Mary Bliss felt a muscle in her jaw twitch. One eyelid fluttered up and down like a wounded butterfly.
“You’re good, Mary Bliss,” Charlie said. “You had me completely snowed. I bought the whole thing, hook, line, and sinker. Until the day before I had my heart attack.”
“And just what happened the day before your heart attack to make you think Mary Bliss is a liar?” Katharine demanded.
“Matt Hayslip came to see me,” Charlie said.
“What does Matt Hayslip know about anything?” Mary Bliss said, her voice nearly a whisper.
“You’ll have to ask him what all he knows,” Charlie said. “The day he came to see me, he showed me a photograph. A grainy black-and-white photograph. I reckon it was taken off one of those closed-circuit cameras they have at all the banks now. The quality was poor, but I could tell right off that it was Parker McGowan.”
“Where?” Mary Bliss asked. “Where was it supposedly taken?”
“Some bank in Columbus, Georgia,” Charlie said. “And it had a time and date stamp across the bottom. It was taken at two P.M. the day you say Parker checked into the Casa Blanca hotel in Cozumel, Mexico.”
“That’s not possible,” Mary Bliss said. Her throat felt dry. “Parker was with me. In Cozumel.”
Charlie shrugged. “Okay. Whatever you say. I’m too tired to argue with you right now. I think I better do as my bride suggested, and go down to my dungeon and take a nap. But you think about this. All right? Because I’ve got a feeling things are gonna start getting pretty hairy with Quiana Reese and that insurance company.”
Mary Bliss stared at him.
“I don’t know the whole story, obviously,” Charlie said. “But it looks to me like Parker handed you a raw deal. I’d like to help you if I can, Mary Bliss, but I won’t lie for you. And I won’t get disbarred for you, and I definitely won’t go to jail for you. Understand?”
Mary Bliss blinked, then nodded. “I understand.”
“Good,” Charlie said. He patted Katharine on the ass again. “Sorry, darlin’, but that romantic interlude you been pining for is gonna have to wait until I’ve had my beauty rest.”
Katharine pushed his hand away. “Come on, Mr. Big Talk. You better just crash in the den. I don’t want you climbing up or down any more stairs today.”
Mary Bliss planted a kiss on Charlie’s forehead. “Feel better. And thanks. For everything. I’ll call you later, Kate,” she added.
“Think about what I said,” Charlie repeated.
Mary Bliss drove home slowly. She was visualizing the photo of Parker that Charlie said he’d seen. Parker. In a bank in Columbus, Georgia. Was he wearing one of those L.L. Bean golf shirts he’d ordered? And dark glasses? Had he looked directly at the camera? She wondered if he’d been frowning or smiling. Come to think of it, Parker rarely smiled when he had his picture taken. Even in their wedding photos, he’d looked serious; that little wrinkle between his eyebrows creased, eyes looking somewhere just beyond the camera lens.
It was one of the things Mary Bliss had loved best about Parker—that he took life so seriously. Her own daddy had been a clown, the life of the party, always a joke on his lips, until the day he’d suddenly wandered away to a party she and her mama had not been invited to.
Her daddy loved riddles and limericks and silly songs. Parker liked things he could touch or see. Facts and figures. Bank balances.
A bank in Columbus, Georgia. Mary Bliss didn’t know a soul in Columbus. She’d never even been to Columbus. But obviously Parker had been there. And Matt Hayslip had followed him there.
Why? Suddenly she wanted desperately to know how Matt Hayslip had gotten hold of that photo. She wanted to know a lot more about Matt Hayslip and his interest in the McGowan family. And she wanted to know right now.
She pulled her car into her own driveway, but instead of getting out, she rummaged around in her wallet. He’d given her his business card the first time he’d come sniffing around over here. She’d shoved it in her wallet, where she kept odd receipts and cents-off coupons she knew she’d probably never use.
Here it was. Matthew Hayslip. Southern Utilities Corp. There was a phone number. Should she call it? Or should she follow his example, go snooping around at his house? He’d told her he lived in the Oaks. She could just look up the exact street number in the Fair Oaks city directory. Then she frowned. The Oaks was gated. With a security booth and a uniformed guard who had to call ahead and get the home owner’s approval before he’d let any visitors through those hallowed gates. It was the thing that set the newest, chicest part of Fair Oaks apart. In the rest of the town, if you wanted to go see somebody, you simply walked over and went around to the back door. You knocked if it was somebody new, otherwise you’d just poke your head in and holler, “Hey! Anybody home?”
She could just drive in to downtown Atlanta, park in a pay lot, ride the elevator up in that big gray glass Southern Utilities skyscraper, walk right in, and demand some answers from Matthew Hayslip.
But not like this. She was still dressed in cutoffs and a T-shirt. She hadn’t showered yet, she probably smelled like a reject from a poultry-plucking plant. It was Friday afternoon. By the time she could shower, change, and drive downtown, chances were good that he’d already have clocked out for the day.
Later, she promised herself. She would clean herself up, do a little checking of her own. And once she had the goods on Matthew Hayslip, she’d call him at home. Invite herself over. Get some answers.
She towel-dried her hair and dialed the Fair Oaks Country Club’s pro shop. The phone rang several times. “Hiya,” a British-accented voice said. “Andrew here.”
Andrew Ames was South African, with a deep caramel tan, sun-bleached hair, and amazingly knobby knees. He’d been the pro at Fair Oaks Country Club for three years. Mary Bliss had heard rumors that his popularity with the tennis community had nothing to do with tennis and everything to do with his bedside manner. And she knew, from firsthand experience, that he was a dedicated gossip.
“Andrew,” she said. “It’s Mary Bliss McGowan.”
“Oh, Miz McGowan,” he said, his voice saddened. “So sorry about Parker. Meant to drop you a card, but it’s our busy season, you know?”
“Thank you for your kind thoughts,” Mary Bliss said. “You were one of Parker’s favorite people. He gave you all the credit for his ability to play the net.”
“Well,” Andrew said. “We worked on that a lot. That husband of yours was quite a perfectionist.”
“How well I know,” Mary Bliss said, chuckling ruefully. “Listen, I’ve had a phone call from a fellow who was Parker’s doubles partner. He was asking a lot of questions about Parker, and it’s made me a little nervous. You know, living alone like I am now.”
“Yeah, sure,” Andrew said. “I’m trying to think who you’d be talking about.”
“Matt Hayslip,” she said. “I’d never met him until after Parker’s accident. And suddenly, he seems to be turning up everywhere I look.”
“Hayslip?” Andrew said. “Matthew Hayslip, did you say?”
“Yes. He told me he was Parker’s doubles partner. And since I didn’t keep up with Parker’s tennis buddies, I didn’t really know him.”
“Just a minute,” Andrew said. “That name sounds familiar, but I don’t know why. I know he’s not one of the regular guys, always hanging around here looking for a game.”
Mary Bliss was doodling on a legal pad she kept by the phone. “Not a regular!” she wrote.
“He told me he was Parker’s regular doubles partner,” Mary Bliss said. “That they were signed up to play in some tournament at the club.”
“Nooo,” Andrew said, drawing it out. “Parker played a lot with Owen Claire, but Owen tore his ACL around Easter and he’s not up to snuff for tennis yet. Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen Parker on the courts that much in the spring. And he wasn’t signed up for our member-guest tourney either.”
“He was traveling a good bit,” Mary Bliss said. How stupid. She hadn’t seen Parker pick up a racket for months before he disappeared. Maybe not since last fall. “So you don’t know Matt Hayslip? And you don’t think he played with Parker?”
“Now, I couldn’t swear to it,” Andrew said. “Wouldn’t want to take an oath or anything. But no, this fella isn’t a regular down here.”
“Thanks,” Mary Bliss said.
“Say,” Andrew said. “You used to play, didn’t you? Why don’t you come round and let me give you a lesson someday? Gratis, of course. We’ve got quite a good ladies’ program going. They play Wednesday mornings. Bloody Wednesdays, they call it, because, of course, Bloody Marys are the refreshment of choice.”
“I’m pretty busy right now,” Mary Bliss said. She cringed at the thought of becoming a number in Andrew Ames’s black book.
She hung up the phone and scrawled another note. “Not a tennis player! Didn’t play with Parker!”
Matt Hayslip lived on Live Oak Circle, according to the city directory. She dialed the number, got his answering machine.
“Hi, Matt,” she said, trying to sound all warm and friendly. “This is Mary Bliss McGowan here. I wonder if you could call me. I’ve been rethinking your offer of dinner.”
She hung up the phone and headed for the shower, to get ready to go into battle.