Quilty as Charged, page 14
But when she stepped back, turning to leave the room and tell the group, she noticed something on the small table between the two beds. A note. In clear black letters, it read, “I’m sorry”—that was it. No punctuation, no signature, no explanation.
Amy was sorry. What was Amy sorry for? Lydia’s vision flickered for minute as the ramifications of the note sank in. Had Lydia just read a confession? Amy killed Fran? Amy killed Fran.
Lydia stumbled out of the room and down the stairs, where Auden was still working on stacking the wood and tending to the fire. And drying off from his short adventure out into the still-raging storm.
“Auden, I need you to come upstairs; something has happened to Amy,” Lydia said and then turned and headed back upstairs without waiting to see if he followed. He was right behind her as she opened the door and pointed to the pill bottle on the floor.
“I already checked for a pulse. Auden. She’s dead. And I think she killed herself. That’s fentanyl. And that, I think that’s a note.” Auden was already craning his neck to read the note on the small table.
“‘I’m sorry—,’” he read out loud to himself. “Is this a confession?” Auden asked, turning to Lydia, eyes widening in shock.
“What do you think?” Lydia replied, honestly curious if he would come to the same conclusion she had.
“That’s sure what it looks like. I guess I just don’t understand what I’m missing …,” he admitted.
“Well. I think I might know,” Lydia paused. It had flashed in her mind as soon as she saw the note, a reason that tied it all together. She didn’t want to break Cynde’s confidence, but the stakes had changed. There was no more room for secrets. Not after a second death.
“Earlier, Cynde confided in me. She’d been in love with Fran. And well, I’ve noticed the way that Amy looks … looked … at Cynde. What if it was jealousy? Some sort of love triangle?” Lydia posited, looking to see Auden’s reaction.
He whistled softly. “I guess we all had things we didn’t know about Fran. I wish she had felt like she could have been honest with me. With all of us. I wish. Well, anyway, yeah, that could make sense. I’ve got to be honest, I could see a love triangle, but it’s hard to imagine Amy killing anyone. She was just so.…” He trailed off, searching for the right word.
“Vanilla?” Lydia offered.
“Exactly. But I guess you never really know what someone else is capable of. You’re going to need to tell the group. And we’ll have to lock this door now as well.”
“I know I have to tell them. I should be glad we have an answer. At least we know what happened, and we don’t have to be afraid of anyone else getting hurt. But I just can’t believe someone else is dead. Where on earth did she get fentanyl? That stuff is seriously bad news. Amy knew that. Her brother had been addicted to the stuff. It killed him.” Lydia explained.
“Wait, Lydia, did you look at the pill bottle?”
“Yes. Didn’t you hear me? I mean, I saw it and saw what it was,” Lydia replied, feeling like she was being unfairly criticized. She crossed her arms across her body without even realizing it. He was supposed to be on her side.
Auden seemed to ignore her reply as he stepped gingerly toward the bottle.
“Look, Lydia. This is Fran’s. It has her name right here on the prescription. She must have been in pain and just not wanted to say. This was hers. When Amy, well, when it happened, Amy must have seen this. Maybe she took it at the time? Hid it in her room for some reason? And then the guilt must have gotten the better of her. And she had a solution right there. Take the pills. And, well … here we are. She knew from her own brother that it would be fatal. I might be able to believe that Amy killed Fran, but if she did, I bet she felt horrible afterward. She just wasn’t cold blooded,” Auden concluded.
“Oh, my word. You’re right. About all of it. Oh, Lord, this is going to crush Cynde. Don’t touch the bottle. Let’s just go downstairs and get this over with. I still have the master key, but maybe, I don’t know, maybe Cynde will want to say goodbye or something before I lock the room up.”
For the second time that terrible weekend, Lydia left a bedroom and went to deliver the worst possible news.
Lydia walked to the top of the stairs leading to the basement and called down. “Hey, everybody, let’s take a break from the sewing. I need to talk to the group.”
She could hear what sounded like Clark muttering complaints along with the sound of zippers as the others closed up their tool pouches and headed up to the main floor.
Again. She had to say it again. The sewists filled the living room, taking seats around the fireplace, exhausted. Everyone was trying to care about sewing, and she could have cried in gratitude for their effort. They had no idea how much worse things were about to get. They probably thought she wanted to plan for dinner. Lydia walked to the fireplace and stood facing the group, an eerie echo of the day before. Clark noticed and tried to make a joke.
“Oh, look, everyone, Lydia has to make yet another announcement. What is it this time, Lydia? A black bear in the bathroom?” His sarcasm only earned him a weak laugh from the women around him.
“Amy is upstairs,” Lydia started, but then choked on her words and couldn’t finish the sentence.
Cynde cut in. “I know. I’m the one who told you she was resting.”
“Amy is upstairs, and I am so sorry to have to tell all of you this, but it looks like she has taken her own life.”
Would Lydia ever get used to this? She hoped not, because she hoped she would never have to give this sort of news, ever again.
Silence met her words. Until.
“What do you mean?!” Heather yelled.
Heather stood, glaring at Lydia, as if Lydia had done something wrong. All of a sudden, the saying “Don’t kill the messenger” made terrible sense. Lydia stuttered, caught off guard by the reaction, since she had only really worried about Cynde. It had never occurred to her that Heather would respond with anger. The others were equally flummoxed.
Mary reached out a hand to the young woman, who shook it off with a brisk jerk of her shoulders. Heather repeated herself, speaking slowly and annunciating each word with excruciating precision: “What. Do. You. Mean?”
“Amy is upstairs. She’s dead. It looks like she killed herself, overdosed,” Lydia said slowly, as kindly as she could, thinking of both Heather’s anger and Cynde’s inevitable grief. Lydia also knew that the group would think this was the worst part of it, but Lydia had more to say.
“And, um, next to her body was a note, and she said she’s sorry.”
For a moment it sounded like the ice storm was inside the house; somehow the noise felt next to them, inside of them.
“That is what I mean, Heather. I’m so sorry,” and she let the M’s turn in unison to comfort the young woman.
Lydia gave her full attention to Cynde, saying, “Cynde, I think Amy killed Fran and then killed herself.” With that, she moved to Cynde, and grasping her firmly under her elbow, steered her around the fireplace and into the kitchen with its long pine table. She guided Cynde, who walked as if drunk, to a chair and then sat down next to her.
She could hear the others talking in the living room, but she let stillness wash over the table for a moment. She owed Cynde a moment to catch her breath. As if a moment would be anywhere close to enough. Still, there was more to be said.
“Cynde, I am so sorry to ask this, but do you think, well, is it possible that Amy was in love with you? And um, well, is it possible she was jealous of Fran?” Lydia tried to keep her voice soft and gentle. Cynde was past crying. She looked empty. Lost.
She shook her head, “I don’t think so. I don’t think so?” She looked up at Lydia as if it were a test question and Lydia could give her the real answer. “We were friends. Amy was a little … timid. And I think she likes that I’m a bit raucous. I thought she would enjoy this weekend. Maybe relax and let down her guard. She never gave me any reason to think.… But if she really left a note, how could I not have seen it, Lydia? Am I blind? Am I just broken?” And at that, Cynde gave herself over to tears again. Quiet, seemingly endless streams of tears rolled down her face. For one absurd moment, Lydia thought of her beloved British murder mysteries and all the many offered cups of tea. Cynde needed sugar and caffeine.
“Cynde, listen. Go sit in the summer room and take a minute for yourself. I’m going to bring you some chocolate from last night and some tea,” Lydia said, and she helped Cynde to the room at the end of the kitchen. With the kettle on, she searched for chocolate to put on a plate with the tea. She could hear the others in the living room, peppering Auden with questions.
Cynde held the door open for Lydia as she took the tea and chocolate out to the summer room. There was nothing to say. Cynde had already confided in Lydia. She had already mourned the loss of a friend. This was something beyond grief. So, Lydia simply sat by her friend and looked out at the storm.
At least she could offer Cynde this, company in the silence. Then, as if on cue in some terrible mash-up of Noises Off and The 39 Steps, a new sound joined the relentless susurration of the rain. It was Charlie. Her normally sleepy dog was barking like the world was ending. To be fair, she thought, wasn’t it?
Lydia rushed from the summer room to the living room, only to find Charlie facing the large windows, hackles raised and growling. She looked out into what was visible of the back yard, thinking maybe Fran had been right about the bears, after all. Using her softest voice, she tried to call Charlie up onto the couch for a snuggle, something he could never refuse, but the dog didn’t budge. In fact, instead of relenting, he switched from growling back to full-volume barking.
Her shoulders scrunched toward her ears as she braced herself for Clark’s inevitable complaint. He was hardly Charlie’s biggest fan under the best of circumstances. Listening to Charlie unleash another volley of barks, she had to admit this was far from the best circumstances.
But it wasn’t Clark who finally snapped and yelled at the dog. It was Heather.
“Shut up!” she yelled at Charlie, surprising the entire room. “Shut up!” Heather repeated, even more loudly.
It did work. The dog stopped barking almost immediately. Heather had always made sure to keep treats at the register for Charlie, and the poor dog couldn’t seem to process that his benefactor had turned against him.
But that didn’t stop Heather, she continued her rant, “What are you even barking at? There is nothing to see! And nothing out there!”
The scene had turned tragic, which worked like a superhero beacon for the M’s.
Martha and Mary stepped forward, flanking Heather.
“Dogs can be such a nuisance,” Mary muttered quietly to Heather. Lydia had noticed that they often started with a statement of agreement. In another life, Lydia thought, those women would have made amazing hostage negotiators. Or, actually, mobsters.
“Breeding really makes a difference when it comes to dogs, especially boy dogs,” Martha added, as they herded Heather toward a couch.
“My cousin in Savannah had a spaniel. Now that was a hunting dog.…” Martha continued with the anecdote, which worked almost like a spell on Heather. Lydia could see the tension leave the young woman’s body. Meanwhile Mary stepped toward Cynde and Lydia, who at this point had been joined by Auden as well as Clark, surprised as anyone that it was Heather, and not him, angry about the dog.
“Why don’t y’all make yourselves useful and get dinner ready,” Mary suggested sweetly. Lydia knew from experience, however, that it was not really a suggestion. It was a command.
They filed into the kitchen, leaving the three figures on the couch in the living room, a strange tableau of anger and comfort where no one actually touched anyone else. The M’s didn’t know, but Lydia did, just how much it might mean to Heather to be mothered.
Fran may have had great plans for that night’s dinner, but the refrigerator could no longer be trusted. At least the stove still worked, and they had running water, even if it wasn’t hot. Fran had wrapped up some cornbread tightly, and Lydia had every intention of finding some honey to put on it.
Cynde simply sat down and stared off into space, and by silent agreement, the other three let her be.
“I already made lunch, so I don’t see why I should be expected to pull off another miracle for dinner,” Clark huffed.
“That was a lovely lunch,” Lydia offered, “but I think the M’s are trying to comfort Heather. The day has just been too much for her. While they talk about the Westminster Dog Show, the least we can do is make ourselves useful.”
As if in response to her statement, Charlie circled and then flopped into a pile at Cynde’s feet. Following her gaze, Auden asked, “Why do you think Charlie was barking like that?
“Because he’s a dog. And not the best trained dog at that,” Clark answered before Lydia could even open her mouth.
She ignored him and answered Auden anyway, “I don’t know. That’s really unlike him. You’ve probably noticed; Charlie is more of a sleeper than a fighter. Maybe there was some sort of animal in the yard that he could hear and we couldn’t?”
“Could be. Though I don’t see why an animal would be out in a storm this bad,” Auden countered.
Clark joined in again, “Maybe it was the same person that tore through the driveway yesterday. You can’t convince me that wasn’t Amy, too.”
Lydia’s stomach dropped. Suddenly she wished desperately that Charlie would start barking again. Or that Martha would demand Lydia listen to her thoughts on why water spaniels were superior to hunting spaniels. Anything to get out of the conversation unfolding before her.
Clark, however, was warming to his subject, “Think about it. Somebody drives past the house like a maniac. Then two people die. Now the dog is going berserk at an empty window. Are you trying to tell me there is no connection?”
Lydia thought back to Heather’s accusations. That was another incident to add, even though she didn’t mention it out loud. Then she remembered Amy’s face, breaking into a smile as she rambled on about some comedian Lydia had never heard of. She couldn’t believe that same woman was a murderer.
“We’ve been thinking this whole time that this has been about Fran. Why? Maybe this is about Amy. Maybe it was her fault someone hurt Fran and she killed herself out of guilt. Guilt that it was her fault, not that she actually committed the crime,” and with that Clark stopped talking, like a lawyer in a courtroom resting his case. Lydia wondered if he knew about Amy’s connection to Hillside.
He seemed oblivious to Cynde, still sitting at the other end of the long, wooden table. But Auden wasn’t.
“I don’t know about you guys, but I’m getting really hungry. How about we try to figure out this dinner situation? Easier to solve a mystery when you aren’t hungry, right?” Auden asked, standing up and moving toward the pantry, guiding the conversation away from the death and grief just above them in the house. He opened the pantry doors and let out a disappointed sigh.
“We have … more instant iced tea,” he said, trying to capture some of the mirth from earlier. The attempt fell flat. But at least they weren’t talking about Amy anymore. Lydia was grateful Auden had steered them clear of those rocks. She stood up and joined him at the pantry, leaving Clark and Cynde to their thoughts.
Lowering her voice so that only Auden would hear, Lydia whispered, “I need to talk to you.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Auden, do you think there’s something we are missing, some connection between Fran and Amy? Besides Cynde. I keep thinking about “the vote” you told me about. Amy’s brother was treated at Hillside. Could that be a connection? How much did Amy know about Fran’s opposition to the rehab center? What if whoever has been driving past the house is involved, too? I know it seems all tied up, but I don’t feel safe, Auden. I don’t.”
“Lydia, the storm won’t last too much longer. We’ll be able to call the police soon. They can figure it out. In the meantime, I’ll keep you safe, I promise,” he added, and they both quickly glanced out to the living room, to the couch, and to the gun only they knew was hidden beneath it.
“Let’s figure out dinner,” Auden said, trying to distract her. And Lydia had to admit, she wanted to be distracted. Since Lydia had no intention of opening the refrigerator twenty-four hours into their power outage, they raided the pantry again, and dinner was a weird mix of what could be heated up on the stove and what was just easily at hand. When the group reconvened at the table, the days of salade niçoise were clearly over. Instead, they faced a variety of canned soups, heated and displayed in Fran’s beautiful white-and-blue bowls. Fran’s cornbread, a bowl of fruit left over from breakfast, and a massive plate of cookies Cynde had brought rounded out the mismatched buffet.
They ate quietly. Morale was so low that Mary and Martha failed even to comment on the faux pas of serve-yourself soup and a simultaneous dessert offering—not even to say “how daring it is of Lydia to try something so unexpected” or whatever elegant, backhanded compliment they normally would have managed. Instead, the two women suddenly looked old, not because of anything so superficial as wrinkles, but because they seemed, for the first time, terribly vulnerable.
Lydia chose a questionable cream of tomato soup and a massive wedge of cornbread. Auden followed suit. Cynde put a piece of cornbread on a plate and pushed it around. The M’s had settled for chicken noodle soup, and they ate it daintily, one well-formed sip after the next, never bending their faces toward their bowls. Heather crumbled up her cornbread on top of some lentil soup, and Lydia couldn’t decide if she was intrigued or horrified by the combination. They had finished the wine Saturday night and not found any other bottles in the house.
Lydia had been almost tempted to see if she could raid whatever secret source of gin the M’s had squirreled away, but they weren’t drinking at the meal. Besides, Lydia thought, she didn’t need anything clouding her thinking or impacting her judgment. Too much had happened.
