Virtue Falls

  Margaret pointedly looked over her eyeglasses at first him, then at Elizabeth. “That’s what I’ve been wondering.”

  “The Banner marriage,” Garik said in a deadpan voice.

  Margaret faked surprise. “Oh, Charles and Misty’s marriage … I don’t know. That summer, rumors started to whirl that she had taken a lover.” She spoke more softly, “Then she was dead.”

  With her fork, Elizabeth pushed what remained of her food around her plate. “My father was always assumed to be the killer. Did no one suspect the lover?”

  Margaret shook her head. “No one knew who the lover was.”

  “Elizabeth’s got a point, and a good one,” Garik said. “Was there no attempt to discover his identity?”

  “Before the murder? Everyone watched and wondered. After the murder … whoever it was slipped away.” With a clink, Margaret put her fork down. “You have to realize what the photo did to the case. It was so visually damning. In those days, not everybody had a camera on them all the time. But the Banners’ postman was an amateur photographer. While he made his rounds, he kept an expensive camera with him. He took arty coastline photos and sold them to tourists, and made a good amount on the side. As Charles walked out of the house, the postman drove up. Charles was holding Betsy and the scissors, and both he and the child were covered in blood. The postman took the picture.”

  Elizabeth looked as if she was holding her breath, hoping for a different resolution.

  “Bad luck for Charles,” Garik said.

  “That picture was so visceral it made the front page of every national paper and the cover of every news magazine. When the country saw it, it made its decision. Without a good lawyer, which Charles did not have, he never stood a chance with a jury. Personally, Charles was the last man I would have ever thought could murder anyone, much less his wife.” Margaret looked back and forth between Garik and Elizabeth. “But I know Garik would tell us the neighbors say that about every serial killer and child pornographer.”

  “Not all of them. Some serial killers are damned weird.” Something niggled at Garik. “What did the postal worker do after he snapped the photo?”

  “He drove to the nearest neighbor’s and called nine-one-one,” Margaret said.

  Garik’s mouth curled with disdain. “He thought Charles had murdered his wife and was going to kill his daughter, and he ran away.”

  “I didn’t say he was an admirable man, only that he took the photo.” Margaret rang her bell.

  Dessert and coffee arrived via Harold, and to a grim silence.

  Garik stood and took the tray. “We’ll manage. You go and eat, and rest.”

  “The staff is back, so we’ve had our dinner.” Harold gave his report to Margaret. “They tell me that in Virtue Falls, the chaos is coming under control.”

  “Thank you, Harold.” Margaret took her tea from Garik. “And thank the staff for me.”

  “Right now, they’re grateful to have a place to stay,” Harold said.

  “Then we’re helping each other.” Margaret nodded at him.

  He nodded back, and left.

  Garik poured himself and Elizabeth coffee, put the pastries in the center of the table—

  “Frozen,” Margaret sniffed.

  —and rummaged in the drawer in the antique buffet until he found a small, battered spiral notebook. “Are we sure there was a lover?” he asked.

  “I was sure at the time. For those summer months, Misty had that shiny I’m in love look about her.” Margaret’s hand had a tremor as she poured her tea. “Top on my list for the candidates? Andrew Marrero.”

  Elizabeth’s intake of breath was shocked and audible.

  Margaret’s eyebrows rose. “Surely you realized he fancies himself a ladies’ man?”

  “No, but I don’t hang with him,” Elizabeth said. “I see him on site.”

  Garik found a battered pen advertising the resort, seated himself, and started his list. “Andrew Marrero … Elizabeth, he’s never put the moves on you?”

  “Please understand, I’m good at what I do. But he always seems annoyed with me.” Elizabeth spread her hands in puzzlement.

  Good. He can live. But Garik said nothing, merely sat with pen poised.

  “Write down Dr. Frownfelter,” Margaret said.

  “He … really?” Elizabeth seemed astonished. “I met him yesterday morning at the Memory Care Facility. He seemed really old.” Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. “Older than my father, so definitely too old for Misty.”

  Margaret added cream and sugar to her tea and stirred gently. “Not long after Misty’s murder, his wife of twenty-five years divorced him, citing infidelity. Dr. Frownfelter let her have whatever she wanted, and he moved away. Then I heard he was working at the penitentiary where Charles Banner was imprisoned.”

  “Now, that’s interesting.” Garik filed the information away as something that warranted investigation.

  Elizabeth cleared her throat. “He said he was my mother’s doctor, and he delivered me. That was weird. Sort of TMI, although I don’t know why.”

  “The doctor made you uneasy.” Garik made a note. “Margaret, anyone else on the list of potential lovers?”

  Margaret said testily, “Misty Banner was a woman that every man wanted. It’s not a question of who wanted her. It would be easier to ask who didn’t.”

  “Okay.” Garik could go at it in that direction, too. “Who didn’t want her?”

  “Dennis Foster.”

  Garik turned to Elizabeth. “I told you. No sex drive at all.”

  “I believed you!” Elizabeth said.

  “Foster hadn’t been elected sheriff yet, and he was trying to impress the constituency as an upright law officer, a man who cared for his ailing mother, never drank, and didn’t cavort with the wild women. Or even the tame ones.” Margaret lowered her eyelids to hide her scornful gleam. “A man should have a few vices. If he doesn’t, either he’s a saint, or he’s hiding something.”

  “What’s he hiding?” Elizabeth asked.

  Garik noted she didn’t for a moment consider that Foster could be a saint.

  “I never have figured it out,” Margaret said, “but I know if you turned over the rock that hides his soul, you’d find it crawling with worms.”

  To Garik, Elizabeth said matter-of-factly, “You might add Rainbow … who likes me a little too much. It’s interesting. She protects me like I’m a chick to her hen.” She saw that Margaret and Garik gaped at her. “I’m not saying she killed my mother, only that she should be on the list for possible lovers.”

  Garik made a note, and took a pastry that oozed cheesecake filling. “She’s a tall woman with broad shoulders, capable of overwhelming another woman.”

  “The Native American, Stag Denali. He’s rich, he’s powerful, he’s ruthless. But … he likes women. He likes me, and while I know it’s hard to believe, some men don’t value an outspoken woman.” Margaret’s eyes gleamed with humor.

  “Some men need quiet, submissive women to make them feel important.” Elizabeth took a bite of her lemon tartlet.

  “I like quiet, submissive women—or I would if I knew any.” Garik poured himself another cup of coffee. Later, when he was awake all night, he would be sorry. But right now, sugar slid through his veins, caffeine percolated in his brain, and he felt as if he had found the Garik Jacobsen who solved crimes like crossword puzzles …

  He had found himself again.

  “Misty’s lover had to have a flexible schedule.” Margaret drummed the table. “No eight-to-five job would do it, because Charles worked during the daytime hours, and the rest of the time, he was a homebody. So … Bradley Hoff.”

  “The artist. Yes.” Elizabeth nodded. “I’ve met him. He told me he knew my mother. She and my father took his art class.”

  Garik went on alert. “Why would Bradley Hoff give an art class? He’s rich.”

  “Not in those days. In those days, his paintings were intense, deep, unnerving. Powerful stuff. Com
pelling work. I urged him to continue, to delve into men’s souls, to take the more difficult road to fame. But he opted for instant money.” Margaret smiled. “I’m not judging him. I did whatever it took to get ahead, too, and if you look into his background, you’ll discover he was an only child of wealthy parents. Art commanded no respect from his family. He bucked a lot of pressure, got cut out of the will for being an artist.”

  “Poor baby,” Garik said sarcastically.

  “It takes strength of will to progress, knowing you’re going to lose your family.” Margaret clearly admired Hoff. “He was very handsome, which made his art class more popular than one might expect.”

  Elizabeth broke into a smile. “In my scrapbook, I have some of my parents’ drawings. They both were very good.”

  “Okay, fine,” Garik said. “Why would Charles take an art class?”

  “To make his wife happy,” Margaret said promptly.

  Elizabeth gave a different answer. “In the past, before cameras and cell phones, when field researchers came across a plant or a rock formation that warranted documentation, sketching was the only way to capture the evidence. Sketching is still much valued in the scientific community. It has cachet.”

  “But nonetheless I think Charles did it to indulge Misty. Her mother died that winter.” Margaret’s mouth drooped. “Misty came back from the funeral restless and wounded. For a long time afterward, Charles was assiduous, but Misty worked hard to present him with the appearance of being fine—”

  “Why?” Garik asked. “Why lie?”

  “She wasn’t lying. Sometimes not saying what you feel is easier than trying to explain.” When Elizabeth realized what she’d revealed, and to who, her eyes opened wide, and her mouth snapped shut.

  But Margaret drove the point home. “Women are like that. Sometimes it’s hard to explain emotions. And sometimes men”—she said the word like an insult—“who really don’t have a clue, will scoff, and that hurts.”

  Garik knew Margaret was talking about him, and that pissed him off, because maybe he wasn’t at fault for every damned thing that ever went wrong between a man and a woman in every marriage that ever existed. “Got it. Charles drifted back to his dig. It was summer, he worked long hours. Misty was alone and in emotional turmoil. Even I, Mr. Insensitive, can see the setup for tragedy.”

  The conversation went dead. Margaret and Elizabeth looked away.

  Garik supposed he should apologize. But he wasn’t a jerk. He would have been understanding if Elizabeth had told him what she felt. He would have. If she’d told him. And he was pretty sure all she’d said was that she wanted Garik to talk about his tortured past.

  Yeah. Like that was going to happen.

  This past year, he had suffered, too. Maybe these women who valued emotions and shit should realize he had put a fucking gun in his mouth, and the only thing that had stopped him from shooting his brains out was the earthquake and the compulsion to care for Margaret and Elizabeth, the same two women who were now making him miserable.

  Nervously Elizabeth tapped her spoon against the table. She watched it intently, finally cleared her throat and said, “My aunt said their mother went crazy after Misty married my father, and killed herself with drugs and alcohol.”

  Okay. They were going to talk about the case again. Good.

  “Sometimes a woman experiences more grief over a bad mother than a good one.” When both Garik and Elizabeth would have objected, Margaret held up one hand. “Mothers, good and bad, wield a mighty influence. With the death of a bad mother, a woman swallows a potent cocktail of guilt and unhappiness that is straight poison.”

  “So you think Misty had an affair because her mother’s death screwed her up?” Garik knew a parent could totally ruin a kid’s life. Look at him—exhibit A. “Then it follows that someone realized she was vulnerable—”

  Margaret interrupted, “And that Charles was oblivious.”

  “—and her lover moved in to claim what he wanted.” Elizabeth rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. Rubbed her forehead as if the brief confrontation with Garik had given her a headache.

  “We have a personality type—the predator.” Garik stood and made his way to the liquors. “Could be Bradley Hoff.”

  “But if Hoff killed my mother,” Elizabeth said, “it seems odd to tell me that he knew her.”

  Garik unwrapped the brandy from the towel that protected it from aftershocks. “Not if there are people who know he knew her.”

  “There’s one other person who can shed insight into the case.” Margaret turned to Elizabeth. “What does your father remember? Has he talked about the past at all?”

  “He told me about meeting my mother. His memories seemed realistic.”

  “Any information he could give us would be helpful.” Garik brought snifters to the table, placed one in front of Margaret and one in front of Elizabeth, and seated himself again. “Does he remember in bits and pieces, or in chunks?”

  “I’ve only visited him twice, so I really haven’t…” Elizabeth’s voice trailed off, and with careful precision she folded her napkin and placed it on the table.

  “I thought that was why you moved up here. To get to know him and figure out what happened and why.” Garik had thought it was a dumb idea, but when she made her decision, the divorce had been very, very final and she hadn’t asked his opinion.

  “Not … exactly. Well, yes. But he…” Elizabeth swallowed. “It’s difficult.”

  “Difficult?” Margaret exploded with vibrant, Irish indignation. “When are relatives not difficult? He’s your father. This is your only chance to get to know him. He has Alzheimer’s, and you haven’t got much time to do it!”

  “He thinks I’m my mother. When he doesn’t think that, he talks to the ghost of my mother.” Elizabeth spoke too fast, too defensively. “And he scares me … I remember him with those scissors.”

  “You remember? I thought you didn’t remember at all,” Garik said.

  “It might be the photo. The one in the paper. Maybe I’ve seen it so often that’s what I remember. I don’t know. Sometimes I wish I knew the truth, but most of the time I wish I had never started this. What difference does it make why Charles Banner killed my mother? She’s still dead. Nothing can change any of that.” Elizabeth was magnificently defiant …

  … For all the good it did her in Margaret’s eyes. “Suck it up, girl!” Margaret said. “When you came to Virtue Falls, you as good as told everyone that you intended to find out the truth behind Misty Banner’s murder.”

  “I did not!” Elizabeth sniffed. “I know it’s a surprise to a lot of people in Virtue Falls, but my father’s study is important, and it’s an honor to work on it.”

  “An honor you were willing to forego until Charles Banner was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and sent here to live out the rest of his life! But you’re too afraid to visit him.” Margaret didn’t look over the top of her glasses at Elizabeth—she glared. “I expected better of you, Elizabeth.”

  Elizabeth squared her jaw. “I do the best I can, Margaret, but sometimes I feel I’m lacking certain social skills.” She stood. “Now I am exhausted. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to bed.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Garik stood, too, and remained on his feet as Elizabeth left the room.

  Margaret pursed her lips. “I may have been a little rough on her. After the day she had, I mean.”

  “I think so. Yeah.” Garik sat down again. “But you made a good point. If Charles Banner is not Misty Banner’s murderer, and the guilty party is still around, then the one reason Elizabeth has remained safe is that she hasn’t visited her father and asked questions.”

  Margaret absorbed the information. “We’re fooked no matter what we do.”

  “Succinctly put,” Garik said.

  “But she needs to go before it’s too late. Charles hasn’t got a lot of time before his mind is gone. I’ve seen it before, lost friends this way. Lost them … when they were sittin
g right in front of me.” Sorrow echoed in Margaret’s voice. Then she sounded brisker. “As long as you’re here, Elizabeth’s safe.”

  “If I stay with her every second.”

  “Yes,” Margaret said with satisfaction. “Do that. Do we have any real reason to believe that Charles wasn’t the murderer?”

  “No. Foster ran a flawed investigation, but that doesn’t mean the conclusions were wrong.” Garik waved a hand that encompassed the day, the dining room, and their discussion.

  “What’s your gut tell you?”

  “Absolutely nothing.” He put his hand on his belly to quiet any rumblings. “Last time I listened to my gut, I got thrown out of the FBI.”

  Margaret’s smile faded. “But your gut wasn’t wrong then.”

  She believed he had done the right thing, God bless her. “If only I had thought it through … But I was so angry…” His eyes burned with anguish.

  Margaret touched his cheek. “Don’t let the guilt eat you up.”

  “Why not? I deserve every drop of guilt.” He knew what she was going to say next. She would urge him to go to confession, to seek an absolution he didn’t deserve. So he stood again. “I’ll take you up to your room.”

  She watched him with troubled eyes as he helped her to her feet, swung her into his arms, and headed toward the stairs, up, and into her bedroom.

  She pointed at the chair. “There. Vicky will help me get ready for bed.”

  “In a minute.” He placed her, then seated himself on the ottoman. “Did Bradley ever paint Misty?”

  “Not that I know of. In those days, he was deeply involved with Vivian. She had money, and an art gallery—he needed both—but she didn’t want to leave New Orleans, and he had to be here to paint.”

  “Whether or not he was involved with Vivian, he still could have had an affair with Misty.”

  “Yes, but Bradley was brooding. Intense. He didn’t seem a fit for Misty. She always smiled. She always made you feel better. She was like … sunshine.” Margaret looked uncomfortable. “I really did like her. And it’s possible that Charles did kill her. I didn’t want to say so in front of Elizabeth, but I was there when that bitch Louisa Foster told him about the affair.”