Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_02 (8 page)

His tone was patient. “There is no confirmation of the purported hangups. But even if they occurred, that kind of thing happens all the time. A wrong number. Caller hangs up. Redials. Makes the same mistake. Hangs up again. Those calls prove nothing. As for the fruit basket”—he shrugged—“there’s no proof at all that the caller wasn’t Mrs. Matthews.” He picked up a silver pen, rolled it in his
fingers. “Has it occurred to you, Mrs. Collins”—there was only a shadow of an edge to his tone—“that the mixup over that fruit basket may have set off the quarrel?”

“What quarrel?”

“The quarrel between Mr. Matthews and his wife. Obviously, he came home and a violent argument ensued. Maybe it made him mad that she called and treated him like an errand boy. Apparently, she was good at that. Or maybe there was a fruit basket somewhere else and she was furious he didn’t go to the right store. We’ll never know exactly what happened. But anybody can see that they had a real row and he went crazy. He threw the cooking stuff around, then stalked after her to the playhouse and shot her.”

“When did he get the gun?”

“He was mad. He stormed outside. He kept his gun in the glove compartment. He got it, ran back through the house to the playhouse. Bang.” His tone was impatient.

“Captain, do me a favor. Picture somebody tossing all that food around. Why didn’t Patty Kay have sticky stuff all over her? At the very least, there should have been some on her shoes.”

He shrugged. “Maybe she flounced out of the kitchen and he threw the stuff after she left because she’d made him mad. We don’t know. We do know that he’d made it clear he was sick and tired of that cheesecake. It’s one of those things that happens between couples where the object itself seems absurd to have caused trouble. It happens all the time.”

I didn’t try to argue. Walsh’s mind was made up. But the fallacy—assuming you believed Craig’s estimate of his time of arrival—was clear. If Craig arrived home at five o’clock and the anonymous call to the police was made at
six minutes after five, there wasn’t time for Craig and Patty Kay to have quarreled and for Craig to have shot her and left before this mysterious passerby happened to discover her body and made the call to the Fair Haven Police Department.

Proving the time Craig arrived home would be a strong argument for the defense.

But would a jury buy into it in the face of the bloodied shirt, his flight, and his clumsy attempt to dispose of the murder weapon?

Walsh glanced, not too obviously, at his watch.

“Captain, I don’t wish to take up too much of your time. I just have a few more questions….”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Has the article in which the revolver was wrapped been found?”

“No.”

“Were any traces of that fiber found in Craig’s car?”

“Yes. Beneath the driver’s seat.”

“Did the boys who saw him throw the gun away have any idea what it was wrapped in?”

“They said it was some kind of cloth.”

I nodded and slipped my notebook into my purse. “I won’t take up any more of your time, Captain. I’m certain your department conducts investigations in the most exemplary manner. So, if you would let me view the photographs made at the scene of the crime, I would be most grateful.”

“I can do better than that.” He rose, picking up the folder. “I’ll provide you with a set—with the understanding, of course, that these are being made available to the family and may not be released to the news media.”

And that’s how I came out of the Fair Haven police
station with a set of photographs of both the playhouse and the kitchen.

As I dropped them on the car seat next to me, I wondered if Lawyer Marino had made a similar request. If so, he hadn’t mentioned it. Just how hard was he working to protect his client’s interests?

King’s Row Road curved atop a ridge in Fair Haven’s finest residential area. Limestone fences marked the boundaries of the half-acre and full-acre lots. Through the stands of huge chinkapin oaks and mossy-trunked hackberries on both sides of the street, I glimpsed elegant homes.

I drove past 1903 King’s Row Road. The street curved. Around the curve, to my surprise, cars were parked bumper to bumper in front of a gray Cape Cod.

A navy Lincoln Town Car nosed close behind me.

I turned into the drive of the house across the street from the Cape Cod.

The Lincoln swept past. It parked in the turnaround where the street dead-ended.

As I was backing out of the drive, I saw a thirtyish woman in linen slacks and jacket get out of the car. She reached inside, bringing out a covered casserole dish.

The somber set of her face made clear the reason for the cars.

Cars gather for parties and for deaths.

King’s Row Road was surely having more than its share of heartbreak and loss.

A time to be born, and a time to die
.

As my MG made the curve, I hoped that the gathering at the Cape Cod was a celebration of a life well- and fully-lived. Death is always sad because it is final, but doubly hard when death strikes early, as it had with Patty Kay Matthews.

There were no cars parked in front of the Matthews house.

I couldn’t help but mark the contrast.

Because Craig Matthews was in jail for the murder of his wife.

Anger flickered inside me. Craig was weak, yes, and foolish, but he deserved time to grieve and friends to grieve with him.

I slowed on the narrow blacktop. Across the street, a teenage boy on a riding mower turned his head to look sharply my way. Of course he was interested in anyone coming to the house of a murdered neighbor.

He watched as I turned into the drive to 1903. The entrance to the Matthews domain was marked by a pair of limestone pillars topped by crossed marble tennis rackets. Anybody for tennis? Obviously, yes. The house number was deeply carved into the granite lintel.

The drive led up to a magnificent Tudor house. It was a beautifully preserved example of the architecture favored by the wealthy in the 1920s. The sharply peaked gables would be a roofer’s nightmare, and the half-timbe ring made me itch to quote Shakespeare. The vibrant English ivy was trimmed back to reveal the antique brickwork. An immense Tudor arch framed the front door. All the house lacked were turrets and Errol Flynn with a sword.

The main stem of the drive continued beyond the house to a more recent but similarly styled expanse of garages. It seemed a little like replicating Stratford-upon-Avon for use as a parking space.

I turned the MG into the circular terrazzo drive and parked by the front door.

Huge terra-cotta urns filled with brilliant purple and gold pansies stood on either side of the shallow front steps. They added a welcome touch of color to the dark swaths of ivy. It was almost balmy, but the air had a cool underside, reminding me that April weather in Tennessee can be treacherous. There was no wind. The sounds of life and movement in the neighborhood—the hum of the mower, the slam of another car door up the street, the yapping of an excited dog—seemed far away. I felt caught up in the somber quiet of spent violence.

As I walked toward the door, black wood in a purplish shadow, I was aware of being an intruder, an intruder intent upon pillage. Not, of course, in a literal sense. But I intended to wrest secrets from this house. Before I was done, I hoped to find out who Patty Kay Matthews was and why she died.

I turned the key Desmond Marino had given me in the lock. It stuck for an instant. I had a sudden fanciful feeling that the house was shuttered against me, loath to yield its grim knowledge.

“Nonsense.”

I said it aloud, as much to dispel the brooding quiet as to reaffirm my rationality. I twisted the key hard. The lock clicked and the knob turned.

My discomfort was easy to understand. Violent death imbues its surroundings with dread and horror, forever casting a bloody shadow in our memory. Think of the stained passageway in Holyroodhouse in Edinburgh, or the
chill when you pass the former Texas School Book Depository in Dallas.

The huge wooden door swung noiselessly on its gleaming bronze hinges. I stepped into a baronial entrance hall with hand-troweled stucco walls and a dark parquet floor. Dark wooden beams increased the gloom. Straight ahead rose the stairway. Massive arches opened on either side. It was as welcoming as a crypt

I switched on a light.

And looked straight into huge, dull dark eyes.

The moosehead struck a jarring note, and not simply because stuffed wildlife isn’t politically correct these days. The nineties, after all, is the environmental decade. But this extraordinary—and huge—example of the taxidermist’s big-game artistry was mounted eye level beside the arch to my right.

There was an odd scent I wouldn’t care to identify. It was mixed with the sweet smell of ripening fruit in the pink-cellophaned wicker basket that sat on a butler’s table to the left of the arch. Craig’s dutifully delivered gift basket.

My eyes swung again to the mounted head. It was impossible to enter the living room of the house without engaging the forever-stilled glance of the moose. Casually snagged on the immense spatulate antlers was an eclectic variety of headgear, two billed caps, a gardener’s straw with a chartreuse tie, a filmy wisp of patterned burnt-orange silk, a round yellow rainhat, a high-crowned silver-trimmed black sombrero, and a bright red swim cap.

The moose’s bulbous nose was molting. One glass eye tilted, giving him a rakish air.

It was as impudent as an elegantly thumbed nose.

No decorator devised his positioning as a hat rack of first resort and an inanimate majordomo without peer.

No, this was Patty Kay speaking.

That Craig had a hand in decorating this house wasn’t worth considering. I’d talked to him enough, even in his present distraught state, to know that Margaret’s nephew was neither ironic nor clever. Nor especially self-confident.

Whoever chose this magnificent example of jubilant raffishness was most assuredly all three.

I was smiling as I set out on my survey of the house. It didn’t seem half so gloomy now.

Unconventional touches were everywhere.

The living room, in addition to a white Steinway baby grand and a fabulous collection of Ming vases, contained a shiny bronze framework supporting a silk-cushioned swing. Shades of Stanford White’s obsession.

The dining room was through the archway to the left of the main entrance hall. Past the stairs and down the hall, I saw a door that likely led to the kitchen. But that would come later. In the dining room, the mahogany Georgian-style table was still eerily set for a sumptuous dinner. Waterford crystal and Limoges china glittered in the diamond-bright light cast by the seven-tiered chandelier overhead. Utter elegance.

In saucy and deliberate contrast, one wall was covered with vivid but painfully amateurish paintings of fruits and vegetables and something that looked vaguely like a spotted cow. The initials
PK
were blazoned in electric pink in the lower right-hand corner of each painting.

I could almost hear a ripple of delighted laughter.

And I did hear, sharp and startling, the front doorbell. I hesitated for only an instant—the interloper with chutzpah to the max—then walked swiftly to the main hall. I opened the door.

“Cr—” A tall, anorexic-thin, metallic blonde stared at me in surprise. “Oh. Hello. I’m Cheryl Kraft from next door.” She pointed vaguely to her right. “I saw the car.
Knew it wasn’t Jewel.” She blinked. “My maid. Patty Kay’s maid. Thought it was Craig.” A shimmering ivory silk blouse was loosely tucked in burgundy linen trousers that sagged against her bony hips.

“Craig isn’t home yet.” I held open the screen. “Won’t you come in? I’m Craig’s aunt, Henrietta Collins.”

That put her at ease. Aunts she could do. She stepped inside. “Good of you to come,” Cheryl murmured. She clasped my hands in hers, but her eyes slipped swiftly past me toward the closed kitchen door. “I won’t keep you. Actually, I’m doing a Paul Revere. Calling everyone to arms. I’m going house to house, inviting everyone in the neighborhood to come to my house. Tonight. At eight. Everyone but the poor Hollises, of course. We’ve got to find out what’s happening, how we can help dear Craig. Of course, we all know the police position is
absurd
. We must take action. Murder! I can’t believe it. Why, none of us even have alarm systems. We’ve never needed them. Not in Fair Haven. Half the time I don’t even lock my doors! But two alarm companies called me this morning. Dreadful. Just like vultures. But my daughter Phoebe called from New York, insisting I order an alarm today.” She gave my hands a swift, encouraging squeeze. “I’m so glad you’ve come,” she gushed, then whirled and pushed through the screen, pausing just long enough on the top step to call out, “I’ll look for you at eight—and please bring Craig. If he can come.”