Dying to Teach Page 18

  “No, I have a condo in town.”

  “I always pictured living on the water someplace. Not the ocean—I’m frightened of the ocean—but a lake or pond. Something peaceful. That would be nice.”

  “I don’t care for the water either. I get seasick.” Angie’s stomach twitched at the confession. She quickly took a bite of the mousse. It was smooth and decadent. She savored the wonderful concoction as it slid down her throat. “Very good.”

  “Thanks. Josh told me you’re dating a cop. That’s got to be stressful, always worrying if he’ll get hurt.”

  “Alton’s a small town with fairly well behaved people.”

  “Except when there’s a murder. Josh mentioned you solved a couple of cases.”

  “Helped solve.”

  “I don’t really worry about Josh getting hurt at work.”

  “Except when there’s a murder,” Angie mimicked her words and they both smiled.

  “Except then.”

  Cilla’s attention became riveted on the flames licking the ceramic logs in the granite stone fireplace. Angie watched her watching the fire. All at once, Cilla asked, “Who do you think killed Gwen?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You mean you don’t even suspect anyone?”

  How to tell the grieving woman she had deliberately pushed potential clues to the back of her mind? “Even if I did, it wouldn’t be official. It would only be an opinion.”

  Cilla faced Angie, tears glistening in her eyes. “I have to know. I have to…” Cilla brushed away the tears and went back to peering into the fire. Yes, the woman was grieving for her friend, but Angie couldn’t help thinking something else was wrong—and that something was the real reason she’d been invited here tonight.

  Her mouth spoke before she could stop it. “Is something wrong? Besides Gwen’s murder, I mean.”

  Cilla let her head fall back, took in a breath and straightened up. “Josh and I have been going through a rough time. Lately…” Cilla scraped the spoon around the edge of the dessert container, licked the last of the sweetness from it, then set it and the container on the coffee table.

  A horrifying thought popped into Angie’s head. Did Cilla suspect her husband of murder? Was that what this was all about? Gosh, she so didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to hear any confession that might be coming.

  Cilla turned, tucking one leg on the sofa, to face Angie. “The last of the kids moved out three months ago. I thought Josh and I would have time together, you know, that time when you tighten the bonds that brought you together in the first place. Not only were our kids born in quick succession they also came early in our marriage. We never had time to enjoy life, or each other.” Her eyes roved up and over Angie’s left shoulder. Angie thought she might be looking at the wall of childhood art. After a few seconds her attention returned, focusing on the base of Angie’s throat. Had Jarvis given her a hickey? Angie almost covered the spot with her hand but Cilla looked back onto Angie’s face, and said, “Whenever I bring up doing something…well, like the other day I mentioned going to the movies then getting a motel for the night. To be romantic. Get out of our rut. You know? He practically blew up at me. Called me a nagging bitch.”

  Tears welled up in Cilla’s eyes. She blinked a few times and one rolled down each side of her nose. Why was she opening up to a complete stranger? Angie hated when people did that. With her track record, she obviously had no answers to spousal problems.

  Deep thought wasn’t necessary. Angie knew why Cilla spoke freely—they were fellow women. Women’s bodies contained an extra gene, the sympathy gene. That sympathy could be turned in many directions, most especially toward each other. Now that her best friend Gwen was gone, Cilla needed somebody. For this evening it was supposed to be Angie.

  Okay, for this evening, it would be Angie. Rather than ask the question uppermost in her mind—Do you think Josh killed Gwen—Angie asked, “Any idea why he reacted so strongly?”

  “No. None.”

  “Don’t answer because this isn’t a question and I’m not prying, but if there’s a money problem, it might make him unwilling to consider doing something…frivolous.”

  “We don’t have money troubles. Josh is a good provider.”

  Another long bout of silence. This time Cilla’s gazed focused on something on the mantle—perhaps the painted porcelain bowl with a tiny flower design. Pretty. It would look nice in Angie’s condo, on the shelf between the oil and vinegar cruets.

  Cilla pulled her attention away from the mantle. “The reason I asked him to invite you tonight was because I thought he was…I thought he was—with you.”

  “I’ve only just arrived in town.”

  “Yes, but Gwen told me he’s been to your theater several times. She said he tried out for parts in your performances.”

  Yes, she guessed it could be construed that way.

  Cilla thought they were seeing each other. Angie looked the woman in the eye the way her grandfather always taught her. It was supposed to let a person know you were telling the truth. “Tyson—he’s my partner—handles most, if not all, the casting. My duties lean more toward office work, scheduling, advertising, costumes, set design. Things like that. I promise you, until I arrived in town, I didn’t really even know Josh. Yes, when I met him here, I realized I’d seen him in our place.” Angie clamped her lips closed. She was treading in dangerous territory, in the she doth protest too much category.

  Cilla waved off Angie’s protest. “It’s nothing to do with you. It’s all in my own suspicious mind.”

  Angie had thought the conversation would get easier if Josh left. She didn’t know what to say so she said nothing.

  “That’s the thing. I don’t think Josh is cheating, like having sex with someone.”

  So, what did she think was going on? What sort of cheating was there if no sex was involved? And why would she rule out sex? Angie ran scenarios through her head. Outside of the fact that he could be impotent, she couldn’t come up with anything that made sense.

  “I know the whole thing sounds stupid,” Cilla said, probably reading Angie’s expression. Everybody always said her face was easy to read.

  The comment left an opening where Angie felt comfortable asking, “If you don’t think he’s cheating, what do you think is going on?”

  Cilla stood up and walked to the fireplace. She stared down into the flames for a long time.

  Why had this couple asked Angie here? Had Josh’s exit been carefully choreographed so she and Cilla could be alone? To divulge, or request, some information. Perhaps they had knowledge of Gwen’s murderer. Some tiny snippet they thought might be related but were hesitant to mention to the police, perhaps because it seemed insignificant, or perhaps they thought it would bring attention on their family.

  Best thing to do was wait. Sooner or later the information would come to light.

  But it didn’t.

  After several minutes that stretched like an hour, Cilla visibly shook off whatever had possessed her, turned and walked to the coffee table. She gathered the dessert dishes and piled them on the tray along with the cups, even though Angie’s was only half empty. The message was clear. It was time to leave.

  As awkward as it was, a relieved Angie stood and straightened her skirt. Usually she’d take the things to the kitchen, help with cleanup, but tonight it seemed best to make a rapid departure.

  At the door she took Cilla’s soft, uncalloused hand. “I really hope you and Josh get things straightened out. Thanks for inviting me. You have a lovely home. I had a good time.”

  “Liar,” Cilla said on a soft laugh. “Dinner was tense and embarrassing. I thought once Josh left things would smooth out. I thought we’d have some nice relaxing girl-talk. You know, swap recipes, things like that.”

  “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be very good at recipe-swapping,” Angie said to ease past the awkward moment. “Since opening the theater over a year ago, I’ve practically lived on fast food and frozen d
inners.”

  Cilla didn’t fall into the meager attempt at humor. “I had to go and spout off like a baby.”

  Angie touched Cilla’s arm. “It’s been a very tense time for you.”

  “You’re very nice to say that. I feel awful for the way the conversation went. Maybe I can make it up to you. Could we get together for coffee or something tomorrow?”

  Everything inside Angie screamed that this was a bad idea, that whatever Cilla had been unable say tonight was best kept in this house. Unfortunately Angie’s brain didn’t agree because, before she could clamp her lips together, her mouth said, “Sure, I’d like that. I’ll tell you a few embarrassing things, then we’ll be even.”

  Cilla opened the door, laughing. “I can’t imagine you have embarrassing moments.”

  “Then you’ve severely misjudged me. Thanks again.” Angie stepped quickly outside. If she got out before a date for tomorrow’s coffee was set, she’d be off the hook.

  As usual, her luck didn’t hold up because Cilla said, “Twelve-thirty at Farina’s?”

  “Sounds good.”

  Cilla remained on the front stoop until Angie backed out of the driveway and blinked the headlights. She heaved a sigh that cleared her lungs. Angie maneuvered the car along the city streets back to the hotel. She stopped trying to figure out what the heck just happened and let herself relax. The evening was over. All could be left behind—till tomorrow at 12:30.

  Angie couldn’t squelch the idea racing through her brain, that there was something strange about the Philmores, or at least with Cilla. The couple was hiding something. Something each of them wanted out in the open, but at the same time, wanted to remain secret. Again came the thought that this couple knew something about the death of Cilla’s best friend.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Angie pulled into a spot in the hotel garage. She still felt wound up from…well, from either the delicious mousse or the freaky situation with the Philmores. She wasn’t ready to go upstairs. She changed into walking shoes from a bag she always kept in the back seat and set off at a brisk walk, east on Tara Boulevard, reveling in the brisk air on her face. She wished for a heavier jacket but right now needed to burn off extra energy.

  She passed an all-night restaurant called Farina’s—the one where she was to meet Cilla tomorrow—and almost stopped in to pick up a muffin to heat for breakfast. But she kept walking, planning to tick off about a mile on her internal odometer. Who was she kidding? It wasn’t sugar levels that needed burning off, it was the weirdness of the evening.

  What was up with Cilla? First she mentioned suspecting Josh of cheating and then took it all back as though returning a defective coffee machine. She acted remorseful and embarrassed for even bringing up the subject. So, was Josh cheating or not? How can any woman be sure her man is being faithful? It had been the last thing Angie expected from Will and look what happened there. A pang of unresolved anger pushed into her veins and Angie walked faster, rubber soles striking the pavement with muffled thumps.

  Cilla and Josh had been married a long time. The stress of life and family began early. They never really got to know each other, to build the familiarity needed to relax and be themselves before life swarmed at them. Angie had the idea Cilla walked on tiptoe around Josh, always wanting to please, never doing anything for herself. The one time she’d gotten the courage to ask for something—the night together at a hotel—he’d shot her down.

  Finally Angie’s frustration burnt itself out. She turned and retraced her steps on the opposite side of the street for some different scenery. Not too many shops were vacant in this part of town. With such a nice hotel in their midst, they wouldn’t be, would they? That was another way she’d changed. Last year she would’ve made a point to go inside these shops, to browse till her feet were blistered and bleeding. Tonight, Angie only took note of the stores as scenery, something to keep away the boredom—and the puzzle of Gwen Forest’s death—at bay.

  Outside the hotel’s entrance Angie dialed Jarvis’ number. The call didn’t go through. There was plenty of signal. Her battery was okay. What was up with that?

  Oh well, she was too tired to worry about it tonight. She only wanted to make sure he got home safely anyway. She pictured Jarvis and Red tucked into the big bed in the freshly painted bedroom in the little ranch at the end of that dead-end street. Safe. Rested. Immersed in a murder investigation in somebody else’s jurisdiction. Because of her. Well, this time it had been none of her doing.

  Angie whooshed upstairs in the elevator. Normally she’d take the stairs but didn’t want to reawaken her adrenaline. She undressed and slid between the sheets, pulling the fluffy duvet up to her chin.

  She woke with a start, flew into a sitting position, eyes wide in the dark-as-charcoal room. The red LED on the bedside clock clicked from 3:35 to 3:36. Most times, when she woke like this in a hotel, it was because of some sound in the hallway, or the flushing of a toilet in an adjoining room. Right now, the building seemed quiet.

  Wait, hadn’t she pushed that chair straight under the table? She squinted at it, trying to remember.

  Maybe. She recalled sitting on the chair to remove her shoes. But couldn’t remember standing from it, let alone pushing the thing in place. It was the kind of movement, in her neatnik mode, as Jarvis called it, that she did automatically.

  What about the brass lock on the door? Pushing that in place was automatic too, wasn’t it? When a person entered their room for the night, it was the last thing they did. Try as she might, Angie couldn’t remember touching the bolt. What was the difference—nobody would want to break in here. Over and over she’d made it clear she had nothing to do with the case. She’d been careful to do only things related to the production of the play. The fact that she socialized with key people in the case wouldn’t be a contradiction at all. The thought made her grin.

  As she sat in the dark, the duvet clutched against her chest she knew what woke her. It was nothing to do with crooked chairs or toilets flushing. It was something that happened at the Philmores’. Or something one of them had said. But what?

  Angie lay back and sought the answer on the ceiling as the evening’s events replayed on the stark white rectangle. And came up with nothing.

  She woke to the alarm beeping at 7 a.m. The day of the first performance had arrived. Two more days and she’d be back in her normal life. Normal? What a joke. Fifteen months ago, her life ceased being normal. The day she gave Will that fiftieth birthday fishing trip, things had been forever changed. This life—this crazy schedule at the theater—was the new norm. Not a bad thing usually.

  After a shower, Angie settled at the table with a cup of coffee, made there in the room. Though the school was footing the hotel bill she didn’t take advantage of room service. The coffee from the tiny coffeemaker wasn’t bad, but that powdered creamer left something to be desired. She opened the drapes and stood there fingering the pretty sapphire pendant and looking out at the city street below. Right now the traffic was moving faster than the pedestrians.

  Her phone rang. The caller ID said it was Tyson. She answered with a jolly, “Mornin’ pardner. How’s our little diva doing?”

  “Fine for now. I gave her yesterday off so I could work with the understudies.” He laughed. “You should’ve seen her face when I said she could take the day off. At first she looked happy, then this layer of suspicion glazed over. I walked away expecting to feel claws in the back of my neck.”

  “She didn’t say anything?”

  “Not to me. I heard her asking the others if they got the day off too.” He gave a sigh that came through the cell phone as a hiss. “Why didn’t we hire Lynn instead?”

  Angie didn’t reply.

  “I thought about hiding in the wings with a baseball bat and…oh, never mind, breaking her legs wouldn’t solve anything.”

  Angie laughed. Tyson was usually a mild mannered guy. Marie must be even worse than Angie thought.

  “I guess I’ll hold off hurting her
for now.”

  “I’ll come back this afternoon and talk to her.”

  “You really don’t have to.”

  “I do. You know it and I know it. The sooner it’s done, the better.”

  “How was your dinner with—what was their name again?”

  “Philmore. It was delicious.”

  “Did they bombard you with questions about the murder?”

  “As a matter of fact, neither said much of anything.” Which, Angie just realized, was the whole problem. Gwen and Cilla had been best friends. Gwen was devastated at her loss. And yet, when someone is brought on the scene ostensibly to solve the case, she asks only if Angie has any idea who did it, but when no answer came, she didn’t press the issue. Didn’t ask a single question more.

  “Angie!”

  “I’m here. Sorry. What did you say?”

  “Never mind.”

  Angie sat in the chair to put her shoes on. “Anything new besides Diva Marie?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “Of course.”

  “Okay. The ticket order didn’t come in. The distributor stopped carrying the makeup we use. And, oh yes, my stockbroker buddy bought four season tickets.”

  She stood and made sure to tuck both chairs squarely under the table. “Four season tickets—isn’t that supposed to be a good thing?”

  “Would be, except his check bounced.”

  Damn. “Any of ours bounce as a result?”

  “Not yet. So, how’re things on your end? Solve that case yet?”

  “Tyson.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “I have some news. I found us a girl Friday. She can write, she can act and she’s willing to do about anything backstage.”

  “Tell me more!”

  Angie told Tyson about Kiana and her need for credits toward her scholarship.

  “Have her come in after school on Monday,” he said. “We’ll show her around. We have plenty for her to do. Maybe I can set her on Diva Marie.”

  “Marie will be gone by then. Besides, let’s not alienate the girl right away.”