pace with me easily and we both breathed sighs of relief when we entered the air-conditioned cool of the main building. We saw no one as we crossed the foyer, exited through the front door, and climbed into my Beetle. Cranking up the engine and the AC, I reversed out of the parking lot and spun gravel from beneath the tires as I turned into the long driveway. I had to wait for a bus to pass before I could make the turn onto the main road.
The AC sucked up some of the bus’s diesel exhaust and I coughed. A thought hit me. “Just because Randolph doesn’t have a car doesn’t mean he was stuck here in the boonies,” I said, pointing at the bus.
“Too true, Anastasia,” Maurice said. “And it crossed my mind that if Corinne visited him last Sunday as usual, he could have substituted the doctored pills for the ones in her purse without ever having to leave the grounds.”
“You’re right.” I looked at him with respect. “Do you think he did it?”
Sadness weighed down Maurice’s face. “There was certainly no love lost there,” he said. “It has always distressed Corinne that she didn’t have a better relationship with Randolph. I think that’s partly why she went out of her way to help Turner, to be part of his life.”
“Do you think Randolph knew about Corinne’s will, or could he have expected to inherit her estate?”
“Corinne said she discussed it with him a couple of years back,” Maurice said, rolling down his window to let fresh air and the scent of mown hay into the car. “She said he took the news well, seemed grateful even.”
“Hm.” I had doubts about how grateful anyone would be at hearing they
Maurice looked at me, aghast. “That’s an awful thought, Anastasia.”
“Who do you suppose his visitors were? Did you recognize the descriptions?”
“That woman was too nosy,” Maurice said disapprovingly. “I don’t know if we can trust anything she said.”
“We’ve no reason not to,” I pointed out. “I haven’t got a clue about who the blond woman is, but it sounded to me like the skinny man with the accent might be that man at the will reading-”
“Hamish MacLeod.” Maurice nodded.
“Why would Corinne’s third husband-”
“Fourth.”
“-be visiting Randolph?”
“I have no earthly idea,” Maurice admitted. “Although it’s possible that they had some sort of relationship. Randolph was still living at home-he must have been in his late teens-when Corinne married Hamish. He lasted longer than most of us, too; they were married for almost eighteen years, if I remember correctly.”
We drove on in silence until we had almost reached Maurice’s house. When I pulled to the curb, he reached over to squeeze my hand. “Thanks, Anastasia. It doesn’t seem like we learned much, but I appreciate your help.” He looked tired and beaten down, not his usual energetic, full-of-vim-and-vigor self. Grief and worry were taking a toll.
“Maybe we learned more than we realized,” I said with a “keep your chin up” smile. As Maurice plodded toward his front door and I drove off, I vowed to look more closely at Turner Blakely. If his own father thought he was capable of murder, I wanted to learn more about how and why he’d moved in with his grandmother mere days before she died.
Chapter 19
Rather than drive home, I pointed the Beetle toward D.C. and Lavinia Fremont’s shop. I needed to pick up the dress I was wearing for the Olympic exhibition tomorrow; she’d said it would be ready today. It being Sunday, I found a parking spot without too much trouble and passed a gaggle of well-dressed people emerging from the Baptist church a block from Lavinia’s place. Some of the women wore hats decked with flowers or feathers or grosgrain ribbons, and I wondered idly why virtually no one wore hats anymore.
The shops around Lavinia’s were quiet on a Sunday, and a “closed” sign hung on Lavinia’s door. A sheath wedding gown in a rich cream had replaced the lavender ball gown in the window.
“Why did hats go out of fashion?” I asked Lavinia when she opened the shop’s door to my knock. Her red hair was pulled back into a club of a ponytail, emphasizing the hollows under her eyes and her sharp nose, and she wore a sheer black blouse over a black cami and skinny cropped pants. I thought she looked more tired than she had on Thursday, and I wondered whether grief was causing her to lose sleep.
Her thin brows arched upward, but she said, “Because they take up too much room in the closet. Shoes and purses are bad enough, but hats meant hatboxes for storage, and even two or three of those boxes-pretty as they were-could eat up all your closet shelf space.”
“I never thought of that.”
She nodded. “I still have a couple of my favorites, but they’re in a storage unit. Why do you ask?”
I explained, and she laughed, offering me a cup of herbal tea. I declined, saying I needed to get home, and she at once fetched my dress from the back. Unzipping the plastic cover, she revealed the luminous pink satin sparkling with rhinestones. “Did you want to try it again?”
I shook my head. “No. I trust you.”
Smiling, she rezipped the bag and accepted my credit card. Swiping it, she asked, “How is Maurice? I hope the police are not still bothering him about… I saw you both yesterday at the lawyer’s, and I meant to talk to Maurice, but after hearing about Corinne’s bequest, I… well… I hope Maurice doesn’t think I’m one of those who believe he could possibly…”
“I understand completely.” I laid a sympathetic hand on her arm. “And I’m sure Maurice does, too. It’s hard for him, as you can imagine, but he’s got a really good lawyer. I’ve been talking to some people, too, hoping to uncover some information the police might have overlooked.”
“You’re a good friend, Stacy,” Lavinia said. She gave me the receipt to sign. “It would be simply horrible if Maurice, or any innocent person, were convicted of murder.”
“It’s horrible enough just being a suspect,” I said, speaking from experience. “But Maurice is holding up well. I’ll tell him you were asking after him.”
“Do that. Tell him I’d love it if he could drop by so we could catch up. It’s been way too long.” Her thin face lit up and I promised her I’d tell Maurice.
My cell phone rang when I was halfway home, and I answered it to hear my mother’s voice. “I don’t suppose you’d like to come for dinner and maybe a ride?” she asked with none of the “How are you doing?” preliminaries that she thinks waste so much time. As she sees it, if someone close to you wants you to know how they’re doing, they’ll mention it. You don’t really care, Mom says, about how casual acquaintances are doing, so why ask?
I hadn’t seen Mom in a couple of weeks, and an evening ride suddenly sounded like a fabulous idea. “I’d love to,” I said. “Let me stop home to change and I’ll come on out.”
Mom’s idea of proper riding attire is jodhpurs, but that’s because she’s into competitive dressage. I settled for a pair of jeans and low-heeled boots and drove to Mom’s place in Aldie, Virginia, about a fifty-minute drive on a Sunday evening. Traffic and strip malls and overbuilding gradually gave way to housing areas with a little space between the homes, and then to tree-shaded pastures with grass so thick and green it looked like icing laid over the landscape with a trowel. Mom’s house might be smack in the middle of horse country, but she didn’t live on one of those multi-thousand-acre farms with miles of white fencing. Her place was small, a two-bedroom house on five acres with a fenced paddock, just enough room for her and her three horses: Carmelo, Kobe (a mare), and Bird. Mom’s other passion, besides horses, is basketball. Her barn is bigger and has more amenities than her house, and I knew I’d find her there.
The barn, painted red with white trim, stood two hundred yards from the house. An old-fashioned water pump sprouted near the door, and from the shallow puddle of water underneath its spout, I deduced that Mom had recently filled a bucket to water the horses. I stepped inside, grateful for the barn’s cool shade. The barn had a
