Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_02 (4 page)

I’d not brought provisions for visitors, and I incline to a rather spartan breakfast—cereal, applesauce, and coffee. It isn’t that I hoard fat grams, but life is a trade-off, and I’ll
take a hot fudge sundae later in the day over buttered toast anytime.

When Craig joined me, he looked a good deal better than the night before. He still wore the stained trousers, but the sweatshirt was a great improvement over the bloodied shirt. Yet, even freshly shaven and after a few hours of sleep, he still had the air of a stunned survivor.

It didn’t, given the fare, take us long to eat.

I refilled our coffee cups.

“It’s all so crazy,” he blurted out. “I can’t believe I’m here. I can’t believe what happened to …”

I looked sympathetic. I wondered if I was serving as a practice session.

“I was at the store.”

“Store?”

“Patty Kay’s bookstore.”

Hmm. Not
our
bookstore.
Patty Kay’s
bookstore.

“Where?”

He looked at me blankly.

“What town?”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure. We live”—He paused, I knew, because Patty Kay no longer lived—“in Fair Haven.”

I was familiar with it. Fair Haven is some twenty miles south of Nashville on Hillsboro Pike. It is not only one of Tennessee’s loveliest old towns, it is one of its wealthiest. There is a great deal of old money in Fair Haven, and lots of new.

I glanced again at his slacks. Stained or not, they were expensive and well cut.

“Is that how you earn your living? Running the bookstore?”

It shouldn’t have been a difficult question.

“Well … I mean, I run it for Patty Kay. I used to teach but … Actually, she has—
had
lots of investments.”

“So the bookstore doesn’t have to make money.” I know those kinds of booksellers, wealthy people who love books.

“Oh, no. Patty Kay wants”—another sober pause—“always wanted to make money.”

Certainly. No one appreciates money more than the rich. But they can afford to indulge hobbies until they become profitable.

“So you were at the bookstore. When?”

“Yesterday afternoon. It was a regular Saturday. Busy. I answered the phone a dozen times. Then somebody hung up when I answered. I didn’t think anything about it. A wrong number. Happens sometimes. It rang again. Another hangup. Then I was waiting on a customer. One of the clerks—Amy—answered the next ring. After I made the sale, Amy came over. She said Patty Kay wanted me to pick up a basket of fruit at a shop in Green Hills, then hurry home. So I drove to the shop—”

“Just like that? No, ‘Will you please’ or ‘Could you …’ Did Patty Kay order you around all the time?”

He didn’t like that. His voice became defensive. “She didn’t order me around. But, sure, she asked me to do things.”

“And you did them.”

“Sure. I mean, why not?”

That wasn’t for me to say. But, despite all the lip service to androgynous work roles in today’s liberated marriages, from my observations most women still handle the domestic chores, and, when they don’t, there is a good deal of charm exercised in shifting them. I didn’t hear any echoes of charm here.

So what kind of marriage did Craig and Patty Kay Matthews have?

The police would want to know.

I was beginning to have some ideas.

“All right. You went to pick up the fruit.”

Puzzlement puckered his face. That, or some artful Method acting. “They didn’t have an order. I thought there was maybe a mixup. So I called home—”

Ah, what a dutiful errand boy—

“—and the machine came on.” His eyes brightened. “Listen, they’ll remember that at the deli, won’t they? Patty Kay must have already—” He broke off.

Because he didn’t want to remember? Or did he remember only too well?

“So you started home?”

“Well, I had them fix up a fruit basket. Just in case.”

This fellow didn’t want to face his wife without a basket of fruit. Not if she wanted a basket of fruit.

It was further proof of the power Patty Kay exercised over him. I could imagine the cold, jaundiced eyes of a cop listening to this. Margaret’s nephew would come off as henpecked at best. Resentful at worst?

Margaret.

“Craig, before you leave, you should phone your aunt. It certainly won’t do for her to hear about Patty Kay’s death on the morning news. And it will reassure her to speak—”

He abruptly plunked down his cup. Coffee sloshed out. “Yeah, I know. That would be best.” He shoved back his chair. “But there isn’t time. I told Desmond I’d get to his office by eight. I’ve got to leave right now,
right
now, to make it. Why don’t you call? Tell her everything’s going to be okay.”

And he was grabbing up his soiled shirt and heading for the door.

I followed him.

He yanked open the door of a new metallic green Porsche that glittered like emeralds in the early morning
sun slanting through the branches of a hackberry. I pegged the cost of the car at around $75,000.

Funny, how some people spend their money.

Pots and kettles. After all, how many people does a stained glass window feed? Moral judgments appear easy. Quicksand looks solid. Try walking on it.

The motor growled to life. “Yeah, I’ve got to drive like hell. But I want to thank you—”

“No problem.”

“Uh—”

I could have finished it for him, but I didn’t.

“Uh—if the police want to talk to you. I mean, I told Desmond you were my aunt.”

Yes, indeed he had.

A quick little lie. But wasn’t it simply human nature to try to put a good face on running away? However, it wasn’t Craig’s only lie.

The trouble with lies is how easily they can be exposed and the mass of detail that must be remembered to deceive successfully. Last night, distraught over his wife’s murder, embroiled in telling me what had happened, caught up in talking to the lawyer who made it clear that his flight had made him a suspect, Craig had repeated the lawyer’s query, …
in the morning at your office?
Yeah,
I can be there by nine
.

How easily, how quickly this morning Craig changed the time so that he would not have to call his aunt.

Was he afraid that somehow, some way, he would reveal himself to Margaret? Was he fearful of an emotional outburst on her part? Or on his?

I could guess all morning. All I knew with certainty was this young man’s penchant for untruths.

And he was asking me for help, asking me in effect to join in a lie.

Why should I?

He looked young and vulnerable. His rosebud mouth drooped. His woeful eyes pleaded.

Margaret’s nephew, her only living kin.

Oh, hell. “Honorary aunts aren’t unusual. I suppose I could be your Aunt Henrie O.”

He shifted the gleaming auto into reverse, (lashed me his winsome, charming smile.

As the Porsche’s smooth roar faded in the distance, I shook my head. I had a strong sense that Craig Matthews’s accomplished smile wasn’t going to be enough to help him this time.

And he’d left me the task of calling Margaret. I wondered how often he fobbed off unpleasant tasks on those around him.

Margaret’s voice sounded stronger.

I handled it as well as I could, making it clear at the outset that Craig was en route to see the authorities.

“Murdered … Henrie O, how dreadful.” A thoughtful, somber pause. “He’ll be a suspect.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.” Margaret and I know the world too well for sugarcoating.

“I met her only twice,” Margaret told me, because she knew I needed her help. “A vibrant personality. Forceful. Direct. Quite wealthy. The kind of woman you’d love or hate. No halfway measures. Of course, she married someone like Craig…. Nice, but weak. That’s the truth about him, Henrie O. Craig isn’t strong enough to kill anyone.”

Sometimes crimes are committed because the perpetrator is weak. I didn’t say so.

But Margaret knows me well. “Henrie O, please. Look out for him. I’ll get a lawyer—” Her voice rose.

“Don’t borrow trouble, Margaret. Craig’s on his way to
see a lawyer right now. Perhaps the crime will be quickly solved. Don’t worry, I’ll keep on top of it.”

After I hung up, I didn’t take the leisurely ramble in the woods I’d anticipated with such pleasure. Instead, I drove to a gas station/convenience store on the highway. I picked up the Sunday newspaper.

Back at the cabin, I poured another cup of coffee and opened the paper. I looked first at the two-column photograph of Craig Matthews and a strikingly attractive woman in her late thirties. She was slender and athletic, dark-haired with a vivacious smile and a bright, challenging look. Behind her was a pavilion and a lake.

The cutline read: IN HAPPIER DAYS—
Craig Matthews and his wife, Patty Kay, are pictured at the annual Walden School fall picnic last September. Mrs. Matthews, 38, was found slain in their exclusive Fair Haven home on Saturday
.

This story was circumspect:

Hmm. Craig hadn’t mentioned his stepdaughter, Brigit. Where was Patty Kay’s daughter on a Saturday afternoon? Had Craig run away, perhaps leaving the girl to discover her mother’s corpse? But no, an anonymous phone call summoned the police. Why hadn’t Craig mentioned Brigit?

It would be interesting to know what the anonymous caller said to the police.

The Monday-morning update showed a change in tone:

I put down the paper and dug my Sony Walkman out of my gym bag. I turned it on, found a Nashville news station. It came as no surprise a few minutes later when the announcer said that Fair Haven police had arrested Craig Matthews late Sunday evening. They had charged him with murder in the death of his wife.

I reached for my cellular phone, then paused. I had a decision to make.

What was I going to tell Margaret?

More important than that, what—if any—action was I prepared to take?

I was not surprised at the arrest.

But an arrest didn’t mean Craig Matthews was guilty.

I found it intriguing, to say the least, that Craig received two phone calls at the bookstore where the caller promptly hung up.

Aaah, so what, the pro-police view would demand. Who said those phone calls occurred?

Craig Matthews.

But when the clerk answered, there was a message for Craig to pick up the fruit basket and bring it home.

Sure, the police could respond. Mrs. Matthews called. The lack of a basket could simply have been a mistake at the deli. Or perhaps Patty Kay thought she’d ordered the basket and hadn’t. There could be lots of explanations. The fact that the store had no record of an order was no proof that the phone call to the bookstore was part of an elaborate plan to frame Matthews.