I pressed on. "The truth is, Willis, your wife and her sister were quarreling, and Patty Kay's death brings a lot of money to Pamela."
"That didn't mean a thing," he sputtered. "I told Captain Walsh you're nothing but a troublemaker. It's obvious what happened. Craig got mad and shot Patty Kay. Everyone knows it."
"No!" Stuart Pierce shoved back his chair. It crashed to the floor as he surged to his feet, his eyes blazing. "Everybody doesn't know it, Willis. The whole setup stinks. Patty
Kay never ran from anybody. Especially not from Craig And that stuff was thrown around the kitchen after she was dead. That lets out Craig."
"Unless it's a double bluff." Willis's face flushed an un kind hue. "Be just like him. Thinks he's so damn clever."
So that was where Captain Walsh had gotten his theory.
During this heated exchange Brooke had looked from Willis to Stuart to Willis as if at a tennis match. Now she shook her head decisively, a touch of color in her pale • cheeks, her lovely black hair swirling around her face. "No, no, it can't be Craig. We'd have known if Patty Kay and Craig weren't happy. Women know these kinds of things about their friends," she explained earnestly.
Stuart leaned down, jerked the chair upright, then stalked to the mantel. He faced the wall, his back to the others.
There was no hint that Brooke knew about Stuart and Patty Kay's secret trysts. So much for feminine intuition.
Of course, Brooke was right on one count. Patty Kay and Craig hadn't been unhappy. But they hadn't been passionately in love either. Perhaps that made for a certain kind of happiness. But that wasn't my focus right now.
Willis Guthrie was angry and flustered. So I kept after him. "Mr. Guthrie, what did Patty Kay tell you about the Saturday evening dinner?"
"I didn't talk to her." He bit off the words, his sallow face twisted in a furious frown. "My secretary took the message. I didn't want to go-but Pamela thought I should. Patty Kay kept trying to give that land from the estate to the school. We've given Walden School a great deal-but there are limits." His pale eyes locked with Selwyn's.
The headmaster fingered his rep tie. "Mr. Guthrie, this school owes its very existence to the Prentiss family. Cer-
tainly we understand that you and Mrs. Guthrie have other interests too. But I wonder if it would help achieve peace in your hearts-at the loss of Mrs. Guthrie's sister-if you might be willing now to agree to reserving that land for Walden School. Why"-eagerness lifted his voice-"we could agree tonight-I know the board would be happy to do so-to name the wilderness preserve the Patty Kay Prentiss Matthews and Pamela Prentiss Guthrie Nature Preserve. Such a gift to our present students and to future generations of Walden students…"
I hoped Selwyn wasn't holding his breath on this one.
Guthrie didn't even bother to answer. Instead, he glared at me. "1 don't have any idea what my sister-in-law had in mind. But I know for sure it had nothing to do with the land. That deal's been cooking for a year. Nothing new's happened."
"Actually, Mr. Guthrie, that's not accurate."
The derisive note in my voice caught their attention.
Stuart Pierce turned to listen.
Brooke Forrest's hands trembled, and she caught them together in a hard grasp.
Chuck Selwyn brushed back that lock of hair.
Desmond's dark eyes were puzzled.
Patty Kay's weedy brother-in-law tensed. "What do you mean?"
"The situation is profoundly different-because Patty Kay died. That land is now in the sole control of your wife."
Guthrie couldn't quite keep the gleam of satisfaction out of his eye. But he said nothing.
I persisted. "Isn't it?"
"Actually"-he used the word as a taunt-"I'd not even thought about it until you brought it up. My wife and I have been much too upset over Patty Kay's death to have given any thought at all to the disposition of her estate."
I wouldn't have wanted to be Willis Guthrie at that moment. I
They all looked at him in disgust. Desmond, Stuart, Brooke, Cheryl, even Selwyn.
Guthrie smoothed his skimpy ginger mustache. Even he realized that his insincerity was sickening to those who had loved Patty Kay. v
Stuart Pierce strode across the room. "How much is that land worth now, Willis? Two million? Three?" But Stuart's question had nothing to do with money. "How much did you and Pamela want that money?" His voice had a dangerous edge.
"Sure. You sure do. Especially now that Patty Kay's dead." Pierce wheeled around, moving away, and I knew he didn't trust himself that close to Guthrie.
Guthrie knew it too. He licked his thin lips, nervously smoothed his mustache.
"Willis, when did Pamela and Patty Kay last talk about that land?" I inquired.
Guthrie didn't answer.
I let it go. I figured I'd had my run at him. I said, "Brooke, what did Patty Kay say to you?"
"About the dinner?" Her aquamarine eyes clung to my face.
"Yes."
Brooke sighed and wearily massaged her temple. "I was late for tennis when she called Friday morning, so when she said she was going to have a special dinner meeting, I said sure, what time, and that was it." She spread her graceful hands helplessly. Her diamond wedding band-which had the look of an antique-sparkled. "I'm so sorry," she
said unhappily. "I could tell she was bursting to talk." Her eyes closed briefly. "And I didn't take the time…"
"So," I summed it up, "am 1 to understand that only Cheryl asked Patty Kay why she was having you trustees to dinner?"
Their silence was an answer.
It wasn't the answer I'd expected.
Patty Kay Matthews knew the ins and outs of organizations, boards, groups, and committees. She certainly knew, as all skillful organizers know, that nothing happens in a committee unless the wheels are greased.
Patty Kay called a meeting about something that mattered enormously to her.
Why did she keep her reason a secret?
I stepped inside. The first floor of the Matthews house was swathed in darkness except for the feeble glow from a single golden-globed torchere all the way down the hall in the dungeonlike entryway. Too little light to illumine the saucy moosehead. Clearly this was a night light indicating the householder had retired.
Craig's car was in the drive. I assumed that meant he was there. I doubted that he customarily went to bed at nine-thirty. But I didn't doubt at all that he was eager to avoid talking with me.
In fact, I wondered how soon he would try again to send me on my way.
And what would he do when he found out I'd nudged the police toward Stevie in their investigations? I was sure the assistant D.A. had picked right up on the information I'd given h
er about the sweater.
Well, it didn't matter that he would want me gone. I had no intention of leaving.
Amy's death settled that.
He would continue to afford me his hospitality. He was in no position to disclaim me as his aunt. That was his story, and he was stuck with it.
At this point I doubted his veracity on almost all counts, but my commitment to find out who shot Patty Kay remained strong.
For Patty Kay herself.
And now Amy.
Especially Amy.
I flipped on lights as I went. The kitchen, though sparkling clean, thanks to me, was not a cheerful place to be. Memory held another, darker picture. The faint acrid smell of burned chocolate lingered. But I was hungry, and I had much to do this night. I fixed a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, thankful for pantry staples. I checked the date on the milk carton. It was still good. I poured a tall, frothy glassful.
All the while, I puzzled over my unsuccessful quest- so far-to discover the reason Patty Kay had abruptly summoned the Walden School trustees and its headmaster to dinner.
Was my basic assumption wrong? Could Patty Kay have merely been indulging her fancy for last-minute entertainments?
No. That didn't fit with the unconcealed anger that had consumed the last two days of her life. Still, the dinner might have had nothing to do with that distress. 1 had no proof that Patty Kay was upset about her Walden School files even though that connection once seemed clear.
But I'd found nothing out of order or provocative in those files.
Of course, caveat emptor: the linkage of Patty Kay's distress to her late-night jaunt to the campus was provided courtesy of Craig Matthews.
Craig lied a lot.
Maybe I needed to rethink the matter entirely. Could the dinner be a smoke screen for some other agenda? Could it be a way of bringing one particular trustee to her home?
Why?
Patty Kay could see the headmaster anytime she was on the campus.
She'd played tennis with Brooke on Thursday, no doubt planned to play with her the next week. She was certainly on close enough terms to give Brooke a call at any time.
According to Stuart Pierce, he and Patty Kay were together on Thursday afternoon.
I finished half the sandwich, gulped some milk.
Okay, what if Stuart lied? Oh, not about their tryst, but maybe that Thursday parting was-as far as he was concerned-final. Would Patty Kay, desperate to see him, have used the trustee meeting as a pretext?
It would be, in my judgment, an ineffective way to attempt to talk intimately with a reluctant lover.
So, not to see Stuart.
Cheryl Kraft? I needed to probe more deeply there. Was there a hidden disagreement between Patty Kay and Cheryl? If so, I'd not heard a whisper of it. And this was such a small town. In any event, they lived next door to each other. It would be absurd to go to the effort of a dinner party if Patty Kay's objective was to speak with Cheryl.
I licked an escaping dollop of blackberry jelly from the sandwich edge.
That left Patty Kay's brother-in-law Willis and Desmond.
She could pick up the phone anytime and call Willis
Guthrie. As for Desmond, she'd known him for years. She could easily arrange to see him.
I was left once again with the assumption-surely the natural assumption-that the dinner was exactly as billed, a gathering of the school trustees. So there had to be a purpose, a purpose linked to Walden School.
Yet the argument against that conclusion was strong. No one knew better than Patty Kay that you don't broach important matters cold. Not if you want a group to vote your way.
I wiped a trickle of jelly from my chin, finished the milk, and shelved my obsession with the board of trustees. I have a reputation for stubbornness, but I also face reality. My pursuit of the dinner party may have been off track from the start.
Because there was another focal point in this murder case.
Books, Books, Books.
I jabbed the bell to Stevie's apartment. Fingers of light splayed around the edges of the drawn drapes.
The peephole opened.
"Stevie, I need to talk to you. About Amy."
The disembodied voice was high and slightly shrill. "It's late and-"
"Captain Walsh is looking for the owner of a beige Lands' End cardigan. Would you know anything about that? It's the sweater with Patty Kay's blood on it."
No answer.
"Did you know cloth can hold fingerprints?"
A chain rattled. The door opened.
In a gold-striped T-shirt and jeans, she looked younger. Younger and scared.
I stepped inside.
She closed the door behind her, leaned back on it as if for support. "What sweater are you talking about?"
"The one Craig found bunched up by his wife's body Saturday afternoon. Bunched up against her and drenched with her blood."
"Oh, my God!" It was a thin, anguished whisper. "Oh, no. No."
I felt sorry for her, but not sorry enough to ease up Not as long as I remembered the dumpster and those upturned pink flats. And not sorry enough to tell her that it wouldn't be long before Walsh, prodded by the young assistant D.A., had some very brutal questions for her.
"Yes. Craig wrapped the gun in the sweater, threw the gun away, then got rid of the sweater. But the police found it. They have it now. They're looking for its owner."
"I wore it to work Friday… and somebody took it."
I waited.
"You've got to believe me. When I went back to the storeroom, it was gone. Not on my hook. I haven't seen it since. You've got to believe me!"
It came down to her word, of course.
But that was her problem.
"Captain Walsh will be interested to hear what you have to say. And I suppose he'll also be curious as to why Craig should have chosen to remove the sweater from the murder scene."
She licked her lips.
Psychologically, I had her where I needed her to be.
"You have keys to the store." It was not a question.
"Yes."
"Let's go."
We turned on all the lights. We had full access to the main floor of the bookstore. Yellow police tape marking a crime scene barred us from the storeroom. And, 1 was sure, from the portion of the alleyway directly behind Books, Books, Books.
I wasn't interested in the storeroom. Or the alleyway.
I wanted information.
First, I left a call on Desmond's home and office answering machines.
Stevie stood rigidly next to the desk, her eyes dark with fear.
I hung up. "Okay. Let's take a look at Amy's personnel file."
She led the way to the main office where Captain Walsh had interviewed us that afternoon. Stevie pulled open the top drawer of the second file cabinet.
The impersonal appli
cation form didn't tell me much.
Amy Alice Foss. Home address, social security number, birth date. I looked at the latter. Nineteen years old. She was a sophomore at Fair Haven Community College, majoring in English. Her previous job had been with a Waldenbooks in Nashville. The manager gave her an excellent recommendation.
Bookstores.
Such lovely, civilized, safe places to work.