Murder Most Persuasive

Chapter 6

Ann’s brows knit together. “I don’t know. I imagine it’s still sitting in whatever bank he dumped it. Why? Do you think we could get it back?”

“I don’t know what your options are legally if you ever find it. I guess what I really meant was, could Michael have had an accomplice? Someone from the company, maybe?”

Ann leaned back, considering my question. “I never thought about that. Do you mean that whoever he was working with could have double-crossed him and killed him?”

“It’s a possibility.”

Ann mulled this over. “I just can’t think of who would have done that.” She sighed. “But then, I was surprised to find out that Michael had stolen the money in the first place. Guess I’m not the best judge of character on that count. But I’m sure I can call Scott and get hold of the company records from back then and check who was working. I should probably talk to Miles, too; I bet he’d have some insight.”

“Oh, good idea,” I said.

Miles Carswell was Uncle Marty’s old partner and good friend. They had run the business together almost from the beginning. A few years back, Miles had left the construction business and started his own landscaping company. He and Uncle Marty had stayed close, continuing to work together, referring clients to one another, and doing joint projects.

“I saw him and Laura at the funeral,” I said, “but I didn’t get a chance to talk to them. How are they doing?”

“They’re fine. Laura’s been wonderful, calling me all the time to see how we’re doing. I wanted them to come with us to the luncheon, but Bonnie insisted that it only be family.” She sighed. “It’s ridiculous, of course, because honestly Miles is like an honorary uncle and Laura … well, for Pete’s sake, she was Mother’s best friend in college!”

Over the years, Laura had served as a kind of godmother to the girls, trying to fill the void left by their mother. She loved them all but perhaps was closest to Ann. Probably because of all the girls, Ann most resembled her mother.

“Why do you think Bonnie didn’t want them there?” I asked.

“She’s never gotten along with Laura,” said Ann. “I think she feels that Laura judges her and compares her to Mother—which is probably true.”

“And Miles?”

“That’s harder to explain,” said Ann, with a tip of her head. “But honestly, I think that Bonnie liked Miles; you should have seen how she’d flirt with him. It was embarrassing. If you ask me, one of the reasons that Miles left to start up his own company was so he wouldn’t have to deal with Bonnie chasing after him all the time.”

“You never told me any of this!”

“Well, I’m not sure I’m right—it’s only a hunch. But after Miles married Laura, Bonnie seemed to find fault with both of them. It sure sounded like jealousy to me.”

“This is fascinating! I never thought of Bonnie as lusting after anyone, least of all Miles!”

“Yeah, well, I think it came as something of a surprise to Miles, too.”

“Do you think your dad ever noticed?”

Ann shrugged. “Who knows? You know what he was like.”

I nodded. Uncle Marty loved his business and his kids—in that order. I doubt if Bonnie was even in the top ten. Half of the time he ignored Bonnie; the other half he mocked her. Once the kids were grown, Bonnie was no longer necessary to Marty’s plan. As a faithful Catholic—at least to the rules, if not the intent—divorce was not an option for Marty. He simply ignored her. I wondered if Marty would have cared if she’d run off. Probably if it were with anybody other than Miles, he wouldn’t have.

“Well, I think it’s a good idea to call him tomorrow and see if he can help by remembering any disgruntled employees from back then.”

“And then what do we do?” she asked.

“Oh, I’m not suggesting that we do anything. I just thought that it might be worthwhile passing that information on to the police.”

“Meaning that we should do everything we can to point the police to the idea of an accomplice, someone outside the family,” she said.

I tilted my head in acknowledgment. “Something like that. I don’t think the police are going to ignore the family or the effect that Michael had on everyone. I just think it might be a good idea to give them more than one option.”

Ann stared back at me, her eyes worried. “I’ll call Scott and Miles first thing in the morning and then see if I can’t get those records.”

Up in my room, I called Peter. I ended up with his voice mail so I left him a brief message to call me when he had a chance. I didn’t go into the details of my day. I couldn’t begin to fathom how I would even phrase that message: Hey, Peter, it’s me. Funny thing happened today. Remember that guy Michael who embezzled all that money from Uncle Marty? Well, he was just found dead and buried under the old family pool. Anyway, hope all is well with you. Give me a call when you have a sec. Love ya!

My call to Aunt Winnie was more successful. She answered on the second ring, and her surprise at hearing from me so soon gave way to stunned silence as I launched into my tale. When I finished, she said, “I always thought Michael was a little shit. I see that I wasn’t alone in that sentiment.”

“Any idea on who that might have been?”

“No. Both Marty and Reggie were besotted with him. I tried to warn Marty when I realized he was grooming Michael to take over the company, but he wouldn’t listen to me. Nothing unusual there.”

“I was wondering if Michael might have had a partner in the embezzlement scheme.”

“And you think that person double-crossed him and killed him?” she asked.

“Something like that.”

“It’s not out of the realm of possibilities, that’s for sure. What bothers me is that he was put under the pool. That’s a little too close to home. And speaking of home, how is it there? How’s Bonnie been?”

“Well, she’s still leaving for her spa retreat as planned. No surprise there. Considering she planned a trip for the day after Uncle Marty’s funeral, I don’t think anyone expected that a little thing like Michael’s body being discovered on the old property would deter her from her trip.”

“Yes, well, her going might not be a surprise, but it still makes me want to smash my forehead on the table. Or better yet, smash her forehead on the table,” said Aunt Winnie. “How’s Ann holding up?”

“Pretty well. You know Ann. She’s the kind of person the rest of us want to be when we grow up. She’s had so much dumped on her and yet she still manages to keep it all together.”

“Still, I’m glad that you can be there to help her. I imagine she’s going to need all the help she can get over the next few days.”

“I’m happy to stay here and do whatever I can,” I said with what I hoped was the proper measure of humbleness.

Of course, Aunt Winnie saw right through that. “Oh, please,” she said with a snort. “I know you want to help Ann, but let’s be honest! You jumped at the excuse not to have to stay with Kit!”

“Well, I don’t know about ‘jumped’…” I began.

“Skipped, bounced, hopped. Whatever verb you prefer, you did it. I know it and you know it.”

“Yeah, well, if you had to deal with Kit, Pauly, and the Jungle Room, you’d have done it, too,” I muttered defensively.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong! I’m not judging you—far from it. Just be aware that Kit probably knows it, too. Be nice. You know how she can get.”

“Better than anyone,” I said. “But you’re right. I’ll try to be nice.”

“Good girl.”

We talked a little more, and I hung up after promising to keep her posted on the case. Curling up onto my side, I thought about what Aunt Winnie had said about Kit. I made a sleepy resolution to be nicer.

Sleepy resolutions, I’ve found, are always the easiest.

Although I awoke as I had for the last few weeks—to the tinny clanging of my cell phone’s alarm, this morning there was a marked difference. Gone was the sensation that I was in the middle of some safari gone terribly wrong. No monkeys swung above me, no elephants sat before me, no hippos peered out at me. And the ceiling! It was a glorious, crisp, sensible white; nary a blue-black tongue in sight.

Really, it’s the little things in life that give you the most joy.

I rolled over and languidly stretched in the queen-size bed. I was in Uncle Marty’s guest bedroom: a bright, airy room that faced the back of the house. I walked to the window and pulled back the white linen drape. It was another perfect autumnal day. Azure skies, crisp leaves, and cool air greeted me. All that was missing to make it perfect was Peter. And a cup of hot coffee.

I couldn’t have Peter, but at least I could have the coffee. Throwing on my robe and favorite (and only) well-worn bunny slippers, I headed down to the kitchen to start the coffee. Halfway down the stairs, I was greeted by the rich aroma of a pot already brewing. In the kitchen, I found Ann, up, showered, and busily bustling around. Scarlett was up as well and happily eating from her bowl. Actually, I should say she was happily eating from her Waterford bowl. I guess if my day started with breakfast out of a Waterford dish, I’d be happy, too.

“Morning!” Ann said. “Coffee’s ready. I know you’re not a morning person. Can I speak, or do I have to wait until you’ve had a cup?” She didn’t wait for an answer and broke into a stream of questions. “Can I get you something to eat? We’ve got bagels, English muffins, and toast. How’d you sleep? Would you prefer a fruit salad? What’s your pleasure? You take your coffee with cream and sugar right?”

“Uhh … good morning?” I said slowly. I knew something was up but, unfortunately, I did need my coffee before I could figure it out. “Don’t worry about me, I can get my breakfast,” I said, making my way to the breadbox. I picked out a poppy seed bagel and plopped it in the toaster. Ann hovered anxiously nearby. I wondered if she had mistakenly taken Bonnie’s medication.

“Did you by chance take Bonnie’s medication this morning?” I asked.

“No, why?”

“You’re very chatty. And busy. And chatty. Speaking of Bonnie, is she up?”

“No. She usually doesn’t arise before ten. Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, please. But Ann, honestly, I can get all of this. You don’t need to wait on me.”

Ann ignored me, pouring a large amount of steaming coffee into a blue-and-white polka-dotted ceramic mug. Handing it to me, she said, “Cream? Sugar?”

I took the cup. “Enough already! You keep spoiling me like this and I’ll never leave. I’ll be like Sheridan Whiteside in The Man Who Came to Dinner.”

“Somehow I can’t picture you as an annoying guest.”

“You haven’t had my spaghetti yet,” I reminded her, adding a liberal dose of both cream and sugar to my coffee, before taking a much-needed sip. The bagel popped up from the toaster and Ann rushed to get it.

“Ann! Please. I can get this! You don’t need to wait on me.” She put the bagel on a plate and handed it to me. It was then that I saw the worry in her face and belatedly remembered that, like me, Ann gets chatty when she’s nervous. Taking the plate, I said, “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

Her shoulders slumped. “I got a call from the police this morning,” she said, wringing her hands. “Homicide. They want to send someone out here later today to get a statement or something. They want to talk with all of the family.”

“Oh. Well, that’s not too surprising. I mean, we knew that the police were going to treat this like a murder investigation. It’s only natural that they would want to interview the family.”

“I know. I’m just scared.”

“Don’t be. You’ve nothing to be afraid of. Everything will be just fine,” I said confidently. “Did you get a chance to call Miles yet?”

“Yes, he and Laura were horrified to hear about Michael. They said they’d come over later.”

“That’s good. You can talk to him about past employees then. In the meantime, call Scott and see if you can get those employment records.”

“Okay.” Ann fell silent, tracing some invisible line along the counter with the tip of her finger. After a moment, she said, “Elizabeth, do you think you could be here when the police come? I could use some moral support. If it makes it easier on you, you could stay tonight as well. In fact, you can stay as long as you like. That is, if you think Kit won’t mind.”

“Absolutely, I’ll be here and I’m sure Kit won’t mind. She’ll probably be happy to have a break from me and my ‘pedestrian spaghetti.’”

We joked a little more, pretending that everything was fine even though we both knew it wasn’t. Michael Barrow had been murdered and buried underneath the pool at the Reynoldses’ house in St. Michaels and he had “allegedly” embezzled almost $1 million from the family’s company before his death. Add to that a broken engagement with one sister and a drunken attack on another, and the picture became even grimmer.

Any hope I might have entertained about organizing my thoughts on Michael’s murder during the day flew out the window within seconds of sliding into my desk chair. Sam Wallace, another of our staff writers and probably my closest friend in the office, sidled up to my desk. More than one female head turned his way as he did. Sam is hands down the best-looking guy in the office. Of course, the competition isn’t too fierce; the guy in second place is balding with stubby fingers and a paunch. Still, with his broad shoulders and chiseled features, Sam’s not too shabby. Over the years, Sam’s friendship with me has prompted a few catty comments, but that’s all we’ve ever been—friends. He’s been happily dating a girl named Amanda for over a year. However, even though Sam has Amanda and I have Peter, that doesn’t stop the office gossips from making their assumptions.

“Don’t get too comfortable, Parker,” Sam said with a smirk. “Hannigan’s here. Apparently he’s got some brilliant new idea. Come, the conference room awaits us.”

Shit. Richard Hannigan—or Dickey as we subordinates call him when he is out of earshot—is the managing editor/owner of the paper. Once a month or so he appears unannounced armed with some new idea that he guarantees will revitalize the paper’s “chi” (his word) and boost circulation. The staff is then herded much like cattle into the conference room Dickey commandeers whenever he visits, where we listen in rapt silence to this new idea. These sessions last anywhere from two to four hours. Lunch is not served.

My eyes darted from Sam to the conference room to the elevators. Did I have time to sneak out unnoticed and then call in sick? Before I could bolt, Sam anticipated my move. “Don’t even try it, Parker. I will rat you out in a heartbeat. Sharon already knows I’m here. If I have to waste my day in there, then so do you.” To prove his point, he called out, “Sharon? Elizabeth is here. We can get started when you’re ready!”

“You bastard!” I said, laughing. I couldn’t be mad at him; I would have done the exact same thing if the situation were reversed. Sam and I depended on each other during those meetings, mainly to help one another stay awake, although sometimes a quick sanity check was in order.

Grabbing my notebook, I trudged into the room behind Sam and took a seat at the large oval table next to him. While the rest of the staff filed in, I studied the walls for any new additions.

As Dickey used the conference room as his office, he decorated it as if it was his as well. Therefore, there was the standard vanity wall—or in Dickey’s case, three vanity walls. For those unfamiliar with such walls, every inch is covered with framed pictures of celebrities from all fields—politics, entertainment, sports, you name it. Most of them have meaningless inscriptions scrawled across the bottom, such as “Dear Richard, You’re the best! Keep up the great work!” Although most of the pictures are standard publicity head shots, Dickey does feature in a few of the pictures himself, “caught” at some function yakking it up with some bigwig. These pictures are usually the same, a group of people standing around at some cocktail party all grinning foolishly at the camera. Dickey’s always easy to spot. First of all he’s completely bald, five foot five and a good deal north of two hundred pounds. He’s also usually on the edge of the crowd, looking like he just ran over in time for the shutter to snap, which, knowing Dickey, is probably the case.

However, the first time you see Dickey’s vanity walls, you tend to be impressed. You believe that he actually knows all these people. I did, anyway, until we received a publicity still of Angelina Jolie along with a form letter thanking Dickey for his fan letter. Two days later I noticed the picture on the wall—framed—complete with an inscription that Dickey presumably had added himself. Although it could have been signed by his secretary, Barbara Clark. For unknown reasons she adores Dickey and probably would give him her kidney if asked. I should also mention that Barbara lives alone with six cats.

Of course, I wasted no time relaying that story to Sam. Since then we’ve taken turns trying to sneak celebrity photos onto the walls—complete with inscriptions—to see if anyone notices. Last month, I hung a head shot of Steve Carell with the inscription, “Thanks for the inspiration!” Before that, Sam hung a picture of Renée Zellweger that read, “You complete me.” So far no one has noticed either one.

Sitting at the head of the table, Dickey clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention. “All right, everyone! Let’s get started!” My immediate boss, Sharon, sat to his right. While Sharon isn’t my favorite person, I did feel for her. Whenever Dickey descended on our office, her whole day went out the window. She sat quietly, her long face immobile and her gray-green eyes appearing resigned to her fate. Turning to her, Dickey said, “You’re going to want to write this down.” Sharon dutifully nodded at the blank tablet in front of her and held up her pen as evidence of her readiness. “Oh, right,” said Dickey. “Well, everyone should write this down.”

Around me everyone pulled out pads and pens in lackluster anticipation of Dickey’s pronouncement. When he saw that we were all ready and waiting, he leaned forward, cleared his throat, and said, “Significant Human Beings.” Then he sat back.

Nobody wrote anything down. Nobody spoke, either. Really, what could any of us say? Sharon was the first to venture a response. “Um, well, you certainly have our attention Di … er, Richard. How do you see us going forward with this exactly?”

Dickey beamed at her. Spreading his hands, palms outward, and eyeing us with almost maniacal pride he said, “Our new feature! Every week we’ll run a story on some person, a Significant Human Being. You know, someone from the community who is making a difference. We’ll run a picture of him or her—with me, of course—and then tell the story. I was thinking we could call it Significant Humans in Town.” He punctuated each word by high-fiving the air in front of him.

“But wait, there’s more,” he added, like one of those TV commercials for a gadget that promises to change your life (but doesn’t). “I have a brilliant idea for our first article. He was a great man who, sadly, recently passed, and who has a special connection to our little staff here.” A nasty feeling of apprehension slid down my spine. Glancing at Dickey, I saw that he was beaming in my direction.

“It is my pleasure to announce that our first Significant Human in Town will be none other than the late Martin Reynolds, who as you all probably realize was the great-uncle of our very own Elizabeth Parker.”

All heads swiveled my way. Shit, I thought with appropriate vulgarity, Uncle Marty was to be, as it later became known, our first SHIT.

By the time Dickey adjourned the meeting, my legs were numb, my deadlines were looming, and I was being pestered by the rest of the office for details on my dearly departed uncle. I spent the rest of the day hunched over my desk frantically trying to get everything done and deferring personal questions. When I’d finally finished, my neck ached, my shoulders were sore, and my fingers were cramped from holding my red editing pen.

I sighed and rubbed my eyes. I was in a lousy mood and was finding it hard to cheer myself up. My apartment was still infested with mold. I was living with my bossy pregnant sister. I hated my job. My boyfriend was constantly traveling. Oh, and let’s not forget—my extended family was wrapped up in (another) murder investigation. Given all that, Sam’s invitation to get a drink and “shoot the shit” seemed a perfect idea. Glancing at my watch, I saw that I had enough time for a quick drink before I headed back to Ann’s.

We headed for the DC Grill, a little bar/restaurant down the street from the office. It’s not bad and it’s not great; mainly it’s convenient and sometimes that’s all you need for success. Sam and I headed to the crowded oak bar and ordered. As I still had to drive to Ann’s, I ordered a Diet Coke. Sam opted for a beer.

When our drinks came, I raised mine. “What shall we toast to? SHIT, my Uncle Marty, or both?”

Sam laughed. “I vote we toast Dickey. But don’t toast my glass. It’s bad luck to toast with a nonalcoholic drink.”

“Who told you that?”

“I don’t know, it’s just one of those things people don’t do.”

“By ‘people,’ I take it we’re referring to drunken frat boys?”

“Hey, drunken frat boys are people, too,” he said, pretending to look hurt.

“Yes, I believe that is the literal translation of Alpha Gamma Delta.”

Sam laughed at me. “That’s a sorority, not a fraternity.”

“Does it matter?”

“I take it you didn’t pledge.”

I shook my head and took a sip of my Diet Coke. “Nope. I went to an all-girls Catholic school. They don’t need sororities. It’s already one big giant sorority, complete with hazing and drunken pledges to be friends forever.”

Sam cocked an eyebrow at me. “You seem jaded.”

I dipped my head in acknowledgment. “Another by-product of the all-girl Catholic school experience.”

Sam started to say something when his attention was caught by someone behind my left shoulder. From his frankly appraising expression, it was an attractive someone.

“Who are you gaping at?” I asked, turning to scan the room. “Need I remind you that you are dating a lovely girl named Amanda?” While there were several attractive women in the bar, I instinctively knew which woman held his attention. She wore a backless tangerine dress that hugged every one of her curves. Her shapely tanned legs were supported by four-inch pumps, the kind with that sexy ankle strap. Her glossy black hair hung in heavy waves down her Nautilus-defined back. I knew it was a Nautilus-defined back, because I knew the owner of the back. It was none other than my cousin Reggie.

“That’s my cousin Reggie,” I said.

“Oh, yeah? I can see the resemblance,” said Sam with false politeness. I laughed outright at the absurdity of the idea. “Who’s that with her?” he asked. “Her husband?”

“No, she’s not married. At least she’s not currently married. That’s a status that frequently changes with her, though.” I craned to get a better look at the man on whose brawny arm Reggie now hung. He was tall, tan, and muscular. His dark hair was cut short, as was his beard. He was also no one I’d ever seen before. However, from the way they were talking, this did not appear to be a casual first meeting at a bar. His head was bent down low to hers. From their somber expressions, their conversation appeared anything but casual. My cell phone went off just then, preventing me from catching Reggie’s eye and waving hello. It was Peter. I turned my body toward the bar and pressed the phone against my ear so I could hear better.

“Hey, there. Where are you?” he said.

“I’m out having a drink. Then I’m going to head over to Ann’s. You wouldn’t believe the day I had. Dickey took over the day with another one of his harebrained ideas.”

“You have my sympathies. Who are you out with?”

“Sam. So get this—Dickey wants us to write a fluff piece each month of some local bigwig. Guess who he picked! Uncle Marty, that’s who! He’s got this really stupid acronym for it, too. He’s calling it Significant Humans in Town. So it’s basically SHIT.”

There was the briefest pause before he answered. “Sounds pretty dumb. Well, I don’t want to hold you up. I just thought I’d call and say hi. I’ve got to run back into a meeting. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Oh, okay. I’ll talk to you later then. I love you.”

“Love you, too,” he said, but he said it kind of fast. I hung up wondering if Peter could actually be upset that I was out with Sam. I pushed the idea away, dismissing it as silly. Peter knew we were just friends; after all, Sam was the guy I went with to see those chick flicks that Peter couldn’t stomach. Looking back up for Reggie, I saw that both she and her date had left. The weird thing was, she would have had to walk right past me to get out. Had she not wanted to interrupt my phone conversation with Sam, or had she simply not wanted to be seen? Reggie had never been unfriendly toward me before, leaving me to wonder if her avoidance had more to do with the man than with me. God, I hoped he wasn’t married.

Traffic being what it was, it took me almost an hour to get to Uncle Marty’s house. Ann answered my knock almost instantly. “How are you doing?” I asked as I stepped into the foyer. She was wearing black tailored pants and a lightweight lavender cashmere sweater. This color normally looked great on her. However, today it would take more than a complementary hue from her color palette to liven up her ghostly complexion.

She shrugged. “As well as can be expected, I guess. I got a message that the detective in charge of the case will be here around seven thirty. I called Reggie and Frances and told them everything. They said they’d be here to talk to him.”

“I actually just saw Reggie, but I don’t think she saw me,” I said. “How did she take the news?”

Ann shook her head. “I couldn’t tell, to be honest. She got very quiet. I’ll have a better idea once I see her.”

I glanced at my watch; it was a quarter to seven.

“Come on,” said Ann, “help me get the living room ready. I figured we could all sit in there.”

Within minutes, Ann and I had made what little adjustments were necessary. We brought in a few extra chairs and arranged them around the coffee table. Once done, Ann turned to me and said, “Do you think I should put out cheese and crackers or anything?”

I thought about it. “I don’t think so. A, we want this over as quickly as possible; no need to encourage the police to linger; B, we don’t want to appear like we’re not taking this seriously; and C, this isn’t a social meeting.”

“Agreed,” she said. “God, I could use a drink, but I doubt that’s a good idea. I should have my wits about me for this.”

“I’ll tell you what,” I said, giving her arm a friendly squeeze. “Once the police leave, I’ll take you out and buy you all the drinks you want.”

“Deal,” she said with a faint smile.

There was a brief knock on the door before it swung open. It was Reggie. There was nary a hint of distress on her perfectly made-up face. Looking calm and cool, she was wearing the same tangerine dress I saw her in earlier. The only difference was that she had pulled her hair back into a smooth, tight bun. She even made that look sexy.

Scarlett ran excitedly to the door. However, seeing that it was Reggie, she turned and walked away. Scarlett did not care for Reggie. Inasmuch as Reggie sneered when she saw the little dog, I assumed that the feeling was mutual. After a perfunctory greeting to me and Ann, Reggie said, “So I take it Bonnie went on her silly spa retreat anyway?”

“Yes,” said Ann. “I drove her to the airport this morning. She … she didn’t seem overly concerned about any of this.”

Reggie scoffed. “She wouldn’t be overly concerned if the house fell down around her, just so long as it didn’t interfere with her five o’clock martini. Is Frances here yet?”

“No,” said Ann, “but I expect her any minute. I thought we could use the living room for when the police come.”

Reggie nodded. “Right. Well, I may as well make myself comfortable. Is there any wine in the fridge, Ann?”

“Uh, yes, there’s some Chardonnay. Do you really think it’s a good idea to have a drink, though?”

“Why in the name of God shouldn’t I have a drink? Hell, if there was ever a time when one was warranted, I think it would be when your ex-fiancé turns up dead and buried under the family pool.”

“I have to say, I think that’s a fair point,” I said.

“Exactly,” Reggie said, nodding in my direction. Without a word, Ann turned in the direction of the kitchen, presumably to get Reggie her wine.

“Lord,” said Reggie, “whatever are the police going to think? You know they’re going to think one of us did it.”

“Not necessarily,” I said, more out of politeness than any real conviction.

“Well, if they don’t, then they have no imagination.” She turned on her heel and glided into the living room. With almost feline grace, she made herself comfortable on the couch.

A confident knock sounded on the door, and it opened. It was Frances and Scott. Frances was wearing one of her standard A-line tweed skirts with a red blouse. Scott was casually dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Unlike Reggie, neither presented a calm façade. “Dear God,” said Frances when she saw me, her voice shrill, “this is just like a nightmare! Who would have ever believed that all these years Michael was actually dead!” Next to her, Scott did not speak. He stood awkwardly with his hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans, his body tense. “Is Reggie here?” Frances asked.

I nodded and gestured to the living room.

“Reggie, I just can’t believe this,” said Frances, rushing over to her sister. “How are you? Are you all right?”

Reggie sighed with annoyance. “Of course, I’m all right, Frances. Please don’t be melodramatic. We already have enough drama as it is. Besides, you seem to forget, I broke it off with him. It’s not as if he left behind some lovesick pale copy of the girl he loved. Besides, that was eight years and three marriages ago.”

“Yes, but he’s dead!” Frances said. “You can’t be happy that he’s dead!”

Reggie rolled her eyes in disgust. “Frances, I didn’t say I was happy that he was dead. I’m just not crying into my hankie. There’s a difference.”

Frances looked unconvinced but said no more. There was a loud, officious knock on the door, immediately followed by a collective intake of breath around me. The police, it would seem, were here. Frances and Reggie looked at me, while Scott stared at the floor. Apparently I had just been appointed official greeter.

I am by no means someone my friends would describe as being calm under pressure, but I was still taken aback at the surge of adrenaline that swiftly raced through my veins. With shaking hands, I grabbed the cut-glass doorknob and swung open the door.

Before me stood one woman and one man. The former was in a crisp, blue uniform, her light blond hair tucked underneath her hat. I couldn’t tell you much else about her other than the fact that she had blue eyes and a trim figure, because my real focus was on the second person.

He hadn’t changed much. No gray marred his thick, dark hair. From the way his Burberry overcoat clung to his broad shoulders, he appeared to be as lean and fit as ever. Seeing me, a flash of recognition appeared in his blue-green eyes, but no welcoming smile accompanied it.

Before I could speak, I heard Ann approaching from behind. Turning, I saw her just as she saw him. The color drained from her face and her grip on the glass of wine tightened, turning her knuckles white.

With a strained whisper, she got out his name. “Joe!”