Murder on the Eightfold Path Page 17

  Mart scratched her head, frowning meditatively. “I don’t remember seeing anything, but then I wasn’t looking for anything. Not to do with the kid, anyway. I tried to find some way to prove she had been blackmailed. But there was nothing.” She grimaced. “I’m a pack rat. My sister was the opposite. She never kept anything she didn’t have immediate use for. And I’ve seen banks that didn’t have files and paperwork as well organized as she was.”

  “She wouldn’t wish to take a chance on something falling into the wrong hands,” Elysia remarked.

  “Exactly. That’s exactly right. She wasn’t someone who left anything to chance. She didn’t like to gamble.”

  “But she took a chance when she had the affair with Cory or whatever his name was,” A.J. pointed out.

  The other two women stared at her. Then Mart reached over and patted her hand. “You’ll understand when you’re older, babycakes.”

  “They killed her,” Elysia said with ghoulish satisfaction as they left Mart Crowley’s quiet suburban home and started back to Stillbrook. “Either way you look at it, they killed her.”

  “If she killed herself because she was being blackmailed, I agree that philosophically and ethically the blackmailers are guilty. But I don’t know how that would hold up in a court of law. I don’t know that could ever be proved since she didn’t leave a note.”

  Elysia shifted into high gear as they reached the open highway. “Immaterial. She didn’t kill herself. They killed her.”

  A.J. wasn’t so sure. In fact their interview with Mart Crowley had left her less sure. “That wouldn’t be so easy to do, Mother. First of all, Peggy didn’t typically take sleeping pills, so how would they get her to swallow an overdose?”

  “Force-feed her. Slip them in her bedtime warm milk. I don’t know. I just know they did.”

  “But once Mart started claiming foul play the police would surely have checked for signs of violence. There couldn’t have been any.”

  “We don’t know that for sure.”

  “Well, we can find out.” Jake would surely do this much for her. A.J. added, “Plus how would the blackmailers have gained access to Peggy’s warm milk?”

  Elysia said exasperatedly, “I was being facetious.”

  “I know you were, but the point remains. If she didn’t take the pills herself, how would they have been administered? Someone would have to have access to her home and her pills and her food or drink.”

  “This boy she was having the affair with would have had access. This Cory.”

  “We don’t know that. According to Mart, Cory was just a boy toy. I can’t imagine someone as fearful of publicity as Peggy seemed to be giving a casual sexual partner the key to her home.”

  “Maybe he stole a key.”

  “Maybe he did, but this is getting totally into the realm of speculation. We don’t know that Cory ever had access to Peggy’s keys, let alone that she ever brought him home.”

  “We need to find out.”

  “We need to be careful,” A.J. corrected. “For one thing if there is some connection between Maddie’s death and Peggy’s we don’t want anyone to know we’re poking around in this. It could prove extremely hazardous to our health.”

  Elysia made a disgusted sound.

  “I’m serious, Mother. If Maddie was killed I think there’s a very good chance it was because she knew something about Peggy’s death. Or someone thought she did. And if that’s the case, they acted swiftly and ruthlessly.”

  Elysia had no response to that.

  “Why don’t we put together a list of questions and I’ll ask Jake—”

  “Jake!”

  “Yes, Jake. I don’t have another police contact. Do you? Plus I believe him when he’s trying to help you. If we can present him with a viable alternative suspect and motive, he’ll take it to the DA. So let’s figure out what we need to know. Like did they investigate this Cory at all? Was there any record of where the sleeping pills were purchased? That kind of thing.”

  “The fact that four people connected to this case are also connected to the same hairdresser is too much of a coincidence for me.”

  “I agree. But not everyone seems to think it’s that amazing a coincidence. And, in fairness, The Salon is very popular. Besides, we already knew Peggy went to The Salon,” A.J. reminded her. “Maddie learned about her death at The Salon.”

  Elysia sighed. “True.”

  They debated a short list of questions A.J. could present to Jake in hopes that he might follow up where they could not. By the time they had worked out their short list, they were pulling into the long, dirt drive that led to the farmhouse at Deer Hollow.

  As A.J. got out of the SUV, Elysia leaned across and said, “Anna?”

  A.J. bent, absently reflecting that even a week ago she would have been unable to make so simple a move without pain. “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Of course!” A.J. said quickly. She wasn’t even exactly sure what her mother was thanking her for, but she was a little embarrassed.

  “I know you think we should trust the police and leave any further investigating to them. I couldn’t do this on my own, so . . . thank you.”

  A.J. nodded and let the heavy door swing shut.

  She was touched, although she wasn’t convinced that Elysia wouldn’t have forged ahead on her own. She told herself she was acting as a moderating influence, and she hoped that was true. But as much as she wanted to leave the investigation to the police, as much as she wanted to believe that they would find Dicky Massri’s real killer without any help from her or Elysia, she knew things didn’t always work out the way they should.

  She watched the Land Rover bouncing and bumping down the dirt road back to the highway, then she turned and let herself inside the house.

  It felt warm and a little stuffy, so she opened the windows and went out on the back patio to call to Monster, who came around the side of the house looking guilty in the way only a dog digging for gophers in the flower beds can look.

  “What have you been doing?” A.J. said in the deep, deep voice she always assumed for scolding Monster—on those rare occasions he needed scolding.

  Monster promptly flattened his ears and looked cowed, although what he made of the deep, deep voice was anyone’s guess. The deep, deep voice was actually as far as A.J.’s punitive measures went. She sort of even secretly hoped that Monster might catch a few of the gophers in a display of natural selection, but she’d never seen any sign of success. Which, on second thought, was perhaps a good thing.

  Monster tried to change the subject by indicating it was past his dinnertime, and A.J. fed him, made herself a grilled cheese sandwich. and pulled out Diantha’s box of notes and rough manuscript draft.

  As always she found it centering, soothing, to read over her aunt’s thoughts. Diantha had been a mix of practicality and compassion. Well-educated and informed, she had also been imaginative and fiercely loyal to the causes she believed in and the people she loved. She had not been without her flaws, of course. She had also been stubborn and occasionally judgmental. Once she made up her mind, it was difficult to persuade her to see things another way, which was probably how A.J. and Lily had ended up as co-partners when anyone could see that that was a match made in Hell.

  Words have tremendous power. Sometimes in the heat of the moment we forget this. We concentrate on winning the battle at hand and forget that winning a particular battle may cost us the war. Why do I speak of war and yoga in the same breath? Because our modern lives are full of conflict. Look around you. We all experience tension, conflict, anger. And what are we angry about? We believe that we have been wronged. What happens then? We scream. We scream to be heard. What then can we do for the angry among us? The first and most immediate thing we can do is listen.

  A.J. jotted a couple of notes in the margin of the neatly typed page. Through the open window she could hear the sweet song of a bird settling in for the night, and Monster snuffling along the
flower bed.

  “Monster!” she growled.

  The snuffling stopped. But in the silence she heard the approach of a familiar engine. Heart beating with sudden excitement, A.J. rose and looked out the front window.

  Headlights were coming down the road.

  The familiar four-wheel drive utility vehicle with police insignia pulled into her front yard and Jake got out.

  A.J. went out on the porch to greet him. He kissed her hello—not a deep, passionate kiss, true, but not a perfunctory peck either.

  “This is a surprise,” she said.

  “Yeah. Well.” He followed her inside the house and down the hall to the kitchen. “I thought since I was in the area I’d come by and tell you what we found out on Dora Beauford.”

  A.J. studied his stern profile. She knew Jake well enough to know he was about to give her news he didn’t want to deliver. Perhaps it was about the case against her mother. Perhaps not. Her nerves tightened.

  She made herself guess out loud. “Dora Beauford has an alibi.”

  He nodded grimly.

  “What kind of alibi?”

  “She was getting her hair done.”

  “Where?”

  Jake was already shaking his head. “Not at The Salon.”

  “Did you ask?” She handed him a jar of ground coffee; the lid had a tendency to stick.

  He opened it automatically, saying, “Of course I asked. I had to verify her alibi.”

  “Did you ask her about The Salon?”

  He hesitated.

  “You didn’t. Why? What would it have hurt? Couldn’t you just this once have—”

  “Hold on. Of course I asked,” he interrupted. “And, yes, she was a client for a time. But I think you’re pinning too much on that connection.”

  A.J. scooped coffee into the machine. “And to think I believed Mother was jumping to conclusions. Jake, they’re running some kind of blackmail scheme out of The Salon.”

  If she’d imagined she would surprise him with that theory, she was disappointed. Jake said, “I know that’s what you think—you might even be right—but nobody tried to blackmail Dora Beauford.”

  “You questioned her about that? Specifically?”

  “Believe it or not, A.J., I do know how to do my job.”

  She had the grace to blush. “Sorry. It’s just . . .”

  “I know. This time it’s personal.”

  She grimaced. Personal and painful. Jake’s expression was uncompromising; he met her gaze unwaveringly. “I do understand. I promise you I’m following every lead.”

  “Could Dora be lying?”

  He shrugged. “It’s always a possibility. I didn’t get that feeling, though.”

  A.J. studied his face. “But still, it’s too much to be a coincidence. That all of these women were connected to the same beauty salon?”

  “I agree. Up to a point.”

  “That point being?”

  “Motive for murder.”

  “I’m not following. If all these women are being blackmailed—”

  “Honey—A.J. First of all, your mother already admits that she was being blackmailed. So there’s nothing new there.”

  “But it’s a blackmail ring. It has to be.”

  “Maybe. We haven’t proved that yet. But say you’re right. From the perspective of the DA, that doesn’t clear Elysia. Just the opposite.”

  “But it has to throw some doubt. A blackmail ring means that there were other victims. Other women with a motive for wanting Massri out of the way.”

  “Not necessarily. An argument could be made that all these women were being blackmailed but your mother is the only one who turned violent. You’ve also yet to prove a connection between Massri and The Salon. Shampoo bottles in the shower aren’t going to hold up in court. You said it yourself: the hair care products could belong to one of his lady friends.”

  “But then Massri himself becomes the connection. The fact that he was involved with all these women and the women all went to the same salon? That has to be significant.”

  He answered on what appeared to be a tangent. “The other problem I’ve got, from what you’ve managed to uncover, it’s these other women—the victims—who seem to be at risk.” He added quickly, as A.J. opened her mouth, “And from a blackmailer’s perspective, that’s not good business.”

  “Maybe it was better business than the alternative. Peggy Graham’s sister says Peggy was aggressively pursuing whoever blackmailed her. Maybe someone was afraid of exposure.”

  “Peggy Graham’s sister?” Jake inquired too politely.

  “Er, yes. Actually, I was going to tell you about that.” She said quickly, trying to head him off, “Mother is, as I’m sure you could guess, really upset about Maddie’s death and when she remembered that Peggy Graham had a sister—”

  Jake interrupted. “She’s snooping. Don’t bother to gift wrap it. She announced to the entire world she’d solve the damn case herself, and that’s exactly what she’s set out to do.”

  The assorted stress and strains of the last two weeks got the better of A.J.’s temper, and she snapped, “Well, do you blame her?”

  He stared at her for a long, bleak moment. “No,” he said finally. “I don’t blame her. I’d probably try to do the same thing, but she’s liable to get herself deeper in hot water—and drag you in, too.”

  This was such an unexpected relenting of Jake’s previous attitude that A.J. didn’t know what to say. He solved that problem by asking her to fill him in on what she and Elysia had learned from Mart Crowley.

  Jake heard her out in mostly silence and sipped his coffee. At the end of A.J.’s recital he said, “Okay, so maybe Peggy Graham’s decision to take action against the extortionists made someone nervous and they decided to deal with her. But it wasn’t Massri, obviously, since Graham wasn’t seeing him.”

  A.J. bit her lip. “You’re saying it’s a dead end.”

  He sighed. “I’m saying . . . that there does seem to be a connection between these women and The Salon, but it’s not enough. I don’t buy the blackmail angle as sufficient motive for murder. You don’t kill the goose that lays the golden egg.”

  “Then what do you buy? Because if nothing else, it’s ridiculous to think my mother would shoot someone in her front garden.”

  “Listen, you don’t have to convince me. I don’t believe Elysia shot Massri. I admit I initially wondered.” He clarified hastily, “It crossed my mind, that’s all—but having interviewed her several times since the incident, I agree. She’s not our perp. But an argument like that doesn’t get us anywhere. People kill other people all the time in stupid and brutal ways. Murder doesn’t take a mastermind. It takes someone whose self-interest knows no boundaries, be it a brain surgeon in the Hamptons or a junkie in Harlem.”

  “Your point being?”

  “You’re going to have to come up with a better line of defense.”

  “What about the scandal at the SCA?”

  “I’m still working that angle. It appears that Massri accepted bribes not to investigate allegations of illegal excavations and the smuggling of antiquities.”

  “That sounds promising.”

  “Maybe. There’s no question that illegal trade in antiquities is still big money. Unscrupulous collectors, private and public, are always on the lookout for valuable artifacts. High quality relics are freely available on the international market if you know where to look and so long as the interested parties are prepared to pay enormous sums. And Egyptian antiquities are pretty much as popular as ever.”

  “Maybe Massri crossed the wrong people?”

  “Maybe, but as far as I can tell the people he crossed were the Egyptian government and his colleagues at the SCA. I don’t think either of those entities came gunning for him in Elysia’s front yard.”

  “How could Massri get away with that kind of thing?”

  “He was in the perfect position to get away with it—he was supposed to be one of the watchdogs.”
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  “That’s pretty low. Trading in national treasures.”

  “It is, but the money being offered for some of these antiquities is mind-boggling. And the people buying aren’t always what you’d think. More than one museum curator has been nailed in the illegal trade of antiquities. Sure, sales at reputable auction houses are supposed to be carefully monitored. I guess they are for the most part. Details of the provenance of objects are supposed to be provided.”

  “Provenance?”

  “Documented history of the ownership of an object. They’re supposed to get publication details of similar pieces, and a history of the movement of objects through the market. But the system isn’t foolproof. To say the least.”

  A.J. nodded. It was getting late and she was getting tired, although she was doing her best to seem bright and cheerful. The last thing she wanted to do was hurry Jake off. For these few hours she could pretend that everything was still good between them. That they were building toward something that might sustain them through all the years to come. Something more than friendship, although she valued Jake’s friendship, too.

  He yawned, glanced at his watch.

  “Can Dora Beauford’s alibi be broken?” she asked quickly, at random.

  “I doubt it. Only her hairdresser knows for sure.”

  “Ouch.”

  “You asked.” He was grinning at her and she grinned back, warmly conscious of the ever present tug of liking and attraction between them. No, that hadn’t changed.

  Jake seemed to recollect himself. He said more seriously, “I’m double-checking that one. But I wouldn’t pin my hopes on it.” He hesitated. “I guess . . . I ought to get going.”

  No you oughtn’t. A.J. opened her mouth. She closed it again. She wasn’t going to put pressure on him. And she sure wasn’t going to beg. Or even ask politely. In case it was misconstrued. This was something Jake had to work out for himself; he knew—could hardly fail to know—how she felt.

  “Okay,” she said, rising. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  He stared at her for a funny moment, then rose, too.