Overdue for Murder (Pecan Bayou) (10 page)

Pattie pointed to the other side of the aisle, where Martha Hoffman was dressed in a black cardigan and skirt and held a lace-trimmed hankie up to her nose. "Seems she didn't want to sit too near us. You know she's been sharing with anyone checking out a book how you clobbered Vanessa right there in the children's section."

"Wonderful," I whispered. Martha glanced over at the two of us and then jerked her head back when our eyes started to meet. I would have to make an effort to console her after the funeral just to watch her squirm.

In the front row sat Peter, his head in his hands. Next to him was Rocky Whitson and two people I assumed to be Vanessa's parents. They were not what I had expected. Her mother had stringy blonde hair that hung straight to her collar. Her father was a burly man wearing a plaid shirt under a dark suit that looked a little small. I wondered if it was borrowed. It explained a lot about Vanessa's drive to look better than anyone else in the room. Her parents didn't look like bad people – they just didn't look like Vanessa.

As the pastor spoke of Vanessa's life and achievements, I saw her mother's head bend as she quietly cried into a tissue. At one point, Peter looked back at our pew with a wistful expression. Perhaps he was acknowledging our presence, and it was his way of thanking us for attending.

After the final hymn was sung we were dismissed to the narthex of the church, where the ladies of the congregation had prepared red punch and cookies. We stood around balancing chocolate chip cookies on white paper plates, our discussions in somber whispers. Peter Markham was making the rounds, talking to all of the little groups clustered around their cookies. When he came to our group, he stood between Edith and Pattie.

"I just wanted to thank you all for coming today. I know some of you only knew my wife for a short while and I appreciate your show of support today."

"Of course," said Edith.

"Very sad," said Oscar Larry, taking little nibbles of his cookie at the same time.

Peter nodded in agreement to the obvious. "I just wanted to let you know, with Vanessa gone I'll be selling the house. I feel the need to make some changes. Vanessa had a pretty extensive collection of books on writing that if any of you are interested in, please come by the house." So was he here to thank us for coming or to tell us about the fire sale at his house?

"That is so kind of you," said Edith. "I already have so many books on writing, but your wife's fiction had such promise, I'm sure she probably had some good resources."

"Yes, I'm sure she did," said Damien, looking into his cup of red punch, his eyes not daring to glance directly at Peter's.

Pattie shot me a glance. We knew all about Damien's appreciation of Vanessa's resources.

"After I sell the house, I'll be moving in with a friend in Andersonville. I've had an offer to write for a community paper there."

"What about the investigation?" I asked.

"What about it?" Peter answered.

"Don't you have to stick around for that?"

"The police think Vanessa was killed during the afternoon hours on Tuesday, and I have an alibi. I was doing a play-by-play of a baseball game at the high school. I am anxious to find out who did this to my wife. I know Vanessa was ..."

No one dared fill in that blank.

Not getting any takers, he continued, "Vanessa was ... difficult ... but I never thought she'd anger someone enough to get killed. It's a crazy world we're living in."

"That's for sure," said Oscar Larry. After three hours of showing us slides of little green men, he would know about people being at the end of their ropes.

Edith Martin reached out and placed her hand on Peter's arm. "If there's anything we can do, please let us know. Anything at all." Peter's eyes moistened. "Thank you, Edith."

"Do they have any idea who might have done this?" asked Damien.

Peter glanced at me and then back to Pattie. "I've heard a few ideas of people, but at this point they really can't be sure."

"I ... really ... admired your wife," Damien said, his voice rough.

Peter cocked his head to the side in surprise. "Did you know my wife?" Oh boy, was that a loaded question.

"Just professionally, Mr. Markham, Damien said, looking at his watch. "My apologies, I am late for a meeting with my publicist." Damien offered his hand, and Peter shook it. Would he have shaken that hand if he had known that Damien and his wife had been involved? Peter had been so busy with his own affair he hadn't even noticed that Vanessa was having one of her own. If secrets were tennis balls, the church narthex would be bouncing with a sea of yellow-green fuzz.

"I can't believe you actually had the nerve to come to this funeral."

I jumped to see Martha Hoffman standing behind me with a cup of red punch in her hand. "You are the prime suspect, and you have the gall to come in here where we are mourning her loss after you so cruelly put her down with my candlestick."

I began to wonder if that was just fruit juice in her punch. The librarian seemed to be a little free with her commentary this morning. What was even more surprising was who came to my rescue.

Peter Markham stepped in front of me. "Miss Hoffman, I appreciate your loyalty to Vanessa, but the police don't know who murdered my wife, and I would appreciate you not causing a scene at her memorial service."

"Really," said Pattie, putting her arm around my shoulders as if to protect me from Martha's verbal attack. "Kind of tacky, if you ask me."

"You would side with her, seeing as she stood up for your lousy cupcake platter at the mall. I got news for you, missy. Any idiot can stack a bunch of cupcakes on a plate."

"Miss Hoffman, you're distraught." Chief Arvin Wilson came over as the noise level in the group rose. He gently guided Martha Hoffman away from our group.

As they walked away, Martha continued her accusations. "Chief, I'm glad you came over. I got some things to tell you about Becky Livinson over there."

"I'm sure you do, ma'am. I'm sure you do. Can I drive you home?"

As they left the church, I felt obligated to address this with Peter. "Peter, you know I am just the one who discovered your wife's body. She made me angry, but I could never kill another person."

Peter Markham took a deep breath and put his hands behind his head. "Like I told Miss Hoffman, I'd like to take today to grieve for my wife. Nothing else."

"Of course," I said, feeling as big of an insensitive interloper as Martha Hoffman had been. I felt awful for bringing it up and tromping all over this man's grief. He drifted away to the next crowd of people.

"Don't worry," Pattie reassured me. "If you hadn't said anything, then Martha would have gotten away with accusing you of murder in front of all of the people who actually liked Vanessa. You had to speak up."

"I guess you're right," I said. "But if I don't figure this out, that woman is going to make sure I get the chair."

CHAPTER TWELVE

A couple of days later I showed up on Peter Markham's doorstep. I really didn't want any of her books, but I did want to find something, anything, that could clear my name.

"Betsy," Peter answered the door in a wrinkled white polo shirt and what looked like a two-day growth of beard. His blond hair, which had always been so carefully groomed at the Pecan Bayou Gazette, was now pointing every which way, and the date of his last shower was questionable. I handed him a tater-tot casserole and gave him a little hug, holding my breath so as not to breathe in the smell of unwashed man. "How are you doing, Peter? You look a little rough."

He ran his hand through his hair as if he suddenly realized how awful he looked. "I'm okay." He gazed off and then jumped, probably realizing I was standing there staring at him. "Oh, let me show you to Vanessa's office where she did all of her writing. It's really just a spare bedroom but we never had children, so ..." He paused. "Let me show you the way."

For a guy who was cheating on his wife, he was a mess. You never know how much you'll miss a person until they're really gone, I guess. I was surprised how much I hadn't missed Barry. When he left I thought I couldn't live a day without him. Now if he came back into my life, I couldn't live a day with him.

We climbed the white-carpeted stairs of his two-story brick home, passing tasteful black-and-white photos of the two of them in a montage of activities. There was a picture from the beach, a picture of them playing football on what looked strangely like the Kennedy compound and a picture of what had to be the two of them on skis zipping down a hill. If you knew of this marriage just through these pictures, you would think everything was perfect.

Peter opened a white hallway door to a beautiful room with sunlight streaming in through white curtains patterned with thick green stripes. "This was her hideaway from the world." He paused as he scanned the room as if for the first time. "It seems so empty now." Was this the first time he'd opened the door to this room since Vanessa's death?

"Thank you, Peter. Are you sure you want me in here digging around through her books?"

"I don't know. I guess. I'm just going to box them up, anyway. I don't plan on writing any fiction, so this is just one more job I have to do in cleaning up the house to put it on the market."

"Alright, then. Why don't you go and have some of that casserole and maybe take a shower and relax," I hinted, knowing I wouldn't get any good digging done as long as I had Peter here.

"Great," he said with a blank stare. I nudged him, and he walked back out of the room toward the stairs.

Once he left I headed to the bookshelf and took out a book titled
Get Your Novel Together in 30 Days
. Yeah, right. That would be what I took out of here when he came back. I noticed most of the writing books looked new, like their covers had never been cracked. This would be quite a find for a new novelist. I hoped others would come and visit, or maybe they could use this collection at the public library.

I sat down at her desk. It was white with gold trim and delicate curving legs, and not very much storage. Below it she had a white fluffy rug and a gold trashcan. I opened the only drawer in the desk to find neatly aligned stamps, stationery and a very expensive Mont Blanc pen. Not much there. I lifted the keyboard on her desk and found a folded note. It was from Martha Hoffman.

I must speak to you. We can get away for a moment while the alien guy is talking. I talked to him on the phone, and it took me forever to get off. He'll hog the time for as long as we need. –Martha

I remembered their little disappearing act while the rest of us suffered through slide after slide from Oscar Larry. Whatever they spoke of, Martha was not too happy when they returned. Then when Vanessa was murdered, Martha acted like it was her own daughter on the floor. What was that all about?

Leaning up against the bookcase was a white filing cabinet with lacy wood inlays. I wasn't even sure where you would find a thing like that. I opened the drawers to find a rainbow of multicolored file folders where Vanessa kept track of her writing details. She had files for book sales, schedules, and there were even some rough drafts of works in progress. As I pulled the drawer out further, I spotted a familiar pink-and-white striped box. So, old Vanessa was a closet cupcake eater. The box was empty except for the vestiges of some coconut and chocolate frosting. I opened the lower file drawer and found three more boxes hidden inside. Vanessa had a major thing for these cupcakes. Oh boy, I couldn't wait to tell Pattie that Vanessa wasn't buying all those cupcakes for her husband. How did she get away with eating cupcakes and staying so fit?

I went back to her bookcase. As I ran my finger along the books I found three books by Destiny Wood. Was Vanessa thinking about writing romances, or did she just like a good bodice-ripper now and again? Maybe she was curling up on that couch with a romance in one hand and a cupcake in the other. When it came right down to it, she was more like the rest of us than she let on.

I noticed there weren't any pictures of her parents in the room. Had she been ashamed of the two people I saw at the funeral? Had she ever visited them? Had she let them visit her?

At the lowest shelf of the bookcase was a brown wooden box turned sideways to resemble a book. I pulled it out of the shelf, and a stack of letters fell to the floor. I could hear the microwave beeping downstairs and figured Peter was heating up my casserole. I picked up the scattered letters. Unfolding one, I read:

My darling, I cannot wait for another opportunity to be with you. Your lips are like satin ...

Okay, I got the idea what kinds of letters these were. At the bottom of the letter was the name Damien with the D finished in a beautiful flourish. She didn't seem to need too much time with Edith's books. She had her own personal bodice-ripper. Hearing a dish clank below, I stuffed the letters back in the box and replaced it on the shelf. Maybe I should be kind and take the letters away so as not hurt Peter. Then again, it really wasn't any of my business whether or not he read those letters. I sighed as I debated what to do; he just seemed so fragile at this moment.

Peter would be up those stairs shortly, so I looked around the room one last time. She had some magazines scattered on a table by her bright green couch. Most of them seemed to be about nutrition, which made sense when you thought about how in shape she was. Maybe she was reading about ways to exercise off excess cupcake calories. "Lose 10 pounds in 10 days!" "You Are What You Eat!" "What Junk Food Retailers Don't Tell You!"