Pudding Up With Murder Page 19

  “Hi, Mom. Are you going out? You sound distracted.”

  “Oh no. We’re actually just walking in the door. Is everything okay?”

  “Yes. Wonderful. I just wanted to tell you—I’m in love.”

  My mother laughed. “Honey, we knew that back in October. But I’m glad you’re willing to talk about it now.”

  I sighed. “Jay is so wonderful. I have to show you the beautiful gift he got me.”

  “Oh goodie. Maybe Dad and I will come over some night and bring dinner.”

  “That would be great. As soon as this Marcus Cantwell thing is over, maybe Jay can join us. Right now he’s busy, and getting busier.”

  “So he’s getting close to solving this?”

  “I don’t know. I found out a couple of things lately, just in conversation, and I passed them on to him. Hopefully they helped.”

  “Marcus Cantwell,” my mother said with a sigh. “Life is strange.”

  “Wait—do you know Cantwell?”

  “Well, we weren’t friends. But Dad showed Marcus a house years ago. A long time ago now. He was about to make an offer, but then the whole deal fell through. Dad said he got the idea that maybe a relationship fell through, too.”

  “Years ago? It didn’t happen to be fifteen years ago, did it?”

  “I’m not really sure. I’ll ask Dad.” She covered her phone and murmured something in the background, then came back. “Yes, Dad says it was fifteen years ago, because he remembers he and Cantwell talked about the Cubs, and the guys they talked about haven’t been on the team since then.”

  A relationship had fallen through. Might this have been the woman with whom Cantwell conceived Amber, if in fact Amber were his daughter? If that were the case, Amber would have been about three years old when the relationship ended. I had forgotten to ask Jay what they had learned from Amber when they questioned her. Surely they must know by now?

  “What was going on fifteen years ago? Aside from the fact that all his kids were little?”

  “I don’t know. Cantwell was rich even then, and rather eccentric. Dad liked him, but he said he didn’t seem the type to make friends.”

  My father said something in the background.

  “What did he say?” I asked her.

  “He said that Cantwell seemed to have a real charisma with women, but that men were immune to it.”

  “What, like some kind of spell he put on them?”

  My mother giggled. “Certainly not. Because I met the man back then, and I didn’t find him charismatic at all.”

  My father murmured again.

  “What did he say this time?”

  I could almost hear my mother blushing. “Nothing. He is insinuating that I could resist Marcus because I was too deeply in love with Daniel Drake.”

  I grinned. “Isn’t that true?”

  “Your father is an egotist.”

  “Mom. Ask Dad if Cantwell got stabbed in the time he knew him.”

  “What? Hang on.” More murmuring. Then it was my father’s voice on the phone.

  “Hey, sweetheart. What makes you ask about that?”

  “Something I heard today. That Cantwell was in the news about fifteen years ago for being attacked, although he claimed it was an accident.”

  “That’s what he said to me, too,” my father said. “We would drive around on Saturdays, looking at houses. He showed up one weekend with a huge bandage on. He told me it was an accident and not to believe what I heard on television.”

  “Did you have any ideas about it at the time?”

  “Not really. I just wanted to sell the guy a house. And in the end, I didn’t. Which was a real shame, because he was a ‘money is no object’ kind of guy.”

  “Huh. And it was never clear why he didn’t buy the house?”

  “Not really. He was divorced at the time, but he was looking at big places, in North Pine Haven, where the price tags are big.”

  “Did he say it was for his children?”

  A pause. “I don’t remember him mentioning the children once,” my father said.

  • • •

  LATER THAT NIGHT I took Mick out for a spring walk; the evening was chilly, but not freezing, and I wore a snug coat. We moved down our long driveway, headed for Dickens Street, when Britt came out of her house. “Hey, Lilah,” she said.

  “Britt! How are you doing? How’s the gallery? Is everything repaired and locked up?”

  She nodded, looking distracted. “Oh yes. The police are finished for the time being, but the gallery is going to be closed for the next couple of days. Your Jay suggested that. He wants to find out if it was a random shooting or if someone inside may have been a target. I told him it is not likely that it’s me.”

  “I certainly hope not,” I said, indignant.

  She nodded again. “Hey, have you seen Terry?”

  I felt suddenly cold. Terry has left her and it’s all your fault, my brain said. “Terry? No, not tonight. Why?”

  She forced a smile. “He’s been gone all day. No calls or texts. I don’t think I’ve ever been in this position—not with Terry. I—it just makes me nervous. I don’t know whether I should start calling hospitals or—you know—preparing myself for something.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I told you the other night. I don’t think I’ve exactly been myself lately. I think I’ve been—moping, if you want to know the truth. Maybe Terry got tired of it.”

  “Britt, he wouldn’t just walk out on you without a word.”

  “I hope not.”

  Her face was so distressed that I realized it was time to confess my part in their relationship. “Britt, listen—”

  We were suddenly illuminated by the glow of headlights. Mick barked once, and a car stopped about six feet away from us. Terry jumped out and stood behind the open driver’s door. “Hey, Lilah. Hey, Britt,” he said.

  “Where have you been?” Britt asked. I knew she was trying to sound lighthearted, as though Terry’s absence hadn’t bothered her, but her voice sounded brittle and fragile.

  “I’ve been running some crazy errands. I’m sorry I didn’t call—I had a chance to see something I wanted, and I had to drive to Michigan.”

  “You drove to Michigan and back?” Britt said, her eyes wide.

  “Yeah. Hey, can you come for a quick drive with me?”

  “I—now? Where are you going?”

  “I’ll tell you on the way. Were you going out?”

  “No. Let me grab a coat,” she said. She whisked back up the stairs and through the giant door to their house.

  I studied Terry. He seemed the same as always, except that a certain nervous energy seemed to be emanating from him. “Everything okay, Terry?”

  “Sure. It’s a pretty night. Did you see that there’s a full moon?”

  I looked up at the bright and golden moon, then back at Terry. “Cool. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Fine. Oh, here she comes. I’ll see you later, Lilah.” He ducked into his car, and Britt climbed in on the other side. Then the car pulled away, and Mick, finally showing his impatience, tugged at his leash.

  “Okay, boy, okay. Do you have any idea what’s up with those two? Now they’ve got me feeling nervous.”

  Mick did not seem to know. We took our usual walk up one side of Dickens and back down the other. Mick liked to look in the brightly lit windows when he wasn’t checking the sidewalks for interesting scents. As we walked I tried to fight a growing feeling of unease. Terry had seemed nervous. What if he was in fact going to break up with Britt? It would be horrible and unfair.

  My brain told me I was wrong. Who would comment on a beautiful full moon and then break up with his girlfriend? Certainly not Terry, who lived for Britt’s smiles.

  And yet I realized that I di
dn’t understand other people, not really. Certainly not Marcus Cantwell, or any of his children, or even my own family sometimes.

  Mick and I returned home and locked ourselves in our little house. We ascended the spiral staircase and got into our respective beds. I had brought Jay’s glass ball upstairs with me, and I studied it after I turned off the light.

  Even in darkness the beautiful bloom was visible.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I worked a half day at Haven on Tuesday because we had only one engagement. I was thrilled to think about having lunch in my own house and getting a few things done. In the meantime I could spend some time with Mick, who had been a bit neglected lately.

  I had just finished a sandwich in my kitchen when my phone rang. I touched the screen and slid over the call button. “Hello?”

  “Lilah, it’s Britt. I’m so glad I caught you at home. Are you busy? Were you on your way out?”

  “No—I actually just got home from work.”

  “Might you have a moment to come over?”

  I felt the same chill I had felt the night before. Britt’s voice was curiously toneless, and I couldn’t gauge her mood. “Sure—did you need help with something?”

  “I could just use a little company. I’ll leave the door open for you.”

  “Okay.”

  With some trepidation I handed Mick a little rawhide square and then left my house, locking Mick safely inside. I moved down the driveway and up the flagstone path to Terry’s stone steps, which I ascended slowly. What if they really were breaking up? Would Britt blame me for telling Terry what I knew?

  I opened the large door and stepped into the hallway. I saw Terry’s jukebox sitting in its usual spot, emitting its multicolored light. I felt like going to it and playing “Who’s Sorry Now?”

  “Britt?” I called.

  “In the kitchen,” Britt’s voice said.

  I went down the hall and turned into Terry’s giant kitchen, where Britt stood at the stove, lifting a steaming kettle. “I was in the mood for tea; it’s a bit drafty in here. Do you feel the chill?”

  “Sort of,” I said.

  “I’ll make you a cup, too.”

  She took out two lovely gold mugs, put tea bags in them, and poured in the steaming water. That’s when I saw her jewelry. “What is that?” I said, pointing at her left hand.

  She held up her hand so that I could see the ring, which was remarkable. It was a blue circle, which seemed to be a large sapphire, but in this were inlaid little diamond circles in the shape of a flower. It was amazing.

  “It’s from 1915—a beautiful art deco piece, isn’t it?”

  “It’s like it was made for you.”

  “No—but it’s definitely my style.” She smiled at her hand.

  “So—how did that ring happen to get on your finger?”

  She handed me my mug. “That’s what I wanted to tell you. Let’s sit down.”

  We sat at their counter rather than at their formal dining table, and Britt pushed sugar and cream toward me. While I made my tea, she told me the story.

  “Last night Terry drove me to a gallery. Not mine, since it’s surrounded by police tape, but the gallery of a friend in Chicago.”

  “I wondered where the heck you guys were going.”

  She nodded. “I asked him what he needed there, and he said he had brought a new piece in that he wanted to show me.”

  I stirred my tea, but my eyes were on her. “Does Terry usually—?”

  She held up a hand. “When we went into the main room, I saw that the gallery was filled with candles, which were all alight.”

  “What? That must have taken him—”

  “Hours,” she said, nodding her head. “And he really did drive to Michigan. For this.” She held up the ring, which winked and glimmered.

  “So—?”

  “He led me to the center of the floor, where there was a painting on an easel, covered with a cloth. It was very strange. I asked him what was going on—he was being so weird, and kept acting restless, and he was kind of . . . sweaty.”

  I laughed.

  “Then he went to the painting. He said he needed my advice about it. He said he’d had it commissioned months earlier, and that he’d just gotten the completed piece. He lifted away the cloth, and it was a painting of me.”

  “What?”

  “By Jacob Ressler, an artist I admire. It was an utterly romanticized vision, with flowing hair and silky clothing. I’ll show it to you in a minute.”

  “What was this all about?” I said. But I thought I knew.

  “That’s what I asked him. He said that he had fallen in love with the painting, and that he wanted it in his collection forever.” Her eyes filled with tears.

  “Oh, Britt.”

  “Then he got down on his knee. Can you imagine? Terry did! And he took out this ring.”

  She held up her hand again, and I admired its beauty anew. I couldn’t begin to imagine what a hundred-year-old diamond-and-sapphire ring would cost.

  “He told me that he wanted me in his life forever, and that marrying me was the best way to assure that would happen. He said he couldn’t imagine anything better than being married to me.”

  “Wow,” I said.

  She turned her lovely wet eyes to me. “I know that you must have said something to Terry,” she said. “Because he had no idea what was going on with me.”

  “Britt—”

  “But I’m glad you did, because I just didn’t know how to say it, and whatever you said—well, it brought out the sweetest, most romantic Terry I have ever seen.”

  “Did you say yes?”

  She grinned and held up her ring hand next to her face. “Oh yes, I said yes.”

  I jumped up and hugged her. “Let me see the painting!”

  She was out of her chair in an instant and holding my hand, pulling me toward their large, cavernous living room. There, on a wall above the fireplace, hung a picture of Britt in a silky blue dress, her dark hair blowing as though she were walking in a breezy night. Behind her was a dark sky full of stars. It made her look ethereal and beautiful.

  “Terry said that he told the artist how he sees me, and that’s what Jacob painted.”

  “Oh, Britt. If you don’t marry him, I will.”

  She giggled. “I’m going to marry him, Lilah.”

  “Good.” I gave her a quick hug, and then her doorbell rang.

  “Oh my. I have no idea who that might be,” Britt said breathlessly. We walked back toward the kitchen hallway.

  “Where’s Terry?” I asked.

  “He had some stuff to do for a buyer. He’ll be back soon.”

  We went to the door, where Britt peered out and said, “It’s Prue.” She let in her friend, who greeted me warmly and then pointed at Britt’s hand.

  “What’s that?” she said.

  Britt and I laughed, and then Britt told the story all over again, and then we took Prudence to see the painting.

  Finally we all ended up back in the kitchen, where Britt made a third cup of tea. “How are you, Prue?”

  “I’m okay. I’m glad the funeral is over. We all have to start life over now—a life without Dad in it.”

  I took a sip of my tea and said, “Prue, this might sound weird, but I wonder if it might be important.”

  She raised her eyebrows and sipped her tea. “Yes?”

  “I—did your Dad ever suggest that he might have another child? One that might have been—not from any of his marriages?”

  Britt looked shocked, and Prudence said, “Why would you ask that?” in a sharp tone.

  “It just—it dawned on me when I heard something about your dad. Someone from the school where your dad was on the board said that Marcus had six children. I corrected him and said five, but then later I wondere
d if somehow he had been told the number six.”

  Prudence looked disapproving, and for a minute she reminded me of Emma. “Our dad was not the type to just go swanning off with some woman.”

  Britt and I must have looked surprised, because she slumped in her seat and said, “Well, not normally. And you would think that if we had another sibling he’d have bothered to mention it to us.” She looked angry then, and she stirred her tea with some ferocity.

  “What’s going on?” Britt said, touching Prue’s shoulder.

  Prue shook her head, refusing to look at us, her face still fierce.

  “I’m sorry if I brought up a sensitive topic,” I said. “I just wanted to help figure out—I mean, I know they’re still looking for the—uh—perpetrator,” I stammered.

  Britt was watching Prudence. “Prue—you’re obviously upset about something. Did you know something about your dad?”

  Prudence looked frailer in an instant. She set down her tea and let out a long sigh. “Okay, I’m going to tell you something, but it can’t leave this room.”

  “Of course,” Britt said. I said nothing, because if it was good information, Parker was going to get it.

  Prudence Cantwell sighed. “Cash told me he had found out we had a relative. A sibling. And that for whatever reason, Dad was not going to accept this person into the family. Cash told me, a few days ago, that he intended to share his inheritance with the outcast child, because he felt it was only fair.”

  “Wow,” Britt said.

  She shook her head. “I didn’t like it. Cash is too trusting, and sometimes too gullible. I didn’t know where he got his information, but obviously he could have been wrong. Anyone with some knowledge of our family could scam him and separate him from his inheritance.”

  She set down her spoon and sipped her tea. “I told him I did not want him giving half his money away to a stranger. I said if need be, I would have Scott find a way to shut the whole idea down.”

  Britt murmured something about it being a difficult situation, and they both managed to miss my expression, which probably included wide eyes and an open mouth. “Prudence, did you have this conversation with Cash before the gallery night?”