managed to find you after all these years, but—”

“Oh, she's always known where I was and what I was doing. My mother's not as crafty as she thinks she is, though. I used to catch glimpses of her on the campuses where I studied. Once I saw her peeping through my office window at the laboratory.” She hesitated, then leaned forward and whispered, “She was in Brussels, too, standing at the back of a crowd of tourists at the flower market. She was wearing a disguise, but I recognized her.”

I gulped down the rest of my drink. “Well, the police in Phoenix are now in possession of the old court records. I can give you a name and number if you want to press charges.”

“And put her in prison?” Fran said with a giggle of delight. “That would make a wonderfully ironic finale, wouldn't it? But the Sisters of the Holy Swine always stressed the importance of charity, chastity, obedience—and above all, humility. It would be very egotistical of me to take pleasure in putting my mother behind bars. Besides, I am very busy.”

I seized upon this as an excuse to put down my glass and rise. I may have done so with unseemly alacrity. “Thank you for the drink. I think I'll try to catch a flight home to night instead of waiting until morning.”