Notoriously Neat (13 page)

Then, from Bryan, “C’mon, quit it! Skyster, don’t monkeys have to take naps or anything? He’s got popcorn grease all over me.”

His voice was muffled—I guessed because he’d covered his nose to fend off another round of stud pokes. And while I had a hunch Mickey’s renewed pestering was partly misplaced revenge over my popcorn snub (he’d ignored Bry for the past few minutes), I was too busy contemplating Orlando’s words to worry about it. He’d said Vaughn had been willing to pay for everything. That he’d invited Orlando to come live with them in the Cove. An important piece of the puzzle was still missing. At least one.

I turned back to Vaughn. “I realize you were hurt. But it sounds like you were dealing with the situation. Trying to help.”

“I was,” he said. “I loved Gail. We’d tried unsuccessfully to have children of our own. How could I not accept her only son?”

“Then what was the obstacle?”

I’m not sure I could have described exactly what I saw in Vaughn’s eyes. But they held a bleakness that the sun pouring through the skylight couldn’t touch. “Gail felt she had to make up a great deal to Orlando,” he said. “She’d never balanced being a wife and mother. And she didn’t think she could do it without taking some time. She called it a ‘step back.’ ”

I didn’t understand. “Step back from what . . . ?”

Vaughn hesitated. “Me,” he said, his eyes bright with tears now. “After I opened myself up to her . . . after all our years together . . . from me.”

I looked at him and suddenly wished I’d kept my big mouth shut. Or let Mickey cram it with so much popcorn I couldn’t talk. When Vaughn had mentioned a betrayal of trust, I’d taken him to mean Gail’s keeping the existence of her son a secret. That he’d left her because of it. I could not have been more wrong.

Before meeting Gail, Vaughn had thought he’d be unable to completely share himself with anyone. But he’d done it. He’d let both the woman he loved and Orlando into his life. In the end, it was Gail who couldn’t allow him into theirs.

“Can you believe it? We just locked a double gig,” Bryan said from the Versa’s passenger seat. “And how’d you like how I pitched my nine-one-one bargain plan?”

“You’re a brainy lad,” I said, driving.

“Hey, don’t joke. I blogged on it this morning.”

“The nine-one-one service?”

Bry nodded. “Posted some tips with that ‘Timesavers Times Ten’ piece you wrote.”

“Brainy and a go-getter,” I said. “This is why I made you my protégé.”

“The entries rock when you read ’em together. Wait and see. People are gonna be ringing our phone off the hook with emergency calls. The only question’s how we’ll handle the volume.” He held his upturned palm out to me. “C’mon, gimme skin on us bein’ Vaughneroo’s official home and kennel cleaners.”

I kept my hands on the wheel and gave him a sidewise glance instead. “Not so fast,” I said, coasting down the street. “He said it’ll be next week at the soonest before the kennel’s open for business.”

“So you’re gonna make a low five wait on a
technicality
? Skyster, where’s the happy face? I didn’t know better, I’d think you were disappointed.”

I shrugged. “Vaughner . . . Vaughn, that is . . . still has to hire someone to help with the animals. Maybe a couple of someones. There’s nothing to guarantee he’ll find the right personnel in time. Or that people will want to bring their pets back with Dr. Pilsner gone—and Orlando caring for them.”

“Jeez.” Bryan slapped his forehead. “I didn’t think of that.”

I turned left toward the Morneau Road law offices of Rooney and Cabot, where Bryan would be cleaning that morning. Afterward, I planned to shoot out to the trailer for a quick health check on Skiball and then drive over to my own job at the Ruth Payne Inn off Main Street.

“I keep picturing Gail at the foot of those stairs. And it’s hard for me to see Orlando being responsible.”

Bryan grunted. “The cops sure figure he’s their guy. He ain’t wearing that police ankle bracelet as a fashion statement.”

I thought silently about the information Chief Alex had shared with me in confidence the night of the murder. Like the discrepancies between Orlando’s account of English-speaking robbers and the neighbor’s statement about men shouting at each other in Spanish. And like the police finding the veterinary drugs that were supposedly a main target of the break-in untouched in their storage cabinet. But even though Orlando’s story had problems, I wasn’t sure it came close to proving him a killer.

A sigh escaped me. “I guess we’ll find out the truth sooner or later.”

“Yep.” Bry contemplatively twisted a spike of his hair. “Since you mention it, I wonder how come Vaughneroo spilled the beans about Orlando bein’ Gail’s kid? Why tell you the truth?”

It was a question that had already occurred to me. “It could be he just needed to talk to somebody,” I said without much conviction.

“But why
you
?” Bry repeated. “I mean, he’s gotta know you work for a Cape Ann paper.”

I wasn’t sure what that had to do with anything. “Maybe, maybe not.”

“Skyster, he’s best buds with Morrie the eye doctor. And it was Morrie who told him Gail was your client.”

“So?”

“So I cleaned Morrie’s offices the whole time your bum leg had you out of commish,” Bry said. “Take it from me, that dude loves to blabber.”

I couldn’t argue with that. On the other hand, Bry’s reasoning seemed headed onto shaky ground. “I write a personal-view column. Not gossip.”

“But your prime cut’s a crime reporter, am I right?”

Prime cut?
“If you mean Mike . . . ?”

“Look, I’m only asking, what makes Vaughneroo figure this stuff won’t wind up front-page news?”

My eyebrows crinkled. It had struck me that Bry might not be too far off base after all. Vaughn hadn’t gotten to be a successful financier without plenty of intelligence and foresight. Nobody did. If I were in his position, looking ahead to a possible trial, I’d be considering ways to buff up Orlando’s image. How bad would it be to get out word that he was Gail’s son? And that might have been spinning things too negatively. Maybe the real question was, how
good
would it be for people to know?

“You might have a point . . . Let me think on it,” I said after a bit. “In the meantime have a great day.”

I nodded toward Bry’s window and saw mild surprise on his face as he realized we’d reached the eighteenth-century redbrick Georgian that housed Markham and Cabot’s law firm. He’d been too preoccupied with our visit with Vaughn Pilsner to pay attention to the passing streets.

I pulled over and he got out. Going around to the rear hatch, he loaded his cleaning supplies into one of our folding carts, waved at me, then hauled the cart off toward the old brick building.

It took me fifteen minutes to drive back to the South End so I could look in on Skiball. I noticed she’d jumped down from her loft and eaten almost half her food before snuggling up beside my desktop computer for a snooze.
Appetite’s normal,
I thought, mentally checkmarking a box on the positive side of my list of health indicators. As I moved around the trailer, she lifted her head and squeaked at me—another encouraging sign. Though I still would’ve liked some irksome hyper antics out of her, I knew she typically slept the morning away, and was comfortable heading out on my scheduled rounds.

For the record, I didn’t make a single bear sighting while leaving or reentering my Versa. Black, brown, grizzly, or other. But maybe bears were like Ski and took early siestas.

The Ruth Payne B&B was three homes in from the corner of Hawthorne and Main, several blocks north of the Fog Bell. In fact, I had to pass the Fog Bell on the way there—and was just approaching it when I saw the black Lexus heading toward me amid the light traffic in the opposite lane.

If I hadn’t instantly known it was the same car I’d spotted from my window last night, what occurred next would have pounded—and I do mean
pounded
—that realization into my reluctant mind.

The distinguished-looking, silver-haired man at the wheel caught my eye first. Barely. As his vehicle slid past mine, I saw Chloe beside him in front. It was abundantly clear from her expression that she’d seen me too . . . and that running into me wasn’t anything she wanted or expected.

We’d pulled almost alongside each other when Chloe ducked down in the passenger seat and hastily turned her head away from me. A split second later, she raised a hand to shield the side of her face. But it didn’t come up quickly enough to hide her sheer and utter panic.

The Lexus continued down Main Street toward the spot where it curved past the foot of the Gull Wing pier. I kept heading north toward the Ruth Payne. My blood roaring in my ears, I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the Lexus swing around the bend and past the entrance to the Gull Wing. A second later, I took another look.

It was gone from sight. Had vanished around the bend.

All at once, I was overtaken with the urge to turn around and follow. I could call the B&B and claim something unexpected had cropped up. A cleaning 911; thank you, Bry. I could tell Shirley Witherspoon, the innkeeper, it wouldn’t delay me very long. Say, an hour. Or I could reschedule at her convenience. She’d understand. This was only an off-season touch-up. It was too early in the spring for guests.

I was reaching a hand out for my dashboard cell phone clip when I stopped myself. Not so much banishing the urge to trail the Lexus, but somehow managing to hold it at bay.

I watched my fingers return to the steering wheel. Chloe was a grown woman. I had no right to spy on her. Whatever was going on was none of my business. Besides, I absolutely was not about to jump to conclusions.

I drove on, gripping the wheel, clenching it as hard as I could to keep my hand from mutinously going for the phone again.

It was her business, I thought again. Hers. Whatever
it
might be. No premature conclusions for Sky Taylor.

If Chloe was having an affair, it would be totally up to her to let me know about it. I was leaving it alone. Forgetting all about it unless and until she chose otherwise.

Sure thing.

I reached for the cell phone and called Shirley to tell her I’d be late.

Natalie Oswald lived in a small, Colonial saltbox midway down Abbott Lane, a quiet, narrow cul-de-sac that ran straight up to one of Pigeon Cove’s many tidal inlets. It was known as a fabulous spot for watching sunsets, and local painters often came there late in the afternoon, parking their cars in a dirt parking area beyond the paved road, then walking through a sparse patch of brush to stand their easels on the pebbled shore and capture the light off the water.

Besides me, Nat might have been Chloe’s closest friend in town. Certainly she was one of them. Together they’d founded the La Dee Das, an a cappella vocal ensemble that entertained at everything from wedding parties to charitable events and hospitals, and covered every musical style from Springsteen to Stravinsky. Chloe was your definitive mezzo-soprano. Nat was a rare contralto. At first, it was just the two of them at La Dee Das performances, but they’d filled in other voice types as they went along. Now there were between six and ten women in the group depending on the season, since a few of them summered in Florida.

As the Lexus wound through town, I’d stayed well behind it, dropping back every so often, keeping as many cars between us as possible. It took a right off Main onto Newman Road, then a left onto Tweed Street, and another left onto Markham. When it eventually swung off Markham into Abbott Lane, I kept going for a couple of hundred yards before reversing direction.

The Lexus was parked directly in front of Nat’s place when I turned down Abbott several minutes later. Cruising past to the end of the lane, I pulled my hatchback into the parking area, got out, and strolled back up toward the saltbox on the opposite side of the street, using the trees lining the sidewalk for cover. As I’d driven past the house, I had noticed a driveway on the side facing the intersection with Markham and a large, semi-fenced-in pile of firewood on the side looking out toward the dead end. Either Nat had a surplus of logs left over from the winter or she’d gotten an extra delivery to tide her through our unseasonably cold spring.

The woodpile was over six feet high and covered with a blue tarp. Since I barely scratch five six in heels, it would give me ample room to duck if anyone appeared from the house or anywhere else along the lane.

I scooted through an opening in the fence and moved behind the logs, craning my head around the edge of the stack to see whatever there was to see. The saltbox had one and a half stories. Its sharply pitched roof would give the upper level a very low ceiling, but I’d been in similar houses whose owners used the upstairs for storage space, walk-in closets, or even a spare bedroom. The row of windows overlooking the woodpile had tiny panes that showed them to be centuries old—probably the originals installed when the place was built. They caught my attention right away, since most windows of that vintage had been replaced with modern types around the Cove.

But I wasn’t stalking around Nat’s property to admire her windows. Not that I’d have time for it. Shortly after I first noticed them, Chloe and her silver-haired friend appeared behind one, standing very close to each other in conversation.

I didn’t know why seeing them upstairs together startled me. I didn’t know
what
I’d expected to see when I decided to follow them. But it did give me a sort of reflexive shock, and I dropped back behind the stacked logs so they wouldn’t spot me.

I might just as well have stayed put. Neither of them seemed interested in the outside view. I barely had time to catch a glimpse of Chloe before she turned slightly from the silver-haired man, moved to the window, and drew its shade.