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  Her tone said, He’s the rich one. You could have fooled me, based on this palace.

  I touched my bosom with my free hand. “Why, it would be simply gauche to approach the bereaved husband to foot the bill, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose,” she replied, unconvinced. She shrugged. “I guess I could call Travis at the office, and maybe write you a check.”

  She began to get up.

  “Oh, no money now, dear!” I replied quickly, thinking of the disturbed drawer. “We don’t know the precise cost just yet. Our committee is taking quotes. I’m merely out soliciting interest among potential supporters, and since you and your husband run in the same circle as the Sinclairs, this seemed a natural first stop.”

  She seemed not at all moved by the notion of a memorial window for her late friend. But she said, “Okay, then. You can count on us. Now, if there’s nothing else, as I said, I have to pick my daughter up.”

  Those were obviously my walking papers, so a direct approach was my only remaining option.

  “Uh, there is something else, dear . . . just briefly? I wondered if perhaps you had an idea of who may have wanted Vanessa dead?”

  I expected her to duck my query, but the woman said, “I thought so. I’ve heard about your amateur sleuthing.”

  Of course she had! Everybody in Serenity had.

  She was saying, matter of fact, “I thought Wes killed her, originally.”

  “My! Why was that, dear?”

  A facial shrug. “Because of an argument he and Vanessa had at the swap meet. Wasn’t your daughter the instigator?”

  “Oh, I’m afraid I didn’t witness the altercation. Were you there, dear?”

  A nod. “I’d taken Jennifer and one of her friends down to the riverfront for it. They wanted to go on the rides, and I get a kick out of wandering around the tents.”

  “Do you know what the argument was about? Was it simply about my daughter and Wes running into each other... ?”

  She shrugged. “I was too far away to hear what Vanessa and Wes were saying. But I can tell you this—it got ugly.”

  “Was your husband with you?”

  “No, Travis was out playing golf with Brent and Sean.”

  That select circle again. I made a mental note to examine the clubhouse registry, to find out how long the three men were actually out on the course.

  Emily was saying, “That could have been what the argument was about. Wes wanted to play golf with the guys, but Vanessa insisted he go to the swap meet. Anyway, that’s what my husband said, later.”

  I said, “Doesn’t seem like anything to kill a person over.”

  “It wasn’t merely that,” Emily offered. “Those two hadn’t been getting along for some time.”

  As the judge used to say to Hamilton Burger on Perry Mason, she had opened the door.

  I asked, “Was their discord over Vanessa not being able to conceive?”

  My knowledge of this clearly shocked her. “Why, yes.”

  “Well, then, dear, you should know that Vanessa told Brandy . . . the very afternoon of the murder . . . that there were still options open to her, in that area.”

  The woman laughed once. “Well, I don’t know what those would be.”

  “Then should she and Wes have divorced, she’d have received nothing. Because of their prenuptial agreement.” I beamed at her surprised expression. “Oh yes, dear, I know all about that, too.”

  Emily narrowed her eyes to slits. “Mrs. Borne, I think Vanessa had something up her sleeve that would land her some of that Sinclair money, prenup or no prenup.”

  “Oh?”

  Suddenly my somewhat reluctant hostess seemed uncomfortable. “Sorry, Mrs. Borne. I’m afraid I’ve already said too much.” She waved away our entire conversation. “As far as I’m concerned, we should move on. Wes has been cleared. Let’s go on with our lives.”

  “But, dear—Vanessa’s murderer is still out there.”

  “Why do you care? Anyway, I really must go to get my daughter.”

  I rose. “Thank you for the glass of water, Mrs. Thompson. I’ll be in touch when I know the exact cost of the church window.”

  I bid the woman adieu, pleased that she had corroborated intel provided by my gal pals Frannie and Cora, but disappointed that I hadn’t been able to find out more about whatever it was that Mrs. Wes Sinclair had had “up her sleeve.” Had that sleeve’s-worth been enough to cost Vanessa her life?

  My next stop was the home of Brent and Megan Morgan on Captain Bixby Way (named for a steamboat captain friend of Twain’s). The president of the Serenity Bank, his homemaker wife, and their two small boys lived in a sprawling one-story ranch-style house.

  Getting no answer at the front door, I followed high-pitched laughter and water splashing to the pool in back.

  Megan was seated beneath an umbrella at a glass-topped table, reading a book. A trifle on the plump side—by yesterday’s standards “curvaceous,” by today’s euphemisms “curvy”—she wore a navy-and-white striped bathing suit, her chestnut hair pulled back in a ponytail. The woman exuded a wholesome, girl-next-door quality sharply at odds with the notion that she might be involved in extramarital hanky-panky.

  “Hel . . . lo . . . oh!” I called out, peering from over a locked wooden fence—natural wood, no Tom Sawyer paintbrush trickery here.

  Megan looked up from her book, which I am sorry to say was not one of ours (it was a mystery novel, but never mind what—the other writers can do their own promotion!).

  “It’s Vivian Borne, dear. Might I have a word?”

  She put the novel face down, open to her place (rough on the spine!) (the book’s, not the reader’s). “Yes, all right, Mrs. Borne. Just reach over and undo the lock.”

  I did so, then made my way to the table, skirting various pool toys.

  “What is it you want?” she asked, neither unfriendly nor welcoming.

  “Do you mind if I sit? These old knees just aren’t what they used to be!”

  My knees were fine—just another ploy. (It was my hips that had been replaced.)

  She gestured unenthusiastically. “Have a seat.”

  Settling into the chair next to her, I began, “I dropped by because—”

  I paused as the woman’s attention went to her two towheaded boys in the shallow end of the pool, where they were hitting each other with rubber mallets.

  “Tommy! Jimmy! Stop that! I’ll take those away from you.”

  The boys ceased their roughhousing, giggling at each other.

  Megan’s eyes returned to me. “Sorry . . . you were saying?”

  I went into my stained-glass window spiel again, after which my bored hostess said, “Brent and I have already given a substantial contribution to a charity in Vanessa’s name.”

  I tisk-tisked. “Oh, that is too bad.”

  “I will discuss it with Brent, though,” she said. “How has the support been?” This seemed more out of politeness than interest, her eyes back on the two boys.

  “Very good, actually,” I replied. “As a matter of fact, I’ve just come from calling on a friend of yours, I believe—Emily Thompson?”

  Now she was interested. “Oh? Is Emily contributing?”

  “Yes.”

  A wry smile. “Emily always has been a soft touch.”

  “Well, the support of the Thompsons is most appreciated. And I hope to find Tiffany Hartman receptive as well.”

  A smile turned smirky. “Good luck getting anything out of her.”

  “You seem to know both Emily and Tiffany well. You three girls must be so close—like sisters, I would think.”

  Megan’s eyes narrowed. “And why would you think that?”

  I gestured expansively. “Because you’re all about the same age, and all live out here at Mark Twain—such a lovely place, by the way. So picturesque, so peaceful.”

  She nodded. “It is nice.”

  “Emily mentioned you girls knew each other from college.”

  A
ctually this was a lie—the info had come from the Romeos.

  Megan shifted in her chair. “We all went to Columbia, yes.”

  “And you were sorority sisters?”

  “Well, only in the sense we were all in sororities. We didn’t know each other well, not like the guys did.”

  “Your husbands went to Columbia as well?”

  “Yes. Brent, Travis, Sean and Wes all belonged to the same frat.”

  “Delta Sigma.”

  She registered surprise. “How did you know?”

  I shrugged. “Just stands to reason—it’s widely known as the most desirable fraternity.” I had fumbled the ball, but hoped my recovery had been adequate.

  Megan was saying, “It wasn’t until the last semester that I got to know the other girls—Emily, Tiffany, and Vanessa. We’d met at general Greek events. But mostly it was because we all started dating the guys. And they were tight.”

  I nodded. “It’s obvious why Wesley came back to Serenity—to run the family business. But how is it that everyone else wound up here, too?”

  “Well, it’s fairly simple. Wes said he could get his friends, our husbands, good jobs—positions that otherwise might’ve taken them years to attain.” A shrug. “He said he had a lot of influence.”

  He hadn’t been lying—I had no doubt that Brent, Sean, and Travis owed Wes their careers, or at least the fast ascent of them.

  Megan was saying, “Another reason we all live here is that the guys didn’t want to split up ‘a winning combination. ’ They are like brothers.”

  I beamed at her. She was sitting down, but was about to get her shapely bottom kissed, anyway. “And weren’t they all fortunate to find such wonderful wives on the Columbia campus. It’s almost like a fairy tale!”

  Dollars to doughnuts, those four young men went coldly, calculatingly wife-hunting among the best sororities—a chauvinistic attitude not at odds with their eventual wife-swapping.

  I asked pleasantly, “What did you major in, dear?”

  “Elementary education.”

  “Have you had a chance to do anything in that field?”

  She shook her head, ponytail swishing. “Brent prefers I not work, and anyway, raising two boys is a full-time job.”

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, dear, in your tax bracket, hiring a nanny would hardly be out of the reach.”

  “Oh, we could afford that, all right. But Brent thinks, in a small town like Serenity? Better I be a stay-at-home mother, active in PTA and other local affairs—activities more befitting a bank president’s wife.”

  Try as I might, I could not find resentment in her words. But I sensed their presence nonetheless.

  Megan went on with forced cheerfulness, “And let me tell you—these two boys are a handful. But rewarding? So rewarding . . .”

  I laughed politely. “I’m sure they are.” The little hooligans were hitting each other with the rubber bats again. “Perhaps when they’re grown and off to college, you can make use of that degree. Mothers have as much right to seek fulfillment outside of marriage as the next guy.”

  She seemed to like my little homily, so I ventured on: “It must have been hard on you, dear, when you heard about Vanessa’s terrible passing.”

  For a moment she stared out at the water, at the waves her boys were making. “I keep thinking . . .” She blinked. “I keep thinking about what I was doing the afternoon she was killed.”

  I waited.

  “I had gone to the grocery store around three. By four I was home.” Megan’s eyes met mine. “Wasn’t she killed between four and five? I was putting the food away, then cooking dinner. Doing something so . . . so mundane.”

  “Dear, that’s the way of these things,” I said gently. “The mundane is our solace, the source of our sanity.” Then I asked, “How did you receive the news?”

  “Brent told me. When he came home, around six. He heard about it in the clubhouse after a round of golf with Travis and Sean.”

  Apparently the three men were together that afternoon —unless their wives had been given a story to keep straight.

  I asked, “Who do you think killed Vanessa?”

  She looked surprised I’d even raise the issue. “Oh, a burglar, of course. Who would want Vanessa dead?”

  Who indeed.

  I had saved Tiffany Hartman for last. She lived on Huckleberry Finn Drive with her investment broker husband, Sean (no children), in a two-story cement and glass house that looked like a modern fortress, its exterior as uninviting as the woman herself could be, according to my gal pals, anyway.

  My finger hadn’t yet touched the doorbell when the front door opened, and Tiffany stepped out, tall, willowy, with ice-blond long hair, and features that could have graced the cover of any fashion magazine. Her attire was crisply fashionable, too—white silk blouse with blue silk scarf, white jeans.

  “Look,” she said crossly, “Sean and I aren’t interested in contributing to any damn stained-glass window.”

  Emily had called her, or maybe Megan.

  “Oh, that is too bad,” I said disappointedly. “I’m sure Vanessa would have appreciated your gift.”

  “And I’m sure she wouldn’t.”

  I frowned. “Why is that, dear?”

  Her face wasn’t nearly so lovely when she sneered. “Because Vanessa only went to church for appearance sake. She didn’t believe in anything but herself.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you must be wrong. And even so, isn’t it better to be charitable to the recently departed?”

  A smirk did even less for her looks. “Listen, lady—I think I knew Vanessa Sinclair just a little bit better than you.”

  I switched tactics. “So, then, you were good friends. The rumors aren’t true.”

  “What rumors?”

  “That the two of you hated each other.”

  Nor did a frown do anything for her beauty. “That’s utterly ridiculous.”

  “Is it? Then I would imagine you have an alibi for the afternoon of her murder.”

  “You’re just an old busybody of a snoop. Why should I tell you a damn thing?”

  I smiled sweetly, but I was burning. “Because, dear, if you have a cast-iron alibi, as we say in the trade, I can put an end to all that nasty gossip.”

  She studied me, eyes condescending and insolent. “How’s this for ironclad? I was in Chicago on a shopping trip that Saturday, and didn’t get back until Sunday.”

  “You and your husband were away?”

  “No—Sean stayed home to play golf with Brent and Travis . . . as I’m sure you already know, Miss Marple. Now, I want you out of here! Or do I call the police?”

  “On my way, dear, on my way. Oh! Would you mind just one teensy-eensy last question . . . and I promise you it’s not about Vanessa or the murder.”

  “What is it?” she snapped.

  “Well, I understand you and your friends have a bridge club—the Eight of Clubs?”

  “Yes. So what?”

  “I used to be a whiz at it, years ago, and have taken it back up lately, and find myself simply floundering.”

  “How sad.”

  “Maybe you could tell me—if a declarer were to open one spade, what would the next person’s bid have to be?”

  For a brief moment, Tiffany’s eyes glazed, then the cold patronizing gaze returned.

  “Unless I’m actually playing,” she replied, “it’s difficult for me to say. Sorry I couldn’t answer your question.”

  “Oh, but you did, dear,” I said with a sweet smile and an attitude at least as condescending as her own.

  She didn’t understand the game.

  (Answer: one no trump or two of clubs.)

  I bid her a cheerful good-bye.

  It was with some trepidation that I arrived home, late afternoon, knowing that Brandy would be perturbed about me taking the Caddy.

  I got out of the car, then went around the front to retrieve my purse on the rider’s side floor, when I caught just the barest gl
impse of someone darting out of the hedges that bordered the driveway.

  Pain exploded into a starry sky inside my skull, Vincent van Gogh coming back to do one last painting.

  And that’s the last thing I remember.

  Mother’s Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  Clothing bought at a swap meet cannot be returned, so if the vendor doesn’t have a makeshift dressing room—or won’t allow you to try the item on in a nearby bathroom—don’t buy it. Can you imagine how frustrating it would be to have a pair of jodhpurs you can’t get into?

  Chapter Nine

  Knockout

  (In tourney, winning teams advance to next round.)

  In the emergency room at Serenity General Hospital, an unconscious Mother lay pale and still while a female nurse in green scrubs, nametag NANCY, checked her vitals. The paramedics who responded to my 911 call had already applied a head bandage to stem the bleeding, along with a neck brace.

  I was waiting for the doctor working tonight’s shift to finish with another emergency down in another ER room—according to Nurse Nancy, a young man who’d been in a motorcycle accident—and the fifteen minutes or so that had already passed might have been an hour.

  I could only stand next to the examining table, feeling helpless, holding Mother’s limp hand, stroking it gently.

  What if she died?

  Or what if she never regained consciousness?

  “Dear,” Mother once joshed, “if I should ever become a vegetable, please don’t pull the plug till I’m down to a size eight.”

  At the time, that had made me laugh.

  At the time.

  The doctor finally appeared, a distinguished if mildly harried-looking middle-aged man with silver metal-frame glasses, hair gray at the temples, and a bit of a paunch beneath his white lab jacket. Nametag: DR. WARNER.

  “Status,” he said to Nurse Nancy.

  “Head trauma—unconscious, but breathing on her own.”

  The nurse filled his extended hand with her clipboard. He studied the white sheet on top. Looked up at me. “Did you see what happened, Ms. Borne?”