Toured to Death (22 page)

“T
o see me?” The words were spoken twice and nearly in unison. Doris said them directly to Kevin in a kind of wide-eyed wonder, while Marcus's version was almost whispered.

“Yes, ma'am,” Kevin answered. “He says it'll just take a minute.”

Doris looked to Amy, as if expecting her to know. “Is this about Fabian?”

“He didn't say.” Kevin offered his arm, and she took it.

Doris apologized to her guests in a way that made it clear that their time together was over. They accepted it with grace, emphasizing again that it had been a social call, nothing more, and they were glad to see her looking so well.

“It was so good seeing you,” Marcus said as all four of them began walking up the lawn. Casually, he slipped his right hand into his jacket pocket, then stopped in his tracks. “Oh.” He was already looking down, scouring the dried and varicolored leaves at their feet. “My house keys.”

“They're not in your jacket?” Amy said.

“They must have fallen out.”

“Oh, dear,” Doris sighed. One more thing to sigh over.

“Maybe when we were sitting on the bench.” Marcus looked back toward a stone bench fifty yards or so behind them, on a spit jutting out into the sound.

A good hostess by instinct, Doris turned back toward the bench.

“No, you go ahead,” Marcus insisted. “You have people waiting. Amy and I will find them.”

Doris hesitated. “Well, if you're sure you don't mind.”

“Not at all,” said Marcus and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

“Congratulations again,” said Doris then accepted Kevin's arm and headed back toward the solarium.

Amy waited until they had disappeared inside. “You didn't lose anything.”

“Of course not.” Marcus pulled a set of keys out of his jacket as proof, then stepped behind the trunk of a hundred-year oak. Amy followed. “I didn't think we wanted to risk running into Sergeant Rawlings.”

“You want to avoid Rawlings? Why? We have every right to be here.”

“Does Frank know what your car looks like?”

“I don't know. You're afraid of running into Frank Loyola?”

“I've had enough police for a while.”

“But we're doing nothing illegal—for a change. Visiting the wife of your old employer?” Amy was feeling bolder than usual, egged on by Marcus's uncharacteristic timidity. “It may not even be Rawlings. Crazy Doris may have a few speeding tickets she needs to make good on.”

But Marcus was already on his way around to the left, passing assuredly between the rows of clipped hedges. Amy was reminded that the Carvel estate had once been his home.

“Marcus, what's the matter?” She raced to keep up.

They scurried between the last two hedges, and as they turned the corner, a figure was suddenly there, his bulk blocking the gravel path. “Marcus. I wanted to catch you.”

Marcus let out a yelp and skidded to a halt. A second later he exhaled. “Kev. You scared me.”

“Did you find your keys?”

“Yeah, found them.”

The butler walked to the far side of the far hedge, out of sight of the solarium, and motioned for them to follow. “You were asking about the old man's death.” He spoke directly to Marcus. For the first time, Amy noticed a familiarity between them, which was only natural, of course.

“Yes,” Marcus said. “I suppose I should have come to you instead of bothering Mrs. Carvel.”

“You can't visit a house just to talk to the butler. Why are you asking about Mr. Carvel? Does this have something to do with Italy?”

Amy and Marcus exchanged quick glances. “I suppose it doesn't matter,” Amy muttered. “Go ahead.”

Marcus gave Kevin the short version, changing a few facts here and there for simplicity's sake and because Kevin really didn't need to know. It actually made more sense in Marcus's shorthand.
Is this his normal rationale?
Amy wondered.
Editing the truth for the sake of brevity and discretion? It's probably what everyone does to some degree.

Kevin was a quick study. “Right, right.” He repeated this in the momentary lulls and didn't seem at all shocked or overwhelmed, an attitude that probably came with the job. “When I interrupted you to fetch the old lady, you had some picture you were showing her?”

“Please.” Marcus removed the photo from its paper sleeve. “Take a look. I'm almost sure she recognized someone.”

The burly butler took the photo, examined the faces and kept examining them as he shook his head. “Sorry.”

“No one familiar? You're sure?”

“I've been with the family nine years, almost six as butler. Maybe before I came?” He handed it back. “If the old lady recognized someone, why wouldn't she say?”

“Good question,” Amy said. Kevin glanced her way, as if startled by her existence. “We were also asking about the cook. Mrs. Gray.”

“You remember Mrs. Gray.” Kevin was once again addressing Marcus. “What can I tell you?”

Marcus took a step closer. “I was shocked when Mr. Carvel tried to give her all that stock. Remember?”

“We all were.” A mischievous grin almost connected the freckles on his cheeks. “Rumors were flying thick. People were saying they'd been lovers at some point. Carvel and the cook.”

“Who said that?” Marcus asked.

“You know. Tammy, upstairs.”

“I remember Tammy. Is she still here?”

“Sure. Tammy was convinced that little Nardo was their love child.”

“That's his name,” said Marcus. “I was trying to remember. Leonardo. He was gone by the time I got here.”

Amy took a strategic step back, almost vanishing into the sharply cut branches of a box hedge. It irked her, this fading into the background. But if that was what it took to facilitate the flow of information . . .

“You never met Nardo?” Kevin leaned in, amused. “Piece of work. He lived with his mom, not doing much of anything. Tiny thing like her. Weird kid. Always had this chip on his shoulder. I guess he must've been in his early twenties when he moved out. Tammy still keeps in touch with him. I think.”

“Why did Mr. Carvel let him stay? I mean, if he wasn't working here . . .”

“That's what Tammy kept saying. That's why she thought he had to be the old man's love child. But Nardo didn't look a whit like Carvel. Not a whit.”

“Did he ever come back to visit?” Amy asked.

Kevin didn't acknowledge the source but kept speaking to Marcus, as if he'd asked the question, as if he had, just for fun, thrown his voice. “Yeah. Couple of times. You know kids. When they get into trouble or need money. He came back once or twice while you were here. . . .”

This last sentence trailed off unexpectedly. It struck Amy as one of those sentences you regret halfway through, the kind you want to retract in midair but have to finish off and hope no one noticed. Amy looked at Marcus. He had noticed, too.

“Nardo came back to visit? While I was here?”

“He might have.” Amy had no idea why Kevin was hedging, but he was.

Marcus stepped an inch closer. “Kev? Did Nardo happen to be around on the night Mr. Carvel disappeared?”

“Could've been. Who remembers? There was so much going on.”

“My God. He was here, wasn't he?”

Kevin shrugged his beefy shoulders. “I said I don't remember. What's the big deal if he was?”

“It's no deal. I'm just trying to remember if I met him.”

“You didn't. I mean . . .” Kevin stepped back, exhaling, then breathing deep. “Marcus, come on. You know the rules. Unauthorized people can't stay on the property, even if they used to live here.”

“But you just said he visited.... Okay, you're right. I'm sorry.” Amy was surprised that Marcus didn't press the point, but he didn't. “It's been great seeing you. You're looking good.”

“Thanks. So, when are you two moving in?”

“Moving in?” Marcus looked blank.

“Together.”

“Not until the wedding,” Amy said, emerging from the box hedge. “You know how real estate is in New York. No one likes to give up a good apartment.”

A quartet of beeps emanated from somewhere in Kevin's suit jacket. He ignored it. At the second series of beeps, he reached into a pocket. “Look,” he said. “It was no big deal. Nardo staying with his mom. But after Mr. Carvel disappeared, with that private detective nosing around . . . I didn't want people getting into trouble.”

“Sure,” Marcus said. “I suppose you should answer those beeps.”

“Right. Well, Mr. Alvarez . . .” Kevin stood there awkwardly, then grabbed Marcus by the upper arms, pulled him into his chest, and gave him a bear hug. “You take care of yourself.”

“You, too,” Marcus said from the muffled depths of the butler's jacket. Was he hugging back? Amy couldn't tell.

They watched Kevin walk quickly back into the house.

“If you're that hung up on each other, I'll call off the engagement.”

“You work with what you got,” Marcus replied.

They continued their way around the left side of the redbrick mansion, Marcus again in the lead.

“So, Nardo was hanging around on the night in question,” he said.

“That's the takeaway I took away. Of course it could mean nothing.”

“Shhh.” Marcus had stopped at a corner yew tree. He raised a finger to his lips. Around the corner, Amy spied the crescent driveway, empty except for the cars—a RAV4 with New York police plates and, parked next to it, her old Volvo.

“Good.” Marcus turned to Amy. “Get your keys ready.”

“Why are we sneaking around?”

Marcus didn't answer but counted to three, then made a dash for the Volvo's passenger side, doing it in a crouched run.

“Marcus, buddy. Hello!”

The voice had come from the top of the marble steps, where Frank Loyola was pushing himself up to his feet with a grunt. He'd been patiently sitting there, hidden from view by a white marble column. “You've been giving us quite the runaround, buddy.”

“Frank!” Marcus straightened up and tried to look happy, or at least not furtive. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you.” He was walking down the steps. “Actually, the sarge and me came to see Mrs. Carvel. But when I saw Amy's car, I thought it might pay to wait outside.”

Marcus's smile hardened. “Does he ever let you sit in on the interviews? Or are you just the chauffeur?”

Frank returned the hardened smile. “You know we've been looking for you.”

“I know no such thing.”

“I should've figured you'd be hiding out at her place.”

“I had no idea you were looking. . . .”

“Is that why you and Amy went running out through her backyard today? Don't think we didn't find out.”

Amy remained uncharacteristically quiet through all this, and it grew increasingly hard for Marcus to avoid looking her way. “You wanted to see me? Here I am.”

“Here you are. The sarge would like you to come down to the station to answer some questions.”

“Do you have a warrant?”

“You're not under arrest. We don't need a warrant.”

Marcus swallowed. Amy stayed silent. “You can't bring me in without a warrant. If I don't come voluntarily, you can't—”

“What's the matter? We thought you wanted to help solve Mr. Ingo's murder.”

“Of course I do.”

The ball went back and forth several more times. Marcus had the right to an attorney during questioning, although Frank made it clear that people were questioned all the time—witnesses, relatives—and only serious suspects were the ones who needed a lawyer. Was there any reason why he might need a lawyer? Although it was certainly his right to call one.

“I don't have a lawyer, not in New York.” And for the first time he looked to Amy. “I don't suppose I really need one.”

Amy didn't respond.

“Good.” Frank pointed toward the door. “We can go inside and wait, or we can wait here. Rawlings shouldn't be too long. Whatever you prefer.”

“I assume you don't need me anymore,” Amy said flatly.

“Amy?” Marcus had packed a dozen questions into that word, and Amy ignored them all.

Frank curled the corner of his mouth. “You can go, Ms. Abel. We'll take care of Mr. Alvarez's transportation.”

Amy kept her eyes lowered as she got into the Volvo. She removed the prop from her finger, Fanny's big, old-fashioned engagement ring, and tossed it into a cup holder. Then she slipped on her seat belt, started the engine, and drove slowly down the gravel drive. She did not look in the rearview mirror.

T
he double bottom drawer of Amy's desk was, for all intents and purposes, a black hole, sucking in anything and everything, including two half-broken eyeglass frames that she couldn't bring herself to throw out. An informal storage system, it filled the gap between the formality of her files and the wastebasket.

At the moment, she was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the desk, the drawer pulled fully open, as she rummaged through a tangle of forgotten power cords, dull pencils, pages clipped from magazines.... Here was a
Travel + Leisure
piece, for example, four stapled pages, on the burgeoning popularity of road rallies. Amy ripped it into quarters and tossed it out. For as long as she could remember, either frustration or anger would prompt her to rummage through—about the only time she ever did so, except when she needed something. This situation fulfilled all three criteria: she was frustrated, angry, and needed something.

Near the bottom of the drawer she found a suitable manila envelope. It was just large enough and, unlike many of its mates, showed no signs of previous use. Amy crammed the red leather volume inside, then dove into the drawer again, hunting for an address that she was sure she'd seen back at the beginning of her search.

When she was finished, she reached for the phone and dialed. “Peter? Hi.”

“Amy.” There was lilt in the man's voice. A good sign. “How are you? How was the tour?”

“It went great,” Amy said, both telling the truth and lying. “And you? How's business? I'm not interrupting anything?”

Like Amy, Peter Borg ran a travel business. Unlike Amy, he camped out in a mahogany-paneled storefront on the Upper East Side, drove a Porsche Boxster, and booked so many clients into the resorts of French Polynesia that authorities in the South Pacific joked about naming a small, uninhabited island after him.

They had met five months ago, on a fam tour of a new resort in Belize. On returning to New York, they'd gone out a handful of times—nothing very serious or passionate. He was too polished and East Side for her. And she supposed she was too Village for him. But they were friends. And Peter had the advantage of being just about the only man she knew who was not in Fanny's good graces, a considerable advantage, given her current mood.

Five minutes later, when Amy was at her liquor cabinet, pulling out the Campari bottle, Fanny's slow footsteps became audible on the stairs. She must have closed up early.

“I was going to stop by,” Amy called out. “But we were making such progress on the case.” She avoided facing her, even in the mirror above the bar. “Anyway, by the time we started back, the traffic on the expressway . . . I swear. They're never going to fix that road.”

Fanny was putting her umbrella in Amy's umbrella stand. “Marcus called me at the office.”

“Oh.” She turned to face her mother. “Is it raining?”

“He thinks you may be mad at him.”

“Doesn't miss a trick.”

“So, what's the big deal?” Fanny made herself at home, settling into the sofa. “He came over last night because he was in trouble. Would you prefer him going to someone else?”

“I would prefer him telling me the truth.”

“Well, hello, Miss Perfect.”

“Is it raining hard? I've got a date.”

“A date?” Fanny brushed this aside. “You know, if you weren't so judgmental, he might let himself be more honest.” Fanny examined her daughter's face, like a mariner reading a map. “I hope you're not going to do anything foolish.”

“No. For once, I'm not. I'm going to give up all this nonsense before I really get into trouble and wind up in jail as some sort of accessory after the fact.”

“Accessory? Marcus didn't kill anyone.”

“How do you know?” Amy demanded. “Why can't the police be right? Why can't it be the person who poured the poisoned wine?”

She waited for an answer. For once, Fanny was speechless.
Good.
“Marcus is an opportunist,” Amy continued. “He's never had much of a profession—personal secretary, Otto's assistant, Georgina's companion. Well, that was made up, but you know what I mean. So he finds out about Georgina killing Fabian Carvel. He goes to the widow. And the widow pays him to kill Georgina.”

“You mean the twenty thousand? That was an inheritance.”

“The police haven't confirmed that.”

“What about the sabotage on the tour?”

“Georgina did it. She took the tour because . . . well, she wanted to make sure the game didn't give away her perfect murder.”

“And she arranged the break-ins on Elba?”

“She's rich. She paid someone.”

Fanny took a few seconds to think it through, then shook her head. “No. Out of the question. It's not Marcus.”

“Why not?”

“We don't know killers.”

“Fine,” said Amy. “I'm going back to my life, if I can remember where I left it.”

“Oh, dear. You have a date with Peter Borg.”

“Sheesh. I wonder what it's like to have a private thought.”

“Well, you are predictable. You know, I'm starting to like Peter. He's got a lot going for him.”

“Nice try.” Amy gave up the idea of a drink and looked around the room for her wrap. It was under the manila envelope. Before she could reach it, Fanny had seen the name.

“What are you sending to Sergeant Rawlings?”

“Otto's script. He knows I have it.”

“How does he know?”

“He just does. And since I'm not going to be needing it anymore. . .”

Fanny clucked her tongue. “So that's it? You're abandoning Marcus?”

“Absolutely.” She looked at the stuffed envelope. “What do you think? Overnight delivery?”

“I can mail it. I have to get to the post office tomorrow morning.”

“Yeah, right. You'll give it to Marcus.”

“I won't give it to Marcus. Promise.”

Amy threw up her hands. “Do whatever you want.”

Fanny snatched up the envelope. “When he called, they were still questioning him. He needs you.”

“Sure. Where else can he find a hideout? I even provided entertainment.”

“Feeling cheap and used?” Her mother chuckled. “Sweetie, it comes with the territory.”

“Really? Really? When did you ever feel cheap and used?”

“I've walked by my share of construction sites.”

“Nice image, Mom. Thanks.”

It was nearly an hour before her date and she had no place to go, but Amy grabbed her pashmina wrap and headed for the stairs. At the front door she automatically checked her bag. Keys. Wallet. And something else. By the glow of the vestibule's overhead light, she pulled out the photo, now folded and crumpled, and opened it like a greeting card.

There they were, six smiling faces in front of the finish line, one victim and her five suspects. Which one of these did Doris Carvel recognize? And why would she refuse to tell? “And why am I bothering?” she murmured aloud.

Amy stuffed the picture back in her bag, ignoring the wastebasket that was stationed right inside the door.

 

The date went better than expected. Peter had been glad to see her. He had asked all the right questions about the rally and had taken the answers at face value, showing just enough admiration and envy at Amy's achievement. Dinner was good. The conversation never lagged. And not once did Peter allude to the night's last-minute invitation and whatever might lie behind it. Amy returned home alone, and this seemed fine with Peter, but not so fine that she felt insulted. All in all, a decent evening.

In the morning Amy wandered into the sunroom office and realized she hadn't checked her phone since last night. There was a text from Burt Baker. She read the text, then pressed the CALL button.

“Amy. Thanks for getting back to me.” There was a coolness in the judge's voice. “I got a lawyer to Marcus at about eight thirty last night. He was released around nine.” A mutual pause. “Just thought you might like to know.”

“I'm no longer involved in the investigation.”

“I know. Fanny told me.”

“Fanny?” At first she was mystified, then recalled that the judge had been Fanny's client, a friend of a mutual friend. “I suppose you know all about yesterday,” she said.

“About the police picking him up?”

“No. About . . . Never mind.”

“Look, Amy. I don't know what's going on with you two. I know you had a falling-out. But this isn't just about Marcus. A woman . . .” The words caught in his throat. “A woman we were all very fond of is dead. Could we meet someplace for lunch?”

 

Amy watched Lou walk away with the menus and wondered what the socialist would think if he knew that Amy's current tablemate was a federal court judge.

“Amy.” Burt shifted uneasily in his half of the wooden booth, arranging one stiff leg out on the sawdust-covered floor. “There are lots of reasons not to quit. Now, I'm not trying to discount the skills of the Rome and New York and San Diego police departments. . .”

“But they're not mystery buffs like us.”

Burt regarded his friend cautiously, then took a long drink from his water glass. “The police didn't witness the murder. You and I did.”

“And what good is that? The only person who could have administered the poison is the very person who's been lying to me since day one.”

“Let me tell you.” Burt leaned across the table. “In my line, I hear a lot of defenses. Attention deficit disorder. Postpartum depression. Years ago we had a slew of PMS. But my favorite has to be the ‘too bright' defense. ‘Members of the jury, my client is not stupid. Why would he commit such a stupid crime?'”

“Criminals get caught precisely because they do stupid things.”

“Exactly. Except in this case. I'm sorry, Amy. I just can't visualize Marcus killing someone so blatantly.”

“Can you visualize Martha doing it? Can she visualize you?”

“Well . . .” Burt drained the last of his water. “I think we can.”

“Oh.” Finally she understood. “Oh.” This wasn't just about Marcus and Georgina. She peered over the top of her glasses and into his eyes. “You think that Martha . . .”

The judge shrugged. “How well do I really know her? I'm no fool. I know there was a rivalry going on between them.” He looked embarrassed. “You know . . .”

Amy almost burst out laughing. “Martha killed Georgina in order to get her out of the way? Well, someone thinks pretty highly of himself.”

Burt had to smile. “I've been told I'm a pretty hot catch.”

“Judge, come on. Martha wouldn't kill anyone.”

“Martha wouldn't. You wouldn't. I wouldn't. But someone did. We're all living under a cloud. Railroading Marcus is not going to solve anything.”

“Okay, I get it.”

Lou had returned with their lunch. He arranged the plates on the narrow table, sandwich on the right, pickle on the left, and fixed a suspicious eye on the federal jurist.

“Was it something I said?” Burt hissed after they were left alone.

“Lou has this sixth sense about law enforcement.” Amy reached across for her water glass and was surprised to find it empty.

“I can see why,” Burt said, glancing around the Cindilu Dairy. “Cats in the windows. Sawdust on the floor. A dozen health code violations before you even get behind the counter.”

Amy's eyes remained focused on the water glass, her mind suddenly whirling, her memory burrowing back to that warm, fateful evening in Rome. “Oh, my God.”

“Oh, your God what?”

She was on the verge of blurting it out but stopped herself. “Nothing.”

“It's not nothing. You just thought of something. What?”

“Nothing.” She had more than once wondered about this moment. Would she ever have a breakthrough, as in an old-fashioned mystery novel? And if she did, would she be able to keep it from her friends, the actual suspects in the case? She looked at Burt. “Sorry. I thought I saw a bug in the water.”

“I was drinking from this.” Burt picked up the empty glass. “There's no bug.” He lowered his voice. “Although this place is a death trap, I gotta tell you.”

Amy smiled weakly, only half aware of what either of them was saying. Her eyes were glued, unblinking, to the glass. All she could think of was the seating arrangement. Who'd been sitting next to Georgina? Who'd been sitting across from her?

In two minutes she had it figured out.