Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_02 (13 page)

Was this her dream alone? Or had she aroused him too? Perhaps the truth of it didn’t matter. What mattered was the girl’s perception.

“Did your mother know how you feel about Craig?”

She trembled. Her light blue eyes blazed with an un-childlike fury. “She laughed at me. She
laughed
at me.”

I remembered that mocking whoop of laughter in the video. Yes, I could believe it. Patty Kay made a joke of almost everything.

But there’s nothing funny about first love. Requited or unrequited. Appropriate or silly. There is an elemental starkness to a first passion that later, more experienced loves will never possess.

Remembered anger—God, still vivid, living anger—
thickened Brigit’s young voice. “She wanted to send me away. She said I was making a fool of myself and embarrassing Craig. She said”—the girl swallowed miserably— “she said Craig thought I should go away too. I could have
killed
her!”

I said nothing.

The passionate, heartbreaking words pulsed in the dusky silence.

Blues eyes brimmed over with sudden tears. “But I
didn’t
. You don’t think … you can’t think …”

I avoided that. “You’re upset,” I said soothingly.

Brigit’s face was abruptly so young, so stricken. She pressed her hands hard against her eyes, but the tears streamed down her cheeks.

I found a tissue in my purse, handed it to her.

“Mother … oh, Mother …”

“I’m sorry, Brigit. So sorry.”

She scrubbed at her face, tried to stifle the little sobbing hiccups.

But I wondered about Brigit. Yes, she was crying for her mother, but perhaps crying for more than her loss. In fact, Brigit might have the best of all possible reasons to believe in Craig’s innocence.

Brigit would know where Craig’s gun was kept. She would know how to call the bookstore and arrange for him to come home.

Why would she involve him?

She loved Craig, didn’t she?

Had she believed Patty Kay’s taunt? Did Brigit think that Craig, too, wanted to send her away? Had scorned love turned ugly?

But now she was sobbing because her mother was dead and distraught because Craig had been jailed.

No one ever said human desires and emotions could be
totted up like arithmetic sums. Any kind of mix was possible.

“No.” Her head jerked up. “No. I didn’t do it. I wouldn’t hurt Mother. I wouldn’t. And I know Craig didn’t. Listen.” She reached out, her fingers clamped on my arm. Her words tumbled out feverishly. “I can help you find out what happened. I know that Mother and Aunt Pam were mad at each other. Really mad. And something must have happened at school Friday, because Mother was frosted with Mr. Selwyn.” Her face fell. “ ’Course, that’s probably not anything.”

Mr. Selwyn? Then I remembered. ‘That’s the headmaster at Walden School? You go there?’

“Of course.”

Of course. Everybody did.

I was very interested in Walden School and anyone connected with it. Because Patty Kay had suddenly decided to throw a party for the trustees of Walden School. And before the chosen guests could arrive, she was dead.

Cause and effect?

I couldn’t know, but I sure intended to look hard at Walden School.

Friday, Brigit said.

“Why do you peg it to Friday?”

“Because I saw Mother talking to Mr. Selwyn Thursday afternoon—down at the track—and she was flirting with him. Of course.” Scorn sharpened her voice. “But on Friday—”

I interrupted. “Of course?”

“Oh, Mother couldn’t see anything in pants and not turn it on. I don’t know why Craig put up with it. I’ll bet Daddy never did.”

If this child didn’t hang her stepfather one way, it looked like she’d manage another.

But Brigit was oblivious of my thoughtful gaze. She continued without prodding. “On Friday he was stalking down the hall—”

“Who?”

“Mr. Selwyn. And he was really ticked off. Mother was glaring at him. She had a certain look when she totally despised somebody, and that’s how she was looking at Mr. Selwyn. Not mad exactly. But really icy. Like he was some kind of scum. Maybe she came on to him and he turned her down.”

Her eyes glinted with malice. The child looked a little like a white rat when she was being spiteful. That would become more pronounced with age.

She was obviously obsessed with sexuality. Not, of course, an unusual condition at her age.

I doubted very much that she’d correctly read the situation between Patty Kay and Mr. Selwyn. Nobody becomes headmaster of a posh school without learning exactly how to handle women of all ages, whether budding or fully bloomed, whether eager to be picked or prickly.

No. It must be something else entirely. The headmaster would never have intentionally offended Patty Kay. He would know how to flatter her sexually without going over the bounds. That was part of his job.

I was looking forward to meeting Mr. Selwyn.

I wondered, too, if there was a Mrs. Selwyn.

Just in case he
had
forgotten the boundaries.

“Oh, damn.” Brigit jumped to her feet. “There’s Louise’s car. Checking on me. I know she is. I’ll have to go.”

She darted up the path toward the library. I wondered if this was an often-reenacted ritual.

I didn’t try to follow her. I could find her again if I needed to.

I looked after her running figure soberly.

Yes, Brigit could be the one.

Vertical slabs of limestone glistened in the wash of lights illuminating the shadowy garden. The huge front door—carved teak—was swinging shut as I pushed aside a sweep of ferns to reach the steps.

Everywhere there was the sound of water, slipping, sloshing, splashing. I spotted at least three waterfalls, artfully lighted. Massive granite boulders formed pools and water eddied and swirled beneath overhanging banks of vines and potted flowers, bright peonies and masses of scarlet phlox. I suspected Cheryl Kraft had a full-time gardener with waders.

I pulled a bellrope. The low, reverberating gong sounded like that of a temple in Tibet.

The door opened immediately—or as immediately as a huge slab of teak could move.

Cheryl Kraft welcomed me. Tonight she was dramatic in gold hostess pajamas. Diamond dolphins dangled from an enormous gold chain that looked too heavy for her razor-sharp shoulders.

She reached out to take my hands, and I felt the heat of too-thin, feverish fingers. She glanced swiftly past me. No Craig. I saw the flicker in her eyes, but she jumped right in. “You’re the last to come, Mrs. Collins. I’m so pleased you’re here.” She held the door wide and made no mention of Craig. No doubt she felt it would be tactless. Women like Cheryl Kraft excel in tact. “We were hoping you’d make it. Everyone’s down in the atrium.”

She led the way across a bridge. The foliage flowed into the house, as did a stream of water inhabited by foot-long red and orange carp.

I followed her down a winding stone stair into an astonishing lair, three separate levels fashioned of redwood. Ferns, vines, several banana trees, more water, and iridescent fish thrived on every level. I’d last felt this immersed in sticky humidity in a Costa Rica rain forest.

She was now quite at ease. “Almost everyone’s here. Except the Neals. They’re in Egypt. A trip on the Nile. I do hope they don’t get shot. Or bombed. The world’s such an unsafe place now. Especially when you go where people have these religious persuasions. So unpredictable. And horribly, horribly hostile. And the poor dear Hollises. That’s where all the cars are tonight. You know, that darling Cape Cod on the other side of the Jessops. Family from away, of course. So terribly sad. But they probably couldn’t have helped us anyway. Too far from Patty Kay. And Edith isn’t much of a gardener. I do wish Gina had come, but she felt she had to go over to Edith’s.”

The Cape Cod. I’d been right when I judged that heartbreak wasn’t confined to Patty Kay’s house. The poor Hollises, dealing with grief, unable to be a part of a neighborhood aroused by murder.

I felt awash in a swirl of names and circumstances that I didn’t understand. But I would learn.

We reached the base of the staircase. Cheryl gripped my arm as if I were a prize. “Here she is. Dear Craig’s aunt, Mrs. Collins. She’s come to help. Now, let me introduce everybody.”

In that first quick survey, a half dozen or more faces turned toward me. Shuttered faces. Wary faces.

Because I was Craig’s aunt?

Or because violent death had come so close to them?

It was odd to pretend total ignorance when I did indeed know some of them. At least, I felt I knew them after viewing the videos.

But the first introduction fascinated me.

He pushed away from a redwood pillar to gaze at me somberly—the man whose photograph Patty Kay had carried with only the notation
Hilton Head
. The same thick curly brown hair and strong, bold features. He wasn’t quite as trim now and there was a touch of gray in his hair. But the striking difference was in his face. In the photograph he was young and happy. It was summer with no hint that winter would ever come. Tonight he didn’t look as though he’d ever smile again.

“Stuart Pierce.” Cheryl shot me a swift glance.

But I knew. “Brigit’s father,” I said easily. I held out my hand. “I’m so pleased to meet you.”

It wasn’t awkward. After all, the American family in the nineties is often a hodge-podge. To put it gracefully.

“Of course, Stuart and Louise”—Cheryl smiled at Patty Kay’s somber ex-husband—“don’t really live right here on King’s Row Road. But they’re close, right around the corner on Pennington Way, behind Gina’s house. I’m sorry Louise couldn’t come this evening, but I know she will try to help.”

So Stuart Pierce’s second wife had declined to attend this neighborhood gathering. How had she felt about Stuart responding to Cheryl Kraft’s summons?

Cheryl swept ahead. “And here are Pamela and Willis. But, of course, you know them.”

Thank God for the videos. It was still an awkward moment for me. Had Margaret visited here, met Patty Kay’s sister and husband? I could always pretend to be another aunt….

But Pamela Prentiss Guthrie’s protuberant eyes slid over me with neither recognition nor interest. She murmured insincerely, “So good to see you again. Very good of you to come. Under the circumstances.”

The little flash of venom was intended. It caught me by surprise. She looked like such a boring blob. But the blob wasn’t stupid—and she didn’t like Craig.

Pamela’s husband Willis was tall and bony with a concave chest, thinning ginger hair, and a scraggly, light mustache. His pale blue eyes looked at me coldly. His hand felt moist. “Yes, yes, good of you to come.”

Cheryl swiftly shepherded me past them.

A distinguished-looking older man with crisp white hair and aristocratic features stood behind the wet bar. He had that air of confidence that only power and money provide. He was used to chairing meetings in boardrooms. Genial. Unless crossed.

“My husband, Bob.” Cheryl favored him with a bright, surprisingly sweet smile.

Bob Kraft reached across the bar to shake my hand in a painful grip. “I’m so glad you could come, Mrs. Collins. What would you like to drink?”

“Gin and tonic, thanks.”

The final couple I didn’t know at all. They had the lean bodies and leathery faces of the horsey set. It was all too easy to picture them in a paddock. I suppressed a smile.

“Carl and Mindy Jessop. They live on the other side of Patty Kay.” Cheryl clapped her thin hands together. “Everyone, come gather round the pool table.”

Bob Kraft flicked a switch. Light flooded yet another level and a pool table.

Cheryl led the way down five stone steps.

Her guests obediently followed, though I saw Pamela Guthrie’s heavy shoulders move in a shrug of disdain.

Cheryl waved us around the table and she took her place at one end. “I’ve been giving all of this a lot of thought.” With the air of a conjuror, she pointed at nine upended whiskey tumblers on the table. “See, I have them
arranged. On this side”—she touched the bottom of each glass in turn—“we have the Neals, the Jessops, Patty Kay, our house, and Gina’s. On the other side of the street are”—
plink, plink, plink
—“the Hollises, the Forrests, and the Guthries. Over here on Pennington”—one glass sat by itself —“is Stuart’s house.”
Plink
. “Now, King’s Row Road is a dead end.” She glanced at me. “You remember, the street ends just past the Hollises’ house.”

I nodded. The Cape Cod with too many cars and women bringing food.

Cheryl’s bright eyes moved restlessly from face to face. “It’s very important for us to put our heads together. This police idea that poor, dear Craig hurt Patty Kay is absurd. We all know it.”

It was my turn to glance swiftly about.

Brooke Forrest crossed her arms tightly across her chest. She stared at the glasses in sick fascination.

Brooke’s husband watched Cheryl. David’s cold gray eyes were skeptical.

Bob Kraft’s face was thoughtful and not at all genial.

Pamela Guthrie sipped greedily at her drink, then plunged pudgy fingers into the amber liquid to lift out a maraschino cherry. She popped it into her mouth. She gave no attention to the table or the glasses.

Her husband’s lips curved into a tiny, unpleasant smile, then he lifted one hand to stroke his limp mustache.

Stuart Pierce gripped the edge of the pool table. A muscle twitched in his jaw.

Not one of them jumped to Craig’s defense.

Only the Jessops were nodding eagerly.

“Damn right.” Carl Jessop pounded a fist on the green felt. The whiskey tumblers quivered. “Got to get busy, find out what the hell happened, who came in here, did such a thing. Not Craig. Couldn’t have been Craig.”

Mindy Jessop pushed back a lock of short-cropped gray hair. “So sorry I wasn’t home. I was out at the stables. Sweet Delight’s due any day now.”