Waiting for Armando (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) (19 page)

“What makes you think he didn’t have an opportunity to kill
Girouard
?” asked
Strutter
.

“Because he was at home when
Girouard
was killed in the office,” I said.

“I called him at his home number myself,” remembered Ingrid. “He answered, we talked for a minute, and he came into the office about twenty minutes later. Of course, he could have programmed his home phone to forward calls to his office number. Alain did that all the time.”

“It’s possible, but I’m sure Diaz checked out his whereabouts that morning right along with everyone else’s,” I observed. “The coroner believes
Girouard
ingested the poisoned coffee sometime between 5:30 and 6:30 a.m. I happen to know for a fact that Diaz checked the sign-in log for that time period,” I added wryly, “and Karp’s name wasn’t in it.”

“On the other hand his name wouldn’t have been in the log, even if he was in the building,” Ingrid pointed out. “Karp had his own passkey for the elevators, remember. He could have parked on Church Street, slipped in the rear entrance to the building and walked right into an elevator without being seen. He could have poisoned Alain, slipped out the same way, and been home when I called him.”

Margo and I looked at each other. “How on earth could we ever prove that?”
Strutter
asked.

“We don’t have to prove it. We just have to show Diaz that it was possible,” Ingrid said, on a roll, “and the more I think about it, it was possible.”

“How far away from the office does Karp live?” I asked. None of us knew, but Margo thought of a way to find out. Following her instructions, I ran upstairs to the spare bedroom and turned on my computer. Moments later, I had accessed BGB’s intranet, something I had been unaware that I could do until Margo clued me in. “Okay, I’m in. Now what?” I yelled down the stairs.

“Use the firm information pull-down menu and choose the contacts page. It lists all of the partners and senior administrators and gives their home addresses and telephone numbers. The general public can’t do it from BGB’s internet site, but employees can use our passwords to get into the intranet.”

Quickly, I did as she told me and scrolled down to Karp’s name. I read the address that followed with disbelief.

“Well?” Margo called impatiently. “Where does he live?”

I stood up from the computer and came out to lean on the railing of the loft that overlooked the living room. “He lives in Glastonbury,” I said slowly. “You’re not going to believe this, but his address is 630 Hebron Avenue.”

“630 Hebron Avenue,” Margo repeated, not getting it at first. Then, “
Ohhh
, my.” She rolled her empty beer bottle against her forehead.

“What?”
Strutter
demanded, her voice echoing from the enclosed bathroom.

“What is it?” Ingrid hissed, wild with impatience.

“That’s where we were tonight,” said Margo. “630 Hebron Avenue is
Esme’s
address in Glastonbury. According to the BGB directory, Karp lives there.”

Margo chewed thoughtfully on a manicured nail. “We’ll have to go back,” she said. “We need to have a chat with Miss
Esme
, and we’ll never get an opportunity like this again. Karp will be away for the holiday weekend. I know that, because I was at the reception desk this afternoon, shooting the breeze with
Quen
, when he came through to tell her how he could be reached at his hotel on Martha’s Vineyard from Friday through Sunday morning.”

“I’ll call the Center first thing tomorrow,” I said. “I’ll be lucky to reach her, since I assume that even psychics make plans on holidays.
Strutter
, are you coming with us this time?”

Ten

My dreams that night were filled with frustration. I ran through South American jungles of poisonous vegetation, all of which endeavored to trip me or scratch me with their toxic thorns. I ran after someone I didn’t want to catch, someone who frightened me. And always, Armando hovered just out of sight, out of reach.

“Where are you?” I called over and over.

He never answered.

Waking before 6:00 with a headache, I stumbled to the kitchen to feed the cats and make coffee. I swallowed two Advil tablets with my first sip and took the rest of the mug onto the back deck to wait for a decent hour to make my telephone call to request a private audience for Margo,
Strutter
and me with
Esme
. I finished my coffee and went inside to shower and shampoo my hair, then dressed in a sleeveless cotton dress. At 8:00 I dialed the Center’s number and was surprised when
Esme
herself answered the telephone. I apologized if I had awakened her, but she assured me that she was an early riser, and I had not disturbed her at all. When I asked if she could spare us a few minutes later in the morning regarding some personal business, she cheerfully agreed to see us at 10:30.

In the light of day the old house seemed far less eerie than it had the previous evening. Without the moonlight and shadows of a summer evening adding to the mystical aura that had been carefully constructed around the Center for Universal Truth and its members, the house was remarkable more for its luxurious and well-tended gardens than for anything else. Margo led the way up the cement walk, made uneven by the roots of two enormous oak trees that dominated the front of the yard.
Strutter
followed a few paces behind.

“I can’t help it,” she had said earlier in the car. “This stuff gives me the creeps.
Esme
, or whatever her name really is, reminds me of the Obeah women when I lived on the island.” To
Strutter
there was only one island, and that was Jamaica, where she had been born and raised before emigrating to the United States. “Trust me, you do not want to mess with those ladies.”

Margo’s and my description of the channeling charade, as well as
Esme’s
noncommittal answers to the questions that had followed, had done nothing to alleviate
Strutter’s
discomfort. She trailed along behind us, looking back over her shoulder as we stepped up to the front porch. The heavy front door, with its layers of peeling white paint and tarnished brass knocker, was shabby, and a Wal-Mart variety mailbox had been nailed to the wooden molding. Several envelopes awaited pick-up by the mailman. The return address sticker on the top one, plainly visible, read, “Esther Schwartz.” I pointed it out to Margo, who covered her mouth with one hand and snickered.
Esme
, indeed.
I lifted the knocker and rapped twice.

The clairvoyant herself answered promptly, opening the door widely and ushering us in. Dressed in simple slacks and a sleeveless blouse instead of the flowing robe of the previous evening, and without benefit of the artfully subdued lighting, she looked more like a nice little Jewish grandma than an intuitive with a personal pipeline to the Prime Creator, but hey, I could be wrong. Actually, I sort of hoped I was wrong.

“Come in, come in,” she invited us warmly, and once again, I stepped into the large, high-ceilinged front parlor. Today, it was comfortably furnished with overstuffed chairs and sofas, occasional tables covered with knickknacks, and large potted plants. The folding chairs of the previous evening had apparently been spirited away.

Esme
walked through the room into an equally comfortable sitting room on the right side of the house. Enclosed almost entirely with windows, it would have been insufferable but for the continual shade provided by pine trees that towered above that side of the house.
Esme
seated herself in a wing chair, and we sat in a row on a facing sofa.

“I’m Kate Lawrence, and these are my friends, Margo Farnsworth and Strut-uh, Charlene Tuttle,” I made the introductions. “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice.”

“I don’t usually accept visitors on a holiday weekend, but you seemed anxious to speak with me, and I must be out later today to attend to a client in need,” said
Esme
, looking at me with discomfiting directness. “You were at the reading last night. I remember seeing you with Ms. Farnsworth.” She looked closely at
Strutter
. “But you were not. How may I help you? As I told you on the telephone, I can do a private reading only after I have had a few days in which to meditate and prepare.”

I shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t want to mislead you. We are not here for a private reading or to sign up for classes, although I have always wanted to learn how to meditate,” I added without knowing why.

Esme
nodded, unperturbed. “Yes, meditation is one of life’s essential skills. It is a technique embraced by fully two-thirds of the eastern populations, yet westerners have only begun to discover its value to their lives.” She waited calmly for me to continue.

“We’re here because we need some information from you, if you’re willing to give it to us.” As succinctly as possible I outlined the events surrounding Alain’s death and our wish to help the police eliminate our friend as a suspect. I hastened to add that our investigation was entirely unofficial. If the woman really were an intuitive, I didn’t want her to read me as a liar. “Alain
Girouard
was, uh, romantically involved with many women. We have learned that two of those women are students of yours, so last night, we attending the reading to see what else they might have in common.” I paused before delivering the punch line. “We saw one of those women here last night. We also saw Harold Karp, the operations manager at BGB, come down the stairs in your front hall and go into the kitchen. We wondered why.”

Throughout my recitation,
Esme
had listened attentively, occasionally looking past me out the windows behind the sofa as she digested what I had to say. Now she turned her attention to Margo.

“What did you think of the reading?”
Esme
asked her. I hoped Margo would choose her words carefully.

“Frankly, ma’am, it seemed like a sort of performance to me,” she said straight out.

Strutter
shrank back into a corner of the sofa, clutching her tote bag like a talisman against the lightning she suspected was about to strike us dead.

“But just about everyone else seemed to take it to heart,” Margo continued quickly. “I guess it’s just a matter of which church you were raised up in, isn’t that right?” She smiled charmingly.

Esme
returned Margo’s smile, much to
Strutter’s
relief. “Yes,” she agreed. “We are all largely products of our upbringings. I do hope you try to keep an open mind?”

“Yes, ma’am, I do,” Margo assured her, and
Esme
returned her attention to me.

“I am well aware that you share at least some of your friend’s doubts, but it is not my intention to attempt to change either of your minds. For the purposes of this discussion, I believe that your motivations are good and will not be used to harm anyone, so I will answer your questions. Harold Karp grew up in this neighborhood,” she said. “He lived with his mother and father in the second house from the end of this block until he left home to attend Boston University. After earning an MBA from Wharton, he returned to Connecticut and accepted the position of operations manager at BGB, a position he has held ever since.”

Once again
Esme
paused to look past us out the windows as if consulting with someone. I glanced over my shoulder, too, but whatever she saw eluded me. “While Harold was at school in Boston, his parents were in a terrible automobile accident and passed over. I invited him to occupy the apartment on the third floor here during his summer breaks and while he was attending graduate school, and he has chosen to stay on. It’s quiet and comfortable and quite spacious for one person. Harold never married, you see.”

She stood up and walked to the glass-topped table in the center of the room. It bore a stack of literature, presumably about the Center for Universal Truth, a dish of hard candy, a box of tissues, and a tall vase of cut flowers. “It has been a good arrangement for both of us. We suit each other very well. We are both early risers and
retirers
. In fact, every single morning that Harold is here, we walk a brisk two miles together for exercise, rain or shine. Also, the comings and goings of my students have never distressed Harold the way they did my own children.” She pinched off a few dead leaves as she waited for my reaction to her revelation about Harold.