OUT ON A LIMB (18 page)

“I am here to see Mrs. Armstrong,” he said. “We have an appointment.”

“You must be Reverend Simpleton,” Chantilly chirped from behind me. “Do come in, you darling man. Adrienne’s expecting you.” She nudged me aside and took his arm. “She’s holding up well, considering the circumstances. I just feel blessed to be able to be here to help her. Please let me show you the way. Claire, be a dear and see to the refreshments.”

I waited until they went past me, then closed the door and reminded myself that I was in the presence of clergy. Acerbic comments would be inappropriate, especially from the help—and in my case, indentured.

In the kitchen, I replaced the receiver, started the kettle to make fresh tea, and rooted through the refrigerator until I found the smoked salmon et al. Ten minutes later I took the pitcher and a platter of sandwiches to the conservatory and smiled apologetically as the three of them looked up at me as if I’d barged into a top-secret Pentagon briefing. No wonder kitchen maids in crime fiction kept bumping off their employers, I thought as I tiptoed out of the room.

I decided to stay until the session in the conservatory was concluded, then pass the mantle to Chantilly. A few more visitors showed up over the next hour; all retreated gracefully (or gratefully) when I informed them with undue gravity that Adrienne was in consultation with the minister, whose name I’d already forgotten. Two more floral arrangements were delivered, both potential centerpieces if everyone at the table was seven feet tall.

During a lull, I crept out of the kitchen and went searching for Anthony’s office. I knew from what Daphne had told me that it was on the first floor. I found it down a hallway past the bottom of the staircase. No officious yellow tape forbade me from entering the room, although I suspected the Farberville CID would be less than pleased that I was violating the sanctity of the crime scene. As I stood in the doorway, I saw a dark stain on the oriental rug in front of the desk. I was almost surprised Adrienne had not instructed me to arrange to have the rug steam-cleaned before the funeral because of some relative’s delicate constitution. Perhaps the decorator was scheduled to show up in the morning with a replacement.

The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were filled with sets of expensively bound classics chosen more for their complementary hues than their content. On the wall near two leather chairs and an antique globe was a gun case. Behind the glass cabinet doors were a few handguns and hunting rifles. The locks showed no signs of tampering. If Daphne had indeed fired a gun, she had not taken it from the case. She could have taken one from Joey—or stolen it from him, I amended. But she’d claimed to have been upstairs when her father was shot, and I desperately wanted to believe her.

Even though I knew the police had already searched every centimeter of the room, I went behind the desk and began to ease open drawers. The quantity of paperwork was impressive. Among manila folders dedicated to projects past and future were copies of city ordinances for everything from utilities to storm drains, and, of course, tree preservation. The pens in the middle drawer were not plastic and could not be purchased at a discount office supply store. A half-empty roll of heartburn mints indicated Anthony was not always as self-assured as he’d presented himself to be in front of the camera. At the back of the drawer I found a file of Daphne’s progress reports from the Disciples Academy. I popped a mint in my mouth as I skimmed through them. Said progress had been minimal, if not minuscule, and she’d been close to expulsion at the close of the last spring semester. Which conceivably had been her goal—which she’d achieved by conceiving, inadvertently or otherwise.

I was pawing through another drawer when I heard the telephone ring in the kitchen. I hastily replaced everything and hurried out of the room, feeling like a game show contestant trying to beat the clock. Alas, I did not. Chantilly was already in the kitchen, receiver to her ear, chattering cheerfully about the comparative virtues of Farberville’s hotels (both of them) and motels (many, mostly squalid). When she spotted me, she asked the caller to wait for a moment, then covered die mouthpiece with her hand and said, “That man is wolfing down sandwiches as if anticipating the advent of Lent in the morning. Will you please make another platter and take it to the conservatory? Oh, and slice the lemon pound cake in the refrigerator and take that, too. There are plates and silverware somewhere. You’ll have to look.”

She resumed talking while I mutely followed orders, then took the sandwiches and cake to the conservatory, where the minister and Adrienne were regarding each other with mulish expressions. The tension between them would have been harder to slice than the pound cake.

“Claire,” Adrienne said, managing a smile, “do sit down. We’re having a minor disagreement about the service. As I’m sure you remember, Anthony disliked pomp. He appreciated simple things, like watching a sunset from the patio or doing the crossword puzzle on a lazy Sunday afternoon. He loved to make popcorn and watch John Wayne movies. I had to bully him into attending the symphony series, and he positively fidgeted the entire time. Don’t you agree that he would have preferred only a few of his favorite hymns, a eulogy, and a brief graveside ceremony?”

Simpleton stuffed a sandwich in his mouth, swallowed, and said, “I do think it’s important for me to share some philosophical observations and insights into the ephemerality of life and the specter of everlasting bliss. Many relatives and close friends find comfort in the spiritual message I offer them.”

“There’s a fifty percent chance of thunderstorms tomorrow afternoon,” Adrienne said as if she wanted to cram a slice of lemon pound cake up his nose. “Hello? I have eighty people coming after the service.”

“A sermon offers solace,” he intoned, keeping an eye on her in case she made any sudden moves.

I backed away for the same reason. “Adrienne, I wish I could stay, but I have obligations. I’ve reconfirmed all of the arrangements, including your hair appointment this afternoon.”

She sniffled into a tissue. “You have been so wonderful to do all this, Claire. Can you be here by ten tomorrow to supervise everything? I’ll be at the church and then at the cemetery"—she glared at the reverend— “until shortly before noon. Jacque is very, very good, but he’s been known to fly off the handle if so much as a single sprig of parsley is limp. I don’t know what he’ll do should the skies turn cloudy.”

Her spiritual adviser picked up another sandwich. “Anthony was a parishioner for more than thirty years, Adrienne. Although he did not attend services on a weekly basis, he was in his own way devout, and always generous with our parish projects. We cannot rush through this because of—”

I left the room and returned to the kitchen to collect my purse. Chantilly was seated on a stool, drinking what appeared to be a Bloody Mary with more vodka than tomato juice. She most likely would have gotten along quite well with Sheila, aka the first Mrs. Anthony Armstrong. It was difficult to judge how well she got along with the second one.

“Tired?” I said as I sat down beside her.

“It’s driving me, like, totally crazy. I mean, I feel sorry for Adrienne and all, but she acts like she’s the only one who’s inconvenienced by this. I had to beg to take off the rest of this week. Justine, this python at my office, is probably putting the squeeze on all my regular clients—and she doesn’t have a clue about first-class cabins. She probably thinks a porthole is a wine bucket.”

“Daphne’s in jail,” I said. “That’s inconvenient, too.”

“Then she shouldn’t have killed him.”

“I suppose not.” I waited for a moment as she sucked pensively on a celery stalk. “When you and Adrienne drove up that night, did you see or hear anything that made you wonder if someone else was here? A shadow, for instance, or footsteps moving in a different direction?”

Chantilly drained the glass. “The back door was open, but Daphne must have left it that way when she came inside.”

“Then why would she run out the front door?”

“Because she panicked,” she said as she replenished her drink. “How long are we to have the pleasure of Reverend Simpleton’s company? Anthony’s relatives will be descending like a tribe of baboons this afternoon. I really need to check in with my office before Justine filches all of my big accounts. What’s more, I have nothing to wear tomorrow. I have a pink sundress, but it’s strapless. Do you think I can get away with it if I wrap a dark scarf over my shoulders?”

I assured her that it would blend in well with customary dress at funerals in Farberville, in that I didn’t care. Adrienne could deal with the aftermath at the country club, fitness center, and Junior League evaluation. I put away the remainder of the salmon and cucumbers, wiped off the cutting board, and after reminding her of Adrienne’s hair appointment, hightailed it to my car.

Jorgeson stood beside it, shaking his head. “Ms. Malloy,” he said, “once again we meet. Is there no place on this planet of ours where I might be confident of not seeing you?”

I considered his question. “You could be fairly confident at any football game, heavy metal conceit, wrestling match, or proctologist’s office. Other than that, Jorgeson, I don’t know. What are you doing here?”

“Investigating a murder. And you?”

“Still no weapon?” I said as I leaned against the hood of my car. “I was thinking about that, Jorgeson. The weapon did not come from the gun case in the office. Where do you think she got it? It’s a stretch to think her mother had one.”

Jorgeson tugged on his chin. “We don’t know as of yet, Ms. Malloy. Sheila Armstrong doesn’t have a license for a handgun, but she’s not the type to waste time with bureaucratic hurdles. Mr. Armstrong’s weapons are accounted for. He kept a thirty-eight-caliber in a desk drawer. The lab determined that it has not been fired recently. We’re still trying to find the boyfriend.” He gazed over my head at the trees along the top of the hill. “The lieutenant seems to think you might be able to help us there.”

“Me?” I said indignantly. “Why would / know anything?”

“He just said something to that effect, Ms. Malloy. I’m not a mind-reader. You, on the other hand, are doing a fine job of anticipating my moves. You could save me some time if you’d tell me what’s on my agenda.”

“When shall we two meet again? I have no idea, Jorgeson. I came by this morning to offer my condolences to Adrienne Armstrong. She and some minister are in the conservatory, debating the funeral service. He does not appreciate the need for expediency due to the weather forecast. She will be delighted if you interrupt them, and will offer you salmon-and-cucumber sandwiches, as well as iced tea and lemon pound cake. Bloody Marys are available in the kitchen.”

“When you searched his office, did you discover anything we might have overlooked?”

I didn’t bother to sputter a denial. “No, but I wasn’t really looking for anything. Anthony was probably sitting at his desk when someone came into the office. He rose and came into the middle of the room. Then, well, the conversation was terminated. Did Chantilly tell you that the back door was open?”

“Meaning what, Ms. Malloy?”

“I don’t know, Jorgeson,” I admitted as I got into my car. I turned around and drove back to the road, but instead of fetching Skyler and opening the Book Depot, I pulled into the parking lot of Oakland Heights. Most of the spaces were unoccupied. I parked by the sign warning me not to trespass and waited for Howie to come thundering out from behind the shed.

When he failed to appear, I approached the platform. “Miss Parchester?”

“Good morning, Claire,” she said as she peered down at me. “How are you today? Isn’t the weather lovely?”

“Oh, yes. Where’s Howie?”

“Do you promise that this will remain strictly between the two of us? Despite his inclination to bluster, he is a nice boy. I would be conscience-stricken if I were to cause him problems.”

“Cross my heart, Miss Parchester. Where is he?”

“I sent him to do a little shopping for me. Is that all you wanted to know?”

I sat down where I could see her. “No, I would like to know about what you saw and heard the night of the murder. Three nights ago, around midnight.”

“Nothing out of the ordinary, I’m afraid. I listened to a symphony on the radio. Professor Baybergen called at ten to ask if I was all right. I assured him that I was, then wiggled deeper into the sleeping bag. I really do recommend fresh air for a good night’s sleep. When I return home, I shall make a point of opening all my bedroom windows before retiring.”

“An excellent idea,” I said. “On that night, Daphne parked a car in the lot over there and walked past the tree at eleven-thirty or thereabouts. Did either you or Howie see her then?”

“Howie had left for the night. He originally believed he could sleep on a chair in the shed, but he has a certain condition—a delicate one that he shared with me amidst much stammering—that precluded it. I instructed him to go home, which he did. I myself saw no one in the immediate area.”

“Were you awake?”

“Yes, I was,” she said brusquely. “Howie may well return shortly. You’d best be on your way, Claire.”

I looked up at her, surprised by her reaction. “Did you see or hear Daphne come back by here half an hour later? She’s admitted as much, and she was seen in the parking lot.”

“I did not see her, nor did I hear her.” Her face vanished, although more abruptly than that of the Cheshire cat. What’s more, she hadn’t been smiling.

But Daphne had come by the tree, I thought as I stood up and brushed off my derriere. Could Miss Parchester have been tippling the elderberry wine to the extent that she’d been so soundly asleep that she’d failed to hear Daphne run by?

“Miss Parchester,” I said, “please talk to me.”

“I’ve already answered your questions. Run along before Howie arrests you. Louis Ferncliff says they are quite rude at the police station, and he was obliged to wait more than two hours before he was permitted to leave. Eliza Peterson threatened a hunger strike after three hours in a cell with a young woman of questionable virtue and an obvious lack of temperance.”