Death Comes to a Retreat (Book 4 Molly Masters Mysteries) Page 21

  “Weren’t you surprised to see she was teaching college again?”

  She shrugged. “She told me C.U. was willing to give her a second chance. That she hoped I would, too.”

  “How would Allison have known about Katherine’s past?”

  “Allison?”

  “Lois says that’s how she found out about Katherine.”

  “I, uh, must have told her about it. But I told Allison never to tell another soul. You just can’t trust people to keep secrets.”

  “Not in this neighborhood, anyway.” I paused, but Julie didn’t as much as crack a smile. She was sitting rigidly still in her seat, none of her usual constant motion apparent. I didn’t know which version of the story to believe—hers or Katherine’s—and had no way to know whether or not this had anything to do with Allison’s murder. I decided to press a little harder. “I spoke to Katherine about this. She says that it was actually you who first provided her with the drugs.”

  Julie stiffened. “What else did she tell you?”

  “That you were a…call girl in Boston. That your brother deserted her when she had breast cancer and got a mastectomy. She says that’s why she turned to drugs. She was so depressed, she needed the drugs as a crutch.”

  “That bitch!” Julie slammed her fist onto the desktop. “She’s a pathological liar! She never had cancer or a mastectomy. I’ve seen her in the shower, at my club. Katherine has both breasts. Ask anybody if you don’t believe me!”

  That would be an awkward question for me to pose: Have you ever seen Katherine Lindstrom’s breasts? How many of them does she have?

  Interesting, though, that Katherine had accused Julie of being a hooker, yet Julie ignored that and took issue with whether or not Katherine had had a mastectomy.

  Julie rose, her hands clenched into fists. I expected her to do something drastic—scream at me to mind my own business, rail about her former sister-in-law. Instead, she swept up the photograph of Teak, her Golden, stared at it, then smiled. “You wouldn’t be interested in a friend for Betty, would you? A cute Golden Retriever puppy, for instance?”

  “No, thanks.”

  She set the picture down. “Dogs are so much better than people. They’re so loyal. They ask so little from you.”

  I had run out of questions. I thanked Julie, assured her that I had no intention of suing anyone, and left.

  To my unpleasant surprise, Celia was pacing next to my car. “Molly, thank God you’re here. I was going to check the class schedule and noticed your car. I have to talk to you.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Not here. Julie might come out and overhear.”

  I let Celia into my car. As soon as we had the door shut behind us, Celia blurted out, “My lawyer just called. You have to help me, Molly. I think the police are going to arrest me.”

  “Arrest you? Why?”

  “That night you were locked in the sauna, the police came to my door. I let one of the officers examine my key ring. Molly, there are copies of Julie’s keys on my ring. I didn’t put them there. Somebody is trying to set me up.”

  “How come you didn’t notice this new set of keys yourself?”

  “You’ve seen my key ring!” Celia held up her three-pound key ring. There were a dozen or more keys on it. “Look for yourself!” She jingled them in my face. “I’ve got a key to every door in the office building I own. Would you notice a new pair of keys on this key ring?”

  “Well, no, but I’d never have that many keys on my ring in the first place. It’s terrible for your ignition, for one thing.”

  “Molly, you’re missing the point here! I’m about to be hauled off to jail, and you’re worried about my ignition?”

  Actually, I was enjoying this. “Who do you think might have put the keys on your ring?”

  “Nancy Thornton.”

  “Nancy?” It had seemed too bizarre that this calm, quiet therapist could be a killer. Unless she turned out to be Catwoman. “Why?”

  “She had copies made of Julie’s keys. I know she did. I saw them.”

  “How could you possibly tell that they were Julie’s?”

  “I went to Nancy’s house a couple of weeks ago, and I spotted two pairs of brand-new keys on her counter. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but those had to be Julie’s keys. Somebody made copies of them, and here’s Nancy with a couple pairs of new keys, not even a month earlier. Don’t you see?”

  All I saw was that her spotting Nancy with a new pair of keys could be a coincidence. “Celia, I barely know you. Why are you asking me to help you?”

  “Because anybody who knows me won’t want to help. I’m not exactly Miss Popularity. You’ve got that friend who’s a policeman. Get him to do something. Have him explain to the Boulder police that I didn’t put the keys on my ring, and that I was at home, nursing a migraine, when the rest of you were here doing Zumba.”

  That seemed to be a reasonable enough request. Pointless, but reasonable. “Okay, Celia. I’ll tell Sergeant Newton your story.”

  She grabbed my arm. “That’s not all you’re going to do, is it?”

  “That’s what you asked me to do!” I stared at her hand on my wrist till she released it.

  “Aren’t you going to at least talk to Nancy? She’s at work now, and her office is right at the northwest corner of Folsom and Walnut.”

  “Talk to her about what? ‘Oh, by the way, Nancy. Celia thinks she saw you with a key to the sauna. Did you put that on her key ring, by any chance?’ She’ll say no, and that’ll be the end of it.”

  “So? That’s no stupider than half the questions you’ve asked us ever since Allison was killed.”

  “Be that as it may,” I said, “I have my limits.”

  She harrumphed and attempted to toss her unmovable hair. She got out of my car, looked back at me, and said, “You know what you are, Molly? Selfish!” She slammed the door of my little rental so hard it rocked on its chassis.

  While Celia marched to her own car, I drove away, silently phrasing a litany of comebacks to Celia’s name-calling. While still in the process of doing so, I found myself heading in the direction of Nancy’s office, rather than home. I pulled into the parking lot and sat there with the engine idling, trying to decide upon my next step. Celia’s “evidence” was so slight it was laughable, but if she happened to be right, then Nancy was both Allison’s killer and the person who had attempted to kill me, too. I couldn’t ignore that possibility, nor could I see myself marching into her office between sessions and demanding that she tell me whether or not she’d copied Julie’s key to the sauna.

  Nancy answered my dilemma for me by emerging from the building. She looked distraught. I did the natural, albeit despicable, thing and ducked down as she got into her car. Then I followed her. I kept silently kicking myself. She seemed like a nice person. Out of this group of five women, she was probably my favorite, though if I could get past my prejudices for stacked, perky women, Julie could have overtaken that role. But Nancy and I had more in common. Our age, if nothing else. Not to mention an A-minus cup size and an unperky disposition. We drove clear across town, with me just one or two cars back the whole way.

  Nancy pulled into Chautauqua, a lovely little park along the Foothills. Now I was doomed. There was never any place to park here during the summer, and there was enough acreage that if I found a parking space, I’d never be able to locate her.

  She pulled into one small parking lot and I continued past, searching for a space. Ah, well. Seemed like a nice day for a hike, and at least now I’d not have to work quite so hard at explaining my presence if I eventually did manage to locate her.

  In the last parking area before the dining hall—a high-porched, nineteenth-century building—a car was just pulling out, and I lucked into a spot. I parked and headed up the nearest dirt path, figuring that I’d endure a half-hour hike to loosen my bruised and battered muscles, then go home.

  Although I’d abandoned any notion of trying to find Nancy, I
immediately spotted her long-sleeved white blouse and ankle-length denim skirt. She made such an impressive picture with those soft white tresses of hers that she was easy to notice. She was crossing a field below me, heading more toward Ninth Street than the mountains. I swallowed my conscience and made my way down the slight incline toward her.

  I focused on my footing, periodically glancing up to trace our intersecting courses. Suddenly, she vanished. ‘

  Chapter 16

  I’ll Knead Your Dough

  I forced my aching muscles into a trot and aimed at the spot in the rough terrain of the Chautauqua meadow where I’d last seen Nancy. The grass blades were almost up to my knees, but as soon as I rose on one last incline, I caught sight of her again, sprawled on her back. From this angle, it was impossible to tell if she’d fallen, fainted, or merely decided to lie down and bask in the warm sunlight.

  “Nancy?” I called.

  She sat up abruptly and looked my way, utterly startled. While I trotted the last few steps toward her, she slipped what looked like a photograph into the pocket of her denim skirt.

  “Molly? I thought I spotted you in my rearview mirror, but I didn’t quite believe it. Did you follow me here?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “And what manner would that be?”

  “Well, the English language, I suppose. I’m sorry. This was totally stupid of me.” Which was something of an understatement. How was I supposed to explain myself? I didn’t want to say that Celia had pointed a finger at her; that could put me in jeopardy if Celia happened to be right. Nancy was still waiting patiently for me to explain. “This happens to me a lot. I really didn’t set out to follow you. You just happened to pull in front of me, and I …have some kind of compulsive need to see where people I know are going.”

  “You tail your acquaintances?”

  “Sometimes, though not as a general rule. Maybe I have an obsessive-compulsive friend-following disorder. Do you think that’s possible?”

  In flat tones, she answered, “What you’re talking about would normally be called stalking. Such behavior could indeed indicate an emotional disorder, which you might have. That is, if I believed you.” She took a deep breath and turned her face up to the sunlight. “I come here to rejuvenate my soul. I like to consider this my private place.” She smiled, and said in almost hypnotic tones, “Sit down, Molly. Tell me what you’re really doing here.”

  While I slowly took a seat on the hard-packed ground, I considered my alternatives, determined not to let her know that I was here because Celia had named her as a prime suspect. “Actually, I followed you because I wanted to talk to you. I might know who locked me in the sauna.” I waited for her reaction, but she gave none, her face still and her eyes focused on mine. “I think it might have been Celia Wentworth. Do you think that’s possible?”

  “Under the right circumstances, it’s possible for any of us to have done that. Reasonable people can take absolutely bizarre, unreasonable courses of action when they feel desperate. Why do you suspect her?”

  “She told me the police found the keys to the gym and the sauna on her key ring, though she also claims she didn’t put them there.”

  Nancy furrowed her brow. “She claims someone took her key ring and put the keys there to incriminate her, and she didn’t notice until after the police found them in her possession?”

  I nodded.

  The corners of her lips turned up just slightly. “Sounds like Celia, all right. You don’t believe her story?”

  “No, and in fact, I’m beginning to suspect she killed Allison.” Again, Nancy showed no reaction. “Yesterday, was I correct in gathering that you suspected Celia killed Allison?”

  She shielded her eyes to look at me. “I said no such thing. I believe I told you I was not going to give my opinion about who killed Allison, because I could be mistaken.”

  She’d accented “Allison” as she spoke. “Do you know who killed Richard Kenyon?”

  Her expression changed and she averted her eyes. Reluctantly she said, “The truth is, Allison had him killed.”

  I was very surprised, but did my best to hide my reaction. “You sound certain of that.”

  “I am. She hired somebody to do it. He was threatening to kill her, and she was certain he would succeed if she didn’t kill him first. She considered it self-defense.”

  “But the police supposedly exonerated her.”

  She looked me straight in the eyes and said, “Maybe so, but she was guilty. She told me herself she’d hired the killer.”

  Now it was her turn to study my face. I was obviously not as skilled as she at keeping my reactions in check, for she said, “You don’t seem convinced. That’s natural. You don’t want to believe ill of your deceased friend, and really, there’s no reason for you to. Richard Kenyon’s murder has nothing to do with you. I shouldn’t have told you.”

  “Why did you?”

  She stared off into space. “I’m tired of all the lies and obfuscations. I want this over with. I want the police to arrest Allison’s killer and be done with it.”

  “Me, too.” I rose, lost in thought. Having no other explanation for Allison’s former housecleaner’s behavior, I suspected that she had been hired to search Allison’s house. Nancy, Maria’s former boss, was the likeliest person to have hired Maria for that purpose. “By the way, there’s another thing I wanted to ask you about. I need to hire a housekeeper, to maintain my house so I can I re-rent it. Do you know of any here in town?”

  “Quite a change in subjects. What brought that up?”

  I shrugged. “Heck. I’d get dizzy if I tried to follow my thought patterns.”

  Nancy shook her head. “I used to have a semi-weekly housecleaner, but I had to fire her. The experience was so bad, I’ve given up on hiring out the job.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “She stole from me.”

  This was a conflicting story; Maria Chavez had said Nancy recommended her to Allison, but had fired her for overhearing the wrong things. “Did you report it to the police?”

  “No. She stole some cash from a hiding spot in my house, but she always took such small quantities—just ten dollars or so at a time—that it took me a long time to know for certain what was going on. Bringing charges against her seemed more trouble than it was worth.”

  “What was her name, so I can be sure not to use her?”

  She closed her eyes and basked in the sunlight. “I don’t remember. Maria something.”

  “Thanks. Have a good afternoon.” I left quickly. Once again, somebody was lying. Maria Chavez might have lied to protect her reputation. What reason might Nancy have to lie about her relationship with her former housekeeper? None…unless Maria had discovered something illicit or incriminating about Nancy.

  Mulling over the matter, I drove out of the lot and navigated west Boulder’s hilly streets. It was a little too convenient that Nancy Thornton was now willing to tell me that Allison had confessed to hiring Richard’s killer. She’d had plenty of opportunity to tell me that earlier, yet she’d waited until now.

  What if that was Richard in the photograph Nancy’d stashed in her skirt pocket just now, and she had been in love with him? Could Nancy have killed Allison to avenge Richard’s death? Then again, as a psychologist, surely Nancy had better control of her emotions than to fall for an avowed wife-beater.

  Already in the general area, I decided to drop into the coffee shop on the Hill to see if I could speak to Katherine’s assistant. It took me a moment to remember her name: Cindy Bates. I wanted to see if she or Katherine had easy access to a fax machine at the university. If Catwoman was Katherine, Cindy might have sent it to me to incriminate Katherine. Or perhaps Cindy was Catwoman, and Katherine had sent it for the same reason.

  There was probably some potential cartoon there—catwomen having a fight over Batman, but my thoughts were too jumbled now to grab hold of it. I parked on the Hill and soon found Cindy at her “office” in
the coffee shop. She was alone at her table, grading papers. She looked up at me and smiled. “Hello, Molly. Care to join me?”

  I grabbed the chair across from her and asked immediately, “Did you know that Katherine had a major drug arrest in her past?”

  “Oh, sure. It’s sort of her bragging rights, her claim to fame, if you will. Several of the older professors have arrests and even convictions, of one sort or another. Usually just from having demonstrated in an antiwar protest back during the Vietnam War. But Katherine points out with all of this pride that she’s the one with an actual felony.”

  “Doesn’t having a criminal record prevent these people from getting hired, when they have to put that down on their applications?”

  “Applications? Professors don’t fill out applications. They just send in their C.V.s. Then they interview with the department. Nobody ever asks about criminal convictions during the hiring process.”

  “So you don’t feel Katherine’s drug problems are something she’d want to hide?”

  Cindy shook her head with confidence. “Not within her professional circles. I can’t comment about her social circles, because I make a point of avoiding those.”

  The proverbial dead end. Katherine might be an obnoxious stuffed shirt, but she wouldn’t kill somebody just for having divulged an ugly detail from her past. “On to other topics. I received an unusual fax from somebody at C.U.” I snatched the fax out of my purse. My topic was moving from drugs straight to pornography. At least Cindy couldn’t accuse me of being a dull conversationalist. “It’s actually a photocopy of a faxed photograph, so it’s not very clear. I’m wondering if you have any idea who the woman is, or who could have sent it to me.”

  Her eyes widened as she looked at my copied eight-by-ten. “That pervert,” she snarled, yet there was obvious hurt mingled with the anger in her expression. “Richard suggested we do some sex games, and I told him I wasn’t interested. He found some other woman who was.”