Unlawfull Alliances Page 13

  “Where?”

  “At her accounting office. Alone. He picked up some sandwiches for lunch.”

  “How sweet.”

  Charlie rolled his eyes. “And convenient.”

  “True. Go on.”

  “Jim Gimble’s car was in the shop when”—he lowered his voice— “Jake Holbrook was killed. Dana Gimble was in her classroom correcting papers during her free period. Amy’s mother-in-law, Rosemary Morrison, was home, joined by her husband for lunch.”

  “A busy man like that? Let me guess. Rosemary confirmed it.”

  “Right you are. But the gardener confirmed that he often comes home for lunch. I also talked to Hugh and Meredith Fleming.”

  “Meredith?”

  “You did tell me that Hugh was eyeing the young victim.”

  “True.”

  “Apparently he had a business lunch that day, on Southpoint Island.”

  “No.”

  “Don’t get yourself in a tither, Jenny. The waiter vouched for him. So did the client. They at least gave me an approximate time.”

  I let out the breath I was holding. “And Meredith . . . was having lunch with me.”

  “Shortly after Jake was killed anyway. Then she went home to her wheel.”

  “Wheel?”

  “Aye, she’s a potter,” Charlie said. “Didn’t you know?”

  I shook my head. How could I have not known that? “Did you check out car colors?”

  “Aye. The white ones in the bunch belong to Erica Stratton, Meredith Fleming, and Jim Gimble.”

  “And Jim’s was in the shop.”

  “But he had a white loaner.”

  “Aha!”

  “But he didn’t leave the office until late afternoon. And no marks on the loaner.”

  “Alibi?”

  “Receptionist. Sally Jenkins.”

  “And of course, Meredith was with me at the time.”

  “At least shortly after. But remember, if one spouse owned a white car, the other had access to it. There is also one more white car in the bunch.”

  “Don’t tell me, Scott’s?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Any evidence linking it to the hit and run?”

  “I haven’t heard yet, but I’m sure Jerry’s on it. Even if there are no visible signs of trauma, he’ll have the lab run a test on a paint sample.”

  “How’s Scott holding up through all this?”

  “Not well. Not well at all.”

  I felt a sudden pain in my solar plexus. Easy to recognize. Guilt. What I had told Amy was right. Eventually the police would trace it to Scott. I just didn’t think I would be lending a finger in closing the gap between eventually and now.

  I walked along the stone path beside the church garden. Charlie followed in silence. It was one of those moments when I would have liked to blink my eyes and be somewhere else, preferably in my own garden, supported by my husband and my children. Never had I wanted to be home more than at that moment.

  “Will you go home now, Jenny? There’s nothing more you can do here.”

  “Do you know if Jake had a girlfriend?”

  Charlie nodded toward a young woman, dressed in a black skirt and sweater. Her long blond hair was tied back in a scarlet ribbon. From what I could see of her face that was hidden behind a linen handkerchief, she was very pretty.

  “Background?”

  “Name’s Susan Carradine. Works at the club, teaching aerobics classes, that sort of thing. According to one of Jake’s mates, another bartender, they’ve been going out for about six months. Possessive type.”

  “Have you talked to her?”

  “Next on the agenda.”

  “Do you think it’s appropriate? Here? When she’s grieving?”

  “From my experience, people who are grieving over the death of a loved one, are immensely relieved to busy their minds with questions that will help find the perpetrator of their pain. Everyone but the guilty party, that is.”

  “Well, then, shall we?”

  Charlie led the way across the stone path to the deck where Susan sat staring out at the Seattle sunset. After the initial introductions, Charlie asked if she would mind answering a few questions. She seemed cooperative enough in that department, but a bit bewildered since she had already answered several questions for Jerry Bridges.

  “We’re conducting our own investigation,” Charlie explained. “I assume you met Jake at the country club where you’re an aerobics instructor?”

  “Yes. But I’m really an actress.” She smiled. “In fact I’m in a new play right now, called, Take Your Time. It’s playing at the Round if you’d like to come see me.”

  “And you started seeing Jake—?” Charlie brought the subject back to the one at hand.

  “Five months, three weeks, and two days ago.” That thought triggered fresh tears.

  “You must really miss him,” I said.

  She nodded between gasps and nose blows. I led her backwards to a deck bench where I sat down beside her.

  “What do you miss most about him?” I asked.

  Again the loving smile appeared. She thought for a moment as if she were seeing him now. “I miss his singing. He would play his guitar and sing to me. It was beautiful. Not a great voice, mind you, but sexy as Hell.”

  I laughed. “What kind of music?”

  “Anything really. Rock, folk, jazz. And his smile. I miss his smile. Especially when I would walk into a room, he would look up and beam at me as if I were the most important person in the world.”

  That did not sound like a man who was cheating. But then, the ego was a master of distortion.

  “But mostly I miss just talking to him. He listened, really listened, you know?” She wiped the tears that had reached the edge of her mouth. “He always said that’s why he made such a good bartender. It was either that or being a shrink. Easy choice, he said.” She lowered her hanky from her face, but a moment later it was back swiping at tears. “Oh, God, I miss him. I loved him so much.”

  I knew what question was on the tip of Charlie’s tongue, but I knew it was not the right time to ask this woman if she thought her beloved had cheated on her. I looked at him and shook my head. He tilted his, in a soft nod that told me he agreed.

  Instead he asked, “Do you know anyone who would want to kill him, Susan?”

  She shook her head. “No! I can’t imagine. He was so sweet. Everybody loved him. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  I took a card from my purse and handed it to her. “Call me if you need someone to talk to.”

  She glanced down at my card and nodded. “Thank you.”

  I squeezed her hand before leaving her alone. Charlie walked me straight to my car. “Did you check out her alibi?”

  “She was at the club, between aerobics classes.”

  “What color car does she have?”

  “Doesn’t have one.” Charlie opened my car door for me. “All signs point in one direction.”

  I reached down and unrolled the car window.

  “You know, Jenny, we do need to consider the possibility that Scott is the guilty party here.”

  I kissed my father on the cheek before climbing behind the wheel. “I know that, Charlie. I know that.”

  He had not wanted to tell me. He had wanted me to know he trusted me and my intuition. “You don’t need to protect me anymore,” I told him. “Besides, my intuition gets easily jangled lately. You couldn’t very well trust it so much as to let a possible murderer walk around free, now could you?”

  “I have faith in you, darlin’, and don’t you forget it.” He didn’t have to tell me that. It was my faith in myself that needed work.

  * * *

  My family was there to greet me. Joe brought me a cup of chamomile tea. Matthew built a fire. Holly covered me with the lap blanket that Winnie had knit for me when I was a little girl. It was made of lavenders, purples, mauve and even a humble shade of pink. My colors, she had said. I kept it on the arm of my fav
orite chair always. When we had company Joe would tuck it away inside a drawer somewhere, claiming that he didn’t want anyone to spill wine on it. Sweet of him to lie, really.

  “I’m fine,” I assured them. “Although I am enjoying this attention, I must say.”

  “Did you get to see her before she died?” Joe asked.

  “Was she able to talk to you?” The gold flecks in Matthew’s brown hair shone in the firelight.

  “Yes, to both questions.”

  “I wish I had come with you,” Matthew said. “I bet she was full of spunk to the end.”

  “She was indeed.” I sighed deeply and reached out for Joe’s hand as he settled in beside me on the couch.

  “Tea okay?”

  “Perfect.”

  I was smiling. I had so much, the love and support of my family. Memories of my dear aunt.

  Holly got up from her spot on the floor and settled into her favorite spot on the couch, her father’s lap. She too needed comfort and she knew where to find it. A smile warmed my soul as I watched them together, father and daughter.

  “I’ll miss her,” Holly said, breaking the silence. “I always had fun around her.”

  Winnie had brought out the best in my daughter, made her laugh when she was determined to believe the world was tumbling down around her.

  “Quite the eccentric,” Joe said.

  “She was a crone,” I said, “the wisest woman I’ve ever known.”

  Matthew scooted away from the fire and tucked his jean-clad legs under him in front of the coffee table. He sneaked a sip of my tea, grinning up at me. “What were her last words to you, Mom?” I loved that he knew to appreciate her words.

  “That it was a lovely day for a journey.”

  “She knew she was leaving,” Matthew said. There were tears in his eyes. I was grateful to Joe for that. He had taught his son that it was okay to cry.

  “Yes. She knew.”

  “What else did she say?” He was looking for her last words of wisdom.

  I thought for a minute, then laughed. “It had to do with my mother. Timing her death so she wouldn’t have to see her.”

  Matthew laughed. He appreciated the humor in this.

  “She knew my mother would be pretty ticked off. She bypassed her and left me her property.”

  “Whoa!” Matthew said.

  “Cool,” Holly said, climbing down from her father’s lap to fetch herself a cup of tea.

  Joe groaned. “Sounds like more of a curse than a blessing.”

  I turned and glared at him. “What does that mean?”

  “Sorry, honey, I just meant, what are we going to do with it? We can’t care take it, and we’re not likely to spend more than a couple weeks a year there. Of course, if we sell it, that’s another matter.”

  “We can’t sell it.”

  “Calm down, Jenny.” His pat on my shoulder was equal to his patronizing tone. “I shouldn’t have said that. We’ll talk about it later when you’re feeling better.”

  Even my mother had failed to bring out the depth of anger that was welling in my chest at that moment. I took a couple breaths and chose my words carefully. “I promised my Aunt Winnie that I would cherish her home. It was important to her that I keep it.”

  “For how long?”

  I ignored my husband’s question. “I sensed that she had a good reason for it. It wasn’t just an idle request.” I spoke the words out loud even as I thought them to myself. “Like there was some unfinished business around that house, important business.”

  “It’s probably haunted,” Joe said.

  Holly laughed as she set her cup of tea down beside mine. Matthew reached across the table and patted my hand. Why was it not patronizing when it came from my son?

  “We can take turns going up,” he offered. “I wouldn’t mind spending time there. It’ll be a great place to write.” My aspiring writer son. I thought he’d given up the notion and was thinking pre-law to please his father.

  “You can go up anytime you’d like, honey. Cameron and Bryn might like to use it too. But as far as caretaking, we don’t have to worry. The neighbor will look after it for us.”

  “That’s a relief,” Joe said.

  Just as I turned to flash him another glare, the telephone rang. Caroline. My best friend.

  “You’re moving back to Seattle,” I said as I took the phone from Holly.

  She laughed and told me all the reasons she loved her new home in a small town in Southern California. Then she asked how I was. I told her. I told her I was dealing with death. I told her I had seen two people alive one day and they were gone the next. I told her I had held my aunt’s hand as her body slipped off into forever sleep. And I told her I had seen my mother after six years.

  She listened. And when I had finished, she asked, “How are things with Joe?”

  I smiled. She was the one person, besides Charlie and Winnie, who knew the ups and downs of my marriage. “We’re good. Learning to accept our differences, I think.” I paused and glanced toward the living room. “At least until a few minutes ago.”

  “What happened?”

  I related the past few minutes’ conversation to her.

  “Sounds like our Joe,” she said.

  “Yeah, I guess it does. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about that. Tell me about you. Have you really adjusted to Ojai?”

  “The community, yes, the heat, no. Do you know we’ve had eighty-nine straight days of sun?”

  “Weird.”

  “I know, and the locals insist it’s not unusual. Although they say to expect some morning fog in June. Then the real heat comes.”

  It felt good to hear my dear friend’s voice. And to know that she heard mine.

  “Come visit, Jenny. Come see the sunset. There’s a pink moment here that takes your breath away.”

  “I will, Caroline. Soon. I promise.” I could use a little sunshine in my life.

  Chapter 11

  It was deja vu, going to another funeral. We rode together. Joe insisted I sit up front with Charlie. It was the gentlemanly thing to do.

  It bothered me that my husband and my father did not have much in common. No, it wasn’t that. They did, after all, have me and the children in common. And a Scottish heritage. It was more that they didn’t connect—a polite way of saying they didn’t particularly like each other.

  Cars filled the mortuary parking lot. White, green, blue, silver. Mercedes, BMW’s, Range Rovers. Volvos looked the poor man’s car of the day. Even a Rolls Royce pulled up behind us. The grandparents, Jack and Sofia Morrison, climbed out and turned over the keys to a valet.

  “Another white one,” Charlie mumbled under his breath before turning off the engine of his 1935 Bentley which held its own in this crowd.

  Joe clutched my hand as we walked toward the chapel. Was it possessiveness or a need for comfort? Organ music played as people shuffled up the path and through the door. Spotting Erica Stratton sitting on a bench smoking a cigarette, I stopped to observe. Jim Gimble had joined her, pulling a match from his own pocket to light his pipe. I nodded in their direction and Charlie stopped.

  “You’re not doing this at a funeral,” Joe said.

  “Doing what?”

  “Spying on people.”

  “We’re trying to find out who murdered Amy,” I said in our defense, “if she was murdered.”

  “But last night you told me that the police think it was Scott.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s guilty,” Charlie said.

  “Although everything’s pointing in that direction,” I mumbled.

  Joe stared from me to Charlie and back again. “I’ll find us a seat.” He walked into the chapel.

  “If this is causing problems between you and Joe, I don’t want you—”

  “Hush, Charlie.” I took a few steps closer to Erica and Jim. Charlie followed to make it appear as if we were talking rather than eavesdropping.

  “Don’t you look the part of the grieving bosom budd
y,” Jim said, eyeing Erica’s black suit and hat.

  “Yeah, like you’re so broken up over her death, Jimmy.” She stomped out her cigarette, smushed it into the stone path, shrugged her shoulder at him and walked away. She might as well have flicked him off.

  “Confirms what you said about no love lost between these two and Amy,” Charlie said.

  “Yeah, but it doesn’t tell us why. Erica gave me her story, but I suspect there’s something more to it.”

  “Maybe we should ask her why Jim disliked Amy and vice versa.”

  I took that as my cue and walked over to Jim Gimble. The only way to have a conversation with him was one on one. This might be the only chance I got.

  “Hello, Jim.”

  He looked up from his pipe. Who are you? was written all over his face. I hate it when women identify themselves by their husbands. Still, “I’m Jenny Campbell, Joe Campbell’s wife.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “This is such a tragedy, isn’t it?”

  He grunted something unintelligible, ran his hand over his beard, then raised his pipe to his lips and inhaled.

  “Poor Scott. Not only is he suffering the loss of his wife, but some suspect him of killing her.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Jim grunted. “Scotty wouldn’t kill anybody. Ever.”

  “You seem certain of that.”

  He looked me straight in the eye. “I know that boy. Have since he was an infant.”

  “Do you know who would have done it then, if not Scott?”

  Jim looked off into the clouds as they scudded across the sky. He heaved a deep sigh before looking back at me. “Wish I did.”

  That told me more than he realized. Jim Gimble did not think Amy Morrison had taken her own life or died an accidental death.

  “Let me ask you something, if I may.” I did not pause at that point for fear he might say no. “Do you have any idea why Erica Stratton disliked Amy Morrison?”

  He seemed startled by my question. “You playing police detective here?”

  “Just detective. I work with a private agency, and we’re trying to find the real killer.”

  His complexion softened. “You don’t suspect Scott?”

  “No.”

  “You’re trying to help him?”