Kate shot Maggie a look, as if to see how much she knew.
“Much good it did her.”
“What do you mean?”
Kate stopped spooling the yarn from Maggie’s hands and readjusted the fingers around which she was forming her ball. Maggie had the impression it was costing her some effort not to tell her everything she knew about the Goldsmiths.
“Sad situation,” she eventually remarked as her hands resumed their practiced movements.
They wound wool in silence, minds as busy as their hands.
“Marcia said Jesse fought with Florence,” Maggie offered. “Or, what she said was ‘he drives people away.’”
“That’s the truth. That’s been true since he was in the cradle.”
“What was it about, between Jesse and Florence, do you know?”
“Of course. Florence gets very involved in the spring musical. She helps with props and makeup and that sort of thing. Eric was in the play last year, and Jesse came with him and got in everybody’s hair as usual. This year he wanted a part. A particular part, one of the leads, like Eric had had. They let him audition, and it was pitiful. Plus, he hardly had the right look, they weren’t casting Fagin’s pickpockets or anything. Ellie was there. She was in the play.”
“And he blamed Florence?”
“He said he was going to kill Florence. Not that she had any say in the casting, but he must have thought she could fix it for him. He was so angry he was foaming at the mouth. Ellie said.”
“I take it this was in public?”
“I think Ellie was the only one still there. Florence went to put some props away and found Jesse had waited backstage to attack her.”
“You don’t mean physically?”
“No, just words, but it was frightening. Thank god Todd showed up to take Jesse home. Ellie was horrified. Well, you know how it feels when someone is spewing hate at you, it’s like being shot. Names can never hurt you, my aunt Fanny.”
* * *
Maggie had a bottle of wine and a plate of crostini waiting on their table when Hope found her at Le Bistro.
“You’re a devious one,” she said as Hope sat down. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to vamp Mr. Goldsmith?”
“I didn’t know until I saw him. I thought, This guy is never going to unbutton to two old broads he doesn’t know if they’re sitting and staring at him. One on one, and side by side, that’s how you find out what people are thinking.”
“And tell me, doctor, how did you arrive at this technique?”
“Driving my children to the airport at the end of college vacations. Or, you know. Reform school, in Buster’s case. The whole time they were home they were in their rooms or out with their friends; on the way to the airport was when I’d find out that Lauren had a boyfriend or Buster was moving to Nevada. Besides, I liked the look of that house.”
“And how was it?”
“Just gorgeous. Huge trees, ravishing views of the river. The kitchen alone was the size of your apartment. Attached garage, mammoth televisions in every room.”
“Any books anywhere?”
“You really want egg in your beer, don’t you? There were bookshelves at least. And the neighbors might be a little mobbed up, but that means the street is very safe. Not that the owners are taking any chances. Their dog is the size of a young steer. He lives in the basement, where they’re letting him eat a couch.”
“Did you actually see the dog?”
“Yes, he stopped roaring when he heard Todd’s voice. He was very welcoming after that, we let him out and he clopped around with us.”
“I’m sorry I missed it. What else did you learn, Miss Divide and Conquer?”
“Well I told him you were doing some consulting for the school, and that I was keeping you company. I said I had accidentally moved to Boston but was missing New York and might move back.”
“Is that true?” Maggie asked happily. She was slightly surprised at how much the thought pleased her. She had scores of friends in the city, and she and Hope were in fairly constant touch as it was, but it would be more fun having her closer.
“Yes. Mostly. Sort of. Anyway, I asked him to give me a tour of the neighborhood so I could see what was available. We got chatting about Rye Manor, about his wife and poor Florence. He talked a lot about Eric. He’s on the dean’s list at college, he’s joined the photography club, he may major in journalism. I asked if Eric was an only child.”
“And?”
“We’d been having a high old time. There’s nothing like being the client’s new best friend when you’re trying to sell them houses. But he went very cautious all of a sudden.”
“Interesting.”
“He said he had a special-needs son named Jesse who was living with his mother. I asked if that was the Jesse who Florence Meagher was so fond of, and he said he guessed so, but he and his wife were living apart so he wasn’t the one to ask.”
“And?”
“And he suddenly thought I might be interested in a ranch-style house we were passing. Made a hairpin turn and there we were in the driveway. I said not my taste, but it took some work to get him back to the subject. I told him that I’d had a son who wasn’t a walk in the park to raise, and that it’s hard on a marriage. I said my son had turned out wonderfully, on track to be a detective with the sheriff’s department, and that Jesse would probably be fine. And that it was so helpful when a child who is difficult at home has someone who isn’t a parent take an interest in him, and did he know that Jesse and Florence had quarreled?”
“And?”
“He said he didn’t know anything about that, and asked if I’d want to join the country club because he had a nice bungalow out by the golf course he could show me.”
Maggie told Hope about what she’d learned in the yarn shop. “Todd walked in on the fight. Kate was clear about that.”
“So,” said Hope.
“Yes. Jesse’s father thinks he actually could have killed her.”
Chapter 5
Saturday, April 25
Christina Liggett was looking better after a night’s sleep. They found her at home the next morning, in the pretty brick Georgian house that had been the home of the founder. She was just finishing her breakfast. Once again, Maggie was struck by how very young Christina looked. Wearing slacks and loafers, she met them at the door and led them through the imposing drawing room, the formal dining room, and into the kitchen, which was clearly where she really lived. The table was stacked with papers and files, and the bulletin board was stuck with family photographs. In the middle of the table was an enormous cream-colored cat, curled on what looked like a pile of bills.
“And who is this?” Maggie asked, eyeing the cat.
“This is Nimbus. She’s hypoallergenic.”
“I didn’t know there was such a thing.”
“There isn’t. But light-colored female cats of breeds that are missing a certain protein in their saliva are the least allergenic and she mostly lives back here, where the students don’t go. Unless they are staying with me.”
“What kind is she?”
“Siberian.”
“Do students stay with you often?”
“When they live too far away to go home for vacation. Or are recovering from something. I had an appendectomy case here for a couple of weeks in March.”
“She’s beautiful,” said Maggie. Received wisdom was that you couldn’t have dogs or cats on campus these days any more than you could cook with nuts without huge warning labels on everything.
“She’s a very one-woman girl,” said Christina, at which point the cat majestically rose, stretched, and stepped daintily off the table into Hope’s lap. “Oh, Nimbus, you slut!” said Christina.
“Don’t worry, this always happens. Hope is a cat-whisperer.”
“I’ve never seen her do that before! The trustees let me keep her because she never goes near anyone but me.”
“We won’t tell them,” said Hope.
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“What’s the program today?” Maggie asked.
“The grief counselors will be on campus all day. Florence’s sister arrives this evening. Can you come for dinner?”
“We’d love to. Have you heard from Ray?”
“Not a peep. I assume they’ll be keeping him in White Plains, don’t you?”
“I do,” said Maggie. “What I was wondering is, could we have a look at the Meaghers’ cottage this morning?”
Christina moved the folded newspaper from a stack on the table and found a butter plate with a half-eaten bagel under it. Maggie wondered how long it had been there and whether this child was remembering to eat.
“Don’t you need a warrant or something?” Christina asked.
“We would if we were police but we’re not. You are Ray’s landlord, are you not?”
“I guess I am.”
“You have a right to enter at any time, to check on your property. You or your duly appointed agents.”
“Are you . . . I mean do you think . . .”
“We don’t think anything at the moment except that Ray was not at Jersey Boys on Thursday night. I’d like to know where he was, but I imagine the police are on that case. We need to get to know Florence better. Her home is the best place to start.”
“I’ll get the keys,” said Christina.
Ray Meagher’s blue-and-gray Smart car was parked in the driveway when Maggie and Hope parked on the street in front of the house. The house looked lifeless. A window on the second floor was slightly open, but no lights were on, and no creature stirred.
Maggie walked around Ray’s car slowly.
“Wouldn’t you have thought they’d impound this, or whatever it’s called?” Hope asked her.
“I guess not if they haven’t charged him yet.” She reached for the door handle, when Hope cried “Wait!”
This morning Hope was carrying a capacious handbag in the shape of a chicken. She produced a ball of latex gloves and handed Maggie a pair, then donned her own.
“Well, look at you, you’re prepared,” said Maggie.
“Buster taught me a lot. So useful, having a son who’s in law enforcement. I’ve got my whole forensics kit in here. If they do impound the car we don’t want our fingerprints all over it.”
“We do not, it’s very true.”
The car was unlocked and the keys were on the floor beneath the steering wheel. They found receipts, snack wrappers, and take-out cups on the floor of the passenger seat, as if he was using that side of the car as a wastebasket. There were unpaid parking tickets in the glove box, all local. Clearly Ray Meagher felt that rules didn’t apply to him, at least on this turf. Maggie wondered how Detective Phillips had felt about riding in this mess. There were also used paper napkins, road maps of New England, New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania, some cough drops fused together in their half-squashed package, and a white poker chip with the name turning stone casino on it.
“I wonder what that’s worth,” Maggie said.
“Not much, if he didn’t bother cashing it in. Where is Turning Stone?”
“See if you’ve got a signal,” Maggie said.
Hope poked at her phone and said, “Yes.”
Poke poke poke. “Near Syracuse.”
“How long a drive is that?”
“Three hours and forty-nine minutes, according to this.”
Maggie put the chip back in the glove compartment, along with the maps and detritus. They closed the car. Hope produced a tiny flashlight, got down on her hands and knees, and peered at the undercarriage.
“What are you looking for?”
“I have no idea.” She staggered to her feet again and brushed gravel from her skirt. “I guess if there were long grass or something caught under there it would mean something.”
“Is there?”
“No. Why do you think the detectives didn’t take all that stuff from the car with them?”
“They’d have needed permission or a warrant. Probably didn’t want to start their questioning on that footing.”
They went to the house. Hope picked up the copy of the White Plains Daily Voice that lay in its wrapper on the mat, and Maggie unlocked the door. They stepped carefully inside. All was silence. “You take the living room, I’ll do the kitchen,” Maggie said.
The cottage was lightly built, as if more for summers or weekends than for year-round use. There were two rooms downstairs in addition to the kitchen, a living-dining room, and a small study. The whole thing was clad in knotty pine.
Maggie methodically opened the kitchen cupboards one after another. They were well stocked, but with a schizophrenic quality. In one cabinet were bags and jars of beans and lentils, barley and quinoa, and at least four different kinds of rice. In another, vegetable stock and broth, pastas, nuts and dried fruits. Beside the toaster oven was a well-used copy of the newest Ottolenghi vegetable cookbook. Maggie thumbed through it and found multiple margin notes and cooking stains. On the endpaper was an inscription: For Florey with love from Sooz, Christmas 2014.
That would be the sister, Maggie thought.
In the refrigerator she found drawers full of limp carrots and celery, a head of romaine and another of cauliflower, both well past their sell-by dates. There were also tubs of hummus, Greek yogurt, and a jar of preserved lemons. In the freezer, stacks of frozen pizza and lasagna, sausage and hamburger meat and oversize Hungry-Man frozen dinners. She pictured mealtime at the pretty little maple table in the next room, with Florence at one end serving an elaborate dish of lentils, walnuts, and braised kale, and Ray at the other end tucking into a heap of kielbasa and mac ’n’ cheese.
Hope came in.
“Anything?” Maggie asked her.
“Parallel lives. The living room is Florence’s domain, I’d say. The other room is a man cave. Socks in the seat cushions. Paperback thrillers. TV set to the sports channel. A stash of porn under the sofa.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Show me.”
Maggie followed Hope into the den, where she produced a stack of magazines from under the sagging seat of the sofa. The manly forest-green slipcovers were homemade, Maggie noted. She looked at the magazines and thought of the woman who had troubled to try to make this room inviting for her husband.
“That’s just rude,” she said.
“And old school. Doesn’t everyone use the Internet for that?”
“Did you look through it?” Maggie gestured uncomfortably toward the stack of magazines.
“It’s plain vanilla. No whips or chains, no children. Lots of huge Kardashian bottoms.”
“Well, that’s a relief. I guess.” They headed upstairs.
The bedroom was oddly impersonal, as if here, where the couple couldn’t avoid each other, there could be no individuality at all. The double bedstead was maple, very 1950s, probably from a thrift shop. The bed, unmade, had pale blue sheets and mismatched blankets. There was a clock radio on each side of the bed, one set ten minutes faster than the other.
“I’m finding this very creepy,” said Maggie.
“Really?” said Hope, opening the closet door. “I once thought of getting a real estate license just so I could do this.”
On what she took to be Ray’s side of the bed, based on the racing form beside the lamp, Maggie opened a drawer in the nightstand. She quickly closed it again.
“What’s in there?” Hope asked.
“Mint-chocolate sex oil.” Maggie looked as if she’d smelled something fetid. “Definitely Too Much Information.”
“I tell you what, I’ll do the bathroom. You take the other bedroom.”
The second bedroom, at the back of the second floor, was dark, with its one window shaded by an overhanging maple tree. It was however as full of personality as the master bedroom had been unreadable. There was a daybed covered with a patchwork quilt that Maggie guessed was Florence’s handiwork; the fabrics were modern and the colors bright. It was in a pattern that Maggie knew in
her reptile brain—though not how she knew it—was called Wandering Foot. Her sister in Pennsylvania was a quilter. The pillow shams were made to match the spread, and Maggie inferred from the sleep mask and tube of lorazepam on the side table that Florence slept in here more than occasionally.
The desk under the window was a cheap hollow core door supported on two file cabinets. The power supply for a laptop was plugged into a power strip on the floor, its business end held on the desk by a dictionary, like a snake with its head pinned down, so it wouldn’t slither off to the floor when the computer was absent, as it was now. Under the desk was a portable sewing machine in its beige case, a wastebasket, and a shredder.
Maggie went to the bookshelves next, and here she found a richer picture of Florence’s life of the mind. There were many shelf feet of art books on everything from the kimono to Josef Albers. An expensive recent volume on Mark Rothko had pride of place. Maggie pulled it out.
“To Mrs. Meagher, December 2012. Thank you for everything and Happy Holidays, from Mairi. XOXO” was printed in an earnest schoolgirl style.
Florence’s first love was painting of the Renaissance, Maggie inferred from the number of monographs on Velázquez, Leonardo, Michelangelo, Rembrandt. Most of the books and pamphlets had stickers from the Strand bookstore in New York, where remaindered copies of expensive books could be bought for much-reduced prices. Most of the volumes were underlined and their pages bristled with colorful stick-on flags marking pages with quotes or pictures of interest.
Hope came in.
“There’s a whole history of art symposium going on in here,” Maggie said, turning to show her a page in a study of Vermeer, pocked with notes and queries in the hand she now recognized as Florence’s. “All these voices yammering away in here across centuries without making a sound. I’d have hired this woman.”
Hope looked at the desk, and said, “She clearly had a laptop and a smart phone. I wonder where they are.” She picked up a little thumb drive and looked at it, as if trying to read it.
Maggie found a letter used as a bookmark in a volume about the lives of Francisco Pacheco and Antonio Palomino.