“Nope. Yesterday she dropped by the president’s house and picked up the key. She told them she needed to get in early, she had some kind of appointment to meet someone there before the meeting.”
“How’d you know that?” I was agog and indignant.
“The detective asked to use the phone to call the station and I pieced that together from listening to his end of the conversation,” he said frankly. Aha, another person who was curious by nature.
“Oh. So,” I said slowly, thinking as I went, “whoever killed her actually had plenty of time to fix everything up. He got her to come early somehow, so he’d have buckets of time to kill her and arrange her and go home to clean up.” I drained my glass and shuddered.
Robin said hastily, “Tell me about the other club members.”
I decided that question was the real purpose of his visit. I felt disappointed, but philosophical.
“Jane Engle, the white-haired older lady,” I began. “She’s retired but works from time to time substitute teaching or substituting at the library. She’s an expert on Victorian murders.” And then I ran down the list on my fingers: Gifford Doakes, Melanie Clark, Bankston Waites, John Queensland, LeMaster Cane, Arthur Smith, Mamie and Gerald Wright, Perry Allison, Sally Allison, Benjamin Greer. “But Perry’s only just started coming,” I explained. “I guess he’s not really a member.”
Robin nodded, and his red hair fell across his eyes. He brushed it back absently.
That absorption in his face and the small gesture did something to me.
“What about you?” he asked. “Give me a little biography.”
“Not much to tell. I went to high school here, went to a small private college, did some graduate work at the university in library science and came home and got a job at the local library.”
Robin looked disconcerted.
“All right, it never occurred to me not to come back,” I said after a moment. “What about you?”
“Oh, I’m going to teach a course at the university. The writer they had lined up had a heart attack… Do you ever do impulsive things?” Robin asked suddenly.
One of the strongest impulses I’d ever felt urged me to put down my wine glass, walk over to Robin Crusoe, a writer I’d known only a few hours, sit on his lap, and kiss him until he fainted.
“Almost never,” I said with real regret. “Why?”
“Have you ever experienced…”
My doorbell chimed twice.
“Excuse me,” I said with even deeper regret, and answered the front door.
Mr. Windham, my mail carrier, handed me a brown-wrapped package. “I couldn’t fit this in your box,” he explained.
I glanced at the mailing label. “Oh, it’s not to me, it’s to Mother,” I said, puzzled.
“Well, we have to deliver by addresses, so I had to bring it here,” Mr. Windham said righteously.
Of course, he was right; my address was on the package. The return address was my father’s home in the city. The label itself was typed, as usual for Father. He’s gotten a new typewriter, I thought, surprised. His old Smith- Corona had been the only typewriter he’d ever used. Maybe he’d mailed it to Mother from his office and used a typewriter there? Then I noticed the date.
“Six days?” I said incredulously. “It took six days for this to travel thirty miles?”
Mr. Windham shrugged defensively.
My father hadn’t said a word about mailing us anything. As I shut the front door, I reflected that Father hadn’t sent Mother a package in my memory, certainly never since the divorce. I was eaten up with curiosity. I stopped at the kitchen phone on my way back out to the patio. She was in her office, and said she’d stop by on her way to show a house. She was as puzzled as I was, and I hated to hear that little thread of excitement in her voice.
Robin seemed to be dozing in his chair, so I quietly picked up our wine glasses and washed them so I could put them away before Mother got there. I didn’t need her arching her eyebrows at me. Actually, I was glad to have a breather. I’d almost done something radical earlier, and it was almost as much fun to think about nearly having done it as it would have been (maybe) to do it.
When Mother came through the gate, Robin woke up-if he’d really been asleep-and I introduced them.
Robin stood courteously, shook hands properly, and admired Mother as she was used to being admired, from her perfectly frosted hair to her slim elegant legs. Mother was wearing one of her very expensive suits, this one in a champagne color, and she looked like a million-dollar saleswoman. Which she was, several times over.
“So nice to see you again, Mr. Crusoe,” she said in her husky voice. “I’m sorry you had such a bad experience your first evening in our little town. Really, Lawrenceton is a lovely place, and I’m sure you won’t regret living here and commuting to the city.”
I handed her the box. She looked at the return address sharply, then began ripping open the wrapping while she kept up an idle conversation with Robin.
“Mrs. See’s!” we exclaimed simultaneously when we saw the white and black box.
“Candy?” Robin said uncertainly. He sat back down when I did.
“Very good candy,” Mother said happily. “They sell it out west, and in the midwest too, but you can’t get it down here. I used to have a cousin in St. Louis who’d send me a box every Christmas, but she passed away last year. So Roe and I were thinking we’d never get a box of Mrs. See’s again!”
“I want the chocolate-almond clusters!” I reminded her.
“They’re yours,” Mother assured me. “You know I only like the creams… hum. No note. That’s odd.”
“I guess Dad just remembered how much you liked them,” I offered, but it was a weak offering. Somehow the gesture just wasn’t like my father; it was an impulse gift, since Mother’s birthday was months away, and he hadn’t been giving her a birthday present since they divorced, anyway. So, a nice impulse. But my father never did impulsive things; I came by my caution honestly.
Mother had offered the box to Robin, who shook his head. She settled down to the delightful task of choosing her first piece of Mrs. See’s. It was one of our favorite little Christmas rituals, and the spring weather felt all wrong suddenly.
“It’s been so long,” she mused. She finally sighed and lifted a piece. “Aurora, isn’t this the one with caramel filling?”
I peered at the chocolate in question. I was sitting down, Mother was standing up, so I could see what she hadn’t. There was a hole in the bottom of the chocolate.
It had gotten banged around in shipment?
Abruptly I leaned forward and pulled another chocolate out of its paper frill. It was a nut cluster and it was pristine. I breathed out a sigh of relief. Just in case, I picked up another cream. It had a hole in the bottom, too.
“Mom. Put the candy down.”
“Is this a piece you wanted?” she asked, eyebrows raised at my tone.
“Put it
She did, and looked at me angrily.
“There’s something wrong with it, Mom. Robin, look.” I poked at the piece she’d relinquished with my finger.
Robin lifted the chocolate delicately with his long fingers and peered at the bottom. He put it down and looked at several more. My mother looked cross and frightened.
“Surely this is ridiculous,” she said.
“I don’t think so, Mrs. Teagarden,” Robin answered finally. “I think someone’s tried to poison you, and maybe Roe too.”
Chapter 6
So Arthur came to my apartment on official business twice in one day, and he brought another detective with him this time, or maybe she brought him. Lynn Liggett was a homicide detective, and she was as tall as Arthur, which made her tall for a woman.
I can’t say I was afraid right then. I was confused at the label apparently addressed by my father, I was
