Scandal in Fair Haven

  I was lo­oking for­ward to me­eting Mr. Selwyn.

  I won­de­red, too, if the­re was a Mrs. Selwyn.

  Just in ca­se he had for­got­ten the bo­un­da­ri­es.

  "Oh, damn." Bri­git jum­ped to her fe­et. "The­re's Lo­u­ise's car. Chec­king on me. I know she is. I'll ha­ve to go."

  She dar­ted up the path to­ward the lib­rary. I won­de­red if this was an of­ten-re­enac­ted ri­tu­al.

  I didn't try to fol­low her. I co­uld find her aga­in if I ne­eded to.

  I lo­oked af­ter her run­ning fi­gu­re so­berly. Yes, Bri­git co­uld be the one.

  Vertical slabs of li­mes­to­ne glis­te­ned in the wash of lights il­lu­mi­na­ting the sha­dowy gar­den. The hu­ge front do­or-car­ved te­ak-was swin­ging shut as I pus­hed asi­de a swe­ep of ferns to re­ach the steps.

  Everywhere the­re was the so­und of wa­ter, slip­ping, slos­hing, splas­hing. 1 spot­ted at le­ast three wa­ter­fal­ls, ar­t­ful­ly lig­h­ted. Mas­si­ve gra­ni­te bo­ul­ders for­med po­ols and wa­ter ed­di­ed and swir­led be­ne­ath over­han­ging banks of vi­nes and pot­ted flo­wers, bright pe­oni­es and mas­ses of scar­let phlox. I sus­pec­ted Cheryl Kraft had a full-ti­me gar­de­ner with wa­ders.

  I pul­led a bel­lro­pe. The low, re­ver­be­ra­ting gong so­un­ded li­ke that of a tem­p­le in Ti­bet.

  The do­or ope­ned im­me­di­ately-or as im­me­di­ately as a hu­ge slab of te­ak co­uld mo­ve.

  Cheryl Kraft wel­co­med me. To­night she was dra­ma­tic in gold hos­tess pa­j­amas. Di­amond dol­p­hins dan­g­led from an enor­mo­us gold cha­in that lo­oked too he­avy for her ra­zor-sharp sho­ul­ders.

  She re­ac­hed out to ta­ke my hands, and I felt the he­at of too-thin, fe­ve­rish fin­gers. She glan­ced swiftly past me. No Cra­ig. I saw the flic­ker in her eyes, but she jum­ped right in. "You're the last to co­me, Mrs. Col­lins. I'm so ple­ased you're he­re." She held the do­or wi­de and ma­de no men­ti­on of Cra­ig. No do­ubt she felt it wo­uld be tac­t­less. Wo­men li­ke Cheryl Kraft ex­cel in tact. "We we­re ho­ping you'd ma­ke it. Ever­yo­ne's down in the at­ri­um."

  She led the way ac­ross a brid­ge. The fo­li­age flo­wed in­to the ho­use, as did a stre­am of wa­ter in­ha­bi­ted by fo­ot-long red and oran­ge carp.

  I fol­lo­wed her down a win­ding sto­ne sta­ir in­to an as­to­nis­hing la­ir, three se­pa­ra­te le­vels fas­hi­oned of red­wo­od. Ferns, vi­nes, se­ve­ral ba­na­na tre­es, mo­re wa­ter, and iri­des­cent fish thri­ved on every le­vel. I'd last felt this im­mer­sed in sticky hu­mi­dity in a Cos­ta Ri­ca ra­in fo­rest.

  She was now qu­ite at ease. "Almost ever­yo­ne's he­re. Ex­cept the Ne­als. They're in Egypt. A trip on the Ni­le. I do ho­pe they don't get shot. Or bom­bed. The world's such an un­sa­fe pla­ce now. Es­pe­ci­al­ly when you go whe­re pe­op­le ha­ve the­se re­li­gi­o­us per­su­asi­ons. So un­p­re­dic­tab­le. And hor­ribly, hor­ribly hos­ti­le. And the po­or de­ar Hol­li­ses. That's whe­re all the cars are to­night. You know, that dar­ling Ca­pe Cod on the ot­her si­de of the Jes­sops. Fa­mily from away, of co­ur­se. So ter­ribly sad. But they pro­bably co­uldn't ha­ve hel­ped us an­y­way. Too far from Patty Kay. And Edith isn't much of a gar­de­ner. I do wish Gi­na had co­me, but she felt she had to go over to Edith's."

  The Ca­pe Cod. I'd be­en right when I jud­ged that he­ar­t­b­re­ak wasn't con­fi­ned to Patty Kay's ho­use. The po­or Hol­li­ses, de­aling with gri­ef, unab­le to be a part of a ne­ig­h­bor­ho­od aro­used by mur­der.

  1 felt awash in a swirl of na­mes and cir­cum­s­tan­ces that I didn't un­der­s­tand. But I wo­uld le­arn.

  We re­ac­hed the ba­se of the sta­ir­ca­se. Cheryl grip­ped my arm as if I we­re a pri­ze. "He­re she is. De­ar Cra­ig's aunt, Mrs. Col­lins. She's co­me to help. Now, let me in­t­ro­du­ce ever­y­body."

  In that first qu­ick sur­vey, a half do­zen or mo­re fa­ces tur­ned to­ward me. Shut­te­red fa­ces. Wary fa­ces.

  Because I was Cra­ig's aunt?

  Or be­ca­use vi­olent de­ath had co­me so clo­se to them?

  It was odd to pre­tend to­tal ig­no­ran­ce when I did in­de­ed know so­me of them. At le­ast, I felt I knew them af­ter vi­ewing the vi­de­os.

  But the first in­t­ro­duc­ti­on fas­ci­na­ted me.

  He pus­hed away from a red­wo­od pil­lar to ga­ze at me som­ber­ly-the man who­se pho­tog­raph Patty Kay had car­ri­ed with only the no­ta­ti­on Hil­ton He­ad. The sa­me thick curly brown ha­ir and strong, bold fe­atu­res. He wasn't qu­ite as trim now and the­re was a to­uch of gray in his ha­ir. But the stri­king dif­fe­ren­ce was in his fa­ce. In the pho­tog­raph he was yo­ung and happy. It was sum­mer with no hint that win­ter wo­uld ever co­me. To­night he didn't lo­ok as tho­ugh he'd ever smi­le aga­in.

  "Stuart Pi­er­ce." Cheryl shot me a swift glan­ce.

  But I knew. "Bri­git's fat­her," I sa­id easily. I held out my hand. "I'm so ple­ased to me­et you."

  It wasn't aw­k­ward. Af­ter all, the Ame­ri­can fa­mily in the ni­ne­ti­es is of­ten a hod­ge-pod­ge. To put it gra­ce­ful­ly.

  "Of co­ur­se, Stu­art and Lo­u­ise"-Cheryl smi­led at Patty Kay's som­ber ex-hus­band-"don't re­al­ly li­ve right he­re on King's Row Ro­ad. But they're clo­se, right aro­und the cor­ner on Pen­nin­g­ton Way, be­hind Gi­na's ho­use. I'm sorry Lo­u­ise co­uldn't co­me this eve­ning, but I know she will try to help."

  So Stu­art Pi­er­ce's se­cond wi­fe had dec­li­ned to at­tend this ne­ig­h­bor­ho­od gat­he­ring. How had she felt abo­ut Stu­art res­pon­ding to Cheryl Kraft's sum­mons?

  Cheryl swept ahe­ad. "And he­re are Pa­me­la and Wil­lis. But, of co­ur­se, you know them."

  Thank God for the vi­de­os. It was still an aw­k­ward mo­ment for me. Had Mar­ga­ret vi­si­ted he­re, met Patty Kay's sis­ter and hus­band? I co­uld al­ways pre­tend to be anot­her aunt…

  But Pa­me­la Pren­tiss Gut­h­rie's pro­tu­be­rant eyes slid over me with ne­it­her re­cog­ni­ti­on nor in­te­rest. She mur­mu­red in­sin­ce­rely, "So go­od to see you aga­in. Very go­od of you to co­me. Un­der the cir­cum­s­tan­ces."

  The lit­tle flash of ve­nom was in­ten­ded. It ca­ught me by sur­p­ri­se. She lo­oked li­ke such a bo­ring blob. But the blob wasn't stu­pid-and she didn't li­ke Cra­ig.

  Pamela's hus­band Wil­lis was tall and bony with a con­ca­ve chest, thin­ning gin­ger ha­ir, and a scraggly, light mus­tac­he. His pa­le blue eyes lo­oked at me coldly. His hand felt mo­ist. "Yes, yes, go­od of you to co­me."

  Cheryl swiftly shep­her­ded me past them.

  A dis­tin­gu­is­hed-lo­oking ol­der man with crisp whi­te ha­ir and aris­toc­ra­tic fe­atu­res sto­od be­hind the wet bar. He had that air of con­fi­den­ce that only po­wer and mo­ney pro­vi­de. He was used to cha­iring me­etings in bo­ar­d­ro­oms. Ge­ni­al. Un­less cros­sed.

  "My hus­band, Bob." Cheryl fa­vo­red him with a bright, sur­p­ri­singly swe­et smi­le.

  Bob Kraft re­ac­hed ac­ross the bar to sha­ke my hand in a pa­in­ful grip. "I'm so glad you co­uld co­me, Mrs. Col­lins. What wo­uld you li­ke to drink?"

  "Gin and to­nic, thanks."

  The fi­nal co­up­le I didn't know at all. They had the le­an bo­di­es and le­at­hery fa­ces of the hor­sey set. It was all too easy to pic­tu­re them in a pad­dock. I sup­pres­sed a smi­le.

  "Carl and Mindy Jes­sop. They li­ve on the ot­her si­de of Patty Kay." Cheryl clap­ped her thin hands to­get­her. "Ever­yo­ne, co­me gat­her ro­und the po­ol tab­le."

  Bob Kraft flic­ked a switch. Light flo­oded yet anot­her le­vel and a po­ol tab­le.

  Cheryl led the way down fi­ve sto­ne steps.

  Her gu­ests obe­di­ently fol­lo­wed, tho­ugh I saw Pa­me�
�la Gut­h­rie's he­avy sho­ul­ders mo­ve in a shrug of dis­da­in.

  Cheryl wa­ved us aro­und the tab­le and she to­ok her pla­ce at one end. "I've be­en gi­ving all of this a lot of tho­ught." With the air of a co­nj­uror, she po­in­ted at ni­ne upen­ded whis­key tum­b­lers on the tab­le. "See, I ha­ve them

  arranged. On this si­de"-she to­uc­hed the bot­tom of each glass in turn-"we ha­ve the Ne­als, the Jes­sops, Patty Kay, our ho­use, and Gi­na's. On the ot­her si­de of the stre­et are"- plink, plink, plink-"t­he Hol­li­ses, the For­rests, and the Gut­h­ri­es. Over he­re on Pen­nin­g­ton"-one glass sat by it­self -"is Stu­art's ho­use." Plink. "Now, King's Row Ro­ad is a de­ad end." She glan­ced at me. "You re­mem­ber, the stre­et ends just past the Hol­li­ses' ho­use."

  I nod­ded. The Ca­pe Cod with too many cars and wo­men brin­ging fo­od.

  Cheryl's bright eyes mo­ved res­t­les­sly from fa­ce to fa­ce. "It's very im­por­tant for us to put our he­ads to­get­her. This po­li­ce idea that po­or, de­ar Cra­ig hurt Patty Kay is ab­surd. We all know it."

  It was my turn to glan­ce swiftly abo­ut.

  Brooke For­rest cros­sed her arms tightly ac­ross her chest. She sta­red at the glas­ses in sick fas­ci­na­ti­on.

  Brooke's hus­band wat­c­hed Cheryl. Da­vid's cold gray eyes we­re skep­ti­cal.

  Bob Kraft's fa­ce was tho­ug­h­t­ful and not at all ge­ni­al.

  Pamela Gut­h­rie sip­ped gre­edily at her drink, then plun­ged pudgy fin­gers in­to the am­ber li­qu­id to lift out a ma­ras­c­hi­no cherry. She pop­ped it in­to her mo­uth. She ga­ve no at­ten­ti­on to the tab­le or the glas­ses.

  Her hus­band's lips cur­ved in­to a tiny, un­p­le­asant smi­le, then he lif­ted one hand to stro­ke his limp mus­tac­he.

  Stuart Pi­er­ce grip­ped the ed­ge of the po­ol tab­le. A mus­c­le twit­c­hed in his jaw.

  Not one of them jum­ped to Cra­ig's de­fen­se.

  Only the Jes­sops we­re nod­ding eagerly.

  "Damn right." Carl Jes­sop po­un­ded a fist on the gre­en felt. The whis­key tum­b­lers qu­ive­red. "Got to get busy, find out what the hell hap­pe­ned, who ca­me in he­re, did such a thing. Not Cra­ig. Co­uldn't ha­ve be­en Cra­ig."

  Mindy Jes­sop pus­hed back a lock of short-crop­ped gray ha­ir. "So sorry I wasn't ho­me. I was out at the stab­les. Swe­et De­light's due any day now."

  "How abo­ut you, Carl?" Cheryl as­ked, po­in­ting at "the­ir" glass.

  "God, I wish I co­uld help. I was at the club. Pla­ying a ro­und with Buddy Fis­her."

  It didn't ta­ke long. Only Bro­oke For­rest, her son Dan, and Pa­me­la Gut­h­rie ap­pe­ared to ha­ve be­en at ho­me on Sa­tur­day af­ter­no­on bet­we­en fo­ur and fi­ve o'clock.

  Cheryl lo­oked at them eagerly. "Oh, go­od, go­od. You see, I was in the front yard from fo­ur o'clock un­til the po­li­ce car ca­me scre­aming up-ex­cept for just a few mi­nu­tes right aro­und fi­ve! And I know that not a sin­g­le car tur­ned in whi­le 1 was out­si­de." She tur­ned to­ward Bro­oke. "So, if you or Pa­me­la we­re out­si­de, did eit­her of you see a car co­me to Patty Kay's?"

  Pamela sho­ok her he­ad. Her high vo­ice was mildly sur­p­ri­sed. "Why wo­uld 1 be out­si­de?"

  Brooke tur­ned her slen­der hands over hel­p­les­sly. "I was plan­ting swe­et Wil­li­ams in the bac­k­yard. I co­uldn't see the stre­et at all."

  Cheryl tap­ped her fin­gers on the rim of the po­ol tab­le. "I can't be­li­eve this. So­me­one must ha­ve se­en so­met­hing." She so­un­ded slightly pe­tu­lant.

  "Maybe the­re wasn't an­y­t­hing to see." Pa­me­la Gut­h­rie's to­ne was bland,

  I didn't let it pass. "No one but Cra­ig may ha­ve dri­ven in­to King's Row Ro­ad. But let's not for­get the al­ley."

  It was a fa­irly ni­ce co­un­ter­po­int.

  But Cheryl Kraft's dam­ning tes­ti­mony that not a sin­g­le car ca­me in­to King's Row Ro­ad du­ring most of that cri­ti­cal pe­ri­od on Sa­tur­day af­ter­no­on wo­uld cer­ta­inly de­light Cap­ta­in Walsh.

  I wo­ke to ra­in. I'd not slept well. It isn't ple­asant to dre­am of mur­der. Aga­in and aga­in I saw the sa­me sce­ne in my mind, Patty Kay bac­king away from her kil­ler, one re­luc­tant step af­ter anot­her. In tho­se last des­pe­ra­te se­con­ds-se­conds that we­re fo­re­ver too long and too bri­ef-Pat­ty Kay's ex­p­res­si­ve mo­uth wo­uld ha­ve ope­ned in shock, her vi­vid gre­en eyes fla­red in sur­p­ri­sed dis­be­li­ef. That's how she wo­uld ha­ve re­ac­ted-in­c­re­du­lo­us that an­yo­ne she knew in­ten­ded to kill her, rob­bing the vi­go­ro­us mi­nu­tes and ho­urs and days of her li­fe.

  In my dre­am I saw glo­ved hands aiming the pis­tol. Yes, they wo­uld ha­ve be­en glo­ved be­ca­use the mur­de­rer ca­me pre­pa­red.

  Sometimes the glo­ved hands be­lon­ged to Bri­git. Su­rely it wasn't her yo­ung mind that had con­ni­ved so mur­de­ro­usly and cle­verly. But it co­uld be. I knew it co­uld be. The yo­ung are so of­ten un­de­res­ti­ma­ted, the­ir pa­in and pas­si­ons ig­no­red.

  I qu­ickly fi­xed my bre­ak­fast, pus­hing away tho­ughts of

  Brigit. The­re we­re ot­her ro­ads to go down. And, ir­ri­tablv, I ad­mit­ted to myself that I didn't want it to be Bri­git. The pa­in of that bet­ra­yal wo­uld ha­ve be­en de­eper for Patty Kay than the burn of any bul­let.

  Rain splas­hed aga­inst the kit­c­hen win­dows. I tur­ned on all the lights. As I drank my cof­fee, I re­ad the ar­tic­le fror the Fa­ir Ha­ven Ga­zet­te that I'd prin­ted out at the lib­rary.It was ac­com­pa­ni­ed by a pic­tu­re of a smi­ling Patty Kay, he fa­ce crin­k­led in exu­be­rant de­light.

  A three- column he­ad:

  FAIR HAVEN'S

  PATTY KAY MATTHEWS

  LEADS WITH LAUGHTER

  She's ar­ri­ved atop a cir­cus elep­hant, clim­bed a fi­re lad­der to plant a flag, led a Di­xi­eland band in a mock fu­ne­ral march, sho­uted down pro­tes­ters, and en­ga­ged in a pub­lic "strip­te­ase" (of sorts).

  She is Patty Kay Pren­tiss Mat­thews, a ci­vic and so­ci­al le­ader in Fa­ir Ha­ven, who la­ughs as she says, "111 do an­y­t­hing for the arts. And I'm de­ter­mi­ned to pro­ve you don't ha­ve to be stuffy to sup­port the art mu­se­um or the lib­rary or the play­ho­use."

  Mrs. Mat­thews cer­ta­inly co­uld ne­ver be con­si­de­red stuffy. In­ter­vi­ewed at her ho­me re­cently, she was in a ra­re sta­te of re­la­xa­ti­on. "The com­mu­nity fund dri­ve is do­ne-and we ear­ned twenty tho­usand dol­lars mo­re than our go­al!-so for me it's dow­n­ti­me un­til we [Fa­ir Ha­ven Wo­men's So­ci­ety] put on the May cha­rity auc­ti­on."

  It was for the com­mu­nity fund dri­ve that she clim­bed a fi­re truck lad­der to pla­ce the Fa­ir Ha­ven flag on the flag­po­le at the Fa­ir Ha­ven Mall.

  Even a mo­dest as­ses­sment of Mrs. Mat­thews's many ac­com­p­lis­h­ments re­ve­als that her ef­forts on all fronts ha­ve ear­ned Fa­ir Ha­ven's cha­ri­ti­es and so­ci­al agen­ci­es mo­re than a half mil­li­on dol­lars over the past de­ca­de.

  Mrs. Mat­thews's la­te pa­rents, Mer­ri­wet­her and Cor­ne­lia Pren­tiss, we­re al­so ac­ti­ve in ci­vic af­fa­irs. "Mot­her and Dad ma­de gi­ving fun. They lo­ved to host ice cre­am so­ci­als and pic­nics for worthy ca­uses. So 1 le­ar­ned to ha­ve a go­od ti­me whi­le ra­ising mo­ney. But ap­pe­ti­tes are jaded to­day, so 1 de­ci­ded the best way to get ever­y­body out is to of­fer ir­re­sis­tib­le ba­it. That's why 1 ca­me up with Catch a Ri­de with Dum­bo for the dri­ve for un­der­p­ri­vi­le­ged chil­d­ren."

  Three ye­ars ago Mrs. Mat­thews hi­red the le­ad elep­hant from a cir­cus ap­pe­aring in Nas­h­vil­le. She sta­ged a com­mu­nity-wi­de pic­nic at Hic­kory Park and sold ri­des on the elep­hant for fi­ve hun­d­red dol­
lars each, ear­ning the lar­gest amo­unt ever- $46,000-for the sum­mer camp prog­ram.

  Mrs. Mat­thews's ef­forts aren't res­t­ric­ted to fund-ra­ising. She is wil­ling to ruf­fle so­me fe­at­hers in this con­ser­va­ti­ve com­mu­nity by the ca­uses she pas­si­ona­tely es­po­uses. The mock fu­ne­ral march was in pro­test aga­inst the Ga­zet­te's de­ci­sion not to carry a co­mic strip with po­li­ti­cal over­to­nes. Mrs. Mat­thews ral­li­ed sup­port from eno­ugh ad­ver­ti­sers to chan­ge the Ga­zet­te's po­licy.

  One of Mrs. Mat­thews's prin­ci­pal det­rac­tors is the Re­ve­rend James Hol­man. Pas­tor of Mt. Zi­on Re­vi­val Church, Re­ve­rend Hol­man op­po­ses abor­ti­on, gay rights, and fe­mi­nism. Re­ve­rend Hol­man