Murder on the Eightfold Path Page 10

  Medea finished showing them the house—the restoration work she had done was truly impressive even if her ultimate aim seemed to be to turn the place into an upscale haunted mansion—and then they went into the back garden, followed by the ferret Morag.

  “Isn’t this lovely,” Elysia murmured faintly. “A shade garden.”

  It was indeed dark and shady in the very large and very overgrown garden. The gateposts were made of small wooden coffins topped by resin wolf skulls. There were no flowers, just grass and ivy and green vines. It looked like the sort of garden Edward Gorey might have designed had he abandoned illustrating and gone into the landscaping business. A variety of dark stone urns, pointy obelisks, and odd statues were strategically placed. A.J. recognized what appeared to be a likeness of the Minotaur and, across the lawn, a bronze version of Kali. Toward the back of the garden was a large plot lined by a knee-high, wrought iron fence as though for a vegetable garden, although it was too dark for most vegetables to thrive. Mushrooms might do well. Toadstools.

  They watched the ferret scurry across the grass and disappear through the fence.

  “She’s visiting Angus,” Medea said with grim satisfaction.

  “Angus?”

  “My Persian cat. They were grrreat friends. Angus crossed last month.”

  A.J. stared at the fenced square and then it clicked. A miniature graveyard; a pet cemetery. “That’s a graveyard?”

  “Aye.” Medea placed the pitcher of lemonade she had carried outside on the table and the three of them sat down and watched Morag weaving her swift way through the statuary and greenery. “The final resting place for ma wee furry friends.” Gloom settled on her like rain clouds on Ben Lomond.

  “This is pleasant,” Elysia chimed in, in an apparent effort to dispel the doldrums. She sipped her lemonade.

  “I’m glad you invited us, petal. Makes a nice change, doesn’t it?”

  She looked straight at A.J., delivering her cue. “Yes!” A.J. said enthusiastically to cover the fact that she had been thinking she was out of her mind to have agreed to this weekend.

  “It’s nice to have company. It’s a bit lonely sometimes out here on my own,” Medea admitted with seeming reluctance.

  Elysia said casually, “I can relate only too well. It’s lovely having A.J. living so close these days.”

  “Did you finally give up the house in London?”

  “No. I’ve been thinking of letting it go, though.”

  This was news to A.J. Although she and her mother had been getting along very well since she had moved to New Jersey, the idea of being permanently in each other’s pockets was a little disconcerting. Or was it? Maybe it was . . . reassuring. It was just that she was not in the habit of relying on her mother, having spent most of her life learning to not rely on her.

  The two older women chatted about people and places unfamiliar to A.J. It was not that she was disinterested, but she had a lot on her mind. Her attention wandered.

  She tuned back in to hear Elysia inquire casually, “What was his name, petal? Your handsome young villain?”

  Medea’s face took on that unattractive flush again. “Dicky. Dakarai, actually. He was Egyptian.”

  Elysia’s gaze slid to A.J.’s. A.J. knew exactly what she was thinking. “Dakarai” was not like John or Kevin or Bill. The idea of two Egyptian men named Dakarai running around New Jersey romancing wealthy widows was pretty hard to believe.

  “It’s a shame,” Elysia said. She suggested casually, “You met him on that cruise you took a few years ago, didn’t you?”

  “Aye.”

  Bingo.

  Gloomily, Medea reached a hand out to the ferret, who had scampered up the table legs and popped through the umbrella hole in the table. Now the ferret was investigating the lemonade pitcher. She nipped gently at Medea’s fingers. “You miss him, pet, don’t you?” Medea flicked the ferret’s nose and then reached for her lemonade with the air of one drowning her sorrows.

  Elysia was shooting a certain commanding look A.J.’s way. A.J. couldn’t figure out what her mother wanted. She raised her shoulders and Elysia gave her The Look again.

  Hoping she was on the right track, and not exactly sure what her mother was up to, A.J. said, “Why, that’s an odd coincidence!”

  Elysia offered a tiny smile of approval before saying, as though the thought had never occurred, “Yes, that is strange. You wouldn’t happen to have a photo of him, would you?”

  “Angus? Aye.”

  “Not Angus, petal. Dicky. Your ex.”

  Brow furrowed, Medea gave it some thought. “Why?”

  “Because a most unpleasant thought has occurred to me.”

  It looked like the unpleasantness was catching. For a lengthy few seconds Medea stared at Elysia, then she scooped up the ferret and nodded at A.J. and Elysia to follow her.

  They trooped back into the house and Medea led the way to a side room painted in yellow and black—a color scheme that had all the appeal of a swarm of bees. She dropped Morag to the carpet, and the ferret darted away behind what appeared to be a marble statue of Medusa—or perhaps it was another goddess having a really bad hair day. Medea rummaged through the drawers of a tall secretary. Sheets of sandpaper and bills fell out along with photos and note cards.

  “Here we are.” Medea handed the photograph to Elysia who stared at it for several seconds. She handed it to A.J.

  The photograph showed a tanned and happy-looking Medea in the loose embrace of a handsome and virile-looking Egyptian young enough to be her son. The young man also looked happy, though not nearly as radiant as Medea.

  Though the photo was a few years old, there was no mistaking Dicky Massri, and though she had been prepared for it, A.J. murmured, “Good lord.”

  Elysia said crisply, “Petal, I have some disturbing news.”

  Medea’s brows drew together as she waited for Elysia to find the words. A.J. could see her mother considering and abandoning various approaches.

  “There doesn’t seem to be an easy way to say this,” she said at last. “I knew this young man of yours. Knew him rather well.” When Medea still said nothing, Elysia clarified, “I met him when I was in Egypt last summer.”

  Medea’s eyes seemed to start from her head. She opened her mouth and then closed it.

  “I’m afraid I made the same mistake that . . . er . . . you did, petal.”

  Silence.

  “He could be a charming scallywag.” Elysia half-swallowed the word. A.J. almost felt sorry for her although she couldn’t help feeling her mother had brought it all on herself. “I didn’t go so far as to marry him, but—”

  Elysia broke off, interrupted by Medea’s roar of laughter.

  They dined beneath a flickering chandelier that looked like it was straight out of the Vincent Price Collection. Keeping in mind that Medea had done most of the home repairs herself, A.J. couldn’t help an occasional uneasy glance at the bronze rosette medallion in the ceiling, sincerely hoping it was not going to give way anytime soon. She could have sworn she heard the occasional faint cracking of plaster—or perhaps the whisper came from the ghostly woodland scene that decorated the walls of the long, narrow room: tall pale trees and silvery mist on another of those decorative wall coverings.

  But while Medea might have had a macabre sense of interior design, there was nothing wrong with her culinary instincts. Dinner was fabulous.

  Barley soup with porcini mushrooms started off the meal, followed by seared scallop salad with asparagus and scallions. The main course was roasted veal loin with mashed potatoes. For dessert there was bittersweet chocolate tart with coffee mascarpone cream.

  Between courses A.J. heard abbreviated versions of her mother and Medea’s wild youth as fledgling actresses in the early seventies.

  “Och, hen, remember that time you and Dennis Waterman . . . ?”

  “And who was being linked with Patrick McNee in the press, petal?”

  These recollections were followed by gales
of laughter.

  “What about Bradley Meagher? Is that old fox still waiting in the wings, then?”

  Elysia’s smile faded. “No, no. Actually, we’re just good friends.”

  Medea snorted. “Tell me another.” She studied Elysia with an unexpectedly worldly gleam in her dark eyes, but then changed the subject. “D’you ever think of going back on the stage?”

  “All the time!”

  More hilarity.

  A.J. sincerely hoped Medea was not a murderess because the more she saw of her, the more she liked her. Yes, she was an oddball, but some of the most interesting people were.

  Quietly sipping her wine, which was also excellent, A.J. observed both women. Medea, still recovering from the shock of learning that Dicky was dead, downed scotch all through dinner, growing progressively more cheerful and bright. Elysia stuck to sparkling mineral water despite the glasses of wine Medea pressed on her. A.J. experienced the usual tension of watching her mother around alcohol, but Elysia showed no sign of struggling against temptation.

  Over dessert she skillfully managed to steer the discussion back to Dicky, and Medea, now well and truly lubricated, seemed to let her guard down once and for all.

  “No fool like an auld fool!”

  She and Elysia shared a giggle over memories A.J. suspected they would regret her overhearing. She tried not to listen too closely, but it wasn’t easy.

  “He was a delicious young rascal,” Elysia admitted. “And those back rubs!”

  Medea murmured agreement and A.J. resisted the temptation to cover her ears and say “Lalalalalalalala!”

  “Hard to believe it’s been two whole years.” Medea sighed. “Sometimes I think . . . well. Water under the bridge.”

  “Speaking of water,” Elysia said lightly, “how did you happen to pick that particular cruise?”

  Medea shook her head. “I didn’t. I won it. All the arrangements were made for me.”

  “That’s an awfully nice prize. What contest was that?”

  Medea sketched a broad, vague gesture. “Some sort of sweepstakes thingie.”

  A.J. asked Elysia, “You didn’t win your cruise trip in a contest, did you?”

  “No. Everyone I knew seemed to have been on a cruise, and I was thinking it might be fun to get away for a time. I think my hairstylist recommended the cruise line.” She said to Medea, “Are you saying the sweepstakes prize covered the cost of everything?”

  “It covered the cost of the cruise. I had to pay my own airfare.”

  “Was there anything odd about the cruise?” A.J. inquired.

  Medea shook her head. “Not that I recall. Other than falling in love and getting married, no.” She sighed nostalgically. “Wonderful nosh.”

  “How exactly did you happen to fall in love?”

  Elysia and Medea exchanged looks. “No sense of romance this younger generation,” Elysia said sadly. “A.J. uses her Palm Berry to schedule her beau.”

  “I don’t use a Palm Berry, Mother. Whatever the heck that is. I use my Palm Pre. Anyway, I’m just wondering how Maddie managed to get married in a foreign country when she was only there for a cruise?”

  “Eight sunny days and seven starrry nights,” Medea said. “That’s how it happened. After the cruise ended, I stayed on in Egypt until we could be married in a civil ceremony. Then I came home; I was in the middle of renovating the house. Dicky was supposed to follow when his immigration status was resolved.”

  “What happened?”

  “He continued to come up with excuses for why he couldnae come—meanwhile always asking me for more money. Finally, I had to face facts. The young scoundrel had no intention of joining me here.”

  “So you divorced him?”

  “Aye.”

  “How did he take your decision?” A.J. questioned.

  Medea’s mouth twisted. “He tried to talk me out of it. Then he suggested that he fly here for a visit so we could try to work things out.”

  “Didn’t you want that?”

  “I wanted it. I sent him the airfare, but he never booked the flight. When I taxed him with it, he said he’d had to give it to his mother for an operation.”

  “The old ailing mother routine,” Elysia murmured. “He really hadn’t much imagination.”

  “Shameless is what he was.” Medea was grim. “So I made my mind up and I divorced him.”

  “Did he ever try to blackmail you?” A.J. asked.

  Medea looked confused. “Over what?”

  Good question. They had been legally married, after all. “I don’t know. Did you ever hear from him again?”

  “No. That I never did.” Medea’s expression was bleak.

  “Did you want to?” A.J. asked, surprised.

  Medea’s gimlet dark eyes studied her. “Aye.” She reached for her scotch.

  Eleven

  “I believe her.” A.J. paused in the doorway adjoining the bathroom and Elysia’s bedroom. She brushed a fake spiderweb out of her face.

  Elysia, sitting at the gargoyle table next to the window that looked over the back garden, briskly laid playing cards across the marble tabletop. “About what, pumpkin?”

  “I don’t think Maddie killed Dicky.”

  Elysia made a small, dismissive sound and set the remaining cards in the deck aside. “Of course she didn’t kill Dicky.”

  “There’s no ‘of course’ about it, Mother. She certainly had motive. A much better motive than you. And she’s eccentric. She makes you look like a solid citizen.”

  Elysia sniffed and turned a card over.

  “It’s possible that she caught sight of him one day, realized that he had moved to this country after all—and was up to his old tricks—and in the shock of the moment, killed him.”

  “In my front garden?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “I thought you said you believed her?”

  “I do.”

  “You saw the way she reacted when I told her Dicky was dead. It was obvious the news came as a complete bombshell.”

  “Maybe. But she’s an actress, after all.”

  “She was never that good an actress,” Elysia stated with ruthless candor.

  A.J. shrugged, stuck her toothbrush back in her mouth, and returned to the sink to finish cleaning her teeth.

  “What are you doing, anyway?” she called after she had rinsed, spat, and dried her face.

  “Playing solitaire.”

  “Why?”

  “I often play solitaire when I can’t sleep.”

  A.J. returned to her mother’s bedroom door. “Do you often have trouble sleeping?”

  Elysia shrugged a bony shoulder and scooped up a couple of cards.

  A.J. studied her, troubled. There were so many things about her mother that she still didn’t know after all this time. But then they had been strangers to each other for nearly thirty years.

  “Can I ask you something?” she asked.

  Elysia raised her brows, her attention still apparently on the cards.

  “When you and Daddy split up for that year and we stayed in Stillbrook . . . what happened?”

  Elysia’s hand froze on the card she was selecting. Then she picked it up, checked it, and laid it back down. “You know what happened. We decided that we had made a mistake and we reconciled.” She added firmly, “And we lived happily ever after.”

  A.J. checked this against her adolescent memories. It was true that no matter how miserable her parents were, they had always been more miserable apart.

  Her recollection of that particular time was especially vague. She had been the usual gawky, self-absorbed, and insecure teen—and that year had been hell on earth. Stillbrook had been the place her family came to vacation; living there, attending school there, was a very different thing. Without her father’s stabilizing presence the only person she’d had to rely on was Aunt Diantha.

  But there was no point dragging up these dreary memories. The past was just that; she was committed to living in the m
oment.

  So A.J. was surprised to hear herself ask, “What happened between you and Stella Borin?”

  Elysia continued to check cards and turn them back over. At last, she said evenly, “Do you really want to know?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your father had an affair with her.”

  “With Stella?”

  It was like being told you were related to Porky Pig—absolutely and ludicrously beyond the realm of possibility. But one look at her mother’s face told her it was not a joke.

  “With the Stella Borin who lives down the road from me?” As though her mother might have confused her Stella Borins.

  Elysia reaffirmed crisply, “Your father had an affair with Stella Borin.”

  “How?”

  Even Elysia was thrown by that one. “How? All the usual ways, I suppose.” She sighed. “Your father owned Starlight Farm before we married. His family used to come up for the summer when he was a boy, and when he became successful he bought Starlight Farm. That’s how we met. I was on holiday, staying with Di.” A faint reminiscent smile touched her mouth.

  A.J. said tentatively, “And he knew Stella from . . . before?”

  “Yes.” Elysia made a face. “I can only imagine she was very different in those days.”

  Maybe. Maybe not. Stella might not have been a beauty queen, but she was kind and loyal and direct. She was also refreshingly uncomplicated, and that alone had probably held charm for A.J.’s father. Not that A.J. was foolish enough to say so.

  What she did say was, “And you think they had an affair?”

  “I know they did.”

  “Daddy admitted it?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Stella admitted it?”

  “Not on your life.”

  “Then . . .”

  “My hunches are never wrong.” That seemed to be the Master Detective’s final word on the subject. Elysia went back to cheating at solitaire. But as A.J. turned to her own room, Elysia said levelly, “I forgave your father because I knew that I—or more precisely, my drinking—was to blame. I never had any doubt that he loved me, but I was not . . . easy to live with.”