Scandal in Fair Haven Read online

  "The gun is his, one of a pa­ir of Smith and Wes­son.38 han­d­guns he and Patty Kay ow­ned. And his fo­ot­p­rints are all over the pla­ce in the kit­c­hen and the play­ho­use."

  "How abo­ut Patty Kay's fo­ot­p­rints?"

  The law­yer lo­oked puz­zled.

  I was pa­ti­ent. "In the kit­c­hen. Are her fo­ot­p­rints in the mess from the che­ese­ca­ke? And how abo­ut on the path to the play­ho­use?"

  "That dam­ned che­ese­ca­ke."

  It wasn't res­pon­si­ve to my qu­es­ti­ons but the exas­pe­ra­ti­on in his vo­ice in­t­ri­gu­ed me. I wo­uld pur­sue it in a mo­ment. Right now I wan­ted to know if Patty Kay's sho­es had al­so trac­ked sticky rem­nants of the des­sert.

  I re­pe­ated my qu­es­ti­ons.

  "How wo­uld I know?" He was per­p­le­xed.

  "Haven't you be­en to the cri­me sce­ne?"

  He lo­oked hor­ri­fi­ed. "God, no. That's for the po­li­ce."

  This man wo­uldn't win an­y­body's de­fen­se-law­yer-of-the-ye­ar award with that at­ti­tu­de.

  "Mr. Ma­ri­no, at this mo­ment the po­li­ce are lo­oking so­lely for evi­den­ce to con­vict my nep­hew Cra­ig. Not­hing el­se in­te­rests them."

  Anybody who thinks cops ca­re­ful­ly pe­ru­se all evi­den­ce, ke­eping an open mind as to a sus­pect's gu­ilt as they do so, pro­bably be­li­eves po­li­ti­ci­ans se­ek the gre­ater go­od in­s­te­ad of snap­ping at the best de­al for the­ir con­s­ti­tu­ency (i.e., them­sel­ves). On­ce an ar­rest is ma­de, the cops are trying to bu­ild a ca­se. All ot­her evi­den­ce is ex­t­ra­ne­o­us.

  "Mrs. Col­lins," Ma­ri­no in­qu­ired briskly, "what do­es that ha­ve to do with Patty Kay's fo­ot­p­rints?"

  "Quite a bit. If her fo­ot­p­rints are in that mess, ob­vi­o­usly the che­ese­ca­ke was thrown at the ce­iling whi­le she and her mur­de­rer we­re in the kit­c­hen. If the­re are no fo­ot­p­rints from Patty Kay, what do­es that tell us?"

  It didn't co­me qu­ickly eno­ugh to ma­ke him a star pu­pil, but it ca­me. "She wasn't in the kit­c­hen when the che­ese­ca­ke splat­te­red?"

  I nod­ded en­co­ura­gingly. "And?"

  "If she wasn't in the kit­c­hen…" His brow crin­k­led. "Was she al­re­ady shot?"

  "Yes."

  "But why wo­uld an­y­body throw…" His fa­ce flat­te­ned out li­ke a man who'd just ta­ken a fist in the gut. "Oh, God."

  Flashing ne­on co­uldn't ha­ve ma­de it cle­arer that the law­yer had a story to tell abo­ut Patty Kay's fa­mo­us des­sert. "So what abo­ut the che­ese­ca­ke?"

  "It was bad eno­ugh-what I tho­ught be­fo­re. But now…" The bright eyes pe­ered at me un­hap­pily. "You see, I was af­ra­id the po­li­ce wo­uld he­ar abo­ut last we­ek and -and think Patty Kay and Cra­ig had a fight."

  I wa­ited.

  Marino's fa­ce scre­wed up in con­cen­t­ra­ti­on. "We play po­ker on­ce a month." He lo­oked up, down, away, but, fi­nal­ly, re­luc­tantly, he con­ti­nu­ed. "A bunch of guys. We pla­yed last we­ek and"-he eyed me do­ub­t­ful­ly-"well, Cra­ig drank a lit­tle too much. I me­an, Cra­ig's not re­al­ly a big drin­ker, Mrs. Col­lins. But ever­y­body over­do­es it so­me­ti­mes."

  Everybody do­esn't over­do it so­me­ti­mes. But that wasn't the po­int he­re. "All right. Cra­ig had too much to drink that night. What hap­pe­ned?"

  "Last we­ek the ga­me was at my ho­use. The wi­ves do the des­serts, but I'm a bac­he­lor, so Patty Kay sends over her che­ese­ca­ke. And Cra­ig-oh, Christ-he got lo­ud and ob­no­xi­o­us and star­ted ma­king up li­me­ricks abo­ut what he'd li­ke to do with Patty Kay's che­ese­ca­ke, how he ha­ted the damn thing and how she al­ways in­sis­ted he eat two dam­ned pi­eces."

  Cheesecake on the ce­iling.

  To the po­li­ce, it wo­uld be one mo­re in­di­ca­tor of Cra­ig's gu­ilt. The hus­band lo­at­hes his wi­fe's che­ese­ca­kes. He co­mes

  home, they qu­ar­rel, he ta­kes the des­pi­sed des­sert and hurls it aro­und, then cha­ses his wi­fe to the play­ho­use. The­re he guns her down.

  But the­re was anot­her pos­si­bi­lity, and it was this in­ter­p­re­ta­ti­on that was spo­oking Ma­ri­no. So­me­one at last we­ek's po­ker par­ty-or so­me­one who'd he­ard the story of Cra­ig's in­dis­c­re­ti­on from a po­ker pla­yer the­re that nig­ht-set up the de­ath sce­ne to lo­ok exactly li­ke the re­sult of a do­mes­tic Qap.

  "Who pla­yed po­ker that night?"

  Marino hun­c­hed over his desk. He pic­ked up a let­ter ope­ner, held it li­ke a li­fe­li­ne. But, grud­gingly, he ga­ve me the na­mes.

  1 got out my no­te­pad and wro­te them down: Stu­art Pi­er­ce, Wil­lis Gut­h­rie, Da­vid For­rest. And, of co­ur­se, Ma­ri­no and Cra­ig.

  One na­me I re­cal­led from the news sto­ri­es. "Stu­art Pi­er­ce. Patty Kay's first hus­band?"

  "Yes." Ma­ri­no lo­oked li­ke a ro­ot ca­nal wo­uld be mo­re fun than my qu­es­ti­ons.

  "So Hus­band One and Hus­band Two we­re in the sa­me po­ker gro­up= Chummy."

  "Fair Ha­ven's a small town, Mrs. Col­lins."

  "I'd still say that was chummy. One of tho­se so-cal­led ami­cab­le di­vor­ces?" An ox­y­mo­ron of the first or­der.

  "Uh. No."

  1 wa­ited.

  The be­a­uti­ful­ly ta­ilo­red su­it ba­rely mo­ved when the law­yer shrug­ged. "Well, you know what Patty Kay was li­ke."

  That was the prob­lem, of co­ur­se. I had no idea-or at le­ast only the dim be­gin­nings of an idea-abo­ut the la­te Patty Kay Pren­tiss Pi­er­ce Mat­thews. But Cra­ig's aunt co­uldn't ad­mit that. Qu­ite.

  "I'd met her only a few ti­mes," I res­pon­ded blandly.

  "What you saw was what you got, Mrs. Col­lins." His fa­ce sof­te­ned. "Patty Kay ne­ver did an­y­t­hing by hal­ves. Ever. When we we­re lit­tle kids, she clim­bed hig­hest in the tree or set off the most fi­rec­rac­kers. We got a lit­tle ol­der and she dan­ced the most dan­ces. And that wo­man was crazy abo­ut Stu­art. Nuts abo­ut him."

  I co­uldn't qu­ite iden­tify the to­ne in his vo­ice. Re­mem­be­red an­ger? Wry dis­may?

  "Anyway, she ca­me on too strong. She over­w­hel­med Stu­art, ne­ver left him eno­ugh turf." Now he spo­ke briskly, tel­ling a fa­mi­li­ar ta­le. "Patty Kay was de­vas­ta­ted when he wal­ked out on her. And when he mar­ri­ed Lo­u­ise wit­hin a ye­ar, well, she to­ok it hard. She co­uldn't stand be­ing sin­g­le. She was hu­mi­li­ated. She met Cra­ig at a party at Che­ek-wo­od; three we­eks la­ter they got mar­ri­ed."

  "On the re­bo­und."

  He tug­ged at his col­lar, avo­ided lo­oking at me. "I don't me­an she didn't ca­re abo­ut Cra­ig. I think she did. But…"

  Murky wa­ters he­re. Had Cra­ig re­ali­zed he was a ma­ke-do rep­la­ce­ment for an ado­red hus­band? How wo­uld that af­fect a man? Or had Cra­ig de­li­be­ra­tely ta­ken ad­van­ta­ge of an emo­ti­onal­ly dis­t­ra­ught wo­man, pic­king up a very rich wi­fe with lit­tle ef­fort? Had Patty Kay de­ci­ded that Cra­ig mar­ri­ed her for her mo­ney? Be­ca­use it was qu­ite cle­ar who had the big bucks.

  Some qu­es­ti­ons Cra­ig's aunt co­uldn't ask.

  Some I co­uld.

  "This qu­ick mar­ri­age-is that the re­ason Patty Kay's law­yer"-I frow­ned, trying to re­mem­ber the na­me- "do­esn't li­ke Cra­ig?"

  Marino lo­oked em­bar­ras­sed. "Mr. Fa­ir­lee's ol­der. Very for­mal. He tho­ught… well, Cra­ig's yo­un­ger than Patty

  Kay. And he qu­it te­ac­hing right af­ter they got mar­ri­ed and just wor­ked at the bo­ok­s­to­re…"

  I got it. Patty Kay's law­yer tho­ught a yo­un­ger man mar­ri­ed an ol­der wo­man-no mat­ter how at­trac­ti­ve-for her mo­ney.

  1 let Ma­ri­no off the ho­ok. "Who was Patty Kay's best fri­end?"<
br />
  He tho­ught abo­ut it. "Gi­na Ab­bott. She's an in­te­ri­or de­co­ra­tor he­re in town. They grew up to­get­her."

  "Patty Kay's sis­ter li­ves he­re too, do­esn't she?"

  "Right." The­re was no in­f­lec­ti­on at all.

  "Mrs. Wil­lis Gut­h­rie." 1 re­cal­led it from the news story. "The Wil­lis Gut­h­rie at the po­ker party. Is that her hus­band?"

  "Yes. Wil­lis is an ac­co­un­tant. Down the hall from me."

  The lit­tle po­ker gro­up got mo­re in­te­res­ting by the mo­ment. "We­re Patty Kay and her sis­ter on go­od terms?"

  Marino's ga­ze drop­ped. He stu­di­ed the let­ter ope­ner li­ke an ar­c­he­olo­gist with a new­fo­und ar­ti­fact. "Patty Kay and Pa­me­la we­re not clo­se."

  Hmm.

  Finally he lo­oked up at me. "Mrs. Col­lins, do you re­al­ly think so­me­body knew abo­ut Cra­ig's smar­ting off at po­ker and that so­me­body de­li­be­ra­tely threw that stuff to ma­ke it lo­ok li­ke Cra­ig and Patty Kay had a fight?"

  "Somebody" was such a ni­cely va­gue, un­dam­ning term. The law­yer didn't ask me if I tho­ught a po­ker pla­yer had do­ne it-or so­me­one who'd he­ard the ta­le from that ex­c­lu­si­ve gro­up.

  There's mo­re than one way to an­s­wer a qu­es­ti­on. I res­pon­ded with one of my own. "You're Cra­ig's law­yer. Do you be­li­eve he mur­de­red his wi­fe?"

  "No, ma'am." His res­pon­se was mu­ted but de­fi­ni­te. "No. Cra­ig says he's in­no­cent. I be­li­eve him."

  "Why?"

  He squ­in­ted pen­si­vely. "I've known Cra­ig for fi­ve ye­ars. I've ne­ver se­en him lo­se his tem­per. Not on­ce. And that che­ese­ca­ke-that so­unds li­ke a slam­bang, out-of-con­t­rol fight hap­pe­ned the­re." He sho­ok his he­ad vi­olently. "No. Not Cra­ig. And be­si­des, the­re isn't any mo­ti­ve. Oh, the cops pro­bably think it's mo­ney. Patty Kay's mo­ney. The­re's a lot of it. Se­ve­ral mil­li­on. And Cra­ig pro­bably gets a third. But he do­esn't even think abo­ut mo­ney."

  I eyed the law­yer ca­re­ful­ly. Na­ive­te didn't be­co­me him. It's fa­irly easy not to think abo­ut mo­ney when mar­ri­ed to pots of it. But the pos­si­bi­lity of lo­sing that sta­tus might ha­ve bro­ught it sharply to Cra­ig Mat­thews's mind.

  And even eas­y­go­ing pe­op­le can go ber­serk-with eno­ugh pro­vo­ca­ti­on.

  The prob­lem was simply that I had no idea whet­her the­re was pro­vo­ca­ti­on.

  I do­od­led a lit­tle on my no­te­pad, a se­ri­es of fo­ot­s­teps. "Eit­her Cra­ig lost his tem­per, threw the ca­ke aro­und, and then shot Patty Kay, or so­me­one used gu­ile and ca­re and a gre­at de­al of tho­ught to tan­g­le him in a web of cir­cum­s­tan­ti­al evi­den­ce."

  "That's a pretty sic­ke­ning idea."

  "Murderers ge­ne­ral­ly are not very at­trac­ti­ve pe­op­le."

  His mo­bi­le fa­ce scrun­c­hed up in dis­t­ress. "Oh, God," he re­pe­ated. "What can we do?"

  I told him.

  A big city ja­il-the smell, the sights, the so­un­ds-can ma­ke you want to cash in yo­ur card as a hu­man be­ing to spend yo­ur ti­me with a hig­her or­der. Li­ke sna­kes. Or we­asels. Or may­be a con­vi­vi­al ro­ad crew of lep­rosy-car­rying ar­ma­dil­los.

  In com­pa­ri­son, the Fa­ir Ha­ven city ja­il was a pa­la­ce. Three blocks from Ma­in Stre­et, it was a com­pact two-story red­b­rick co­lo­ni­al bu­il­ding with a shi­ning whi­te front do­or. I step­ped in­si­de, no­ted a gol­den-oak bench with a stack of re­cent ma­ga­zi­nes on an end tab­le, a cle­an ti­le flo­or (this alo­ne was lig­ht-ye­ars dis­tant from most ja­ils), and a co­un­ter ope­ning to the dis­pat­c­her's of­fi­ce.

  ".,, ad­dress is 1619 Wil­low La­ne, The alarm went off fi­ve se­conds ago. Check it out and call in."

  By the ti­me I re­ac­hed the co­un­ter, the dis­pat­c­her was stan­ding be­hind it, a hel­p­ful ex­p­res­si­on on her fa­ce. For­ty-ish. A fa­ding blon­de. Bu­xom. "Yes, ma'am?" Her gre­eting was very po­li­te.

  I co­uld, af­ter all, easily be one of Fa­ir Ha­ven's well-to-

  do mat­rons, re­por­ting a lost dog or se­eking a per­mit for a fund dri­ve.

  "I'm Mrs. Col­lins, Cra­ig Mat­thews's aunt. I be­li­eve you're ex­pec­ting me. Mr. Ma­ri­no cal­led."

  She didn't ha­ve the bla­se we­ari­ness of the big city. Her cu­ri­o­us eyes swiftly to­ok in every de­ta­il of my ap­pe­aran­ce. I'd ma­ke a go­od story to re­la­te to her fa­mily and fri­ends. "Oh, yes, ma'am. If you'll co­me this way." She mo­ved to the ga­te be­si­de the co­un­ter and held it open for me.

  We wal­ked down a short hall. It en­ded at a me­tal do­or. Yes, this was a ja­il.

  She pun­c­hed but­tons on a sho­ul­der-high pa­nel.

  Once past that do­or, the dis­pat­c­her led me thro­ugh a me­tal de­tec­tor in­to a small ba­re cu­bic­le with two cha­irs. He­re she left me.

  I didn't ha­ve long to wa­it. A uni­for­med of­fi­cer bro­ught Cra­ig in.

  I've ne­ver dis­cus­sed with a cri­mi­no­lo­gist or so­ci­olo­gist the ef­fect of ja­il uni­forms. I sup­po­se the­ir pur­po­se is to ma­ke it easy to iden­tify a pri­so­ner. Cer­ta­inly the uni­forms ac­hi­eve that go­al. Bright oran­ge co­ve­ral­ls are dis­tin­c­ti­ve, all right.

  And de­me­aning.

  As we­re the shac­k­les on Cra­ig's wrists and an­k­les.

  He shuf­fled slowly thro­ugh the do­or­way.

  The co­ve­ral­ls we­re too big. He lo­oked skinny and in­sub­s­tan­ti­al. His nar­row fa­ce was whi­te and stra­ined, his eyes dul­led by des­pa­ir.

  It to­ok him a mo­ment to fo­cus on me.

  Then he simply sto­od the­re.

  "Craig, I've tal­ked to Des­mond. He's trying to get you out on ba­il. But I wan­ted you to know I've co­me to town to help."

  The of­fi­cer, stocky, blond, and im­pas­si­ve, po­in­ted at

  the cha­irs. "You can sit the­re, Mat­thews. Ma'am, you've got fif­te­en mi­nu­tes."

  The of­fi­cer de­par­ted. I won­de­red if so­me­one sto­od clo­se to that open do­or­way to lis­ten or if Cra­ig and I we­re be­ing ta­ped.

  It didn't mat­ter.

  I had no sec­rets. At le­ast, no­ne that I in­ten­ded to men­ti­on he­re.

  Craig obe­di­ently shuf­fled to the first cha­ir.

  I sat down next to him.

  "They think I kil­led Patty Kay. They think I shot her. They won't lis­ten to me." His vo­ice was inex­p­res­sibly we­ary and baf­fled.

  "I know. But Des­mond and I be­li­eve you. We in­tend to find out what re­al­ly hap­pe­ned."

  "You've tal­ked to Des­mond?"

  "Yes. He's gi­ven me the keys to yo­ur ho­use." Ja­ils, of co­ur­se, don't per­mit pri­so­ners to re­ta­in per­so­nal pos­ses­si­ons. The con­tents of Cra­ig's poc­kets when he was ja­iled had be­en tur­ned over to the law­yer.

  "You're go­ing to stay at the ho­use? To help me? Why sho­uld-"

  "Because Mar­ga­ret and I are the only fa­mily you ha­ve. And be­ca­use I wo­uldn't le­ave a ma­imed dog-even one I've ne­ver se­en be­fo­re-ca­ught in a trap."

  "A trap?"

  "Exactly. A cle­ver, ca­re­ful­ly de­vi­sed, po­ten­ti­al­ly de­adly trap."

  The mus­c­les in his fa­ce flat­te­ned. This was a new idea, and the shock de­vas­ta­ted him.

  "You me­an-"

  "If you didn't sho­ot Patty Kay-"

  He sho­ok his he­ad vi­olently. The mo­ve­ment ma­de his cha­ins jan­g­le.

  "- then you we­re set up. A di­abo­li­cal lit­tle ga­me of' Got­c­ha. Be­ca­use if you didn't kill Patty Kay, so­me­one el­se did. And that per­son de­li­be­ra­tely set out to ma­ke you ta­ke the bla­me for yo­ur wi­fe's mur­der. Think abo­ut it. The two pho­ne ca
lls with no one on the ot­her end. The mes­sa­ge that bro­ught you ho­me. The che­ese­ca­ke on the ce­iling. Yo­ur gun. And why did the po­li­ce ar­ri­ve on the sce­ne so con­ve­ni­ently? Be­ca­use so­me­body cal­led them. All of that tells us a lot."

  There was a flash of li­fe in that pa­le, frig­h­te­ned fa­ce. "Li­ke what?"

  "The mur­de­rer was eit­her at last we­ek's po­ker party or knows so­me­one who was."

  That bro­ught him bolt up­right in the cha­ir. "The che­ese­ca­ke-so­me­body threw the che­ese­ca­ke be­ca­use I-"