OUT ON A LIMB (31 page)

“Or Adrienne’s?” said Luanne as we went up Thurber Street. “If nothing else, we should be able to overindulge on leftovers. I love leftovers.”

“Let’s check on Miss Parchester first, and then, yes, we’re going to have to talk to Adrienne.”

Ten minutes later, Luanne parked as close as she could to the revered oak tree. Howie must have taken shelter from the rain, probably in the construction shed. Miss Parchester had rigged a tarp to form a tent of sorts, although I suspected she was not warm and dry. If I’d been blessed with extraordinary powers, I would have transported Finnigan Baybergen to the platform and Miss Parchester to somewhere more agreeable, such as Miss Scarlet’s ballroom or Professor Plum’s billiards room.

“Are you okay?” I called as we approached the platform.

“I am a bit damp,” Miss Parchester said. “It’s to be expected.”

“Why don’t you come down and let us take you home? You can return later if you insist.”

“I wish I could,” she said, peering down at us. “I have to admit I’m getting chilly, and even my thermal undergarments are damp. I left the lid off the brownies, and now they’re sodden.”

“You can go home,” I said. “No one will know.”

“But I would have to live with my capitulation to blatant commercialization. I vowed when I came here that I would not waver in my dedication to the cause of environmental sanity. Yes, I am cold and wet, and quite likely coming down with a bronchial malady. I will not, however, slink away like an abused animal.”

Luanne looked as though she was ready to climb the tree and forcibly remove its occupant. I planted a hand on her shoulder and said, “Miss Parchester, I’ve met a couple who live here. Would you consider briefly leaving your post to toss your socks in their clothes dryer and have a cup of tea?”

“For just a few minutes?” quavered Miss Parchester. “No one would have to know?”

“Absolutely not. As soon as the rain lets up, you can climb right back up and cook acorn fritters for supper.”

“If they’re home,” Luanne said under her breath.

“Jillian will be,” I said. “I doubt that Connor’s ever seen a raindrop, much less experienced one. Whether or not she’ll let us in the condo is another issue.”

The ladder came tumbling down, and Miss Parchester followed with impressive dexterity. “Howie went home,” she said apologetically, as if he should have been present to arrest us. “I suppose he did, anyway. I haven’t seen him since late this morning, when he went off to investigate noises. He did mention earlier this week that the shed doesn’t provide adequate shelter when it rains. Neither does my tarp, I’m sorry to say. Papa would be disappointed with me.”

“No, he wouldn’t.” I took her arm and led her toward the row of condos. “You’ve survived on the platform for five days, despite Anthony Armstrong’s attempt to force you down. You deserve a respite.”

I could almost hear Luanne shaking her head as we stopped at Randy and Jillian Scarpo’s door. I knocked, then stepped back so that I was in view of whoever might peer from behind the living room drapes. Miss Parchester was trembling, and I realized I was supporting most of her weight. I was about to resort to pounding when the door opened.

“I know you,” Jillian said to me, sounding as though she’d seen my picture on an FBI flyer at the post office.

“Yes, and you saw Miss Parchester on the nightly news. She’s very close to collapsing. May we please come inside?”

Jillian waved us inside, then took Miss Parchester’s hand and led her to a sofa. “You poor thing, you’re soaked to the skin. Let me get you a quilt, and then I’ll fix you something hot to drink. Would you like coffee?”

“Tea would be nice,” Miss Parchester murmured. “I must admit I am not feeling robust.”

“And some soup?” Jillian said as she settled Miss Parchester on a sofa and tucked a pillow behind her. “Canned, I’m afraid. I wish I had something homemade, but I don’t go to the grocery store very often.”

“I believe I could enjoy a cup of soup. It’s very kind of you to do this, dear girl.” Her head sank back and she closed her eyes. “I’ll just rest, if you don’t mind.”

Jillian went into another room and returned with a crocheted afghan. After spreading it across Miss Parchester’s legs, she whispered, “I’ll heat some soup.”

Luanne offered to stay with Miss Parchester. I accompanied Jillian into the kitchen, which was probably more sterile than that of the local hospital. “Thank you for letting us inside,” I said. “Would you mind if I used your telephone?”

She took a teakettle from a cabinet and began to fill it with water. “Go ahead. It’s in Randy’s office, back that way.”

The makeshift office had been designed to serve as a storage room. A small desk and two bookcases allowed very litde floor space. Stacks of papers waited to be graded before the end of the semester. The computer appeared to be state-of-the-art, the gnawed pencils less so. I found a ielephone directory in a desk drawer, looked up Finnigan Baybergen’s home number, and dialed it.

I was relieved when he answered. “This is Claire Malloy,” I said, “the woman with the little bookstore. Miss Parchester is very close to developing pneumonia, but will insist on returning to the platform when the rain stops. I want you to come out here, collect her wet clothing and her sleeping bag, and take them to a Laundromat to thoroughly dry them. Also, see what supplies she has and restock whatever she needs.”

“Where are you calling from?”

“A condo in Phase One. If you’re worried about being arrested, don’t bother. Howie has disappeared for the time being. Or am I asking too much of you, Professor Baybergen? Should I call Mr. Constantine or Eliza Peterson? Are any members of the Green Party devoted enough to the environment to actually go out in the rain?”

“I’ll take care of it,” he said without enthusiasm. “Do you have any suggestions where I might find this thing you referred to as a Laundromat?”

“Were you born with a graduate degree and transported from the nursery to your ivy tower? Consider this a field trip, Baybergen. Maybe you’ll find a new species of mildew behind the machines.”

I hung up and dialed the number of my duplex. “Caron,” I began when she answered, “I’m sorry to ask you this, but you need to go back to Secondhand Rose in case someone calls about Skyler. Luanne and I had to leave rather hastily.”

“Where are you?”

“I don’t think I’d better tell you. Peter may show up there, and I don’t want you to have to he to him. Inez should be home by now. Why don’t you have her meet you?”

“Inez isn’t home. I called a few minutes ago, and according to her mother, she didn’t go to the conceit. She told her mother Luanne wanted her to work at the shop all afternoon.”

“That’s odd,” I said. “Do you think she went to the cemetery in hopes she might spot Daphne?”

Caron paused. “She might have, I guess, but that was hours ago and she wouldn’t still be lurking under a bush, watching Sheila and Arnie get sloshed. Then again, she was acting pretty weird last night, even for herself. She insisted on sitting in a chair until dawn in case Daphne tried to sneak in and snatch Skyler. I must have pointed out a dozen times that the doors and windows were locked.”

“It seems her anxiety was justified.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Do you suspect she has Skyler?” I asked carefully. “Is that why you decided so abruptly to go home—in case she was there?”

“Maybe. She’s not here, though, and she’s not at home. She can’t be pushing the stroller around in this rain. I thought when the phone rang …”

“I’m sure she’s found someplace where she and Skyler are protected. Any ideas? Could she have taken him to one of your friends’ houses?”

“Like their parents wouldn’t notice she has a baby with her? I don’t think so, Mother. She didn’t know where you and I were going, since you didn’t even tell me until I got home this morning. I can’t see her coming here, or even to the Book Depot. And before you say she couldn’t get into the bookstore, she knows where you stash the key in case of an emergency. You’re lucky Arnie doesn’t, since otherwise you’d be peddling pretzels from a cart.”

I squeezed my temples as the teakettle began to whistle. “You have to think, Caron,” I said. “She can’t have gone very far. She might have tried to bluff her way into the women’s shelter, but it’s a good three miles away. There’s a homeless shelter near the old post office. Would she have thought of that?”

“How should I know what she might have been thinking, beyond this paranoia of hers that Daphne could somehow scale the wall of Luanne’s building and slither through a crack like a spider? She deserves a bed next to Daphne’s in the psych ward.”

“Calm down,” I managed to say. “Go down to the Book Depot to make sure she’s not there, then go back home in case she does call. Tell her she’s not
m
trouble— unless Peter finds her first. I’ll call you at the store in ten minutes.”

“It’s raining.”

“It is most definitely doing that, but if you remember, my car is behind a fence topped with concertina wire and will remain there until I write what I am sure will be a hefty check. Take an umbrella.”

I hung up and replaced the directory in its rightful drawer. After a very brief moment of debating the morality of pawing through other people’s possessions, I began to systematically search all the drawers.

The packet of photographs was at the back of a drawer filled with old class notebooks and papers on erudite mathematical topics such as differential equations and irrational numbers. I felt like an irrational number myself as I gaped at depictions of Adrienne in very explicit poses. Exercise machines at the fitness center provided inspiration, as well as the sauna and whirlpool. And if I had any doubt as to the identity of the photographer, Randy himself had found some interesting things to do with the equipment.

I shoved the packet back where I’d found it and slammed the drawer shut. Randy had, or was still having, an affair with Adrienne. Caron had noticed, and perhaps I should have as well. This certainly gave Adrienne a more than compelling motive to kill her husband—but not an opportunity, unless Chantilly and Daphne were accomplices. And Randy had been at home.

I returned to the living room. Miss Parchester was now stretched on the length of the sofa, snoring in a genteel fashion. Luanne and Jillian were not to be seen, but I wasn’t flabbergasted, since there was something in the ether that was causing people to vanish from view like droplets of water on a hot skillet:
ping, sizzle, poof.
I kept an eye on Miss Parchester until they appeared in the tiny dining room.

“We went up to see Connor,” said Luanne. “He’s napping.”

“Would you like to see him?” Jillian asked me.

“Maybe later. On the night that Anthony Armstrong was killed, Randy told the police that he was up late with Connor. Do you remember that?”

“I had a terrible headache. Connor had fussed and whined all day, then threw up all over me after I fed him supper. I got him settled down about ten, but then he started crying again. I just couldn’t deal with it, so I called Randy at the fitness center and told him that if he didn’t come home within half an hour, I was going to pack a suitcase and leave him to deal with Connor on his own for a few days.” She looked down. “He was really angry, but he did come back.”

“So he was here at ten-thirty or so?”

She nodded. “We had an argument. The neighbors on both sides can probably confirm it. What’s this about?”

“I can’t quite explain. Will you please watch for a car being driven by a man with a clipped beard? I need to make another phone call. Luanne, why don’t you come with me?”

I propelled her into the office and closed the door. “There is something so wrong with all this, but I can’t figure out what it is. Ponder the dust bunnies in the corners while I call Caron.”

“Caron?”

“We think Inez took Skyler.” I dialed the number of the bookstore, but no one answered, naturally, confirming my
ping, sizzle, poof
theory that would never merit a seminar in Randy Scarpo’s exalted course of studies. When numbers were irrational, they were in some way rational. Human behavior did not correspond as neatly.

“We were hoping she’d be at the bookstore, but she must have gone somewhere else,” I said to Luanne.

“Why would Inez take Skyler anywhere?”

“Because she didn’t think you were properly obsessed with the possibility that Daphne might come looking for him.”

Luanne leaned against the edge of the desk, unmindful of the stack of papers she sent sliding across the desk. “Last night Inez was … well, weird.”

“Caron used the same word. Today, Inez begged out of the concert, and her mother has no idea where she is. Now it seems as though Caron has thought of something.”

“Wouldn’t she have called you before she left for this unknown destination?”

“If I’d told her the number, she might have. I need you to stay here and watch for Finnigan Baybergen, who agreed to take Miss Parchester’s things to a Laundromat and toss them in a dryer. Don’t allow her to go back up in the tree until he’s done that much.”

“While you do what?”

“Go talk to Adrienne, I suppose. Chantilly may have staggered in and gone to bed, or the police may have located her. Peter may still be there.” I ran my fingers through my hair, wondering—yes, irrationally—if I smelled like a wet dog. “There’s something so wrong with this whole thing. I would have said that Adrienne and Chantilly were behind the murder, but Daphne’s their best alibi. Unless Jillian’s lying, Randy couldn’t have done it.”

“Randy?”

“I found photographs of Adrienne in his desk. You don’t even want to look at them. They were having an affair, and if Anthony had cause to be suspicious, Adrienne could kiss the villa, the country club, the Jaguar, and the fitness club good-bye and start reading the want ads.”

“But he’s dead,” Luanne pointed out.

“Conveniently so. Alternate calls to my house and the Book Depot every five minutes while you’re waiting for Finnigan.”

“Do you want to take my car?”

“No,” I said with a grimace. “You might be able to persuade Miss Parchester to allow you to take her home. What’s more, if Peter’s at the villa, he might take perverse pleasure in having your car towed, too.”