Part 8 (1/2)
”I'll see you tomorrow night, then, at six. Please don't be late. You can bring someone if you want.”
She always said that.
”I won't be late,” I said firmly. I never was: Roe Teagarden, punctual librarian. Didn't I sound exciting? I sighed after we'd said good-bye, pretty much standard ritual after a phone conversation with Aida Teagarden Queensland.
But my mother had always done her best by me, and she loved me. I loved her too. It would have been nice if I hadn't had to constantly remind myself of that. Abruptly, I was fed up with my own whininess, and decided it was high time I went to bed.
This had certainly been a highly eventful Sat.u.r.day, compared with my normal weekend routine. I suppressed the memory of Celia's appearance when she was dead, and instead spun myself a fantasy in which Joel Park Brooks came to my door and begged me to take her place in the movie, and I did so with completely unexpected talent and grace, and some incredibly attractive actor-not anybody obvious like George Clooney or Mel Gibson, but someone more cerebral, like John Cusack-came to my door and begged me to return to Hollywood with him and tan by his pool and be his love G.o.ddess, since I was far more genuine and original than the shallow movie beauties surrounding him . . .
There's no age limit or personality conflict in fantasies, and this one merged pleasantly into sleep.
Next morning was a good Sunday for church. I attend on most Sundays, but sometimes I'm more enthusiastic than others. I wasn't sure what was happening to me, what process had been set in motion this past week, but I was relieved to feel better. I didn't realize how long a dark cloud had hung around me until it began to lift. I slicked my hair back and put it up as smoothly as I manage, and I wore a fall suit of a russet color. I put on my gold-rimmed gla.s.ses, and I had suede pumps and a purse to match. Amber earrings, I decided, and a dab of perfume.
”You look good,” I told my mirror earnestly. ”Pretty darn darn good.” good.”
I got to St. Stephen's about nine-fifteen. We had an early service, since Aubrey also preached at another church about thirty miles away at eleven o'clock. I slipped into the pew I usually used, noticed my mother and John hadn't gotten there yet, and slid to my knees to pray. Our church is small and beautiful, and just breathing the air of it makes me feel better. The organist began her playing before I'd finished, and I eased back into the pew and listened with my eyes closed. I don't have much of an ear for music, but I thought I was listening to Handel. The pew creaked as someone sat by me, and I opened my eyes after listening a little longer. Robin was on his knees next to me, wearing a perfectly proper suit and tie. He sat back by me, and began the business of book-marking his hymnal and turning to the proper place in the Book of Common Prayer. When he was arranged to his satisfaction, one of his long, slender hands reached over and patted mine. I turned my hand palm up so he could clasp it, and he gave my fingers a squeeze. His untidy hair was freshly washed and floating around his head in a coppery nimbus, and I averted my face so he couldn't see me smile.
Robin released my hand with another pat, and the processional began. We stood to observe it, and bowed at the pa.s.sage of the cross. I was reminded all over again of how much taller he was than I. As Aubrey, the lector, and the two acolytes disposed themselves at the front of the church, I saw Will Weir, the cameraman, scuttle into the back pew on the other side. He was wearing a sports jacket, a white s.h.i.+rt, and jeans; not standard churchgoing garb in Lawrenceton, but he was a visitor, after all. My mother and her husband had slipped in late, as well.
The sun poured in the windows of the church and I watched dust motes dance in the beams. The ritual unfolded exactly as it ought, and as the congregation knelt and stood in unison, I felt a deep calm wash over me.
Will scuttled out of the church as fast as he'd scuttled in, so he apparently didn't want to meet and greet. Astonis.h.i.+ngly, Robin went through the whole ritual. I gave him every opportunity to detach himself from me, because I was naturally aware that there was going to be speculation. But with the greatest tenacity, Robin stuck to my side and walked me to my car.
”My mother wonders if you'd like to come to dinner tonight,” I heard myself saving. Actually, that was true. She'd yanked me aside and ordered me to extend the invitation.
”How would you feel about that?”
I looked up at his small hazel eyes, fringed with rusty lashes. I looked down at my feet. ”If you'd like to come, that would be fine, of course.”
”Come by and pick me up at the hotel?”
”All right. Five-thirty okay?”
”Sure. Casual dress?”
”Oh, yes. I'll go home and change to pants and a s.h.i.+rt.”
”Will you let your hair down?”
”I don't know. I hadn't thought about it,” I said, more than a little surprised. I started to ask him why he wanted to know, but reined myself in. I also felt an impulse to ask him if he wanted to come home with me for lunch, and zapped that idea, too. Instead, I gave Robin a small smile and wave, and got in my car to go back to the house.
What an interesting morning it had turned out to be.
Arthur was parked in my driveway when I got back.
”I like the hair,” he called.
I sorted through my keys and nodded in reply as I went to the side door. ”Come on in,” I called, unlocking the door and deactivating the alarm.
Arthur was wearing a suit, and he was clean-shaven, but I was fairly sure he hadn't been at church.
”You're dressed up,” I said tentatively.
”I was on the news.” He looked embarra.s.sed. ”You wouldn't believe how many news people are down at the station.”
”I haven't been watching the television. I guess it was everywhere on the news.” Arthur nodded. I was standing in the middle of my kitchen, tucking my keys back into my purse, and thinking as hard as I could. ”Oh, this is bad. They'll be coming around again.”
”Soon as they get directions to your house.”
I said a very unladylike word.
Arthur laughed. ”You can say that again. You know if it gets bad you can come stay with me.”
”I think not,” I said, smiling. ”Notorious Widow in Cop's Love Shack?”
Arthur took a deep breath. ”Listen, Roe, who in that movie crew was especially close to Celia Shaw?”
”Almost anyone would know more about that than I know.” I slung the purse onto the counter, slid out of my pumps, and made some fresh coffee. I got a mug out of the cabinet and put it by the coffeepot, and I got out some sugar and milk for Arthur's coffee. Funny, if you'd asked me how he took it, I wouldn't have thought I remembered-but here I was, setting out the things he took.
”I have reasons for asking you.”
”I'm sure you do. Well, of course, Robin dated her . . .though there were signs that the relations.h.i.+p was over.”
”Like her going to bed with your stepson?”
”Yeah, like that. No, really, there were indications before that.”
”Who else?”
”She seemed to be big buddies with Meredith Askew. I'm not sure how two-way that was, but Celia used Meredith to deliver her messages.”
”What about other crew members?”
”Will Weir was with her when I ran into them while they were shopping.”
Arthur consulted his notes. ”He would be the head cameraman. I understand he's more famous in his field that Celia Shaw had gotten to be in hers.”
”Well, he has a few years on her.”
”Anyone else?”
”When we went out to dinner at Heavenly Barbecue, Mark Chesney went.”
”He the a.s.sistant director? The gay one?”
”Right. Well, that is, he's the a.s.sistant director. I don't know about the gay part.” Actually, that was a conclusion I'd reached myself. I found that I was unwillingly impressed. There was no telling how many people Arthur had interviewed yesterday. He was definitely on top of this investigation.
”Did you notice anything peculiar about this actress?”
”Peculiar? How so? Mentally?” I'd seldom seen anyone more focused than Celia Shaw.