Chapter 34

Andy had more information in no time. Sarah could see he was bursting. He could hardly keep the words from spilling out, and he was talking so fast there was spittle at the corner of his mouth. She was a little embarrassed for him, then she decided that was silly. She glanced around to see if the Fog Ladies had noticed, but they just seemed interested in his tale. It was actually endearing how excited Andy was. They sat in Mrs. Noonan’s apartment, eating chocolate chip cookies, of course, gathered at Andy’s request because he had some “big news.”

Andy started his story by telling them about Paradise Cove, which at one time had been a camp for wayward boys, then a girls’ boarding school, and for the past ten years, a family resort. The current owner’s name was Allen Werble and, on the website, he was quoted as saying he wanted to create an affordable vacation destination in a peaceful setting. The chef of one year was Marco White, and he had previously worked for many years in an upscale restaurant in Los Angeles. Emanuel Garcia, along with Glenda and George Parkman, had worked at the resort for several years. No complaints were listed with the county or state boards, and the police had never been called to Paradise Cove.

Andy had found something else, something even more coincidental than two dead women vacationing at the same resort. He had searched the archives for domestic murders going back five years. There were more than he could imagine, he said, more than fifteen hundred a year for women victims recently and about half that for men. But two stood out because of the motive. The same million-dollar life insurance policies.

A mother in San Antonio, Maria Romero, was shot by her husband five years earlier. For the million-dollar insurance money. He tried to make it look like a burglary. He was a businessman who traveled frequently and said he returned home to the murder scene. They had two children who now lived with her parents. He was serving a life term.

Sarah could see Andy still hadn’t told them his “big news.” His face was flushed, and he talked nonstop, but he had saved the best for last. He had found one more case.

“This was the day after Christmas, four years ago,” Andy said, drawing out the suspense.

Sarah smiled and watched Andy savor the moment. He was adorable. A far cry from Christmas four years ago for her. The first big love of her life dumped her on Christmas Day her second year of medical school. They met her senior year of college, and she thought at the time they would be together forever. So dumb. She’d chosen her medical school solely because of him, his city, his job. They hadn’t known each other long enough for that big a life change, which became more and more apparent as time went on. But to dump her on Christmas. That hurt. She hadn’t thought about him in a long time and never without a slew of emotions. Not today, though, not with Andy here, winking at her and holding court, perfectly comfortable among this group of older ladies.

He continued his story. Serena and David Evans both had million-dollar insurance policies through their mutual business. They lived in Chicago and by all accounts had a passionate but volatile marriage, with loud arguments and accusations from both spouses for years. She had previously filed for divorce but later withdrew the papers. Then one spouse was killed, hacked up by the other on the day after Christmas with a machete-like blade they used to trim the bushes. But it wasn’t the wife who was killed. It was the husband.

“On the day after the Lord’s birth.” Harriet Flynn crossed herself.

“She hacked him up? With a machete?” said Olivia Honeycut.

“Oh, dear. Oh, dear,” said Alma Gordon.

“Sin is not confined to men,” said Harriet Flynn. “Eve was the one to take the bite, after all.”

“Statistics show this is extremely rare,” said Frances Noonan.

“What a woman,” said Enid Carmichael.

“But not a lady,” said Olivia Honeycut in her low voice.

“I haven’t told you the best part,” said Andy.

“Don’t tell me they had just visited Big Sur,” said Sarah.

“Nope, it’s better than that. Guess who her lawyer was,” said Andy.

They all looked at him, but Frances Noonan understood first.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” she said. “It can’t be.”

“But it is,” said Andy.

“What? What? Tell us,” said Olivia Honeycut.

“No, no, it’s not possible,” said Alma Gordon.

“I’m with Mrs. Honeycut,” said Sarah. “Tell us, those of us who are slow.”

“It’s Spencer Tremaine, isn’t it?” said Enid Carmichael with a flourish, cookie pieces flying around as she waved her hand.

“Yep, none other,” said Andy.

The ladies all broke out talking at once. Mrs. Gordon looked miserable, but Mrs. Noonan was absolutely delighted.

“Does this really mean something?” asked Sarah. “That they had the same lawyer? The same famous lawyer?”

“He certainly didn’t mention this case to Julia when he was tooting his horn. I just saw the man,” said Mrs. Noonan. “And these cases are pretty similar.”

“Million-dollar life insurance policies. Sharp instruments of death,” said Mrs. Carmichael.

“Oh, dear. Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Gordon.

“But there’s more,” said Andy. “She’s right here.”

“Who’s here?” said Sarah.

“The woman, Serena Evans.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, you’ve got to be kidding. Don’t we have enough of our own murderers in this state? We have to import others?” said Mrs. Flynn.

“Her kids are here. She has twin ten-year-old girls and her brother is raising them. He lives in Modesto and she got transferred to Central California Women’s Facility in Chowchilla to be closer to them. They would have been six when this happened,” Andy said.

“Oh, what a shame. More children. Such heartache for them, losing two parents at once,” said Mrs. Gordon.

“And such horrific circumstances,” said Mrs. Noonan. “One parent killing another.”

“It happens all the time, unfortunately,” Andy said. “Domestic violence turns out to be very common. I had no idea, but I turned up thousands of cases across the nation in the past five years. The thing that’s different about these cases is the money.”

“A million dollars!” said Mrs. Carmichael.

“Right,” said Andy. “Serena Evans told the police that there had been an uptick in crime in their neighborhood, and that she thought she was being followed. The police agreed there had been an increase in crime, and they said she used that as a pretext for her murder plot.”

“I bet there are more cases we don’t know about, where the man got away with it, killed his wife and got the insurance and no one was the wiser,” said Mrs. Honeycut.

“Ladies, ladies, you’re forgetting something,” said Mrs. Noonan. “Paul did not kill Andrea. His case is not like the rest of these. He didn’t do it.”

“No!” Sarah agreed, too loudly. “I met him. He’s not a murderer!”

No one else spoke. The silence continued awkwardly and Sarah tried to think of something more to say. As she scanned the faces of the Fog Ladies, she could see they thought Paul was guilty, as guilty as Joseph Stalk in Philadelphia or the businessman in San Antonio who shot his wife.

Finally, Mrs. Gordon said gently, “Too bad he has no alibi.”

“Yoga!” Mrs. Carmichael snorted.

“And even that was a lie,” said Mrs. Flynn.

“But none of you know him. How can you condemn someone you don’t even know?” Sarah said.

“Do any of us know anybody?” said Mrs. Honeycut.

“Speaking of getting to know people, any chance of meeting this Serena Evans, this man-hacker-upper?” asked Mrs. Carmichael.

“Enid!” said Mrs. Gordon, her cookie stopped in midair.

“Associating with the devil,” said Mrs. Flynn.

“She says she didn’t do it,” said Andy.

“It actually could be quite worthwhile,” said Mrs. Noonan.

“Oh, dear. Oh, dear.” Mrs. Gordon clenched her fist so tightly, her cookie snapped in two.