And Then You Dye (16 page)

“No. Yes. I’m not sure.” Joanne drew her shoulders up high, and her eyes darted from side to side. “You make me nervous!” Her face was growing red.

“Think of Tai Chi!” said Betsy, desperately. “Tai Chi, Tai Chi!”

Joanne nodded and closed her eyes. Slowly, her shoulders lowered and her face unclenched. “Yes,” she said, nodding. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Who told you Hailey was dead?”

“Pierce. I think he heard it on the radio on his way home from work. I hardly ever listen to the news, so I didn’t know. I was home all day ironing. I like to iron; it’s almost as good as Tai Chi, but not as beautiful.” She made a motion as if ironing the tablecloth, then smiled, amused at herself. “I liked Hailey. She was so calm. She never talked strongly to me, always nice and smooth. She didn’t get me excited.”

“I understand. Was she a good friend?”

“Well . . . not really. We couldn’t be real with each other, because I get angry so easily. I don’t have many friends.” She made a self-deprecating face.

“That’s very sad.”

“Oh, it’s not my fault, or not exactly. Ever since my accident, I’ve had this problem with my emotions.”

“What accident was that?”

“Car. It was, let’s see, almost four years ago. Pierce and I had been married seven and a half years, yes, so four years ago. He was driving and I was asleep. I might’ve been drunk. He might’ve been drunk, too. I don’t remember any of it, even riding in the car before it happened. We’d been at a party, I remember that, and it was late and it was raining. He was driving too fast, and lost control and went off the road, and the car flipped over a couple of times. Fractured my skull in two places when the roof collapsed. Like I say, I don’t remember it. Or anything else, for about a week after. I woke up in the hospital with my head shaved and a terrific headache and skin draped across a hole in my skull where they took out a hunk of bone.”

“Oh my goodness!” said Betsy.

“Yes, but at least I was alive. And I knew I was going to live. Pierce had a mashed knee and a broken elbow, so he wasn’t going to die, either. But we were both changed. His knee still bothers him quite a bit, especially when he plays tennis, and my personality was . . . different. I don’t feel any different, except that I get mad really easy, especially when I’m stressed, and I can’t get hold of myself for a minute or two. I know that’s not the way I used to be, and it’s scary. But I take precautions. I won’t allow a gun in my house. I don’t have a knife in my purse or a baseball bat in my car. I scream and yell and throw things, but I don’t stab or shoot.” Her voice deepened, and she leaned forward to look deep into Betsy’s eyes. “And I don’t kill people.”

Nineteen

T
HE
sun was shining brightly again on Thursday, the next day and Betsy’s next day off. The temperature was forecast to rise only to the upper seventies, and the humidity was low—a lovely day.

She fed the cat—Sophie made a nuisance of herself in the morning until she was fed, so she had her little scoop of Iams while Betsy was still in her pajamas—then Betsy had a leisurely breakfast with Connor. She got dressed, washed the dishes, and called Marge Schultz. Marge was at her garden center and would be there all day.

Betsy was feeling energetic, so she decided to walk to Green Gaia. All the way over there, she pondered how she was going to conduct the conversation. Did Marge know what Betsy now knew about Joanne?

Because now Betsy was pretty sure why Pierce McMurphy hadn’t divorced his terrifying wife.

What had seemed a very short drive was turning into a rather long walk—partly because Betsy walked at a leisurely pace past the shop windows on Water Street. Shaggy Leipold’s had its usual mix of new, used, and antique gifts, books and toys spilling out its door onto barrels and benches on the sidewalk. Lillian’s, which was only open a few days a week, displayed some lightweight, flowing dresses in soft pastel prints. Across the street, Cynthia Rae had some of her strikingly original skirts, tops, and dresses in her windows. If Betsy hadn’t been on an errand, she would have stopped in.

Past the car dealership, she was into a residential neighborhood and her steps became more brisk. Though the houses along here were modest, they were all in excellent repair and their lawns, many set behind picket fences, were ornamented with summer flowers in shades of yellow, orange, and blue. Somewhere not far off a jay screamed, “Thief, thief, thief!” Leaves on the big trees lining the sidewalk ruffled in a light breeze. A white clapboard house had a big, old-fashioned rosebush near its front porch, the kind whose heavy scent rolled like a benediction across the grass. Betsy’s footsteps slowed again and she inhaled deeply.

Around a corner and she was on the street that went past Hailey Brent’s house, which was still for sale. The realty company’s sign was a different one; Philadelphia must have gone to a new real estate agent.

Then came the gentle slope up to Green Gaia. There was only one customer wandering among the plank tables, and there were fewer than usual plants for sale, most of them looking overgrown and depressed. Spring and summer buying was winding down, and customers searching for the asters and chrysanthemums of autumn hadn’t turned out yet.

The windows on the greenhouse were filmed with dust. Betsy’s eyes wandered up its multipaned windows to note the white-painted wrought iron trim. The shape of the building was Victorian England meets modern-day Japan, and it was very attractive.

Looking sturdy and healthy outside the greenhouse’s nearer door was a big hydrangea bush. Last time Betsy had been to Green Gaia, the plant was producing enormous green flowers, each composed of hundreds of smaller flowers. Now they had turned pink. Except some were shading into blue. Betsy paused to admire this phenomenon. She had heard the story of this particular plant, how it began as a potted plant years ago that an employee had dropped by the greenhouse door near closing time on a long weekend, and how the following Tuesday it was seen flourishing amid the shards. So Marge had simply dug a hole and moved the plant into it, where it continued to flourish. It was now almost as high as Betsy’s head and had to be cut back on one side so it didn’t block the door. Its blooms had always been pink. Betsy had heard that pink was Marge’s favorite color; that she considered it her lucky plant and she let no one but herself tend to it. Betsy had read that hydrangeas could be made to change color, but it seemed strange that Marge would allow her lucky plant to change from her favorite color.

But the blue blooms were a very pretty shade and made a striking combination with the ones that remained pink. So maybe it was a way to advertise the fact that Green Gaia knew how to effect a beautiful, seemingly magical change of color in hydrangeas.

As Betsy’s gaze turned away, it was caught by a display down toward the end of a row of tables. On the last table stood a long row of potted hydrangeas, some pink and some blue, some with both pink and blue flowers on them.

Betsy nodded to herself at having solved the riddle and went into the shop to look for Marge.

She found her in her little office, sighing over a legal-looking document.

“Problems, Marge?” Betsy asked from the doorway.

“What? Oh, hi, Betsy. No, I’m checking to make sure I’ve dotted all the i’s, and crossed all the t’s on that patent application for the red marigolds.”

“How’s it coming?”

“All right so far. But it’s been a while since I filed, and since I haven’t heard, I’m getting nervous. If I have to refile, I want to be ready, so I’m refining my application.”

“I hope you don’t have to start over. Do you have an attorney’s help?”

“I did with the first one, for the asters, but I felt confident I could do it alone this time, and save myself some money. You know how it is with small businesses in today’s economy.”

“I sure do. But meanwhile you may have a winner with those hydrangeas. They’re spectacular.”

“Thank you. I sure hope so. I’m going to run an ad about them on my web site and in the paper. Two of my employees are tweeting and talking about them on Facebook.”

“Where did you get them? I didn’t notice them last time I was here.”

“A flower shop in Saint Paul was closing. The flowers were in sad shape, but it only took some water and a little fertilizer to bring them back. But you didn’t come here to talk to me about potted hydrangeas—unless you want to buy one?”

“No. I seem to have a fatal effect on plants that don’t take care of themselves.”

“Well, then, sit down and let’s talk.” Marge opened the center drawer of her desk and slipped the document into it.

Betsy sat on the wooden armchair indicated and squirmed a little in her seat. This was likely to be an uncomfortable conversation. She began, “How did you meet Pierce McMurphy?”

Marge closed her eyes briefly and her mouth thinned. Then she said, “I hired his company to design my new greenhouse. He brought me several designs, and I picked the one you see out there today.”

“It’s really pretty. I was just admiring it.”

“Yes, it’s beautiful, isn’t it? He got me a good price and supervised the construction of it, and we became friends. He’s a charming man, and he admired my business sense. We both tried to fight our feelings, but his home life was terrible and I was . . . well, I was lonesome for someone who could make me feel warm and wanted.”

“How well do you know Joanne McMurphy?”

Marge snorted softly. “You’re asking me, the person most likely to avoid her company?”

“Hasn’t Pierce ever talked to you about her?”

“Only to complain.” She spoke lightly, making a jest of it.

“She was in a car accident four years ago, did you know that?”

Marge hesitated, then acknowledged, “Well, yes, I’d heard that.”

“Did you know that before her accident, she didn’t have an anger control issue?”

Again Marge hesitated. “Yes.”

“Did you know that Pierce was driving drunk the night of the accident?”

“No, no, no!” Marge said, gesturing with one hand as if to erase Betsy’s words. “That’s a lie Joanne tells! She doesn’t remember the accident, so she makes up things!”

“Does she hate her husband that much?”

Marge looked exasperated. “She—she doesn’t hate him, not exactly. She gets mad at him and lashes out. She gets mad at everyone. Even herself—maybe especially herself. She knows what she’s become. Sometimes she even wishes she’d been killed in the accident.”

Betsy’s heart constricted. “How awful to wish that!”

“How awful to live with someone as angry and miserable as she is.”

“So why does Pierce stay with her? He’s in love with you, you’re in love with him, Joanne makes his life desperately unhappy. Why doesn’t he divorce her?”

Marge sighed and leaned back in her chair. “He feels responsible for her.” She looked around the little, cluttered office and sighed again. But Betsy bit her tongue and waited her out.

“Okay, there are two reasons.” Marge held out an index finger and tugged on it. “One. He feels guilty. He wasn’t drunk, but he had been drinking that night. It was raining and the rain was turning to sleet, and the roads were slippery. But what happened was, a panel truck being driven by an exhausted driver lost control on a curve and hit them. Their car slammed across a ditch and rolled over three times. There was a lawsuit and the company that owned the truck
and
the driver’s insurance company were required to give the McMurphy’s big payouts. Over a million, I guess, maybe more. A good thing, too; Pierce had good medical insurance, but there were still tens of thousands owed to doctors and the hospital. But, in the end, there was quite a lot left over when the accounts were settled and Joanne came home.

“Pierce was assigned to manage the settlement because it’s obvious Joanne isn’t able to make fiscally responsible decisions.” Marge stopped, and when Betsy didn’t say anything, she touched the hair at the nape of her neck, then scratched the tip of her nose. She glanced sideways at Betsy, who continued to hold her tongue.

“Well, that settlement enabled them to live comfortably,” she conceded, adding hastily, “or as comfortably as a couple can live when one of them is as unstable as Joanne is.”

“It seems to me that she’s dangerous,” said Betsy. “I’m surprised he hasn’t had her committed.”

“We—he’s thought about it. But a place that could give her proper care, a really good place, would cost a great deal of money, probably all that’s left of the settlement. And—and, well, Pierce would lose control of her funds. Plus, despite all her outbursts, she hasn’t actually hurt anyone; it’s just shouting and throwing things. And she’s very attached to him. When she’s not in a temper, he says she’s actually kind of sweet. He can calm her down, most of the time, and she takes directions from him. It’s complicated, but he’s decided that, at present, she’s better off staying at home with him.”

There was another pause. This time Betsy broke it. “What’s number two?”

“Two? Oh yes. Two.” Marge held out her first two fingers and tugged them. “Red marigolds. I believe the patent on the seeds of the red marigold will bring in a great deal of money. With that, and with what Pierce is earning from his work, the two of us could maintain the standard of living he’s used to—and without the constant worry of watching out for Joanne. But if I can’t provide a good income, he’s better off staying with her.” She sighed. “Sometimes I think he’d prefer things to stay as they are.”

“What does Pierce think of finding a place for her?” Betsy asked.

“If we could find a good place, one nearby so he could visit her frequently, he thinks this would be an excellent solution.”

And what would Joanne think about it in those sweet moments of clarity? Betsy elected not to ask that question.

“Betsy,” said Marge, her expression troubled, “I’m worried because this has gone on so long. The police don’t like murders going unsolved, and I’m afraid Sergeant Malloy is feeling pressure to arrest someone, anyone, so he can mark the case closed. Please, I hope learning about Pierce and me hasn’t made you decide to back off trying to help me.”

“No, of course it hasn’t. I’m trying hard to find out what really happened. I hope you can be patient with me.”

“Is Mike looking at anyone else, do you know?”

“He is looking everywhere, I’m sure.”

*   *   *

A
S
she started walking back home, Betsy reflected on the story Marge had told her. Betsy had thought Pierce stayed with Joanne because he felt guilty about causing the car wreck that damaged Joanne’s brain. But Marge said the accident wasn’t Pierce’s fault; he stayed because of a significant settlement that, added to his income, provided a comfortable lifestyle—so long as he let Joanne live at home with him.

And as long as they remained married, he could not join the woman he really loved: Marge.

Now Marge was reaching toward a fiscal solution to Pierce’s problem. If she could make a success of her new variety of marigolds, Pierce was—according to Marge—willing to put Joanne in a secure facility, use the settlement to keep her there in comfort, divorce her, and marry Marge.

The moneygrubbing bastard.

But Betsy, remembering the enraged Joanne in her shop and her unsettling behavior over lunch, was not inclined to condemn Pierce altogether. Doubtless he had once loved her, and perhaps the occasional glimpses of her former self made him reluctant to set her aside now. And the monetary settlement had at least in part the effect of keeping her at home with her husband. But Joanne’s behavior represented a threat to the community, and possibly even to Pierce himself. Amy Stromberg had described an incident where a furious Joanne threw a tennis racket at Pierce. That was likely not an isolated event. Her behavior toward Pierce had to be one of the elements leading to a decision of what to do about her.

Was she happier staying with Pierce, even if provoked by the ordinary stresses of living in freedom? Or would she do better confined in a more controlled environment? It was not a conundrum Betsy felt competent to solve.

But how did any of this pertain to Betsy’s problem: Who murdered Hailey? Did it pertain at all? If so, how? Thinking about that kept Betsy so occupied on her way home that she didn’t notice the sparrows quarreling charmingly in the gutter or a special on old cross-stitch pattern books in Leipold’s window.