Caught Redhanded Page 5

  “So how come you’re serving?” Curt asked the brassy blonde who usually worked as hostess.

  Astrid’s smile was sour, as far from her usual sunny expression as could be. “Since Annie quit. She’s leaving town to go to college and needs extra time to get ready, whatever that means. She gave us two days’ notice—two days! What is it with people today?—and we haven’t found a new server yet.”

  I smiled at her. “Well, think of the tips you’ll be getting.”

  “Oh, yeah,” she said. “Ferretti’s is a hotbed of high rollers.” She turned to leave, then stopped in her tracks, staring at a thin woman with dark hair too long for her age and dark circles under her eyes. The woman was sliding into a booth, newspaper in hand. “Well, well, so it’s true. She’s back in town.”

  The woman looked up, saw Astrid staring at her and gave a tight smile.

  “What’s she doing here tonight?” Astrid frowned. “You’d think she’d be too cut up to go anywhere.”

  I looked at the woman as she laid the menu aside, began to unfold her paper, a copy of today’s The News, then paused to pull a pair of glasses from her purse. “Who is she?”

  Astrid leaned on our table with both hands and dished. “Esther Colby. Or used to be Colby. I don’t know what her name is now. She disappeared a long time ago, thirty years or something like that. Quite a scandal when she walked out on her family.”

  Astrid shook her head as if she didn’t understand such behavior. “I always felt sorry for Steve Colby, who’s a nice guy, if you ask me. Left him with their little girl. Of course, he eventually married Nanette, and they have kids, too. But I don’t think he ever heard from Esther after she took off.” Astrid glanced surreptitiously at Esther. “And now that little girl is dead. Esther should just leave again and let Steve and Nanette grieve in peace.”

  “Esther Colby?” I watched in fascinated horror as the woman began reading the paper. “As in Martha’s mother?”

  “Yeah. Quite a homecoming present, huh?”

  The dark-haired woman gave a sudden cry. She was staring at the front page of the paper and I knew exactly what she was reading because I had written it.

  Her hand went to her mouth as her face became a mask of horrified disbelief. “Oh, no!”

  Astrid paled. So, I’m sure, did I.

  “She didn’t know,” Astrid said. “Now I feel terrible dissing her like that.”

  I nodded as I watched Esther Colby grab her purse and bolt for the door, the paper fluttering to the floor forgotten. Of course the police hadn’t notified her. They probably didn’t even know she was in Amhearst. Maybe Steve Colby didn’t, either, or, if he did, didn’t know where to reach her.

  Astrid shook her head. “I guess your daughter is still your daughter, even if you did abandon her.” Looking thoughtful, she wandered off toward the kitchen.

  I stared at Curt, trying to imagine what it was like to find out your daughter had been murdered by reading about it in the paper.

  Curt was watching me, concern evident in his eyes. “Are you okay?”

  I nodded. “I just feel bad for her.”

  He shrugged. “I feel worse for Steve Colby though. And Nanette. Astrid’s right. They are nice people.”

  “How do you know them?”

  “Steve was my high school math teacher, believe it or not. Then when I taught, he became a professional friend. Since I stopped teaching, we haven’t seen much of each other, but I’ve been thinking of him all day.”

  “Did you know Martha?” He hadn’t mentioned knowing her earlier today when he stopped at work.

  He nodded. “Not well, though. She ran with a different crowd than I did.”

  “With Mac and his friends.”

  He nodded. “All of them nice enough in their own way, but too wild for me, especially back then.” He grinned. “I was a good kid.”

  I had to laugh. “I bet.”

  Astrid showed with our iced teas, salads and crusty Italian bread. When she left, Curt asked, “Is there anything new on the murder?”

  I blinked as every horrible memory rushed back like high tide streaming into the Bay of Fundy. I poked at my salad without much appetite.

  “Not much new, but I did learn that there was a new boyfriend.” I told him all Mrs. Wilson had said, then proceeded to make her wielding of the burglar bar into a lighthearted story. Curt laughed in all the right places and telling the story replaced the image of Martha with that of a little old lady with too-black hair, restoring my appetite.

  “Good grief!” I said as I finished. “I forgot. I can’t believe I forgot.”

  I dropped my salad fork on my plate and reached into my purse. I pulled out the diary I’d trod on, taking care to hold it by one corner with my napkin. I showed it to Curt. “Martha’s, I think. I found it on the back patio just before Mrs. Wilson came after me.”

  “How’d it get there?” He reached for it.

  I pulled it back. “Uh-uh. Fingerprints. I think either Ken or the new boyfriend dropped it when they left by the back door. Photos were missing from in the house, too, and the bathroom had been ransacked.”

  Curt looked at me thoughtfully and I squirmed under his gaze. I braced myself.

  “I don’t think I’ll ask how you know all this, though I’m willing to bet William didn’t tell you.”

  Relief swept through me. He wasn’t going to give me a hard time about my B and E.

  He continued, “It sounds like somebody covering tracks.”

  “I think so, too.” I frowned as I stared at the red book. “I leafed through it quickly when I found it and I saw the name Mac. That scares me, Curt.”

  Curt looked thoughtful. “You said Martha was hit with a rock, right?”

  I nodded, the vision of the blood and hair on the murder weapon making me shudder.

  “I can’t see Carnuccio doing something like that. He certainly hasn’t always been a model citizen, but there’s a great distance between womanizing and drinking too much and committing murder.”

  I nodded. “I agree. And I don’t think he’d be seeing Martha at the same time he was seeing Dawn. He’s too crazy about Dawn to do anything to jeopardize their relationship.” I hope, I hope, I hope.

  “Yeah, but he is used to women who will sleep with him—and Dawn won’t.”

  Our spaghetti arrived and saved me from having to defend Mac. We spent the next few minutes eating and it was a relief to put the mystery aside. As I twirled my last few strands of spaghetti, I couldn’t keep my good news to myself any longer.

  “You’ll never guess who called me today.” I knew I must be wearing a silly smile.

  Curt paused with a forkful of meatball halfway to his mouth. He gave me the look that said, “You’re right. I can’t guess.”

  “Mr. Henrey!” I gestured excitedly as I said it, forgetting the twirled spaghetti on my fork. The tail end lashed out and a great blob of red sauce flew unerringly through the air to land on Curt’s white polo right over his heart. We both started at the red mark, me appalled, he with resignation.

  “I almost wore red,” he said. “But I told myself that I was mature enough to eat spaghetti without getting it all over myself. I forgot about you.”

  He looked so forlorn that my guilt meter went zinging over the top. At the same time I had to slap my hand over my mouth to curb my inappropriate laughter. “I’m sorry!”

  “I can tell.” His voice was sardonic.

  “I am. Really. I’ll wash it for you. I can get the stain out.” I think.

  He nodded. “You do realize that this wouldn’t have happened if you cut your spaghetti instead of twirling.” He pulled one side of his shirt out of his pants.

  “I’ve worried about our union of twirler and cutter. Such a vast chasm of difference. What will it do to our children? And what are you doing?” By now his shirt was completely untucked.

  “You can’t wash it with me in it.” He spoke with a perfectly straight face.

  “No shirt, no food
,” I reminded him and ate the offending forkful.

  He gestured to his spaghetti, what little remained, all hacked into tiny pieces. “I’ve already got the food. What are they going to do? Take it back? And who’s Mr. Henrey?” he asked as he tucked himself back in.

  I grinned at him. I loved this man. “My old boss at The Chronicle.”

  Curt raised an eyebrow.

  I took a deep breath and said with pride, “He offered me a job, a great job.” I gave him all the facts. “Isn’t that fabulous?” I leaned back as Astrid cleared our table. “We can buy a house with lots of windows and great light for your studio and it can be near my parents. We can go to my old church. You can paint western Pennsylvania things and have your work hung in western Pennsylvania galleries. And when I get an unexpected assignment, you can watch the kids for me because you’ll be home working. Can you imagine anything better?”

  I looked at him expectantly and realized with surprise that he had pulled back, literally, leaning against the back of the seat, and figuratively, folding his arms over his chest.

  “First,” he said, his chin raised in challenge, “if I’m working, I will not be able to watch kids, either in Amhearst or Pittsburgh or anywhere else. You need to understand that. When I’m working, I’m as unavailable as you are when you’re working.”

  “Okay.” Inconvenient but understandable.

  “I mean it, Merry. I may work at home, but that doesn’t mean I’m on call. I’m not.”

  “I get it.” My voice was a bit tart.

  “Good.” He added cream to the coffee Astrid had just brought. “And when does this marvelous opportunity of yours start?” His voice was still cool.

  “As soon as.”

  “Huh.”

  That was it? Huh?

  “I know it’s a surprise,” I said, leaning forward, trying to understand his attitude like a good fiancée. “I was surprised, too.”

  “You didn’t contact him first?”

  I blinked at the chill washing across the table. “You mean as in apply for the job? Are you kidding? Without consulting you?”

  Curt just stared, his eyes sober behind his lenses.

  I was offended. “Do you really think I’d do something like that behind your back? We’re getting married. Married people make decisions together.”

  The frost thawed somewhat as he nodded, apparently satisfied that I wasn’t as nefarious as he’d feared.

  “Give me some credit,” I muttered, peeved that he even thought I might do such a thing. And he’d squelched my joy. I felt flat where I’d expected to feel as if I were soaring. I swallowed my resentment, forced a smile and asked, “So, want to move to Pittsburgh with me?” Sensing the wintery atmosphere once again lowering to frostbite temps, I added, “Of course, we would have to give Mac plenty of time to replace me and you plenty of time to get used to the idea.”

  Curt grunted.

  “Should I take that as a yes, I’d love to move to Pittsburgh?”

  “Did you already take the job?”

  “Sheesh, Curt.” I propped my elbows on the table and rested my chin in my palms. “I already told you I wanted to talk it over with you.” Where had this stubborn, unreasonable Curt come from?

  He grunted again. “I’m not certain this conversation qualifies as talking it over.”

  “Yeah, well, it would if you’d talk.”

  Suddenly he leaned over the table, getting in my face. “Do you realize you haven’t asked my opinion?”

  I drew back and stared at him. “I just asked if you wanted to move.”

  “That is not asking my opinion. What if I think such a move isn’t in our best interest?”

  Much as I hated to admit it—and I wouldn’t out loud, at least not right now; I was too steamed and too hurt—he had a point. “So what’s your opinion? Why wouldn’t this be in our best interest?”

  “What about my career?” he asked. “Do I just give it up?”

  “Of course not.” Talk about foolish. “I just said you could paint western Pennsylvania scenes. I mean, you can paint anywhere.”

  He just stared at me.

  “Well, you can. There’s sunlight in Pittsburgh and art supply stores and art galleries and anything else you might need.”

  “And my work with Intimations?” he asked, referring to the gallery in Philadelphia with a branch here in Amhearst.

  “They can still show your work. They show the work of lots of artists who don’t live locally.”

  “But I teach for them.”

  “I’m sure you can teach in Pittsburgh.”

  “You’ve checked into it for me, have you?”

  “Well, no, but we’re not talking the end of the earth here. There have to be lots of people who want to learn to paint there.”

  He grunted again. “What if I want to keep teaching my students here? What if I want to teach in North Carolina?”

  “North Carolina?” Where had that come from? Then I remembered he’d mentioned North Carolina when he’d stopped at the office this morning to see how I was after discovering Martha.

  “In the Appalachians.” His eyes looked fondly into middle distance.

  “You want to teach in North Carolina?” I all but screeched, albeit quietly. Screeching is more tone than volume, more intent than decibels. “But that’s too far to commute.”

  He focused on me, his eyes shuttered to hide his emotions. “I was thinking of something more permanent.”

  “What?” Surely I didn’t understand him correctly. “You want to move to North Carolina?”

  “Maybe. You’re not the only one who gets job offers, you know.”

  I was appalled. “Someone in North Carolina offered you a job? But you’re self-employed.”

  He pushed his empty coffee cup aside and leaned toward me. This time he was eager, not displeased. “I got a call this morning from West Carolina Art Institute. They want me to come talk with them about joining their faculty.”

  “Why you? How you?” North Carolina?

  “Apparently one of the art profs was in Philadelphia and visited Intimations. He was impressed enough with my work to look up my Web site. He noted that I taught school before I started painting full-time and that I taught art classes now. Long story short, they approached me about filling a position unexpectedly vacated.”

  “But what about the academic credentials to teach at a university?”

  He looked much too pleased with himself as he said, “I have my master’s and with my credentials as a producing, selling artist, they feel it’s enough for an adjunct professor.”

  I frowned at him. “So just like that you want to move to North Carolina? Without talking it over with me?”

  “I don’t know if I want to move to North Carolina or not. I have to go visit, look the place over and talk with people.” He looked at me. “I’d like you to come with me when I go.”

  “Oh.” The man was really serious about this possibility! “I can’t. I’ve committed all my vacation time for our honeymoon.” Not that I wanted to go even if I had the time.

  He smiled. “I went on the web and checked, and there’s a wonderful paper in the area, sweetheart, just the thing for you. You’re very fortunate because newspapers are everywhere.”

  “Right.” I stood, feeling betrayed, which I knew was foolish. But he was supposed to be delighted for me, not offering an alternate plan. “But they don’t all need another reporter.”

  He stood to leave, too, and I followed him out. The temperature outside had moderated from the heat and humidity of the afternoon and the soft, long twilight of summer wrapped around us as we walked together to our separate cars, both parked in The News lot.

  As I hit the electronic key to open my driver’s door, Curt swung his arm around my shoulders and drew me close. He kissed the top of my head, then my lips. I wrapped my arms around his middle and kissed him back.

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he said. “We’ll figure it out.”

  “Y
eah,” I said as I rested my head on his chest. But I didn’t know how without one of us feeling cheated. Resentful. There was a good start for a marriage. I blinked back tears as I leaned into him.

  Oh, Lord, it’s not supposed to be like this! Then I added, Please change his mind!

  EIGHT

  I walked into the Amhearst police station at about eight-thirty Wednesday morning and asked for Sergeant Poole. My stomach was a mass of knots and I had a throbbing headache from lack of sleep. In my purse I carried the equivalent of a ticking time bomb.

  That’s what I got for reading someone’s private diary.

  But how could I not?

  I stood in the small entry hall beside the Coke machine. The dispatcher looked at me from behind his wall of bulletproof glass and in a metallic voice that emanated from a speaker over my head told me he’d see if the sergeant was available.

  I hadn’t even finished reading the second wanted poster tacked to the bulletin board near the station’s front door when William appeared. He looked especially solemn as he led me into the bowels of the building where the offices were.

  “How are you this morning, Merry?” he asked when we were seated in his office.

  I smiled wanly. “I’m well,” I managed. “How are you?”

  I’d worn a V-neck T-shirt and a linen big shirt, both a lovely rose shade that made my cheeks look nice and pink, on the theory that the bright color would give me courage. It wasn’t working. I just don’t do well with guilt, mine or a friend’s. I jumped on a subject that would put off the topic of my visit a few more minutes.

  “Did you know that Martha Colby’s mother is in Amhearst after thirty or so years?” I thought of the stricken face I’d seen last night at Ferretti’s.

  He nodded. “She came barreling in here yesterday evening, demanding to know what had happened to her baby.”

  “Her baby?” This from a woman who had stayed away for so many years?

  “Yep.” William’s mouth curled cynically for a moment, then eased into its normal line. “I do think she was very distressed in spite of the strange situation.”