Had I been too impulsive? Was Wiggins even now scratch-ing through my name as a future emissary from the Department of Good Intentions? I welcomed the cool fresh breeze and waited.
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Wiggins didn’t come. Perhaps once again he was willing to accept a good result or, at the least, wait and see the outcome. Perhaps another emissary, hopefully one far distant, was embroiled in difficulties.
Impulsive or not, I needed to keep going, as fast as I could. The night was young. There were others to seek out. I’d never wallowed in introspection when I was of the earth. This was no time to start.
I stood in the parking lot outside Daryl’s office. I found a stall with his name painted in red: reserved for daryl murdoch. He’d brushed aside a desperate girl, driven to the exit onto Main Street, and been stopped in an illegal turn by Officer Leland. About this time his son arrived.
I remembered the high young voice, cracking in anger, that had been recorded on Daryl’s cell phone: I can’t believe what you did . . . I just found out from Lily . . . You’ll pay for this. I swear you will.
What had Daryl done?
The small sign in the front yard was tastefuclass="underline" the green door. I recognized the old Victorian house. In my day, it had belonged to Ed and Corrine Baldwin. Now it housed a dinner restaurant. I stood on the porch and looked through sparkling glass panes. Old-fashioned teardrop crystal bulbs in a chandelier shed a soft light over a half-dozen circular tables with damask cloths and rose china. Small tap-dancing skeletons flanked centerpieces of orange mums.
A slender young woman was serving orange sorbet in tall crystal glasses at a near table. A scarecrow hung in the doorway to the entry hall.
It might be awkward for Lily Mendoza if a police officer arrived demanding to see her. I didn’t want to jeopardize her job. I thought for a moment, nodded. I glanced around the floor of the living room, noted styles of purses. When I wished myself present, I held a small blue leather bag.
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I opened the front door and stepped into the nineteenth century.
Panels of gleaming mahogany covered the lower walls. Heavily patterned wallpaper in a rich shade of burgundy rose above the wainscoting.
Geometric tiles glimmered in the pale light from hanging stained-glass lanterns. Ferns trailed from a huge wicker basket. A gimlet-eyed parrot peered from a brass birdcage. As I entered, it gave a piercing squawk and spoke in a rough throaty voice, “Ahoy, matey. Avast. Begone.” A waitress, who looked trim and athletic despite being dressed in a hoop dress with a daisy pattern, pushed through a door at the end of the hallway, carrying a tray with two entrées. She paused when she reached me, glanced at my uniform, but asked politely, “Do you have a reservation?”
I shook my head, held up the purse. “I’m here with a lost purse.
May I speak to Lily Mendoza?”
“Lily doesn’t work here anymore. Mrs. Talley”—a pause—“let her go.”
Let her go? Why? “When?”
The girl’s gamin face squeezed into a frown. “Yesterday. Anyway, if you want to take the purse to her, she has an apartment in the old Blue Sky motel near the railroad tracks.” She moved toward the living room.
I kept pace. “Where’s Mrs. Talley?”
The girl gestured down the hallway. “In her office.” She moved swiftly into the dining room.
I walked past a whatnot with a bust of Homer and a collection of Dresden shepherdesses. I gave a quick knock on the door, stepped inside a library that now served as an office, though the mahogany bookcases still held leather-bound volumes. Austen, Trollope, and Thackeray, no doubt. To my left was a blue Chinese vase as tall as I was. The red-and-blue Oriental rug was worn and frayed.
An angular woman with frizzy gray hair piled atop her head sat behind a massive walnut desk, staring at a glowing screen. The 183
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computer looked out of place in the carefully done Victorian room.
She heard my step, turned to see. Prominent collarbones detracted from her décolleté blue silk gown with puffy sleeves. She frowned, making her porcelain-white face querulous. ”Yes?”
“Good evening, Mrs. Talley. I’m here about Lily Mendoza and Daryl Murdoch.” I closed the door behind me.
She drew in a sharp breath, stood. “You don’t think Lily had anything to do with what happened to him?” She lifted a hand, clutched at the thick rope of amber beads.
“We have to check it out.” I looked stern.
She held tight to the necklace. “She was upset, but she wouldn’t do anything like that. She’s a sweet, sweet girl.” I frowned at her. “What did she say?” Mrs. Talley stared at the hollow bust of Homer. “I hated doing it.
But I didn’t have any choice. Daryl held the mortgage on the house and he’d given me a break on payments while I’m getting the Green Door up and running.” She swung toward me, her face haggard.
“We’re doing real well. I can make a go of it. I have to since Johnny died and there isn’t any money and I have to be home during the day with my mom—oh, you don’t care about all that. But you see my position. Daryl insisted I fire her, said he’d call all the payments due immediately if I didn’t.” She looked at me with shamed, sad eyes. “I told her I had to cut back on staff, but she knew that wasn’t it. She’d seen Daryl leave my office and I guess she figured it out. She said,
‘Mr. Murdoch made you, didn’t he?’ ” Mrs. Talley’s eyes glistened with tears. “She came up and hugged me and told me it was all right, I mustn’t worry. Don’t you see? She’s a good girl.” Blue Sky Apartments was a fancy name for a seedy former motel.
Units ran lengthwise behind the office with two shorter sections on either side. I found Lily’s apartment, number seventeen, by walking 184
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from door to door, checking the nameplates. An old Dodge with one flat tire listed in the drive on one side of the building. Through thin walls, a television blared. On the other side, a rocking horse and play-pen sat next to two motorcycles. A baby’s cry rose. Lily’s front curtain was drawn, but light seeped around the edges.
I knocked.
Through the thin door, I heard running steps. The door was flung open. For an instant her heart-shaped face was open and eager, dark eyes luminous. “Kir—”
I understood why Kirby Murdoch cared. She was lovely, dark-haired, slim, vibrant, but more than that, she had an aura of kindness as warming as a blazing fire on a snowy night.
“Miss Mendoza, I need to speak with you about the murder”—I let the word hang in the cold night air—“of Mr. Daryl Murdoch.” Her face was abruptly still and shuttered. “I don’t know anything about it.”
I forced myself to be brusque. “May I come in? Or would you rather go down to the station?”
She backed away, held the door for me.
The room had been provided with a small kitchenette. There was a small camp bed, a sofa with a red-and-black-checked throw, two chairs that had seen better days. A gooseneck lamp stood by a card table with a small computer. Textbooks were stacked on the floor.
She gestured toward the sofa, took one of the chairs, sat stiff and straight with her hands folded in her lap. She looked small in an oversize maroon sweatshirt with the emblem of Goddard College.
I looked at the books. “Are you in school?”
“I go part-time.”
“Are you putting yourself through school?”
“Yes.”
There was an admirable story here, a student without a family to help, making her own way, trying hard to build a better life. If Daryl 185
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Murdoch had been here, I would have told him he was a fool. I liked this girl, admired her, hoped she and Kirby would have the happiness they both deserved. But . . .