Unlawfull Alliances Read online

  “And Jake Holbrook’s.”

  “Jake’s? The bartender from the club? He died?”

  I hadn’t mentioned this bit of information to my husband? Had I been that distracted lately or had we just not had a chance to talk? One day, I realized, was all we’d had since this began, and that was yesterday, and only a small piece of the day.

  “He was run down by a car the same day Amy was killed.” I didn’t know if I should, but I told him the details of our investigation, from the suspected affair between the two to the possibility of a double murder. I was tired of keeping things from my husband.

  But the stunned look on his face told me that I had dumped too much on him at once and that he’d never have made it as a P.I. “I’m sorry, Joe. I shouldn’t have told you so much.”

  “I’m still getting over this.” He motioned toward the event that was being held in honor of Amy Morrison.

  “Me too. It’s hard, especially when it’s people you know.”

  He encircled me with his free arm and squeezed me against him. “I really don’t want you working on this case, honey. Especially with the possibility that both of these people were murdered.”

  “Don’t worry, I can take care of myself.”

  He sighed and his arm fell away from my shoulder. “I know you can.”

  I had forgotten. This was a sore subject between us. It shouldn’t have been, but it was. Considering my husband’s childhood, I understood why. He was, after all, the oldest of six siblings. He was the one they looked up to, and the one his mother had turned to for help and support. Somewhere along the way, he had made that a condition of his self love, to only feel worthwhile when he was taking care of others.

  “I’ll stick close to home,” I assured him.

  It took a moment before he kissed me on the forehead. “See that you do.”

  “I do have a question you might be able to answer for me.” I paused, giving him time to protest. When he didn’t, I continued. “What is this big case Hugh Fleming has been working on?”

  “It involves a new client, a billion dollar corporation actually. Why?”

  “Is he really that all-consumed with it?”

  Joe thought for a minute, then said, “It’s by far the biggest opportunity he’s had yet.”

  “But he still has time to work out or play tennis at the club in the middle of the day?” I pictured him driving into the parking lot the day I was following Amy out of the parking lot.

  “It relaxes him. What’s this about? What are you really asking me, Jenny?”

  I cleared my throat. This was not fun. This was, after all, one of Joe’s partners and closest friends we were talking about. “Do you think that Hugh would ever cheat on Meredith?”

  Chapter 12

  “Are you all right, Jenny?” Charlie took my coffee mug and set it on the bar.

  “Yeah, fine. Sure. Great. Just great. Why?”

  “A bit testy too. It’s a good job I took your coffee mug or you’d be throwing it at me.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just— I’m okay.” I exhaled, releasing the nervous energy that had settled in my all too receptive solar plexus.

  “So, what’s got your knickers in a knot, lass?”

  I groaned and rubbed my hand over my stomach in a counterclockwise circle of protection. “I was just repeating what you taught me over and over in my head, you know, that thing about assuming nothing and remembering everything. So I figured I shouldn’t assume that Jake was the other man, and I went and asked Joe if he thought Hugh Fleming would ever cheat on Meredith.”

  “And?”

  “And I was blasted with a barrage of fury and insults. You’d have thought I was asking him if he’d ever cheated on me. I know he feels close to Hugh, and Joe is a very loyal friend, but— I must have been way off on that one.”

  “Or hit the nail on the head.”

  My eyes blinked wide open and I brought my focus back to Charlie.

  “What precisely did he say, Jenny?”

  “Just that Hugh Fleming is one of the most ethical people he knows. And loyal—to friends and family. And he couldn’t believe that I had reduced myself to cheap gossip about our friends.”

  “And when you told him it wasn’t gossip?”

  “He doesn’t understand how I can spy on friends. It’s not just acquaintances anymore, but friends, close friends, and his law partner. Then he headed for the bar, and I don’t mean the coffee bar.”

  “I think you should leave this investigation to me, Jenny.”

  “I wish I could, Charlie, but I have to do everything I can to find Amy’s murderer. Joe may not understand that, but it’s important to me—”

  “Even at the risk of straining your relationship with your husband?”

  “He is not the only one I have to live with, Charlie.”

  “You’re still feeling responsible for Amy’s death because you didn’t stay with her.”

  “Don’t try to talk me out of helping. I’ll just have to be careful not to bring Joe into it. I’ll work on it when he’s at the office, and I certainly won’t ask him any more questions.”

  Charlie didn’t try to dissuade me. “Well, I’d best get back on the job. I think I’ll go observe the senior Morrisons for a bit—right after I order a red eye.” He headed for the coffee bar. It wasn’t until the barista poured him a double espresso and filled the empty space with black coffee that I knew what it was.

  Charlie saw me watching and laughed, “Decided I needed to cut back on the tea.”

  I shook my head and rolled my eyes.

  “Don’t worry, darlin’, I’m as healthy as a cow.”

  “A mule,” I corrected.

  While Charlie went to hang out with Jack and Sofia, I remained at my post. It paid off.

  Anthony Morrison stepped up to the bar. “Coffee—black.”

  “Same for me, please,” I said to the server. One Americana in a day was plenty. I turned my attention to Anthony. “That was beautiful music you played at the service. I didn’t realize you were such an accomplished musician.”

  He smiled, revealing a definite hint of vulnerability there. “Why thank you, Mrs. Campbell.” How flattering. He remembered who I was. “I’ve been playing since I was a boy.”

  “What was the piece you selected? It was very familiar.”

  “Oh, it’s— Actually, I’m not sure. I pull music from my memory. It just came when I sat down at the piano.”

  “It was a beautiful tribute to Amy.”

  “I hope so.”

  “How is Scott holding up?”

  Sipping his coffee, Anthony looked across the garden at his son, his brown eyes moist with emotion. Maybe I had assessed the man inaccurately. Unless, of course, the moisture in his eyes was from the hot steam rising from his cup of coffee. “Scott’s in a lot of pain.”

  “I’m sure he is.”

  “He won’t get over this easily.”

  “No. I know he and Amy were having problems recently, but he loved her very much.”

  Anthony’s eyes darted towards mine. How did I know this? Should I answer before he asked? “I’m a good observer of people,” I told him.

  He nodded. “They were very different, that’s all. Like most couples. But they were trying to resolve their differences.”

  “Most couples don’t resolve differences with extramarital affairs.” That loose tongue again. But when I saw his reaction, I promptly forgave myself.

  Anger burned bright on Anthony Morrison’s face, telling me that he knew what I said to be true. Scott confided in him more than I would have thought. Or perhaps he had confided in his mother, and she, in her husband. Anthony’s reaction also told me that he was more protective of his son’s honor than I had given him credit for. Or maybe it was family honor that concerned him. Enough to kill to defend it?

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mrs. Campbell.”

  I was tempted to say, “Let’s cut the crap,” but decided it wasn’t ve
ry minister-like. I settled for a line I had heard in a movie more than once. “I think you know exactly what I’m talking about. I think you know that Amy was cheating on Scott.”

  “You certainly make other people’s lives, your business.”

  “When they’re under investigation, I do.”

  “Investigation,” Anthony repeated the word, his voice soft and rough, his eyes glazed over as he stared into nothingness. “Scott would never have hurt her.”

  “I believe you. I also believe that someone did hurt her.”

  “The police haven’t ruled out suicide or an accident.”

  “Or murder. And Scott is sure to be at the top of their list of suspects. That’s why I’m trying to figure out who really hurt Amy.”

  “Why? Why would you—?”

  “I’m Charlie McNair’s daughter,” I told him. “I work with him.” I did not think I needed to explain further. He had, after all, hired my father to investigate enough people that he would remember his name, and his line of work.

  “I see.” A peculiar smile appeared on his face, which bewildered me until I followed his gaze toward a stroller, no doubt housing his grandson, being pushed through the French doors and into the fresh air. Kids and dogs. I still did not particularly like Anthony Morrison, but it was nice to know he had some redeeming qualities.

  * * *

  I stood there in a trance, watching as people came and went from the coffee bar, as if there were some significance in the coffee they drank. Richard Stratton with his latte, the same preferred drink as his wife, Erica. Although a slightly different flavor, if that was indeed a whiskey flask he was pulling out of his jacket pocket. Hugh Fleming, a cappuccino with cinnamon. I winced. Cinnamon was not my flavor of choice. He didn’t even shake a single sprinkle of chocolate on top. I couldn’t relate.

  Rosemary Morrison with her soy decaf cappuccino extra foam, taking a sip in between playing hostess, as if making certain that everyone else was okay would take her mind off the fact that she wasn’t. The stress of death had definitely left its imprint on her skin and even her hair that seemed lifeless. It was the first time that I had seen her looking her age.

  I glanced around the garden, picking out the faces I recognized. Charlie had left the senior Morrisons behind and moved on to Richard and Erica Stratton. Jack and Sofia had not bellied up to the bar, at least not the coffee bar. It looked like a tall glass of lager in Jack’s hand and a glass of wine in Sofia’s.

  The only other people with whom I was acquainted who had not trod down coffee bar lane and past my weary but watchful eyes, were the two husbands, Scott and Daniel. My analytical mind decided there was definitely something to that—what, I had no idea. Maybe they didn’t drink coffee. Or maybe sleep was too scarce and precious to risk interfering with it.

  Time proved both assumptions wrong. Within a minute of each other, both men ordered a coffee, Scott’s with sugar, Daniel’s black. I wondered how Amy drank her coffee. Curiosity got the better of me.

  “How are you doing?” I asked Daniel.

  “I’ve been better.” He swept back his thick auburn hair with one hand, but it fell right back onto the comfort of his forehead. He didn’t seem to notice.

  “Is it strange for you, being here, in this environment?”

  “You mean, this foreign land that became my wife’s home, family, circus?” He almost laughed. “Yeah, it’s strange. Very weird. And can I picture Amy in the midst of it all?”

  I waited for him to answer his own question. When, he didn’t, I asked it. “Can you?”

  He shook his head, “no”, at the same time as whispering the word, “Yes.”

  I didn’t request an explanation. Instead, I asked, “Have you met Scott yet?”

  “Briefly shook his hand, offered my condolences, but I don’t think he’ll remember me in the morning, even if he did realize who I was.”

  “I imagine there’s a lot he won’t remember about today. Tell me something, if you would. How did Amy drink her coffee?”

  “What? Why would you ask me that?”

  “I don’t know.” I looked at him in silence. His answer came after many memories of better times had played through his mind.

  “Black,” he answered quietly.

  I nodded. “Thanks.” Then I walked across the lawn to where Scott was sitting by himself, a single chair at a small table, somehow symbolic of his life. He did have a child, I reminded myself. Yes, he had a son. And most likely, he would marry again. Assuming he was not going to be spending his life in prison.

  “How are you holding up?” I snatched a chair from another table and joined him.

  He shrugged. Then sighed.

  “Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”

  “As long as they take my mind off—”

  “They won’t. They’re about Amy.”

  He stared into his sweetened coffee, crossed one leg over the other, and sighed. “If you think it will help.”

  “How did Amy drink her coffee?”

  “Why would you want to know that?” Same thing Amy’s ex-husband had said.

  “I honestly don’t know why I’m asking, Scott. I ask a lot of questions I don’t understand.”

  He seemed to understand that, surprising me a bit that he did. “Black.” he answered. “Always black.”

  “Any sugar?”

  “No.”

  She hadn’t added sugar to match her second husband’s habit.

  “How about alcohol? What did she drink?”

  “A martini now and then. She didn’t really like the taste of alcohol—except wine—with dinner—good wine.” I suspected her taste had grown more sophisticated since she’d married a Morrison.

  “Did Amy like to dance?”

  “A little, I suppose.”

  “What kind of music did she like?”

  “Classical mostly. That’s what she played most of the time. I have some tapes of her playing. In fact, that’s what’s been playing in the background today.”

  “Do you think I could borrow a tape? To listen to?”

  “Of course. Were there any other questions?”

  I didn’t tell him that I was just beginning. “What was her favorite food?”

  “Didn’t eat much, but usually fish, salads, you know, nothing that would ever put weight on her. A little rice. Rarely desserts.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “She was taking classes at a community college on the Peninsula, studying music. But her mother couldn’t support her. She wasn’t well. So, Amy took a job as a receptionist for a law firm.”

  “And you walked into the office one day, saw her, and were captivated instantly.”

  He smiled. A fond memory. “That about sums it up.”

  “And Amy? Was she as attracted to you?”

  Scott’s shoulders slumped. His voice reflected the constricting position. “She agreed to go out with me.”

  “This isn’t a very pleasant question, but I have to ask it. Do you think she married you for your money, Scott?”

  His elbows were resting on his knees, his hands clasped together supporting his chin as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. At that moment, he did. “No, I really don’t. It was a mystery why she married me, but it never felt like it was the money.”

  “Security?”

  “Maybe. But there was something more.” He shook his head, bringing himself back to the moment. “I wish I knew.”

  “What was she afraid of? What frightened her more than anything?”

  “Poverty.” His laugh was one of sadness. “Maybe she did marry me for the money.”

  “Did she visit her mother often?”

  “Every week. She was very loyal to her. It always disturbed her to see her, but she did it anyway. Came home depressed every time.”

  “What kinds of gifts did she give you?” Why was I asking these peculiar questions? They were not questions I had learned in Charlie 101 or 201 for that matter. “Gifts? Mostly cl
othes, shirts, sweaters, ties, the usual stuff.”

  At that moment, something in the distance, moving toward us caught my eye. Scott saw it too. He smiled and nodded at the nanny who immediately wheeled the carriage toward us.

  “What gifts did she give the baby?” I asked.

  “The baby? He was too young for presents. She did buy him a book. Of course she was saving it for when he was old enough. A rattle too once, I think.”

  Most young mothers I knew spent endless hours in baby shops, spoiling their baby before it was even born, especially young mothers with money to spend.

  “What was Amy like with the baby?”

  Scott’s eyes darted at me so quickly I leaned back in my chair. The one question he did not want to answer and perhaps the one I needed an answer to the most.

  “Scott, this isn’t about judging Amy as a mother. This is about trying to understand her so that I can make sense of what happened.”

  He took a long sip of his coffee before answering. His voice was pinched, as if to stop him from betraying his wife’s memory in some way. “It was strange. I could never get her to talk about it to me, but it really concerned me. Sometimes she would clutch him in her arms as if she were holding on to a life raft. Other times she practically ignored him. That’s why I often took him over to my parents’ house during the day. It’s also one of the reasons I hired your father. She just didn’t behave normally toward our baby. Something was going on with her and I wanted to know what it was. Not just to help her, but for the sake of our son.”

  Scott stood up as the nanny parked the carriage in front of him. He bent over and scooped up his baby, supporting his head as he did so. He held him out for me to admire, then pressed him against his chest in a loving motion. They needed each other these two men. But at that moment it was easy to see who needed the other one more.

  “What’s his name?” I asked.

  Scott smiled. “Danny.”

  I was not surprised, except perhaps by the fact that Amy had named their son. “He’s beautiful,” I said quietly, then excused myself. There was someone else I needed to speak with again before the day was over.

  I found Daniel Walters on his way to his car. I wondered if Amy had ever called him Danny. “You’re leaving already?”