Chapter Four
I came home to find Claire Guthrie sitting in the dark in my living room. It was a cloudy day, and the room was gloomy as though dusk settled on it early. Craftsman houses tend to be dark, with their leaded glass windows and dark woodwork. Claire sat huddled in one of the huge chairs, staring straight ahead with no expression on her face. She didn’t acknowledge the girls and me. The girls gawked, until I whispered to them to go take their things to their rooms and give me a minute. Then, almost whispering, “Claire?”
“Claire, what is it?” My imagination raced with things that could have happened—a discouraging visit with lawyer Karen Landman, an encounter with Jim, an even more disastrous encounter with her daughters. As I brought possibilities to the surface of my mind, they grew more and more grim.
“Jim left a message on my cell phone to say that he’d see that I was broke and homeless and…. He said he’d see me rot in hell.”
“Well,” I suggested, “only if he’s there himself as a witness.” I hoped I didn’t sound flippant, but it was a pretty awful thing for him to say. I’d never been shot, though, and I didn’t know how I’d feel.
“I’ll see him out of that house first,” she said, raising her chin in determination.
I didn’t know what to make of Claire at this point. She was no longer the gracious, socially conscious lady I’d lunched with. She was a tiger defending her territory. Before I could say anything more, she went on.
“And the girls—they’re both at camp in the Hill Country, Megan’s last year, and Liz’s first as a counselor. I called them. Megan didn’t seem much affected—sorry I’m in the mess I am but that’s all. Jim is her stepfather. Liz on the other hand….” she hesitated just a fraction of a second. “She was furious, asked if her father needed her to come up from camp. She didn’t seem to care how I felt.”
That, I thought, is what’s upset her. “What did you say?”
“I told her that was up to her father, told her where I am staying, said I’d be glad to see her any time, talk to her about it. I don’t want to badmouth Jim to his only daughter, but I don’t want her to think I shot him as a lark or something.”
There went the idea that no one knows where she’s staying! Jim Guthrie would know by now. I wondered how much both those girls knew about their parents lives. It sounded as though each parent had relationships outside the marriage, and I didn’t see how the girls could have missed that. My thoughts flew to Mike and what a steady stepfather he’d make. I knew between us, we’d set a better example—there I was, passing judgment again.
“How old is Liz?”
“Sixteen.”
All my friends told me to beware of the teens, when daughters begin to hate their mothers and turn into witches. I couldn’t believe it of Maggie and Em, but I could believe it of this Liz I didn’t know. Maybe Liz felt her mother threatened her safe and comfortable world. Maybe choosing one parent over the other wasn’t the real reason behind her attitude, but I couldn’t figure it out, let alone put it into words to Claire. I had no idea how to comfort her. All I could do was send a prayer heavenward that I would never get on the outs with one of my daughters.
From down the hall, I could hear the girls beginning to quarrel, and I knew they were hungry. “Claire, I have to fix dinner. Let’s talk later.”
She nodded but didn’t move, didn’t offer to help with dinner—darn, and she’d been such a help last night and this morning. She just sat there.
“Girls, come help me fix supper. You can start by setting the table.”
They rounded the corner into the living room, giving long curious looks to Claire, who didn’t look at them at all. Then it was, “It’s my turn to set the table. You have to do dishes.”
“No, you set the table last night.”
“But that doesn’t count, because Miss Claire did the dishes.”
I drew them into the kitchen, put Em to setting the table and Maggie to cutting up a salad, which was a definite step up in responsibility for her, and she was pleased. They were both quiet, though I noticed Em peeking into the living room now and then. Claire sat in the darkness, almost without moving.
If dinner was a bit awkward last night, it was painful this night. The girls were silent, looking down at their plates and taking furtive glances at Claire, who poked at her food, pushed it around on her plate, and didn’t take one bite. My vegetable frittata, cobbled together again from Claire’s leftovers, wasn’t that bad. Claire just didn’t feel like eating.
Within minutes, Claire excused herself, saying she wasn’t feeling well, and left for the garage apartment.
“Mom, what’s the matter with Miss Claire?” Em asked.
“What do you think?” Maggie said. “She’s in big trouble for shooting Mr. Guthrie.”
“She shouldn’t have done that,” Em said. “But I hope she’s not in big trouble. She has to take care of Emily.” She paused a moment and then said thoughtfully, “Well, I suppose if she goes to jail I could take care of Emily.”
Em was turning out to be heartless—or calculating, I wasn’t sure which. But it was the time to be honest with my children. “She’s in trouble,” I said. “We don’t know yet just how much, but it’s very serious to shoot someone.”
“Mom, if she could shoot her husband, is it…I mean, is it safe for her to stay with us? What if she decided to shoot us?” Maggie was serious, and I rushed to put my arms around her.
“Oh, Maggie, that won’t happen. She was angry with Mr. Guthrie—he was mean to her—and she lost sight of right and wrong in her anger. But she knows we’re trying to help her. She’d never hurt us.”
“If you lose sight of right and wrong,” Em asked, “does God forgive you?”
I wanted to tell her that God might be more likely to than mankind, but I didn’t. “I don’t know, darling, I just don’t know. But when you say your prayers tonight, ask God to be kind to Miss Claire.”
“What about Mr. Guthrie?” Maggie demanded with seven-year-old logic that fair should be fair.
“Uh… him too.” Okay, I only hesitated a minute.
But a thought lingered in my mind—what if Claire indeed took her anger out first on Florence and then on Jim Guthrie? Had I taken a killer into my family, even if she seemed grateful and harmless?
****
Joe and Theresa rang the bell just after we finished supper, and the girls greeted them with so much enthusiasm I thought they might literally sweep them off their feet. Theresa lived with us for a short time, while Joe seemed to be in deep trouble, and the girls loved her. After he turned his life around, Theresa and Joe married over the summer, a marriage Anthony objected to because of Joe’s gang background. But I had faith in both of them. They’d build a solid life together.
“Joe wants to talk to you, Miss Kelly. He trusts you.”
That was a good sign.
The girls vied for their attention. “Joe, I have to show you my dog. His name is Gus, and he’s so smart. Want to go out in the yard and throw the ball for him?”
“Whoa, Maggie. Can I talk to your mom a minute before we go outside?”
I laughed. “You go, and I’ll bake some brownies while you’re out there. Just try to be quiet in case Claire is sleeping.”
“Claire?” Theresa asked, and I told the whole story.
“Wow, Miss Kelly,” Joe said, “you got a lot goin’ on around here.” And then Maggie dragged him outside.
Not to be outdone, Em said to Theresa, “I have a cat, sort of. Mom, can I take Theresa outside to meet Emily?”
I told her no, because Miss Claire didn’t feel well.
Theresa immediately put her arms around a pouting Em and said, “Tell me about your cat, Em.”
Later, we had brownies with milk, and then I sent the girls to bathe.
“We took baths last night,” Maggie said indignantly.
“Bathe again. It’s summer, and you sweat a lot.” I was merciless.
With them out of earshot, I asked Theresa and Joe about what was going on in their lives. The report was good. Theresa worked as a sales “associate” at a small but pricey boutique. The owners liked her because she was tiny and could model their clothes to advantage, and she was good with customers, always polite. Joe, several years older, expected to earn his GED in a couple of weeks and worked at the Southwest YMCA. “I’m going to the junior college this fall,” he said. “It may take me a while, but I’m going to get a degree.”
“Then it will be my turn,” Theresa said.
Joe took her hand, “We’re both going to get our educations.”
While the girls were still bathing, I asked Joe the question on my mind. “Joe, my former neighbor, Mrs. Dodson, an elderly lady, was hit in the head and killed a couple of nights ago. In her own backyard.”
“The lady that walked that little dog,” Theresa reminded him.
“Gus,” I said, “is that little dog. We took him in.”
Gus has been sitting at our feet, and Theresa picked him up and talked softly to him about what a scare he’d had and what a good, loving home he’d found for himself.
“Joe, the detective who came to see me this morning thinks it was a gang thing, but I can’t see that. It was Buck Conroy, who you remember.”
“Yeah, I remember that guy. Not with good memories. Theresa says she told you he came to our apartment too.”
“And he’ll be back,” I said. “He wants to talk to you. It would be easy for him to pin this on gang activity, and since you knew my house on Sixth, you might have somehow noticed Mrs. Dodson. At least I guess that’s what he’s thinking, which is ridiculous. My best advice is to be as honest and open as you can be.”
He shook his head. “Killing a harmless old lady is not a gang thing, Miss Kelly. They pick on each other, not old ladies. Sounds to me like it was someone with a grudge.”
The girls came back in, this time dressed in matching yellow nightgowns, and begged Joe and Theresa to come back more often. They gave hugs, and soon after they headed to bed, Joe and Theresa left too, saying their days started early. I told them they’d have to come to dinner soon, and I’d call them.
Mike came by after his shift as usual. I dozed off on the couch, and it took me a fuzzy moment to wake up and let him in. He didn’t kiss me, he didn’t say hello, he just stormed in and stood making large gestures. “It’s worse than I thought,” he said. “The station’s flooded with phone calls from old ladies thinking they’re in danger, from the neighborhood association demanding more patrols, from the newspaper and TV people wanting to know what’s going on. That guy Hoskins called, insisting the neighborhood group, whoever they are, could do more.” He paused a minute. “I’m glad I don’t have a desk job and have to sit there and listen to that.”
“Anything I can do?”
“Yes,” he said, “stay out of it. Buck Conroy says you told him you met that Hoskins fellow. And Buck said you asked him if they’d checked for fingerprints, as if he wouldn’t do that first thing.” He shook his head. “I said it last night, and I’m repeating it, you can’t poke your nose into police business. It’s embarrassing for me—and could be dangerous for you.”
I stared at the floor, like a scolded child. “I went into Mrs. Dodson’s yard to have a look because I never thought she fell down the stairs, and now you know she didn’t. And the fingerprints? Those pots don’t look to me like they were used to bash anyone’s head. They look like they were thrown down the stairs.”
Suddenly, he laughed, not a belly laugh by any means but a small chuckle. He sat down close to me, stretched out until his feet rested on the coffee table, and took my hand. “Maybe Buck Conroy should listen to you after all. Flower pots weren’t the weapon. It appears to have been something metal, something with a hard but blunt edge, according to the coroner.”
“And it’s gone?”
“Yeah, it’s gone. You want to say, ‘I told you so’?”
I shook my head. “No, I want you all to find out who killed her, so other little old ladies won’t be frightened.”
“We’re trying,” he said. “All I can do is keep an eye out when I’m on patrol. And what you can do is let the department do its work. You don’t have to do it for us. And besides putting yourself in danger, you get in our way.”
What I couldn’t bring myself to put into words was the question of whether or not Claire was a suspect. I didn’t need to.
“Conroy’s getting a search warrant for the Guthrie property. If he finds the murder weapon, Mrs. G. is in big trouble.”
I thought of Claire, probably sleeping fitfully in the outside apartment.
“You got any dinner left over? I didn’t have time to stop at the Grill tonight.”
