A Lie for a Lie (33 page)

She had mentioned somebody named . . . Ronnie.

Of course with nobody pulling at me and no errands to run, the answer slapped me on the head.

I sat up. “Veronica.”

“Aggie . . . make yourself . . . warm milk . . . Anything . . .”

“He called Winona, Nonie. I bet he called Veronica, Ronnie.”

“Go ’way.”

I went downstairs and made myself comfortable on the sofa. It was too hot to warm up anything, and anyway, before I thought about sleep, I wanted to think this through. Winona wasn’t the only girl whom Grady hadn’t mentioned in his autobiography. Veronica had been absent, as well. Knowing Grady, this made a certain kind of sense. He’d wanted the world to believe he’d earned his success with no help along the way. In his book he was the one who helped others . . .

Nobody was there to hear it, but I made the customary gagging sound to show what I thought of that.

None of the people who had helped him get through his classes, who had spent special time with him and supported him, had made it to his pages. Not Winona. Not Daisy Wilkinson, who clearly should have been there. Not Veronica.

Maybe there was a slightly less hostile explanation. Maybe one of Grady’s disabilities was a poor memory. Maybe all these people really had faded out of his mind. He was a classic narcissist, after all. The world revolved around him, so why should he remember anybody else? Just existing in the shadow of his great light had been enough of a boon to bestow.

That triggered a memory of my own. Something that had been said about him . . . no,
to
him. Somebody had made a joke that really wasn’t a joke. Somebody who had seemed unhappy not to be remembered.

For some reason I started to hum, then softly I sang the words to Grady’s biggest hit.

 

And then I knew.

“Lisa Lee.”

On the night of the debut party less than two weeks ago—was that possible?—Lisa had sat down at the piano, played a few rippling chords, and begun the intro to “Sailing toward a Rainbow.” Grady had made a dramatic entrance, and the party had been launched. But after he’d finished the song, he’d said something to her. What was it? Where was Norma Beet when I needed her?

My own memory wasn’t that bad. I tried the words. “Where did you find a pianist like this?”

That wasn’t perfect, but it was the gist of what he’d said.

What Lisa had replied was closer to exact, because at the time I’d thought it was odd enough, I’d more or less filed it away.

“I’ve just been hanging around waiting for you to come back . . .”

I paused. “Yikes.”

She’d added something. What was it? I almost called Lucy to see if she remembered, but even Lucy’s not that keen on a two AM phone call. I got up and started to pace, humming furiously as I walked back and forth across the room, to jog my memory.

“Waiting for you . . . come back . . .” What? “Waiting for you to come back . . . so I could play for you?” That was it. But had she added “again”? I was pretty sure I had it right, as far as it went. But I had to give up trying to recreate her comeback word for word. I just wasn’t going to be able to.

No matter what she’d said exactly, the meaning was clear to me now. Lisa Lee had played for Grady before, and the fact that he didn’t remember and didn’t recognize her had rankled.

I hadn’t connected Lisa with Grady’s past. She appeared to be older than Veronica or Winona, and she had none of Grady’s youthful charm. Still, she could have been in school with them. The extra weight, the generally dumpy appearance? Both could age a woman at least a decade if she wasn’t careful. And why else would she have seemed annoyed when he’d given her what appeared to be a compliment? He hadn’t recognized her, and he should have. She had played the piano for him while he lived here. Probably for something
memorable
.

Could it have been his tryout for the role of Idan in
Wayfarers of the Ark
?

Satisfied I’d plumbed the depths of this, I curled up on the sofa again and closed my eyes. Suddenly I was sleepy, and the thought of making the trip upstairs was daunting. I would just rest a little and see if anything else occurred to me. But tomorrow I would find Lisa Lee and see if she had anything or anyone to add to my narrowing list of suspects. I had a feeling there was something here that I hadn’t quite put my finger on.

That was the last thought I had until somebody shook my shoulder.

I sat up and my eyes flew open. Sunlight was pouring in the windows, and Deena was standing over me.

“Mom? What are you doing down here?”

For a moment I couldn’t remember, and all I could manage was a frown.

“You and Daddy had a fight, didn’t you?” Deena plopped down next to me. “It’s my fault, isn’t it?”

“
Ummm
. . .” I licked my lips. “What time is it?”

“Seven thirty.”

“I . . . coffee.” I got up and staggered toward the kitchen. As my legs warmed up, so did my brain. By the time I’d scooped out coffee and added water to the coffeemaker, I had remembered my previous night’s escapade.

Deena was in boxers and a flowered tank top, her hair hanging like a cape over her shoulders. She looked adorable, something I’d never be allowed to say to her again. I got juice out of the refrigerator and held it out. She shook her head.

“You can have coffee if you put lots of milk in it,” I said.

“Okay.”

I got cups, good ones, not the assorted everyday mugs from advertising insurance companies and vacation spots where we hadn’t been able to resist a souvenir. These were Great Aunt Martha’s willowware, and I put them on saucers and brought them to the table, going back for a sugar bowl and a cream pitcher to fill with milk.

When the coffee was ready, I brought it to the table and poured her a dollop, as if we were once again having a childhood tea party.

“Your father kicked me out of the bedroom because I was tossing and turning. I came downstairs to get it out of my system and fell asleep on the sofa. We aren’t having a fight. He just wanted some sleep.”

Deena filled her cup to the brim with milk. “Really?”

“Uh huh. Daddy can sleep through almost anything, just not me whacking him with my elbows and knees.”

“Why couldn’t you sleep?”

“Just a lot on my mind, I guess.”

“Is it my fault?”

This was getting interesting. We had worried that Deena didn’t care one bit if she’d hurt anybody in the family, but here was proof that having faith in her best instincts had been the right course.

“Not your fault, sweetie,” I said. “But let’s just say it was. Why exactly would that be?”

She didn’t answer for a while. I suspected she didn’t know how.

“I made a big fuss,” she said at last.

“That pretty well describes it, I guess.”

“I just felt so humiliated.”

“I know you did. But from our perspective it was a pretty extreme reaction for something everybody has already forgotten.”

She looked up and almost smiled. “You’re saying Daddy’s sermons are forgettable?”

That she could joke about this was the best sign I could imagine. “Only the occasional teensy-weensy word or example. And don’t ever tell him I said so.”

This time she did smile. “I felt betrayed, you know? I mean, if I can’t trust Daddy, who can I trust?”

She was entering a time in her life when that question would be crucial, and both of us knew it. No wonder she had been so disturbed. I tried to think of a way to help.

“You have to make allowances for everybody, Deena. Nobody’s perfect. You have to look at all the times a person has been there for you, and measure that against the occasional mistakes. Some mistakes are too huge to overlook, of course. But this one wasn’t.”

“I guess.”

I wish Ed had been there to hear that. It was as close to an apology as he might get.

But Deena was more mature than I gave her credit for. She’d done some thinking, because now she went on. “I don’t know what to say to him. To Daddy, I mean. I don’t know how to do it. It’s just gone on so long.”

“Just say what’s in your heart, honey. That’s all he wants to hear. You know how much he loves you.”

Her eyes were suddenly shiny with tears. “Would you come with me?”

I was so surprised, I didn’t know what to say. “Me?”

“You’re the mom, right? Don’t you, like, do this stuff? Isn’t it in the set of instructions they gave you at the hospital or something?”

“Well, sure. I just didn’t think you’d want me there.”

“Well, if I screw up, you could help me out.”

I nearly laughed. Luckily, she smiled, then she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

“Okay, when?” I asked. “I’ll put it on my schedule. The Big Apology.”

“I don’t know. I’ll think about it, okay?”

I reached over and covered her hand. “You bet.”

She looked wistful. “Remember when we used to have tea with my dolls?”

“I do.”

“I kind of miss it.”

 

 

Obviously houses mean a lot to me. Maybe this is because Ed and I have yet to own one. Plus, as a child, the closest my little family ever came to our own place was the RV we slept in when we traveled the craft show circuit. So by default I’ve become a connoisseur of other people’s homes, and I’ve learned a few things along the way.

Homeowners come in several varieties. Some have set requirements and buy the first house that meets them, with little or no emotional attachment. Some have no idea what they need but buy as large and expensive as they think they can afford. If they’re attached, it’s usually to the prestige or the investment potential, not to the house itself.

Some are drawn to a house despite its size, what it offers or lacks, what it costs. I had a feeling Lisa Lee might be one of these. I imagined her house would be an expression of who she was and what she loved. I was correct.

Lisa’s house was in a neighborhood that, unlike the Village, has no name, much less a nickname. Whenever I visit I’m convinced that the original developer was verging on retirement and built himself a house smack in the middle of his winding warren of trails, courts, rambles, and paths. I’m sure he designed his porch so he could sit outside in his dotage and watch drivers circling helplessly. Had anyone asked me, I would have named the neighborhood Cul-de-sac Catastrophe.

Lisa’s address was Whaler’s Walk. The house itself was a small cedar contemporary, very Frank Lloyd Wright on a budget. The windows were slits that reminded me of the arrow holes in a medieval castle. Each section of the house seemed to shelter under a different roof. The yard and exterior were adorned with stone sculptures, an assortment of wind chimes, and too many evergreens trimmed into geometric shapes.

“Artsy, a freethinker, not all that interested in conforming.” Now all Lisa needed was a warm heart, and we might be friends.

The last was not to be. Lisa came to the door, graying hair flowing over a 1970s-style granny dress and a white Persian cat draped over one arm. Although we’d met several times, she didn’t remember me, nor did she invite me inside after I introduced myself again.

“This is the time each day when I work on my poetry,” she said.

And this was the time of day when I solved murders, but I really didn’t think she’d appreciate hearing that.

“I’m sorry. I would have called but I couldn’t find your number.”

“It’s unlisted. How did you find
me
?”

How did I find her? Well, I found her rude and unhelpful, but I didn’t think that was what she was asking. “My friend Lucy Jacobs remembered your house,” I said instead.

“Oh, yes, the realtor.” She sighed, and I was nearly blown off the porch. Then she stepped aside and gestured me in.

The smell of unchanged cat litter hit me like a tidal wave. The outside of the house was artistically cluttered. The inside was simply cluttered. Clothes, newspapers, books everywhere, and none of it where it ought to be. I glimpsed modern art on smudged walls, handmade afghans covered with fur, plates with food that was growing medically significant mold colonies. I wondered if Lisa was really working on her poetry, or if she just didn’t want me to see how she lived.

And could this housekeeping disaster have been caused by Grady’s death? Had Lisa been sent into an emotional decline? More interesting, was she suffering paroxysms of guilt? Somehow I found that hard to believe. A woman who couldn’t deposit her own plates in the sink was unlikely to have the energy to stab a man with the force and fury Grady’s murder had necessitated.

“Why did you need to see me?” she asked, gesturing to the sofa, although sitting would have meant digging out a place to park my bottom, and thoughts of fleas in the cushions kept me on my feet.

“I’ll come straight to the point, so you can get back to your poetry. I’m not convinced Nora Nelson killed Grady Barber, and I’m doing some investigation on my own.”

She bent to put the cat down, and it scurried out of the room to go about its work of distributing fur throughout the house. “Why do you care?”

“I like Nora. I can’t imagine her stabbing anybody.”

“She’s crazy.”

“She’s committed to saving the planet. Most murderers don’t think that far ahead.”

“So why are you here? In my house?”

Not for the ambience, that was for sure. My nose itched, and the possibilities were so rich, it was a toss-up what was causing it. I tried to be succinct.

“Last night I remembered that when Grady complimented you at the welcome party, you seemed miffed. It occurred to me that maybe you had known him in high school, and he just didn’t remember you.”