Murder Has a Sweet Tooth Page 14

  As one, each of them waved back. All except Edward Monroe. One by one, he looked us over. His gaze rested on me longer than it did on the others. His hand tightened around the stem of his wineglass.

  I had the feeling he was about to step out of the French doors, point a finger, and announce to the world that I was the biggest thief since Jean Valjean. Before he could make his move, Celia tightened her hold and dragged me to the other side of the pool.

  When we got there, I shook out of her grasp. “I don’t think they’ll hear us here,” I said, but Celia didn’t look so sure. One more look around and she caught hold of my arm again and pulled me to a freestanding little building surrounded by shrubs and an edging of daffodils. There was a combination lock on the door, and she quickly spun through the numbers until it snapped open.

  “We’re having trouble with the sauna,” she mumbled, setting the lock down on a nearby rock. “We don’t want the kids messing with it. In here.” She opened the door and nudged me through it. As soon as Beth and Glynis were inside, too, Celia closed the door. “If Scott asks,” she said, “I’ll tell him you’re thinking of installing a sauna and you wanted a tour. Unless you have a sauna?”

  “No sauna.” It was as truthful as I was ever likely to be. I not only didn’t own a sauna, I’d never been inside one. While the women paced, ordering their thoughts and (I had no doubt) trying to decide how much I knew, how I knew it, and how much they were willing to confess about their cooking skills—or lack of them—I took a quick look around.

  The sauna consisted of a single room. It was large and comfortable, made entirely of cedar, and with U-shaped seating large enough for . . . I did a quick tally. The way I saw it, at least twelve people could comfortably occupy the sauna at any one time. Across from the benches built into the wall was a heater. I stationed myself right in front of it, and, realizing I wasn’t going to let them off the hook, one by one, the women took their seats.

  Without any introduction, I launched into what I’d been planning to tell them since the Tuesday before, when I found myself outside Preston’s Colonial House watching Beth go inside. “I bought all my appetizers at the grocery store. The same place you all bought yours.”

  Glynis half rose. “But Sonny—”

  I stopped her with one pointed look. “I’m not dissing Sonny. Believe me, I’m sure he makes all the things in his classes that he says he makes in his classes. But, see, I finally figured out why you were so happy when you found out I took cooking classes at Très Bonne Cuisine. You knew a cooking friend would come in handy someday. And I did, the day Michael wanted fresh-baked flan and none of you were able to make it for him. You see, besides realizing once and for all that I never want to attempt flan again, there’s another thing I figured out. I know you don’t attend any of Sonny’s cooking classes. You see, Sonny’s cooking classes are only held on Saturdays.”

  “Is that what this is all about?” Celia practically sounded cocky. Her mouth thinned. “All you had to do is ask, Annie. We’re special.” She looked at her friends and managed a giggle that might have been convincing if I hadn’t known she was lying through her teeth. “Sonny gives us private lessons on Tuesdays.”

  “Really? You’re not in any of his class books,” I said, and I watched the starch go right out of Celia’s shoulders. “You’ve never been in any of his class books, because you’ve never been in any of Sonny’s classes. He’s never heard of you. Any of you.”

  “How would you know?” This from Glynis, whose bland eyes practically snapped with annoyance. “And what difference does it make, anyway? Why do you care where we get our recipes?”

  Even though I was in full control of the situation, I couldn’t help but gulp with trepidation. Talk of cooking always does that to me. As if to prove how unconcerned I was, I held up both hands and took a step back. “Recipes? I don’t care. I’ve never cared. Believe me! When it comes to cooking, there’s no way on earth I could care less. And I wouldn’t care now. If it wasn’t for Vickie.”

  Beth stifled a tiny sob, but then, she apparently didn’t have nearly the gumption of her two friends. Celia and Glynis rose from their seats.

  “Vickie?” Celia was shorter than me. When she looked up at me, her top lip curled. “You didn’t even know Vickie. You don’t care. And telling people we take cooking classes from Sonny, that has nothing to do with Vickie.”

  I kept my voice even, the better to try to lull them into complacency. “Sure it does. Because Vickie said she was going to cooking classes, too. Fact is, she was going to Swallows every Tuesday night instead. Another fact is, when the cops asked you about it, you said Vickie always had an excuse. You told the police that on one Tuesday, Vickie said she had a headache and couldn’t make it to class. On another, you told the cops, Vickie said both her kids were sick and she had to stay home with them. A third fact . . .” I cut to the chase. “What you never bothered to mention was that if there was a cooking class and if Vickie was in it, you never would have known, anyway. None of you. Because you were—you are—doing exactly what Vickie was doing every Tuesday night. You’re all going out on the town.”

  Celia dropped back down on the bench.

  Glynis sputtered.

  Beth slapped one hand to her open mouth. Her eyes got big. Her face turned as white as the eyeballs of the teddy bears on her jumper. When she managed to choke out a few words, her voice was nearly lost beneath another sob. “Oh, my God, you’re a cop!”

  I swear, I almost laughed. And maybe that would have been a good thing. Maybe it would have helped relieve some of the tension that built in the room like the heat must have done when the sauna was working.

  I knew I’d lose my advantage if I was too easy on them, so I kept my expression blank and my voice firm. “I’m not a cop.” My inherently honest nature kicked in big time. I knew it would eventually. “I’m a private detective.”

  “And you think we killed Vickie!” Where she got that idea, I didn’t know, but Beth was so convinced, tears welled in her eyes. “Oh, I knew this was going to happen. I told you.” She jumped off the bench so she could face her two friends. “I told you we’d get in trouble if we did what we were doing. But you wouldn’t listen.”

  Celia tossed her head. Her inky hair moved like silk. “Nobody was in trouble. Not until Vickie decided to go back to the same place, over and over again. Not until she decided—”

  Beth folded her arms over her chest. The teddy bears on her jumper peeked out over her forearms. “She didn’t decide anything. It just happened.”

  Glynis stuck out her lower lip. “That’s not what we were there for,” she told Beth.

  Beth’s glare was monumental. “Oh, yeah? Then what were we there for?”

  Celia hopped back up on her feet. “It was supposed to just be fun. Maybe you forgot that.”

  “Maybe you”—Beth pointed a finger at Celia’s nose—“maybe you forgot that feelings can’t be turned off and on like the switch on the side of your cappuccino maker. You can’t recognize that you have feelings for somebody, then just walk away. Vickie knew that. Vickie was honest and trusting.”

  “Yeah.” Celia sneered. “And look where it got her.”

  “At least she took a chance,” Beth sniffed and said. “At least she wasn’t afraid, not like you two.”

  “Afraid?” It was Glynis’s turn to be outraged. “If Vickie had listened to us in the first place—”

  “But she didn’t listen. She couldn’t listen,” Beth insisted. “She was too busy listening to her heart!”

  “Oh, please!” Celia managed to turn the phrase into three syllables. “You must be reading too many corny greeting cards.”

  Beth threw back her shoulders. “And you must be completely out of your mind. But then, you’ve always been a little ditzy.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Celia screamed. It wasn’t a great come-back, but it must have been good enough because Beth echoed it with her own, “Oh, yeah.”

  And I knew I had to do something
—fast—before an ugly situation got even worse.

  “Ladies!” I stepped between Beth and Celia. It got them to back off, but it didn’t do a thing to soften the glares they shot in each other’s direction. I kept my voice soft and even. Like I tried so hard to do when dealing with Fi’s kids. “This isn’t what I intended to happen,” I said, as truthful as can be. “I don’t want to see you guys fight. I’m just looking to find out what really happened to Vickie.”

  “Vickie was stupid.” Celia dropped back down on the cedar bench.

  “Vickie forgot that there were rules.” Glynis took a seat beside her.

  That left Beth, and I turned to her. I wasn’t sure why she was defending Vickie when the other women weren’t, but right about then, I didn’t care. I needed answers. I looked her in the eye. “I think there’s a lot for us to talk about. How about if you sit down, too?”

  She did. But she made sure she kept her distance from the other two women.

  Back in control—but who knew for how long?—I started again. “Look, there doesn’t seem to be any point in lying to you any longer—”

  “Yeah.” Glynis glowered. “Now that we know you’re a private investigator.”

  “That’s not why.” I hunkered down, the better to look each of the women in the eye. At the same time, I put my left hand on Celia’s arm (she was farthest in that direction) and my right on Beth’s. “I want you to know the truth because I think . . . well, I like to think of you as my friends. Even though you did con me into making that flan for you. And I can understand if you don’t feel very friendly toward me any longer. After all, I did lie to you. But that’s the whole point of friendship, isn’t it? We can have differences, and we can talk them out. Right?”

  One by one, they nodded their begrudging agreement.

  “Then here’s what you have to know.” I cleared my throat and, because I wasn’t in the kind of shape that allowed me to sit in a catcher’s squat for any length of time and still be able to walk, I stood and tried not to wince when my thigh muscles screamed in protest. “Alex Bannerman, the guy who’s accused of killing Vickie . . . Alex is a friend of mine. I’m looking into Vickie’s murder because I’m trying to clear Alex’s name.”

  Celia’s protest was immediate. “We can’t help you.”

  “You can.” I couldn’t afford to single any of them out, so I took in all three women with a wave of one arm. “You can tell me what you’re up to on Tuesday nights.”

  “But if we do—”

  Celia and Glynis both shushed Beth with a look.

  “If you don’t, Alex is going to end up in prison for a crime he didn’t commit,” I reminded them.

  Glynis looked up at the ceiling. “The cops say he did it.”

  Celia looked down at the floor. “The papers say the evidence is indisputable.”

  Beth wiped a finger under nose. “The TV news says there’s no doubt.”

  “And none of them are right.” I kept the desperation from my voice. Barely. “Alex is a nice guy. A really nice guy. He’s fun, and he’s funny. He makes really great cookies, only he calls them biscuits. He’s remodeling the house where I’m going to live.”

  “And let me guess . . . that isn’t here in McLean, is it?” The pointed question came from Celia along with a look that matched.

  “It isn’t,” I admitted. “The part about me being one of your new neighbors was a lie, too. I needed to get to know you so I could find out more about Vickie. I didn’t think you’d give me the time of day, not if you didn’t think I was one of you.”

  Glynis sighed.

  Celia picked at one leg of her tailored pants.

  Beth cried softly.

  I thought she’d be the first to cave, but, surprisingly, the surrender came from Celia. “Look . . .” She shifted her position on the bench. “This isn’t something we want anyone to find out about. The guys—”

  “They think we go to cooking class every Tuesday night,” Glynis added.

  “Which is why you check Sonny’s schedule to see what he’s making in his classes. Then you do exactly what I did, right? You check out the ready-made foods at the grocery stores, find something similar, buy it, and make it look homemade by heating it in a fancy porcelain pan or scooping it out of its little plastic container and serving it on crystal.”

  “Guilty.” Glynis tried for a smile that didn’t exactly make it all the way to her eyes. “We’ve been doing it for just about a year now.”

  “And on Tuesdays, when your husbands think you’re going to cooking class, you’ve been going to bars, and I don’t get it. Unless . . .” OK, call me slow. A lightbulb went off in my head and suddenly the whole thing made sense. It was a sick and twisted sense, but it was sense nonetheless. “You’re all doing exactly what Vickie was doing. You go out on Tuesday nights to meet guys.”

  Not a single one of them jumped up and told me I was wrong. They didn’t have to. I knew from the color in Glynis’s cheeks and the paleness of Celia’s and the way Beth twitched her nose . . . I knew I was right.

  “Well, what do you expect?” Celia harrumphed the explanation. “You don’t really think it’s easy to be perfect, do you?”

  It was my turn to be speechless. Which was why Glynis had a chance to interject, “Life in the ’burbs isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. We’ve got to be perfect wives.”

  “And perfect mothers,” Beth added.

  Celia joined the bandwagon. “We’ve got to have perfect clothes and perfect wardrobes and perfect manners.”

  “Perfect meals, perfect taste, perfect children.” Glynis looked perfectly miserable about the whole thing. “It’s impossible.”

  “Who can blame us for wanting to step out now and again?” Celia asked.

  I didn’t get it. But I wasn’t about to argue. “So every Tuesday . . . ?”

  “Every Tuesday, we each head out to have a little fun.” Celia glanced at her two friends. “The rules have always been the same. We’re never supposed to go to the same bar twice.”

  “And we’re always supposed to say we’re going to cooking class,” Glynis added.

  “We’re not supposed to talk about what happens while we’re out,” Celia said.

  “Not even to each other.”

  I grumbled under my breath. “But then, that means—”

  “That we really don’t know who Vickie was seeing or what she was up to,” Glynis finished my sentence for me.

  “She did say she’d met someone.” Beth’s voice was so low, we all leaned forward to hear her. “Someone special.”

  “She told you that?” Celia wasn’t as surprised as she was obviously pissed that she’d been left out of the loop.

  Beth shrugged. “She mentioned it. That’s all. She never gave me the details. She just said . . . you know. She just said he was special.”

  I swallowed hard. “Do you think she was talking about Alex?”

  Beth answered with another shrug.

  It was my turn to drop down on the bench. “Then none of this helps us much, does it? Vickie was probably talking about Alex. We know they saw each other every week at Swallows, so we know she ignored the rule about going to the same bar twice. But that doesn’t mean he killed her,” I added, just so they didn’t get the wrong impression. “Alex didn’t know she was married. And he really liked Vickie. And—”

  I listened to my own words and realized I was right back where I started from. “I’m sorry I lied,” I said, and I meant it. “Maybe we could have gotten this whole thing straightened out right from the beginning if I’d just told you the truth from day one. But I wanted to get to know all of you and . . .” I didn’t dare say what I was thinking. I hardly dared admit it to myself.

  I wanted these women’s lives. I liked pretending I was a suburban wife and mother who had all the material comforts a restaurant manager could only dream of. Celia, Glynis, and Beth were living my dream life. Or at least what I’d always thought my dream life was.

  Finding out that
even the most perfect lives weren’t all that perfect was a hard dose to swallow.

  For all of us.

  “Look,” I said, “I know there’s no reason you should listen to my advice, but I do have some experience when it comes to this kind of thing. That lie about you going to cooking classes on Tuesday nights is going to come back to bite you. You know that, don’t you? You really should come clean with your husbands.” I thought about Jim, about the kind of honest, authentic relationship we had with each other. It was something I wanted to last forever. It was hard for me to get my brain around the idea of couples who didn’t have—or didn’t want—that kind of intimacy. I guess I was talking to myself as much as to the other women when I said, “Isn’t being open and honest with each other what marriage is all about?”

  Celia rolled her eyes. “You’re not really married, are you?” she asked before she got up and headed out the door.

  Glynis followed her.

  Beth dragged behind. I got the feeling there was more she wanted to say, but when I gave her the opportunity by asking, “Is something bothering you?” she just hurried outside.

  And me? Well, I should have been thinking about my case, but let’s face it, though I’d satisfied my curiosity about what the women did on Tuesday nights, I really hadn’t learned much that was going to help me find Vickie’s killer, had I?

  Maybe that was why I didn’t want to think about it. Maybe it was just too depressing to realize that I was no closer to clearing Alex’s name than I had been before we walked inside the sauna.

  Or maybe I was just too preoccupied with everything Celia, Glynis, and Beth had revealed. And everything they didn’t need to say: all that stuff about marriage and how maybe reality could never live up to my fantasies. Maybe my pie-in-the-sky version of how things were going to be for Jim and me would never actually mesh, not in real life.

  Maybe I should have learned that from my marriage to Peter.

  I sat there for a few minutes, deep in thought, before I shook myself back to reality.

  “Snap out of it, Annie,” I reminded myself and headed for the door. “You’re not Celia, Glynis, Beth, or Vickie. And Jim isn’t a thing like any of their husbands. He’s certainly nothing like Peter. Jim and I will always be honest with each other. We’ll always be open—”