Chapter Eleven
“Found Mrs. McLaughton’s youngest son today. Inside the house. And her car in the garage. Son said he’d been living there since a couple of days after the murder—all you-know-what came down at the station house. Chief was about to suspend everybody in sight, but he’s fixed on Conroy for missing something so obvious.”
I told Mike about the moving shutter the day I drove down the driveway, but he was so angry that he didn’t hear it, and I was too chastised by his scolding to make a point of it. “Does he have an alibi?” I didn’t remember a car in the garage, and I’d have noticed that.
“Says he’s been in and out of town, in Dallas with friends for a week when the murder happened. Conroy will have to check it out.”
“Well, even if he did hit his mother in the head with a shovel or something, he wouldn’t have killed Florence Dodson and hit Mrs. Glenn.”
Mike looked thoughtful. “I don’t know. You hear about people, particularly men, who hate their mothers so much they transfer that hate to other women. It’s the motivating anger behind a lot of rapists.”
“Maybe he and Mrs. Dodson’s youngest nephew were in cahoots,” I quipped, trying to be funny, but Mike gave me a dark look.
“They’re two of a kind. We’ll have to see if they ran with the same pack.”
Mom looked more and more alarmed at the conversation, glancing from me to Keisha to the girls, who were taking every word in. When Em asked, “What’s rape?” I thought Mom would faint. Instead, she said, “You know that nice man who’s heading the neighborhood patrol came to see me today. I gave him tea, and we had a good visit. At least he didn’t hate his mother. He spoke about her in such glowing terms and how he’d devoted his life to taking care of her because she’d been so good to him.”
I exchanged a wary look with Mike.
“He says he’ll check on me often.”
“That’s good, Mom.”
“You know,” she mused, fluffing her hair, “I don’t think he’s much younger than I am.”
I couldn’t help it. I slapped a quick hand over my mouth to cover my gasp, while Mike gave me a sharp kick under the table.
“Do you want a boyfriend too, Nana?” Em asked.
Keisha grinned, my face was red, Mike tried to keep from laughing, and Mom got uptight. “No, Em, of course not. I’m too old for such foolishness.”
“No, you’re not,” I said, “but I don’t think Ralph Hoskins is the right man. He’s sort of… different. Well,” I finished, “he’s sixty-something, and he’s never been married. I call that a red flag.”
Mom looked long at Mike, a look that said, “Everyone to their own taste.” Aloud, she said, “He didn’t seem ‘different’ to me, whatever you mean by that. He was quite interesting. And I guess the reason he never married is that he was so devoted to his mother.”
I began to clear the table. I couldn’t do anything else. Keisha still held her sides to keep from laughing, but the girls helped me.
Mike just said, “Don’t rush into anything, Nana.”
****
As we lay in bed that night, Mike said, “I don’t like Hoskins hanging around your mom.”
“Me neither. I know he’s not the serial killer, but then again, he’s not who I’d pick for a stepfather.” The idea of having a stepfather sent me into a fit of giggles.
Mike wasn’t amused. He just yawned. “Where was Claire tonight? She been eating with you most of the time?”
“No, she hasn’t come in for supper in several days. Maybe she thinks I’ve gotten myself together as a cook since I’m feeding you and Mom.”
“Well, you did great tonight. I love those green beans.”
He nodded off, but I lay awake wondering about Claire and where she was. I knew she wasn’t out in the guest house these evenings, though a few nights I heard her drive in late, sometimes even after Mike got off duty.
I knew she’d come tell me what was going on, so I turned over and went to sleep, only to dream troubling dreams about Mom being in danger and Tom Lattimore holding me hostage. How much wine had I consumed that evening?
****
A day or two later, Joanie called. I hadn’t even seen the baby, though I’d sent a gift, and Joanie wrote a proper thank-you but she didn’t call for a long time. I think we were both afraid the child would look too much like my late ex-husband, Tim, a possibility Joanie confided to me over too much wine the night Tim was murdered. It seems she and Tim had a brief one-night stand that I had no idea about. At the time it was too much for me to process, and I put it in the back of my mind. Her call brought it to the front. I shuddered with apprehension.
But when she suggested lunch, I felt a tug for the old friendship. I knew she would be full of baby—what was her name? Something that should be a last name—Angus Mitchell popped into my mind, and I had it—McKenzie! Joanie wouldn’t be much interested in my new relationship with Mike, though Buck must have told her all about it. Nor would she be interested in my worries over Mom or the serial killer. Joanie would still be Joanie.
Still, I’m the kind who hates to let go of old friendships. She wanted to get out and visit but would have to bring McKenzie in her carrier. We agreed to meet at the Italian place down the street from my office—I loved their meatballs and red sauce, but they’d redecorated their space and enlarged their menu so it offered lots of other possibilities.
I slid into a booth a few minutes before noon and sat collecting myself. I glanced idly around at my fellow diners. Idly, that is, until I glanced at the far booth and saw Claire and Jim Guthrie in earnest conversation. They didn’t see me, and I wondered how to slink out or down in the booth or something. I couldn’t leave—couldn’t do that to Joanie and besides they’d see me when I left. But what were they doing
together?
I was so distracted that I know I was distant when Joanie breezed in carrying McKenzie. I oohed and aahed over the baby, tickled her chin and was rewarded by a grin, returned Joanie’s hug, and then sat down and continued to stare at that corner booth.
“Kelly, what’s up?” she asked, her eyes following mine.
“Oh, nothing,” I said, “just thought I saw someone I knew.”
She glanced again. “Those are the people that bought your house, aren’t they? And she shot him. What are they doing here together?”
I shrugged. “Who knows? Now tell me about you. How are things?”
“Both fine. Buck is a wonder with that baby, loves her like she’s his own. And, Kelly, I think I’m happy for the first time in my adult life. I quit work, and we’re living on Buck’s salary. It’s a comedown, and we watch our pennies, but it’s worth it. I have the best man and the best baby in the world.” She seemed sincere, not the old Joanie of the past, who had on occasion twisted a wine glass so hard in her nervous hands that she broke it, or the Joanie who declared she knew nothing about children and then ended up sleeping on the couch with her arms around Em. I was sort of unprepared for this quiet, calm, happy Joanie. I didn’t ask if marriage plans were in the offing—after all, she could turn that one around on me.
“So,” she said, “tell me about you. I’ve missed too much. I know there’s a serial killer in the neighborhood—we’re living on Adams, and Buck has drummed caution into me until I’m afraid I’ll be a little old lady before my time.”
I smiled. “I don’t know much about it. Mike wants me to stay out of it, though I’ve done a bit of exploring on my own. So far, nothing.”
“And Mike?” she asked.
So I filled her in on our living situation, and she gushed, the old Joanie back in place. Then I told her about Mom, and she seemed interested, asked the right questions, such as, “Aren’t you afraid to bring her into the neighborhood right now?” I explained about Keisha.
Sometime after our entrees were served—spaghetti and meatballs for me and a huge antipasto salad for her—I saw Claire and Jim get up to leave. Claire looked straight at me but gave no sign of recognition.
I kept my mind on the conversation with Joanie for the rest of the lunch, but it was an effort. We parted cordially, agreeing that we’d have to get together soon. “I want the girls to see McKenzie,” she said. “I bet someday they’ll make great babysitters.”
“The girls will love her. And you’ll have to come to our house. Other than moving day, I don’t think you ever saw it.”
Much later I realized that McKenzie didn’t look one bit like Tim, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I wouldn’t have wanted to explain to the girls that she was their half-sister.
We agreed it was a deal and vowed we would keep in more frequent touch. But as she turned to leave, Joanie asked, “Why didn’t you at least speak to those people who bought your house?”
I just shrugged and walked away, leaving her staring after me in puzzlement.
****
I went back to my office with my thoughts whirling. Wasn’t there a restraining order keeping Claire away from Jim? Wasn’t she furious at what he demanded out of the divorce? What were they doing together? I had a bad feeling, couldn’t pin it down, but knew I wasn’t wrong.
“You look like lunch didn’t agree with you,” Keisha said. “How was Princess Joanie?”
“She’s fine,” I mumbled. “Good as a matter of fact, not so self-centered.”
“Well, then..?” The question trailed off.
“I’m just puzzled about something.”
“And you aren’t gonna tell!”
“Nope. Not yet. In time.”
****
I just got the girls home that afternoon, when Claire came in the back door. Her tense look told me she wanted to talk about lunch, and I sent the girls back to their rooms to do their homework.
“You saw me with Jim,” she said.
It was a plain statement of fact, and I wasn’t about to deny it. “Yeah, I did. I was surprised…and puzzled.”
“We’ve been meeting, mostly for cocktails…I’m hoping by being friendly I can soften him on some of his demands in the divorce decree. I told you before, the negotiations are fragile. I’m doing what I can.”
“Don’t they have professional mediators who do that?” I asked. Seemed a lot more sensible to me than meeting over drinks.
“Jim won’t hear of it. So I’m trying to be my own mediator.” She shrugged. “I got the job, but it doesn’t pay near enough to allow me to send Megan to college. And I want the house. I want to be able to buy him out of it, even on time. So that’s what I’m trying to accomplish.”
“How’s it going?”
“Not so good, so far. He seems to enjoy meeting with me, but he won’t budge on the issues. I think he wants me to be the mistress he just gave up—and I won’t do that.”
I was stymied. I had no idea what to say, and I guess my face revealed my bewilderment.
“I’m going out to buy us some dinner,” she said. “Will Mike be home tonight?”
I shook my head. “No, it’s just me and the girls…and you.”
She paused a minute. “I think I’ll cook some pork tenderloin, with oven roasted potatoes. And I’ll get makings for a salad.”
Before I could stutter that I had salad greens, she was gone.
When she started cooking, I noticed she still favored her right arm and tried to do most things left-handedly, with awkward results. “How’s your shoulder?”
She shrugged and then winced as if even that hurt. “They did an MRI and it’s only a garden variety sprain. I’m to go to therapy for it—maybe I will, and maybe I’ll do my own therapy. But the doctor gave me some pills to help me sleep—I think they’re Percocet—so don’t offer me any wine tonight.”
“Ok. It’s a promise.”
And cook a gourmet dinner that night she did, with enough left over for Mike, who asked, “What’s the occasion?”
I couldn’t tell him. I just said Claire felt like cooking.
****
A few nights later, while I brushed my teeth, Mike said, “Ran into Conroy today. He told me Mrs. McLaughton’s son’s alibi checks out—he was in Dallas, didn’t even know about the murder until he came home two days later and called one of his brothers to ask where she was.”
“What did the brother say?”
“He wasn’t too cordial. Said ‘in the funeral home.’ The son, Scott, pretended to be all torn up about it, said he’d been pretty much hiding out in the house since.”
“Because he knew he’d be a suspect?”
“According to Conroy, because he was torn up. Conroy said place looked like he’d been hibernating—a nice, well-kept house, but with Scott there and Mom not, ashtrays were overflowing, sink filled with dirty dishes, and trash full of pizza delivery boxes.”
