Chapter 56

Frances Noonan and Sarah heard the whole story from Enid Carmichael, who interrogated poor Mr. Glenn ceaselessly until she’d heard it all.

“The kid, man, whatever, is corporate now, comes to San Francisco on business, gets put up in a fancy hotel and everything.” Mrs. Carmichael helped herself to zucchini bread.

Frances had set out the whole loaf so she wouldn’t have to replenish the plate. Thank goodness Alma was at Sylvia’s. She didn’t need to hear this from Enid Carmichael. Mr. Glenn would tell her himself. Probably already had.

“So, first he’s a drug addict, then the Glenn’s are part of the problem and he divorces them and moves to Oregon and denounces the material world, now he turns up all expensive-shoed and staying in a hotel I’ve never set foot in in my life, probably ordering exorbitantly priced drinks at the bar.” Mrs. Carmichael took a large bite of bread.

“And he didn’t know how to approach Mr. Glenn, so he loitered outside our building when he was in town, hoping Mr. Glenn would appear. I set Mr. Glenn straight on this, though he still thinks they bumped into each other by serendipity. Men are so thick.” She chewed and swallowed.

“So now they’re going to be buddy-buddy, and Mr. Glenn is gaga because he never thought he’d see his son again. Watch out, that’s what I say.”

“How sad Bessie Glenn didn’t live to see her son come home,” Mrs. Noonan said.

“What a surprise. What a shock for Mr. Glenn,” Sarah said.

“I remember those days, what a tough kid Lionel was. I hope he’s changed,” Mrs. Noonan added.

“Doubt it,” said Mrs. Carmichael.

“How long has it been?” Sarah asked.

Mrs. Noonan made a quick calculation. “Well over twenty years. Probably over twenty-five. Seems like yesterday, but it wasn’t yesterday.” My goodness, how time marched on.

Twenty years was the total amount of time Serena Evans would be in prison. Her girls would be all grown up when she was out, maybe changed as much as this corporate son of Mr. Glenn’s.

A letter from Serena arrived just before they set out on Friday for the card game at Olivia Honeycut’s. Mrs. Noonan tucked it into her purse to share with the ladies. She was not fond of the trek to Mrs. Honeycut’s apartment as it required driving from their building to Olivia’s a few blocks away on a steep street that never had parking. Today she, Enid Carmichael, Harriet Flynn, and Alma Gordon, now back, circled three times before a space opened up, which was actually less than usual.

Olivia Honeycut had years ago purchased a special card table with cup holders at the sides, and she was proud to show it off. She clunked their lemonade in and commented on the convenience every time they visited. It was far easier when the card games were at Frances’s or Alma’s, but the fancy card table kept them voyaging to Mrs. Honeycut’s more often than Frances liked. The lemonade was too sugary, and the table had a tendency to jiggle on the uneven floor with an annoying rattle, but they didn’t have the heart to tell her.

Mrs. Honeycut passed around glasses of the too-sweet lemonade.

“I have some news,” Frances Noonan told the group. “I heard back from Evelyn Ringley. She was able to contact her brother-in-law in Philadelphia. Spencer Tremaine was not his lawyer.”

“So much for the pattern, then,” rasped Olivia Honeycut.

“I knew it,” sighed Alma Gordon.

“And she and her husband were vacationing in Hawaii when they heard about Shelley’s death. So it does not appear that Evelyn’s husband is a killer,” said Mrs. Noonan.

“I tell you, it’s just what it appears, anger and jealously. Believe me, I know.” Enid Carmichael reached her hand toward the tub with Mrs. Honeycut’s favorite cream puffs, retrieving four miniature pastries in her large hand. She jammed two into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

In the silence that followed, Mrs. Noonan mused that it was a good thing Stanley Carmichael had never turned up dead.

Mrs. Honeycut set a small blue tin on the table and opened it.

At first Frances Noonan could not place the smell. Then she inhaled sharply, engulfed in memories. The scent of her husband wafted out of the tin.

“Maybe you will like these,” Olivia Honeycut said to the group. “Too strong for me. When did mints stop coming in rolls?”

Mrs. Noonan sat paralyzed. She smelled Bill and his wintergreen breath as he leaned over to kiss her cheek. She smelled Bill sitting next to her reading on the couch, his feet touching hers. She smelled Bill at the kitchen table working on the crossword.

A cream puff was halfway to Enid Carmichael’s mouth, but she dropped her hand and grabbed at the tin, knocking a few mints out onto the table. “I’ll try one,” she said. “Alma, Harriet? Someone’s breath was mighty fragrant in the car. Who had onions for lunch? Frances, I think it was you. Here.”

The mint was tiny in Enid’s oversized hand. Tiny. But packed with reminiscences.

Frances inhaled again. The wintergreen was overpowering. She breathed it in, and her uncertainty and panic fell away, leaving her happier and happier. She reached out her hand, seized the mint, and popped it in her mouth. She sucked in, savoring the intensity of the wintergreen flavor. Bill was with her and always would be. Every memory was a blessing, to hold and to cherish.

“Maybe take two,” Enid Carmichael said, shoving the whole tin closer. “It’s definitely your breath.”

“Oh, dear,” Alma Gordon said, but Mrs. Noonan took a second mint feeling lighter than she had in months.

She smiled to herself. Enid Carmichael would never change. Take Harriet Flynn. The woman did look good with her new hair. But Enid had been her usual blunt self in the car on the way over.

“Why’s your hair so dark?” Enid must have just then noticed it. As if she should talk, with her dyed hair that was never the same shade of red.

Unfortunately, Enid didn’t stop with her question. “Your hair may be dark, but your face is still old,” she’d said.

Frances didn’t agree. She had watched Harriet’s hair slowly change, a little less gray, a little more brown, until now when she frankly looked ten years younger. Heck, twenty years, especially if you had Mrs. Noonan’s bad eyesight and couldn’t see the wrinkles. Harriet’s mouth, previously always pursed, smiled often now, hiding the wrinkles in the creases. Frances Noonan smiled across the card table at her, hoping her own wrinkles disappeared too.

Alma was back from her babysitting, her fluffy white hair unchanged. Mrs. Noonan smiled at her too. Alma’s plan was to take the train to Sylvia’s on Sundays and watch Owen while Sylvia worked Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. She’d finished her first week and was full of stories, telling one now, her arms waving in animation. Owen learned how to kick a ball, and Sylvia made giant soap bubbles for him to attack in the backyard.

“You should see him, a yard, his own room…” Her voice trailed and she took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes. She waved it dismissively. “These are happy tears.”

Mrs. Noonan smelled the lilacs and felt so happy for her friend.

“What kid can’t kick?” said Mrs. Carmichael.

“I brought something to show you.” Mrs. Noonan held up Serena’s letter. Enid Carmichael had no tact.

“‘Dear Frances, Thank you for your letter. I look forward to them, as you know. In answer to your questions, Spencer Tremaine approached me. He said he had followed my case since the beginning, and he was certain he could mount a better defense. As far as I know, he had offices in Chicago already. I only ever saw him at the jail.’”

Mrs. Noonan looked up. “Sarah said Andy confirmed Tremaine’s office has been in Chicago for ten years, so that part’s correct.” She continued reading.

“‘There is one other thing about him. I don’t like to talk about this because it is an unpleasant memory, one of the worst of a very unpleasant time. When I fired Spencer Tremaine, he was very angry. He said it didn’t matter because it was impossible to defend someone who wasn’t straight with him. He said he knew I was guilty and that he could have gotten me a lesser sentence if I’d let him plea bargain. He said it was my fault he lost because he was dealing with lies.’”

“So Spencer Tremaine thought she was guilty,” Harriet Flynn said.

“Indeed. That means, if he truly thought she was the killer, and that’s a big ‘if,’ that he couldn’t have been the murderer himself,” Frances told them.

“I always knew she was the one,” said Olivia Honeycut.

“This doesn’t mean she was the killer. It only means Spencer Tremaine thought she was,” said Mrs. Noonan.

“Oh, this is so confusing,” said Alma Gordon.

“All this talk of guilt, yet nobody admits their sins,” said Mrs. Flynn.

“What a woman,” said Mrs. Carmichael. “What else does she say?” She snatched the letter from Mrs. Noonan.

“‘He also blamed me for a downturn in his career. He was filming a new series in London when he heard about my case, and he said the time he wasted with me was time away from his television career. They canceled the series after the first season, and it took him a while to reclaim his celebrity status.’”

“I remember that series,” Alma Gordon said. “Law Across the Pond. He did live commentary on active cases in Britain and explained to the Americans and the Brits the similarities and differences in our two legal systems. He was wonderful.” She had that dreamy look again.

“I remember too.” Enid Carmichael stuffed another cream puff into her mouth. “Seems to me the show was canceled due to Spencer Tremaine’s off-screen antics. I read about it in my celebrity magazine. Now it’s coming back. I remember a situation with one of the barrister’s wives. Seems she preferred a man who didn’t wear wigs.”

“Celebrity magazine? Wigs? This sounds like a sordid affair,” Mrs. Flynn said.

“‘Torrid’ is the word they used,” Mrs. Carmichael said.

“Oh, dear. Spencer Tremaine? Are you sure?” Mrs. Gordon said.

“Live commentary?” Mrs. Noonan said. “Enid, you remember this in the gossip columns? If he was in England at the time of David Evans’s murder and making headlines in the gossip columns, then he was not in Chicago, and he is definitely in the clear.”

“I still have the magazines,” Mrs. Carmichael said. “Never throw anything out. We can check the dates.”

“Good heavens. Who would think such an unseemly matter would ever get a man off the hook for murder?” Mrs. Flynn said. “It doesn’t seem right.”

“Alma’s probably pleased he’s not the murderer,” Enid Carmichael said. “Unseemly, sleazy, decadent. But not a murderer.” She waved the letter in the air. “Let’s see what the true murderer says.”

“Enid! Enough.” Mrs. Noonan tried to get the letter back, but Enid was so darned tall.

Mrs. Carmichael held the letter above Mrs. Noonan’s head and read on. “‘I looked at your pictures. I don’t recognize any of them. If you have others, I’d be happy to look at those.’” Mrs. Carmichael glanced at Mrs. Noonan. “So much for your big theory about Big Sur.” She went back to the letter and read the rest to herself. “Nothing more here about the murder. Just some personal stuff for you, Frances. She really took to you.”

She finally handed the letter back, and Mrs. Noonan folded it and put it in her pocket for later. Serena didn’t know the men at Paradise Cove Resort. Maybe there was no connection.

“What do you think, Frances?” asked Mrs. Gordon. “I was at the resort and it sure seemed a lovely place. I was thinking of recommending it to Sylvia, but I wanted to wait to see what we found.”

“Well, it seems a strange coincidence that both Paul Blackwell and Shelley Stalk were there. But lots of people go to resorts. If we knew about everyone who went to Disneyland and then got killed, we might have the same suspicions about Disneyland,” said Mrs. Noonan.

“Don’t go bringing Disneyland into it,” said Mrs. Flynn. “It’s a bastion of good family fun.”

Mrs. Noonan agreed. She and Bill went to Disneyland once and enjoyed it every bit as if they had children in tow. She still had a picture of the two of them, posed with the big castle in the background. She remembered the trip fondly, no sadness.

“They have those giant turkey drumsticks at Disneyland,” said Mrs. Carmichael.

“It could be anywhere popular. It doesn’t have to be Disneyland,” Mrs. Noonan added.

“But how many people get killed at all?” said Mrs. Gordon.

“According to Andy, a lot,” said Mrs. Noonan.

“I think it’s much more likely that these cases are just what they seem,” said Mrs. Honeycut in her low voice. “Dissatisfied spouses who kill their life partners for money and freedom.”

“Marriage is a sanctity,” said Mrs. Flynn. “For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part. They took marriage vows. These people are defiling a sanctity.”

Mrs. Carmichael plucked the last cream puff from the tub. “Till death do us part? Sounds to me like they followed the vows. Death parted them, all right.”