Double Shot

“Do you think she committed suicide?”

Frances paused. “It’s possible. But I wasn’t picking up on her being depressed after the death of Walter. But lately, I couldn’t say.”

“Is this in code? What are you talking about?”

“What I tell you absolutely goes no further than this phone call.” I grunted assent, and she went on: “Walter Brisbane was charming to everyone on the outside and a tyrannical boss, Goldy. I mean, the man was a nut. He yelled at Cecelia and treated her like dirt on the floor. After he committed suicide, she seemed to be okay for a while. Then lately she’d gone into a funk. I couldn’t understand it, because everyone was complimenting her on that photo in the library, her daughter doing her patriotic duty in the armed services, that kind of thing. Cecelia would glow for a while, and then slump.”

I said, “Do you know this daughter?”

“Alex? No. She’s a naval officer. Cecelia said Alex’s ship was doing exercises with the Greek navy off Piraeus.” Frances inhaled. “You’re going to tell me anything you learn about Korman, right? And you won’t breathe a word of this until I’ve got it nailed down.”

“Okay, okay. But I need to know if any of this involved John Richard.”

“I don’t know who it involves, yet. When I told you I didn’t know what happened to Cecelia, I wasn’t telling you the whole story. What do you think drove Walter to suicide?”

Brewster Motley’s Mercedes pulled into the cul-de-sac. The sun winked off his windshield. I could just make out his blond head, nodding as he talked into a cell phone. Arch was supposed to be here five minutes ago.

“I need you to cut to the chase, Frances.”

She lowered her voice. “I’m not sure about why, out of the blue, Walter packed it in. But my theory is that somebody threatened to expose him. You know that pay-phone call that preceded his death? They never figured out who it was from or what was said. Cecelia has been fine for all these years since he died, and then in May she started getting really, really depressed when she was at her desk. She’d put on a good face when she was in public, then come back here and go into a funk. I mean, as in, she’d learned who killed Kennedy and couldn’t tell anybody and couldn’t put it in the paper.”

“And?”

“And I talked to her neighbor, Sherry Boone.”

“Oh, God, Frances.”

“Check this out, then. My theory was that old ghosts had suddenly come up in Cecelia’s mind, and she was obsessed with whatever was bothering her.” Frances paused. “In May, Cecelia broke down to Sherry Boone. Cecelia sobbed that her daughter, Alex, had claimed since age ten that her father had been having sex with her. Cecelia cried to Sherry that she hadn’t believed a word of her daughter’s story. But after Alex finished high school, when she left and wouldn’t come back, Mother Cecelia began to wonder.”

My hand gripping the phone went cold. “So you’re saying Cecelia didn’t know what was going on in her own house while Alex was growing up?”

Frances’s voice was strained. “Do mothers ever know? Do mothers ever not know? You’re the one with the degree in psychology.”

I glanced at the clock. Brewster was still on the phone, and no cop was coming to fetch me. “So Cecelia was all happy because people were praising her for a daughter doing her patriotic duty. But this same daughter had been sexually violated by her father. And she was depressed because she was finally facing the truth. So…how and why did Cecelia die?”

“That’s what I’m looking into now. When Cecelia did columns, she kept notes. Naturally, the cops took her computer and files. But when the news raced up here that it was Cecelia’s body in the lake, I scooted over to her desk. By the time the sheriff’s department arrived, I’d nabbed her disks. They weren’t password protected, so I printed everything out.”

“Frances—”

“How did you think I was going to get material for this story?” she protested. “After Cecelia got interested in something and did background research, she’d write up a bunch of questions that might get answered in a column. Like with your hubby and Courtney—”

“Ex-hubby.”

“Yeah, well. Cecelia was poking into that tennis-and-golf tournament at the club, the one that’s taking place today and tomorrow? She wanted to know who had paid for what in the sponsorship, and Korman’s motive for putting up all that dough. Your ex-hubby was notoriously cheap with money, apparently.”

“Tell me something I don’t know. And his motive for the sponsorship was…?”

“Dr. John Richard Korman was making his second debut into society,” Frances announced dramatically. “On the tail of Courtney MacEwan. Or at least, on the tail of her tennis dress.” Frances shuffled through some papers. “Here are the other things she was working on. ‘A firing at the fire department.’ ” More shuffling. “ ‘Teachers are starving and it has nothing to do with school cafeterias.’ Here’s something up your alley: ‘Health inspector Roger Mannis—being paid off to create trouble?’ ”

“Did she have any research on that one?” I asked sharply. Behind me, a black-and-white was pulling up.

“Nope, sorry, or at least not on the disk I downloaded. Here’s her last note to herself. ‘Hypocrisy? Look more closely at Vikarioses.’ ”

I drummed my fingers on the dashboard. “Is that about the money John Richard supposedly stole? You know, your theory on the down payment on our house? That he supposedly didn’t repay?”

“No, no, no. I was wrong on that. Your ex got the money from his father, not the Vikarioses. I’ve got a source at the bank, and she looked up the old check.”

I exhaled in relief. I knew Frances had been wrong. If John Richard stiffed somebody, he always crowed about it, then claimed he’d been justified. “So who called you with an anonymous tip with the claim about the fifty Gs coming from Ted Vikarios, and him demanding it back?”

“I don’t know. It was just a woman’s voice on my voice mail. Not only do I not know, it looks as if Cecelia didn’t know anything about it, either.”

The patrol car behind me flashed its lights. I was desperate to know if Cecelia had left any notes about the supposed rape. But I didn’t want Frances looking into another allegation, especially since the cops were supposedly working on it. Beside the curb, Arch was looking around, his expression wary. “I need to hop,” I told Frances.

“I want to know what’s missing from Korman’s house!”

“I promise I’ll tell you later. The cops are here,” I said, and hung up on her screeching protest.

I stashed the cell in my pocket and jumped out of my van. Arch’s face looked so haggard, it was hard to believe he’d enjoyed his brief time at the water park and at Todd’s. Probably his feelings—or lack of them—were fluctuating like mine. You can’t feel grief all the time.

“Arch, honey,” I began when I walked up to him, “you don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do.” His words came out weary and resigned. His face set in bitterness, he glanced up at his father’s rental Tudor. “You know the amazing thing? Say Dad hadn’t saved that guard’s life. Then the governor wouldn’t have commuted Dad’s sentence, and he’d still be alive.”

I pressed my lips together and groaned sympathetically. Of course, I wanted to say, If your father hadn’t been engaged in something underhanded, he’d still be alive. But I didn’t.

“Mom?” Arch turned earnest eyes back at me. “The detective told me it wasn’t bullets from your gun that killed Dad.”

“I know.”

Arch swallowed and adjusted his new wire-rimmed glasses. The splash of freckles across his nose, disappearing fast with adolescence, was suddenly visible in the late afternoon light. “I’m sorry I got mad at you. I know you didn’t mean for your gun to get stolen. Oh, gee, Mom, I just feel so bad, and I didn’t want to make it sound like I blamed you…”

I pulled him in for a hug. Oddly, I felt cheered. Arch was getting his conscience back; he was apologizing and meaning it. Maybe I hadn’t done such a terrible job these last fifteen years. Then again, maybe he wasn’t feeling hugely affectionate, as he wrenched himself away from my hug. After all, there were