“Gerald, this is Roe Teagarden.”
“My goodness, girl. I haven’t seen you in a year, I guess.”
“How are you doing, Gerald?”
“Oh, pretty well. You know, don’t you, that I’ve remarried?”
“That’s what I heard. Congratulations.”
“Mamie’s cousin Marietta came to help me clean out her stuff after Mamie-died, and we just hit it off.”
“I’m so glad, Gerald.”
“Is there anything I can do for you, Roe?”
“Listen, I heard a name today and I’m trying to pin a case to it. Think you can help me?”
“I’ll sure give it a shot. It’s been a long time since I’ve read any true crime. Mamie getting killed kind of made my interest in crime fade…”
“Of course. I’m being so stupid calling you…”
“But lately I’ve thought about taking it up again. So what’s your question?”
“You were always our walking encyclopedia in Real Murders, Gerald. So here’s the question. Emily Kaye?”
“Emily Kaye… hmmmm. A victim, not a killer, I remember that right off the bat.”
“Okay. American?”
“Nope. Nope. English… early this century, 1920s, I think.”
I kept a respectful silence while Gerald rummaged through his mental attic of old murder cases. Since Gerald was an insurance salesman, his interest in wrongful death had always seemed rather natural.
“I got it!” he said triumphantly. “Patrick Mahon! Married man who killed and cut up his mistress, Emily Kaye. There were pieces of her all over the holiday cottage he’d rented; he’d tried several methods to dispose of the body. He’d bought a knife and saw before he’d gone down to the cottage, so the jury didn’t believe his excuse that she’d died accidentally. Let me flip open this book, Roe. Okay… his wife, who’d thought he was fooling around, found a ticket to retrieve a bag from the train station… and in the bag was a woman’s bloodstained clothing. She told the police, I believe. So they backtracked Mahon and found the body parts. That what you needed to know?”
“Yes, thank you, Gerald. I appreciate your help.”
“No trouble at all.”
The early Emily Kaye was certainly a far cry from the present-day Emily. I couldn’t imagine the Emily I knew going to a cottage for an illicit vacation with a married man.
So a little niggling point had been settled. I knew where I’d heard the name.
But there was no one I could share this fascinating bit of information with, no one who would appreciate it. For the second time in one day, I regretted the disbanding of Real Murders. Call us ghouls, call us just plain peculiar, we had had a good time with our admittedly offbeat hobby.
What had happened to the members of our little club? Of the twelve, one would go on trial soon for multiple murder, another had committed suicide, one had been murdered, one had been widowed, one had died of natural causes, one had been arrested for drug trafficking (Gifford’s unusual lifestyle had finally attracted the wrong attention), one was in a mental institution… on the other hand, LeMaster was still busy and prosperous with his dry-cleaning business, presumably, though I hadn’t seen him since Jane Engle’s funeral. John Queensland had married my mother. Gerald had remarried. Arthur Smith had gotten married. And I…
It seemed LeMaster Cane and I were the only ones who were basically unchanged in life condition in the eighteen months or so since Real Murders had had its last meeting.
Chapter Four
FRIDAY MORNING I woke with that blank feeling I’d had lately. Nothing specific to do, nowhere particular to go. No one expected me anywhere.
Even though library funding cuts had meant I’d only been part-time, my work hours had shaped my week. I had an increasingly strong feeling I wouldn’t be throwing my lot in with Mother’s at Select Realty, so I wouldn’t be studying for my real estate license.
Lying in bed drowsily was not such a pleasure if it wasn’t illicit, even with Madeleine’s heavy warm body curled up against my leg. Before, I’d used this time to map out my day. Now the time lay like a wasteland before me. I didn’t want to think about the dinner party tonight, didn’t want to feel again the alternating apprehension and attraction Martin Bartell aroused in me.
So I scolded myself out of bed, down the stairs, and popped an exercise video into the VCR after switching on the coffeepot. I stretched and bent and hopped around obediently, grudging every necessary minute of it. Madeleine watched this new part of my morning routine with appalled fascination.
Now that I was thirty, calories were no longer burning themselves off quite so easily. Three times a week my mother, clad in gorgeous exercise clothes, went to the newly opened Athletic Club and did aerobics. Mackie Knight, Franklin Farrell, and Donnie Greenhouse, plus a host of other Lawrencetonians, ran or biked every evening. I’d seen Franklin’s cohort, Terry Sternholtz, out “power walking” with Eileen. My mother’s new husband was a golfer. Almost everyone I knew did
At least I felt I’d earned my coffee and toast, and my shower was a real pleasure afterward. While I was drying my hair, I decided that today I’d start looking at houses seriously. I needed a project, and finding a house I really liked would do. Jane’s books and the few things from her house I’d wanted to keep were stacked in odd places around the town-house, and I was beginning to feel claustrophobic. Mother had hinted heavily that Jane’s dining room set would be welcome in her third bedroom for a short time only.
Of course, I’d have to go through Select Realty, and I didn’t think I ought to have Mother showing me around. Eileen, Idella, or Mackie? Mackie could use the vote of confidence, I reflected, standing bent at the waist with my hair hanging down so I could dry the bottom layer. But though I didn’t have anything against Mackie, I never had been too crazy about him, either. I didn’t think it was because he was black or because he was male. I just wasn’t that comfortable with him. On the other hand, Eileen was smart and sometimes funny, but too bossy. Idella was sweet and could leave you alone when you needed to think, but she was no fun at all.
After a moment’s consideration, I chose Eileen. I phoned the office.
Patty said she wasn’t in.
I looked up Eileen’s home number and punched it with an impatient finger.
“Hello?”
“May I speak to Eileen, please?”
“May I tell her who’s calling?”
“Roe Teagarden.” Who the hell was this? Eileen’s personal home secretary? On the other hand, it wasn’t exactly my business.
Eileen finally came on the line.
“Hi, Eileen. I’ve decided to start moving on finding a house of my own. Can you show me some, pretty soon?”
“Sure! What are you looking for?”
Oh. Well, four walls and a roof… I began speaking as I thought. “I want at least three bedrooms, because I need a room for a library. I want a kitchen with some counter space.” The townhouse was definitely deficient in that department. “I want a large master bedroom with a very large closet.” For all my new clothes. “I want at least two bathrooms.” Why not? One could always be kept pretty for company. “And not lots of traffic.” For Madeleine, who was weaving around my ankles, rumbling her rough purr.
“What price range do you have in mind?”
I was still talking to an investment banker about what I would have to live on if I didn’t use any of Jane’s capital. But I could buy the house outright and then invest the rest, or I could put the money from the sale of Jane’s house down on the new place… I let all this swirl around in my head, and then an answer popped to the top of my brain, like the answer popping up to the window of a fortune-telling ball.
“Okay,” Eileen said. “Seventy-five to ninety-five gives us some room. There are quite a few for sale in that range since Golfwhite closed its factory here.” Golfwhite-which, logically enough, manufactured golf balls and other
