Scandal in Fair Haven Read online

  I felt li­ke a kin­der­gar­ten in­s­t­ruc­tor. "Call him."

  Craig mas­sa­ged his tem­p­le. "He do­esn't li­ke me."

  I wa­ited.

  "He- he tho­ught Patty Kay and I got mar­ri­ed too qu­ick." He didn't lo­ok at me.

  Something in­te­res­ting the­re. Why sho­uldn't Patty Kay's law­yer li­ke him?

  "You must know ot­her law­yers."

  Craig's he­ad jer­ked up. "Oh, ye­ah, su­re. One of the guys I play po­ker with. I'll call him." He lo­oked aro­und the ro­om.

  "I've got a cel­lu­lar pho­ne in my car. I'll get it."

  When I ca­me back in­to the ca­bin with the pho­ne, he to­ok it obe­di­ently.

  He held the han­d­set tightly, pun­c­hed in the num­bers.

  "Desmond, this is Cra­ig. Lis­ten-" He bro­ke off, his eyes wi­de­ning.

  When he spo­ke aga­in, his vo­ice sho­ok. "No, no, I ha­ven't se­en the news. No. Oh, God… no, no, I didn't do it, I tell you. I didn't kill her. I don't know what hap­pe­ned. I fo­und her this af­ter­no­on, and"-he swal­lo­wed and nod­ded-"ye­ah, ye­ah, I want to co­me ho­me but"-he shud­de­red-"no, no, I didn't run away. I-I was sup­po­sed to-I ca­me to see my aunt. She has a ca­bin ne­ar Mon­te­ag­le. I was up­set, I didn't know what to do. So I tho­ught I'd talk to my aunt."

  He ca­re­ful­ly did not lo­ok my way.

  I wat­c­hed him with a go­od de­al of in­te­rest. Qu­ite a nifty lit­tle li­ar un­der pres­su­re.

  "… in the mor­ning at yo­ur of­fi­ce? Ye­ah, I can be the­re by ni­ne. You'll talk to the po­li­ce for me?"

  I co­uld ima­gi­ne the law­yer's call: "My cli­ent is qu­ite wil­ling to co­ope­ra­te with the aut­ho­ri­ti­es… in shock from the bru­tal sla­ying of his be­lo­ved wi­fe… fled the sce­ne of such hor­ror to se­ek fa­mily sup­port… su­rely that's an un­der­s­tan­dab­le hu­man re­ac­ti­on, not­hing si­nis­ter at all… will be wil­ling to talk with the po­li­ce at my of­fi­ce at…"

  Unaware, of co­ur­se, that Patty Kay's hus­band's clot­hing was blo­od­s­ta­ined, and de­aling with an ob­vi­o­usly af­f­lu­ent mem­ber of the com­mu­nity and wit­ho­ut eye­wit­nes­ses, the po­li­ce wo­uld be pa­ti­ent.

  When he en­ded the con­nec­ti­on, my vi­si­tor re­luc­tantly tur­ned to fa­ce me.

  "Your aunt?" I as­ked qu­iz­zi­cal­ly.

  His eyes slid away. "Sorry." Then he vi­si­ted me with a ru­eful, stu­di­o­usly char­ming glan­ce. No do­ubt it had wor­ked for him for a long ti­me. Now it was ha­bi­tu­al. Only

  with wo­men, of co­ur­se. "Aunt Mar­ga­ret's all the fa­mily 1 ha­ve. 1 wish you we­re my aunt too," he sa­id in a rush.

  It was de­sig­ned to evo­ke sympathy.

  It didn't.

  But Mar­ga­ret is my fri­end. The­re was no way she co­uld help her nep­hew now.

  1 co­uld.

  He to­ok a de­ep bre­ath, star­ted to push back his cha­ir. "Well," he sa­id aw­k­wardly, "thank you for hel­ping me. I'll go now. The­re's a mo­tel-"

  "That's all right. You can sle­ep on the co­uch."

  He ac­cep­ted. Which didn't sur­p­ri­se me.

  And sto­od by whi­le I ma­de his bed. Which didn't sur­p­ri­se me eit­her.

  As I tur­ned to go to the bed­ro­om, he sa­id, "Lis­ten, thanks for ever­y­t­hing, Mrs…" He didn't re­mem­ber my na­me. But then, he had plenty on his mind.

  "Mrs. Col­lins. My fri­ends call me Hen­rie O."

  "Henrie O. That's ni­ce. Go­od night, Hen­rie O."

  This ti­me I did clo­se the do­or to the bed­ro­om be­hind me. I al­so wed­ged a stra­ight cha­ir be­ne­ath the knob. I may so­me­ti­mes be a soft to­uch.

  I'm not a dam­ned fo­ol.

  3

  I wo­uldn't ha­ve be­en sur­p­ri­sed if he'd slip­ped away in the night. That was my first tho­ught when I awo­ke. I had no con­fi­den­ce in Mar­ga­ret's nep­hew. But Cra­ig Mat­thews still slept he­avily on the co­uch, his ha­ir to­us­led, one arm flung over his fa­ce, the blan­kets drag­ging the flo­or. He lo­oked vul­ne­rab­le and ut­terly in­no­cent. Isn't that true of all sle­eping cre­atu­res? I can sho­wer, blow-dry my ha­ir, and dress in twel­ve mi­nu­tes. When I ca­me out in­to the li­ving area, Cra­ig was strug­gling awa­ke.

  "I'll get bre­ak­fast," I told him briskly. "You'll find sha­ving cre­am and a fresh dis­po­sab­le ra­zor in the bat­h­ro­om. All I can of­fer in the way of cle­an clot­hes is a swe­at­s­hirt." It wo­uld be lar­ge eno­ugh be­ca­use I li­ke them lo­ose and floppy. Cle­an tro­users I co­uldn't pro­vi­de.

  I'd not bro­ught pro­vi­si­ons for vi­si­tors, and I in­c­li­ne to a rat­her spar­tan bre­ak­fast-ce­re­al, ap­ple­sa­uce, and cof­fee. It isn't that I ho­ard fat grams, but li­fe is a tra­de-off, and I'll

  take a hot fud­ge sun­dae la­ter in the day over but­te­red to­ast an­y­ti­me.

  When Cra­ig jo­ined me, he lo­oked a go­od de­al bet­ter than the night be­fo­re. He still wo­re the sta­ined tro­users, but the swe­at­s­hirt was a gre­at im­p­ro­ve­ment over the blo­odi­ed shirt. Yet, even freshly sha­ven and af­ter a few ho­urs of sle­ep, he still had the air of a stun­ned sur­vi­vor.

  It didn't, gi­ven the fa­re, ta­ke us long to eat.

  I re­fil­led our cof­fee cups.

  "It's all so crazy," he blur­ted out. "I can't be­li­eve I'm he­re. I can't be­li­eve what hap­pe­ned to…"

  I lo­oked sympat­he­tic, I won­de­red if I was ser­ving as a prac­ti­ce ses­si­on.

  "I was at the sto­re."

  "Store?"

  "Patty Kay's bo­ok­s­to­re."

  Hmm. Not our bo­ok­s­tore. Patty Kay's bo­ok­s­tore.

  "Where?"

  He lo­oked at me blankly.

  "What town?"

  "Oh. Ye­ah. Su­re. We li­ve"-He pa­used, I knew, be­ca­use Patty Kay no lon­ger li­ved-"in Fa­ir Ha­ven."

  I was fa­mi­li­ar with it*. Fa­ir Ha­ven is so­me twenty mi­les so­uth of Nas­h­vil­le on Hil­lsbo­ro Pi­ke. It is not only one of Ten­nes­see's lo­ve­li­est old towns, it is one of its we­al­t­hi­est. The­re is a gre­at de­al of old mo­ney in Fa­ir Ha­ven, and lots of new.

  I glan­ced aga­in at his slacks. Sta­ined or not, they we­re ex­pen­si­ve and well cut.

  "Is that how you earn yo­ur li­ving? Run­ning the bo­ok­s­to­re?"

  It sho­uldn't ha­ve be­en a dif­fi­cult qu­es­ti­on.

  "Well… I me­an, I run it for Patty Kay. I used to te­ach but… Ac­tu­al­ly, she has- had lots of in­ves­t­ments."

  "So the bo­ok­s­to­re do­esn't ha­ve to ma­ke mo­ney." I know tho­se kinds of bo­ok­sel­lers, we­althy pe­op­le who lo­ve bo­oks.

  "Oh, no. Patty Kay wan­ts"-another so­ber pa­use-"al­ways wan­ted to ma­ke mo­ney."

  Certainly. No one ap­pre­ci­ates mo­ney mo­re than the rich. But they can af­ford to in­dul­ge hob­bi­es un­til they be­co­me pro­fi­tab­le.

  "So you we­re at the bo­ok­s­to­re. When?"

  "Yesterday af­ter­no­on. It was a re­gu­lar Sa­tur­day. Busy. I an­s­we­red the pho­ne a do­zen ti­mes. Then so­me­body hung up when I an­s­we­red. I didn't think an­y­t­hing abo­ut it. A wrong num­ber. Hap­pens so­me­ti­mes. It rang aga­in. Anot­her han­gup. Then I was wa­iting on a cus­to­mer. One of the cler­ks-Amy-an­s­we­red the next ring. Af­ter I ma­de the sa­le, Amy ca­me over. She sa­id Patty Kay wan­ted me to pick up a bas­ket of fru­it at a shop in Gre­en Hills, then hurry ho­me. So I dro­ve to the shop-"

  "Just li­ke that? No, 'Will you ple­ase' or 'Co­uld you…' Did Patty Kay or­der you aro­und all the ti­me?"

  He didn't li­ke that. His vo­ice be­ca­me de­fen­si­ve. "She didn't or­der me aro­und. But, su­re, she as­ked me to do things."

  "And you did them
."

  "Sure. I me­an, why not?"

  That wasn't for me to say. But, des­pi­te all the lip ser­vi­ce to an­d­rog­y­no­us work ro­les in to­day's li­be­ra­ted mar­ri­ages, from my ob­ser­va­ti­ons most wo­men still han­d­le the do­mes­tic cho­res, and, when they don't, the­re is a go­od de­al of charm exer­ci­sed in shif­ting them. I didn't he­ar any ec­ho­es of charm he­re.

  So what kind of mar­ri­age did Cra­ig and Patty Kay Mat­thews ha­ve?

  The po­li­ce wo­uld want to know.

  I was be­gin­ning to ha­ve so­me ide­as.

  "All right. You went to pick up the fru­it."

  Puzzlement puc­ke­red his fa­ce. That, or so­me ar­t­ful Met­hod ac­ting. "They didn't ha­ve an or­der. I tho­ught the­re was may­be a mi­xup. So I cal­led ho­me-"

  Ah, what a du­ti­ful er­rand boy-

  "- and the mac­hi­ne ca­me on." His eyes brig­h­te­ned. "Lis­ten, they'll re­mem­ber that at the de­li, won't they? Patty Kay must ha­ve al­re­ady-" He bro­ke off.

  Because he didn't want to re­mem­ber? Or did he re­mem­ber only too well?

  "So you star­ted ho­me?"

  "Well, I had them fix up a fru­it bas­ket. Just in ca­se."

  This fel­low didn't want to fa­ce his wi­fe wit­ho­ut a bas­ket of fru­it. Not if she wan­ted a bas­ket of fru­it.

  It was fur­t­her pro­of of the po­wer Patty Kay exer­ci­sed over him. I co­uld ima­gi­ne the cold, ja­un­di­ced eyes of a cop lis­te­ning to this. Mar­ga­ret's nep­hew wo­uld co­me off as hen­pec­ked at best. Re­sen­t­ful at worst?

  Margaret.

  "Craig, be­fo­re you le­ave, you sho­uld pho­ne yo­ur aunt. It cer­ta­inly won't do for her to he­ar abo­ut Patty Kay's de­ath on the mor­ning news. And it will re­as­su­re her to spe­ak-"

  He ab­ruptly plun­ked down his cup. Cof­fee slos­hed out. "Ye­ah, I know. That wo­uld be best." He sho­ved back his cha­ir. "But the­re isn't ti­me. I told Des­mond I'd get to his of­fi­ce by eight. I've got to le­ave right now, right now, to ma­ke it. Why don't you call? Tell her ever­y­t­hing's go­ing to be okay."

  And he was grab­bing up his so­iled shirt and he­ading for the do­or.

  I fol­lo­wed him.

  He yan­ked open the do­or of a new me­tal­lic gre­en Por­s­c­he that glit­te­red li­ke eme­ralds in the early mor­ning

  sun slan­ting thro­ugh the bran­c­hes of a hac­k­ber­ry. I peg­ged the cost of the car at aro­und $75,000.

  Funny, how so­me pe­op­le spend the­ir mo­ney.

  Pots and ket­tles. Af­ter all, how many pe­op­le do­es a sta­ined glass win­dow fe­ed? Mo­ral jud­g­ments ap­pe­ar easy. Qu­ic­k­sand lo­oks so­lid. Try wal­king on it.

  The mo­tor grow­led to li­fe. "Ye­ah, I've got to dri­ve li­ke hell. But I want to thank you-"

  "No prob­lem."

  "Uh- "

  I co­uld ha­ve fi­nis­hed it for him, but I didn't.

  "Uh- if the po­li­ce want to talk to you. I me­an, I told Des­mond you we­re my aunt."

  Yes, in­de­ed he had.

  A qu­ick lit­tle lie. But wasn't it simply hu­man na­tu­re to try to put a go­od fa­ce on run­ning away? Ho­we­ver, it wasn't Cra­ig's only lie.

  The tro­ub­le with li­es is how easily they can be ex­po­sed and the mass of de­ta­il that must be re­mem­be­red to de­ce­ive suc­ces­sful­ly. Last night, dis­t­ra­ught over his wi­fe's mur­der, em­b­ro­iled in tel­ling me what had hap­pe­ned, ca­ught up in tal­king to the law­yer who ma­de it cle­ar that his flight had ma­de him a sus­pect, Cra­ig had re­pe­ated the law­yer's qu­ery,… in the mor­ning at yo­ur of­fi­ce? Ye­ah, 1 can be the­re by ni­ne.

  How easily, how qu­ickly this mor­ning Cra­ig chan­ged the ti­me so that he wo­uld not ha­ve to call his aunt.

  Was he af­ra­id that so­me­how, so­me way, he wo­uld re­ve­al him­self to Mar­ga­ret? Was he fe­ar­ful of an emo­ti­onal out­burst on her part? Or on his?

  I co­uld gu­ess all mor­ning. All I knew with cer­ta­inty was this yo­ung man's pen­c­hant for un­t­ruths.

  And he was as­king me for help, as­king me in ef­fect to jo­in in a lie.

  Why sho­uld I?

  He lo­oked yo­ung and vul­ne­rab­le. His ro­se­bud mo­uth dro­oped. His wo­eful eyes ple­aded.

  Margaret's nep­hew, her only li­ving kin.

  Oh, hell. "Ho­no­rary aunts aren't unu­su­al. I sup­po­se I co­uld be yo­ur Aunt Hen­rie O."

  He shif­ted the gle­aming auto in­to re­ver­se, flas­hed me his win­so­me, char­ming smi­le.

  As the Por­s­c­he's smo­oth ro­ar fa­ded in the dis­tan­ce, I sho­ok my he­ad. 1 had a strong sen­se that Cra­ig Mat­thews's ac­com­p­lis­hed smi­le wasn't go­ing to be eno­ugh to help him this ti­me.

  And he'd left me the task of cal­ling Mar­ga­ret. I won­de­red how of­ten he fob­bed off un­p­le­asant tasks on tho­se aro­und him.

  Margaret's vo­ice so­un­ded stron­ger.

  1 han­d­led it as well as 1 co­uld, ma­king it cle­ar at the out­set that Cra­ig was en ro­ute to see the aut­ho­ri­ti­es.

  "Murdered… Hen­rie O, how dre­ad­ful." A tho­ug­h­t­ful, som­ber pa­use. "He'll be a sus­pect." It wasn't a qu­es­ti­on.

  "Yes." Mar­ga­ret and 1 know the world too well for sug-ar­co­ating.

  "1 met her only twi­ce," Mar­ga­ret told me, be­ca­use she knew 1 ne­eded her help. "A vib­rant per­so­na­lity. For­ce­ful. Di­rect. Qu­ite we­althy. The kind of wo­man you'd lo­ve or ha­te. No hal­f­way me­asu­res. Of co­ur­se, she mar­ri­ed so­me­one li­ke Cra­ig… Ni­ce, but we­ak. That's the truth abo­ut him, Hen­rie O. Cra­ig isn't strong eno­ugh to kill any-.one."

  Sometimes cri­mes are com­mit­ted be­ca­use the per­pet­ra­tor is we­ak. I didn't say so.

  But Mar­ga­ret knows me well. "Hen­rie O, ple­ase. Lo­ok out for him. I'll get a law­yer-" Her vo­ice ro­se.

  "Don't bor­row tro­ub­le, Mar­ga­ret. Cra­ig's on his way to

  see a law­yer right now. Per­haps the cri­me will be qu­ickly sol­ved. Don't worry, I'll ke­ep on top of it."

  After I hung up, I didn't ta­ke the le­isu­rely ram­b­le in the wo­ods I'd an­ti­ci­pa­ted with such ple­asu­re. In­s­te­ad, I dro­ve to a gas sta­ti­on/con­ve­ni­en­ce sto­re on the hig­h­way. I pic­ked up the Sun­day new­s­pa­per.

  Back at the ca­bin, I po­ured anot­her cup of cof­fee and ope­ned the pa­per. I lo­oked first at the two-co­lumn pho­tog­raph of Cra­ig Mat­thews and a stri­kingly at­trac­ti­ve wo­man in her la­te thir­ti­es. She was slen­der and at­h­le­tic, dark-ha­ired with a vi­va­ci­o­us smi­le and a bright, chal­len­ging lo­ok. Be­hind her was a pa­vi­li­on and a la­ke.

  The cut­li­ne re­ad: IN HAP­PI­ER DAYS-Cra­ig Mat­thews and his wi­fe, Patty Kay, are pic­tu­red at the an­nu­al Wal­den Scho­ol fall pic­nic last Sep­tem­ber. Mrs. Mat­thews, 38, was fo­und sla­in in the­ir ex­c­lu­si­ve Fa­ir Ha­ven ho­me on Sa­tur­day.

  This story was cir­cum­s­pect:

  SOCIALITE DE­AD IN POSH MAN­SI­ON; HUS­BAND MIS­SING

  Mrs. Cra­ig Mat­thews, the for­mer Patty Kay Pren-tiss, was fo­und de­ad at shortly af­ter 5 p.m. Sa­tur­day in her Tu­dor man­si­on in Fa­ir Ha­ven.

  Alerted by an anon­y­mo­us pho­ne call, Fa­ir Ha­ven po­li­ce fo­und the body of the thir­ty-eig­ht-ye­ar-old so­ci­ali­te in a po­ol of blo­od in the es­ta­te play­ho­use, well known as the sce­ne of many cha­ri­tab­le fun­c­ti­ons.

  Police Chi­ef J. T. Walsh dec­li­ned to des­c­ri­be the ca­use of de­ath. An autopsy is sche­du­led Mon­day by the sta­te me­di­cal exa­mi­ner.

  Police sa­id re­pe­ated ef­forts to con­tact Mrs.

  Matthews's hus­band we­re un­suc­ces­sful. A clerk at Bo­oks, Bo­oks, Bo­oks, the bo­ok­s­
to­re ow­ned by Mrs. Mat­thews, sa­id that Mr. Mat­thews left the sto­re Sa­tur­day af­ter­no­on, re­por­tedly to pick up a fru­it bas­ket to ta­ke to the Mat­thews ho­me. The co­up­le ap­pa­rently had plan­ned to host a din­ner party at the­ir ho­me that eve­ning. Po­li­ce sa­id the di­ning ro­om tab­le was set and pre­pa­ra­ti­ons for the din­ner we­re un­der way by Mrs. Mat­thews when she was sla­in. So­me gu­ests ar­ri­ved to be gre­eted by the po­li­ce.