four

Toby, Mary Ruth, Joy, Charlotte, and Francine had all been questioned by Jud, then dispatched to leave. It was late. Jud wanted the room left as it was until the detectives and evidence tech could go through everything, and that included all of Mary Ruth’s catering equipment. She hadn’t put up much of a fuss. She said she didn’t have another catering job for three days, and Jud assured her she could return the next day to retrieve everything. He walked them to the parking lot. Francine pulled the hood on her winter coat over her head in hopes she wouldn’t be recognized.

Five police cars with red and blue lights flashing in the darkness blocked the entrances and exits to the lot. Reporters wielding microphones stood near news vans just outside the yellow crime scene tape. They crowded the boundary line when they saw the group appear. Francine had been through this before, way more times than she wished. They all had. Joy walked to the Channel Six van and struck up a conversation with the reporter.

“No talking, Joy,” Jud said firmly.

Joy turned and put a hand on one hip. “He’s a friend and colleague. You can’t stop us from talking. We’re not talking about the incident, anyway.”

“Mrs. McNamara,” a female reporter called. If the other reporters hadn’t recognized her on sight, they knew her name now. They all clamored for her attention.

Jud waved them away. “Mrs. McNamara will not be making any statements. Nor will any of the others.”

Francine shrugged at them like there was nothing she could do about Jud’s decision. She unlocked her Prius and got in. Charlotte got in the other side.

Jud stood waiting for Francine to finish buckling up. “I don’t know how you and your friends always seem to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Charlotte stuck her head across Francine’s lap. “Be glad for it. Otherwise you wouldn’t have us to help you. It’s hard to get good volunteer help these days.”

“I wouldn’t know what that looked like,” he said under his breath, so Francine would hear. Then, to Charlotte, he said, “I don’t have to tell you to leave the investigating to us.”

“If you don’t have to, then don’t.”

Chief Cannon, it seemed, was not the only one she had counting to ten before speaking.

At Jud’s silence, Charlotte continued. “We don’t need to be lectured. We’ve been through this before.”

He finished composing himself. “That’s exactly what I mean. Think about it.” Then he backed away and closed Francine’s door.

Francine drove off, Charlotte muttering about how ticked she was that Jud actually accused them of meddling in official police investigations when all they were doing was helping.

 

The last thing Francine remembered before she fell asleep was lying on the couch, leaned up against Jonathan, spilling her heart out about the disaster the fund-raiser at the Crown Room had become—how someone had stabbed Camille Ledfelter, how helpless she felt seeing her lying there bleeding, and how she feared for Camille’s life. Jonathan just listened and didn’t offer any advice. That was what she had hoped for. She was grateful to talk it out.

She couldn’t remember how she got to bed, but the next thing she remembered was a ringing noise disturbing her sleep. It was irritating, like a fly buzzing around her, and she tried to ignore it until she realized what it was. But by then the call on her cell was gone. She wiped the sleep out of her eyes and checked the time. It was 8:34. A short night. She checked the phone. She didn’t recognize the number. Maybe another reporter. She wondered how Camille was doing, and said a prayer that she was doing well.

Francine slipped on a green flannel robe and fuzzy slippers. She found Jonathan in the breakfast nook eating.

“Glad you’re up,” he said, putting down his fork. “Feeling any better this morning?”

She shrugged. “I slept okay. But it doesn’t change what happened last night. Any word on Camille?”

Jonathan’s mouth turned grim. “Joy was on the air about fifteen minutes ago doing a live report from Hendricks Regional. It doesn’t look good.”

“I was afraid of that last night when I saw how deep the knife had gone into her side.”

He lifted his mug. “I made coffee.”

“Sounds good.” She poured a cup, set it on the table, and slumped into a chair. “Camille had her issues, but she was popular enough
to get elected to the Brownsburg Town Council, and then get elected President by the other Council members. Who would want to kill her?”

“I think you’re mistaking ‘newsworthy’ for ‘popular.’ She was revered for helping the police track down that child pornographer who’d been operating out of the Bulldog Coffee House several years ago, but I’m not sure that made her popular. Before that, she was kind of eccentric. She wasn’t popular with Charlotte, not after that run-in. Don’t the two of them hate each other?”

“They did have a row. It was over that irrigation system Charlotte had installed. But they patched up their differences. While they aren’t exactly friends, they’re at least friendly.”

Jonathan looked over the two kinds of jam on the table and selected black raspberry. “If you say so.” He spread a spoonful over a piece of toast. “At a homeowners’ association meeting last summer, Camille referred to it as Charlotte’s irritation system.”

The row between the two occurred at a time when Camille was a Council member but not yet become President. The two lived next door to each other on the far side of the Summer Ridge subdivision. Their properties shared a meter pit. During a hot, dry summer, Charlotte had an irrigation system installed. Immediately after, Camille claimed her pipes started rattling when the irrigation system was on. She blamed it on the workmanship of the contractors. Charlotte countered that the Town had installed the meter pit incorrectly. Camille used her considerable pull at the Town to force Charlotte to disconnect the system.

“I’ll check with Charlotte. I thought it was still disconnected.”

“Charlotte makes me nuts sometimes,” Jonathan said. “And I don’t live next door. Although sometimes I think she lives here.”

Francine added a little cream and a little sugar to her coffee. “I appreciate that you put up with her not having much of a filter anymore.”

“She had a filter at one time?”

“Not nice.”

“Well, I dispute the fact that the two of them made up. That little vein on the side of Charlotte’s neck starts to throb whenever Camille’s name is mentioned.”

“You noticed that?”

“Hard to miss on Charlotte. She doesn’t get that way very often. She’s usually the one doing the aggravating, not the one being aggravated.”

His comment made her choke back a swallow of coffee. She changed the subject. “The eggs look good.” She started to get up.

“Stay seated,” Jonathan ordered. “I’ll make you some. There’re hash browns left in the skillet I can warm up for you. I sliced up the cranberry walnut bread you made yesterday.”

“That would be nice, but finish your breakfast first.”

Jonathan finished his toast and took his plate to the kitchen, busying himself with her breakfast. She considered how fortunate they were to have the life they enjoyed. Not that they hadn’t worked hard for it; she’d spent decades working at a hospital after taking time off to raise their three boys to school age. Jonathan had built his own accounting firm and still worked part-time at it.

And they’d been fortunate to sustain such good health. Though, again, they’d worked hard at it, she also knew others in their early seventies who suffered from cancer, had heart problems, or took handfuls of medicine each morning. So she was grateful.

Jonathan’s tall, lean body moved gracefully around the kitchen, still in sleep clothes. He wore blue-checkered flannel pants with a loose-fitting white long-sleeve t-shirt. His nod to the cold weather was a red fleece pullover over the t-shirt. She would have been cold with only a fleece for added warmth, but Jonathan was typically warm-natured, even in February in Indiana.

The next thing she knew, Jonathan placed a plate of scrambled eggs, hash browns, and cranberry walnut toast in front of her. “Warm up your coffee?”

It was as if she came out of a trance. She tested the coffee and found it to be lukewarm. “I can’t believe I forgot to drink it! I must still be half asleep.”

“You didn’t get home until late. I was surprised you came down as early as you did. Go ahead and eat. I’ll take care of it.”

Jonathan brought the coffee back hot and headed upstairs to shower.

Francine had barely started her breakfast when she heard the rumble of a car pull up in the driveway. Only one of their friends drove a big old vehicle whose engine had the right frequency to penetrate the walls of the house. That sounds like Charlotte’s car.

The rumbling stopped. Only a short time later the doorbell rang. Francine smiled. Charlotte must have navigated the walk between the driveway and the front step easily, yet another sign her knee had improved. She answered the door.

Charlotte stepped in, stripped off the neon orange down coat she wore in cold weather, and handed it to Francine. “Thanks.” She sniffed the air. “Bacon and eggs, yes? Smells delicious.”

“Let me finish mine before they get cold and I’ll make you some.” Francine led the way through the swinging door to the breakfast nook and Charlotte followed.

“Have you heard anything about Camille?” Charlotte asked. “Eric stopped by their house this morning, but I wasn’t dressed yet so I didn’t go over. I’m guessing he spent the night at the hospital. I called while he was in, but he didn’t answer the phone.” She plopped herself in Jonathan’s chair. She checked out the toast, which Francine hadn’t touched. “Are you going to eat that?” she asked, picking it up and taking a bite.

Francine was annoyed but found it easier to pretend everything was fine. “You seem hungry.”

“I’m just stressed, and I eat when I’m stressed. You know that.” She took a second bite of the toast and stopped to savor it. “This is delicious.”

“Thanks. It’s a new recipe I’m testing out for Mary Ruth. Since she’s going to be on the Cooking Channel again, she wanted a home cook to try making it before she does the program.” Mary Ruth had done several things with the Food Network, competing on Chopped and being spotlighted on a couple of other shows. Now she was sharing segments with a group of other senior chefs on a home cooking show called Senior Cooks on Home Cooking. It wasn’t on until eleven thirty at night, but still, it was fun to think of the national exposure she was getting. As long as it’s her and not me, Francine thought.

Jonathan came downstairs in his robe. His hair was wet, and he smelled of sandalwood. He was carrying Francine’s phone.

“Joy,” he said. “It was ringing when I got out of the shower.”

She put the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

“I’ve got some bad news,” Joy said. “Camille just died.”

Francine’s shoulders fell. “That’s so sad.”

“I know how you feel. I’ve been monitoring this since the station sent me over early this morning. I saw it coming, though. The hospital had a news conference a half hour ago. When it happened, though …” Her voice trailed off.

Francine relayed the news to Charlotte.

“What should we do now?” Charlotte asked.

“I don’t know,” Francine said. “Express our condolences to Eric? See if he needs anything?”

Joy overheard them talking. “Finding Eric might be tough,” she said. “The hospital’s been trying to get hold of him, and Jud’s been trying to locate him. He’s disappeared.”