Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_02 (6 page)

I waited.

Marino’s face screwed up in concentration. “We play poker once a month.” He looked up, down, away, but, finally, reluctantly, he continued. “A bunch of guys. We played last week and”—he eyed me doubtfully—“well, Craig drank a little too much. I mean, Craig’s not really a big drinker, Mrs. Collins. But everybody overdoes it sometimes.”

Everybody
doesn’t
overdo it sometimes. But that wasn’t the point here. “All right. Craig had too much to drink that night. What happened?”

“Last week the game was at my house. The wives do the desserts, but I’m a bachelor, so Patty Kay sends over her cheesecake. And Craig—oh, Christ—he got loud and obnoxious and started making up limericks about what he’d like to do with Patty Kay’s cheesecake, how he hated the damn thing and how she always insisted he eat two damned pieces.”

Cheesecake on the ceiling.

To the police, it would be one more indicator of Craig’s guilt. The husband loathes his wife’s cheesecakes. He comes
home, they quarrel, he takes the despised dessert and hurls it around, then chases his wife to the playhouse. There he guns her down.

But there was another possibility, and it was this interpretation that was spooking Marino. Someone at last week’s poker party—or someone who’d heard the story of Craig’s indiscretion from a poker player there that night—set up the death scene to look exactly like the result of a domestic nap.

“Who played poker that night?”

Marino hunched over his desk. He picked up a letter opener, held it like a lifeline. But, grudgingly, he gave me the names.

I got out my notepad and wrote them down: Stuart Pierce, Willis Guthrie, David Forrest. And, of course, Marino and Craig.

One name I recalled from the news stories. “Stuart Pierce. Patty Kay’s first husband?”

“Yes.” Marino looked like a root canal would be more fun than my questions.

“So Husband One and Husband Two were in the same poker group. Chummy.”

“Fair Haven’s a small town, Mrs. Collins.”

“I’d still say that was chummy. One of those so-called amicable divorces?” An oxymoron of the first order.

“Uh. No.”

I waited.

The beautifully tailored suit barely moved when the lawyer shrugged. “Well, you know what Patty Kay was like.”

That was the problem, of course. I had no idea—or at least only the dim beginnings of an idea—about the late Patty Kay Prentiss Pierce Matthews. But Craig’s aunt couldn’t admit that. Quite.

“I’d met her only a few times,” I responded blandly.

“What you saw was what you got, Mrs. Collins.” His face softened. “Patty Kay never did anything by halves. Ever. When we were little kids, she climbed highest in the tree or set off the most firecrackers. We got a little older and she danced the most dances. And that woman was crazy about Stuart. Nuts about him.”

I couldn’t quite identify the tone in his voice. Remembered anger? Wry dismay?

“Anyway, she came on too strong. She overwhelmed Stuart, never left him enough turf.” Now he spoke briskly, telling a familiar tale. “Patty Kay was devastated when he walked out on her. And when he married Louise within a year, well, she took it hard. She couldn’t stand being single. She was humiliated. She met Craig at a party at Cheekwood; three weeks later they got married.”

“On the rebound.”

He tugged at his collar, avoided looking at me. “I don’t mean she didn’t care about Craig. I think she did. But …”

Murky waters here. Had Craig realized he was a make-do replacement for an adored husband? How would that affect a man? Or had Craig deliberately taken advantage of an emotionally distraught woman, picking up a very rich wife with little effort? Had Patty Kay decided that Craig married her for her money? Because it was quite clear who had the big bucks.

Some questions Craig’s aunt couldn’t ask.

Some I could.

“This quick marriage—is that the reason Patty Kay’s lawyer”—I frowned, trying to remember the name— “doesn’t like Craig?”

Marino looked embarrassed. “Mr. Fairlee’s older. Very formal. He thought … well, Craig’s younger than Patty
Kay. And he quit teaching right after they got married and just worked at the bookstore….”

I got it. Patty Kay’s lawyer thought a younger man married an older woman—no matter how attractive—for her money.

I let Marino off the hook. “Who was Patty Kay’s best friend?”

He thought about it. “Gina Abbott. She’s an interior decorator here in town. They grew up together.”

“Patty Kay’s sister lives here too, doesn’t she?”

“Right.” There was no inflection at all.

“Mrs. Willis Guthrie.” I recalled it from the news story. “The Willis Guthrie at the poker party. Is that her husband?”

“Yes. Willis is an accountant. Down the hall from me.”

The little poker group got more interesting by the moment. “Were Patty Kay and her sister on good terms?”

Marino’s gaze dropped. He studied the letter opener like an archeologist with a newfound artifact. “Patty Kay and Pamela were not close.”

Hmm.

Finally he looked up at me. “Mrs. Collins, do you really think somebody knew about Craig’s smarting off at poker and that somebody deliberately threw that stuff to make it look like Craig and Patty Kay had a fight?”

“Somebody” was such a nicely vague, undamning term. The lawyer didn’t ask me if I thought a poker player had done it—or someone who’d heard the tale from that exclusive group.

There’s more than one way to answer a question. I responded with one of my own. “You’re Craig’s lawyer. Do you believe he murdered his wife?”

“No, ma’am.” His response was muted but definite. “No. Craig says he’s innocent. I believe him.”

“Why?”

He squinted pensively. “I’ve known Craig for five years. I’ve never seen him lose his temper. Not once. And that cheesecake—that sounds like a slambang, out-of-control fight happened there.” He shook his head violently. “No. Not Craig. And besides, there isn’t any motive. Oh, the cops probably think it’s money. Patty Kay’s money. There’s a lot of it. Several million. And Craig probably gets a third. But he doesn’t even think about money.”

I eyed the lawyer carefully. Naiveté didn’t become him. It’s fairly easy not to think about money when married to pots of it. But the possibility of losing that status might have brought it sharply to Craig Matthews’s mind.

And even easygoing people can go berserk—with enough provocation.

The problem was simply that I had no idea whether there was provocation.

I doodled a little on my notepad, a series of footsteps. “Either Craig lost his temper, threw the cake around, and then shot Patty Kay, or someone used guile and care and a great deal of thought to tangle him in a web of circumstantial evidence.”

“That’s a pretty sickening idea.”

“Murderers generally are not very attractive people.”

His mobile face scrunched up in distress. “Oh, God,” he repeated. “What can we do?”

I told him.

A big city jail—the smell, the sights, the sounds—can make you want to cash in your card as a human being to spend your time with a higher order. Like snakes. Or weasels. Or maybe a convivial road crew of leprosy-carrying armadillos.

In comparison, the Fair Haven city jail was a palace. Three blocks from Main Street, it was a compact two-story redbrick colonial building with a shining white front door. I stepped inside, noted a golden-oak bench with a stack of recent magazines on an end table, a clean tile floor (this alone was light-years distant from most jails), and a counter opening to the dispatcher’s office.

“… address is 1619 Willow Lane. The alarm went off five seconds ago. Check it out and call in.”

By the time I reached the counter, the dispatcher was standing behind it, a helpful expression on her face. Fortyish. A fading blonde. Buxom. “Yes, ma’am?” Her greeting was very polite.

I could, after all, easily be one of Fair Haven’s well-to-do
matrons, reporting a lost dog or seeking a permit for a fund drive.

“I’m Mrs. Collins, Craig Matthews’s aunt. I believe you’re expecting me. Mr. Marino called.”

She didn’t have the blasé weariness of the big city. Her curious eyes swiftly took in every detail of my appearance. I’d make a good story to relate to her family and friends. “Oh, yes, ma’am. If you’ll come this way.” She moved to the gate beside the counter and held it open for me.

We walked down a short hall. It ended at a metal door. Yes, this was a jail.

She punched buttons on a shoulder-high panel.

Once past that door, the dispatcher led me through a metal detector into a small bare cubicle with two chairs. Here she left me.

I didn’t have long to wait. A uniformed officer brought Craig in.

I’ve never discussed with a criminologist or sociologist the effect of jail uniforms. I suppose their purpose is to make it easy to identify a prisoner. Certainly the uniforms achieve that goal. Bright orange coveralls are distinctive, all right.

And demeaning.

As were the shackles on Craig’s wrists and ankles.

He shuffled slowly through the doorway.

The coveralls were too big. He looked skinny and insubstantial. His narrow face was white and strained, his eyes dulled by despair.

It took him a moment to focus on me.

Then he simply stood there.

“Craig, I’ve talked to Desmond. He’s trying to get you out on bail. But I wanted you to know I’ve come to town to help.”

The officer, stocky, blond, and impassive, pointed at
the chairs. “You can sit there, Matthews. Ma’am, you’ve got fifteen minutes.”

The officer departed. I wondered if someone stood close to that open doorway to listen or if Craig and I were being taped.

It didn’t matter.

I had no secrets. At least, none that I intended to mention here.

Craig obediently shuffled to the first chair.

I sat down next to him.

“They think I killed Patty Kay. They think I shot her. They won’t listen to me.” His voice was inexpressibly weary and baffled.

“I know. But Desmond and I believe you. We intend to find out what really happened.”

“You’ve talked to Desmond?”

“Yes. He’s given me the keys to your house.” Jails, of course, don’t permit prisoners to retain personal possessions. The contents of Craig’s pockets when he was jailed had been turned over to the lawyer.

“You’re going to stay at the house? To help me? Why should—”

“Because Margaret and I are the only family you have. And because I wouldn’t leave a maimed dog—even one I’ve never seen before—caught in a trap.”

“A trap?”

“Exactly. A clever, carefully devised, potentially deadly trap.”

The muscles in his face flattened. This was a new idea, and the shock devastated him.

“You mean—”

“If you didn’t shoot Patty Kay—”

He shook his head violently. The movement made his chains jangle.

“—then you were set up. A diabolical little game of Gotcha. Because if you didn’t kill Patty Kay, someone else did. And that person deliberately set out to make you take the blame for your wife’s murder. Think about it. The two phone calls with no one on the other end. The message that brought you home. The cheesecake on the ceiling. Your gun. And why did the police arrive on the scene so conveniently? Because somebody called them. All of that tells us a lot.”

There was a flash of life in that pale, frightened face. “Like what?”

“The murderer was either at last week’s poker party or knows someone who was.”

That brought him bolt upright in the chair. “The cheesecake—somebody threw the cheesecake because I—”

“Oh, yes. Of course. But that’s not all. The murderer knew where you kept your gun. The murderer knew you well enough to be sure you’d come when Patty Kay called. And you know the murderer well enough to recognize his or her voice.”

“Oh, my God.” His face crumpled like newspaper left out in the rain.

I glanced at my watch. Twelve minutes left.

“Listen, Craig. We don’t have much time.”

He didn’t look capable of thought. His face was ashen, his eyes blank. I had some urgent, sharp, hard questions for him. But it was better to start slowly.