Murder Sets the Scene

All Rights Reserved © 2001 by AnnieMae Robertson

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN: 0-595-21182-8

ISBN: 9781462067367 (e)

Printed in the United States of America

To my children

Geri—Jackie—Metta—Sandy—Steve and my

sister Diane in gratitude for their continued

patience. And to my friends Bob, Pat S., Gail B.

, and all my painting students who put up with my agonizing.

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

MURDER SETS THE SCENE

CHAPTER 1

It was the sky that did it. I was heading up the Northway to pick up my friend Michelangelo when it changed from a summer blue to a watercolor of yellows and purples. The rain clouds rumbled up like mountains behind the hills, reminding me of the road to Mar-rakech where I had vacationed in the fall after leaving Halmeth Corporation. There the peaks of the African Alps had seemed airborne like clouds rising behind the black palms. Along the Northway the trees were also silhouetted against a similar mysticism of colors but in a wind-bent, up-state New York way. They became an ominous cavalry riding flat out, their branches like wild capes against the threatening lemon sky.

I had no idea why that elegance of landscape, which I should have accepted as simply that, became such a total pronouncement on the direction of my life in as few seconds as it took to shift modes from sunshine to the warning of rain. I was caught up in the egotistical presumption that Mother Nature was mimicking my indecision regarding my relationship with Michelangelo. If the sky had any kinship to my love life it had to be that I was projecting my confusion on the environment rather than visa versa. Nature was one minded. It was going to rain, was in fact raining, the first drops hitting on the windshield as if to punctuate the storm’s intent.

Michelangelo was my nemesis. I couldn’t disconnect my mind from him especially in the solitude of a long drive. There was no question that I really liked him. Even thinking his name made me smile. Michelangelo Deegan, odd name for an Irish kid, but his Catholic mother had a reverence for the artist Michelangelo for one thing and angels for another. She called him her sweet Michael angel when he was little. At least that’s the story Michelangelo told me. In today’s world most people called him Mike which was what he preferred, but I persisted in stretching it out all the way just to see him cringe. Then it became a habit, something between a pet name and just him.

The problem was that lately I had begun to wonder if I was going to let myself slide into a more permanent arrangement with that man. Or was I going to slam all those doors and go back to my customary life style that was as colorless as that sky without its exhilarating quality of light. That had been my standard reaction whenever anyone got too close. And he had certainly done that, close enough to save my life, and me his in fact. And I’d have a tough time denying the feeling I got when I spotted his shoe box shaped, rock hard self approaching whether it was from the other end of the shopping mall or from across my living room.

So there it was. Instead of simply enjoying the beauty of the scene like a person under control, for me the lemon yellow thunderheads triggered a premonition of a heavy evening. I was superstitious enough to momentarily consider pulling off the road and halting any forward movement until that grim bit of precognition was sufficiently aborted. But I shoved that thought to the back of my head where I stored all those annoying mental obstructions and kept my foot on the gas pedal.

My plans already involved dragging Michelangelo off to a theater production that he didn’t even know was happening. That could prove difficult enough. I was certainly not ready to top it off by dealing with beginnings or endings, or decisions regarding either, no matter what the color of the sky.

CHAPTER 2

Later that night I felt foolish for worrying. Everything was fine, or at least it appeared to be for a while. Michelangelo had even seemed happy traipsing off to the fall production of my old theater group even though it wasn’t Broadway. That may have been partly because once I picked him up from his campsite and dragged him back into town we didn’t need to drive much further to the theater. He liked uncomplicated evenings.

My dress also worked. It was a simple black linen sheath with a neckline that dipped halfway to the gold chain belt. And it had it’s own fingertip length jacket designed to hide every aging bulge and sag. And I had a few of those in spite of Michelangelo’s constant reassurances. As usual I wore a minimum of makeup and kept my gray hair chopped close to my head. It was easy and seemed to suit my high-cheeked face. Anything more would make my skin feel like it couldn’t breathe. But the minimalist approach to grooming did leave me feeling a bit tonsorially retarded.

You look gorgeous and damned sophisticated, sweetheart, Michelangelo told me as if he knew about my critical inner voice. I thought you were showing me off tonight. At this rate everyone there will be so busy checking you out I’ll just be one of the adoring crowd.

I wish, I thought.

The show, an enthusiastic production of Carnival, was excellent as usual which surprised Michelangelo, though he was, of course, too much of a perfect theater companion to mention it. But it was apparent in the way he kept nodding his approval and making whispered comments about the professionalism of everything from the blocking to the costumes.

We were a perfect couple. We laughed at the same lines and hummed along with the same songs and held hands across the arms of our theater seats like people who really cared for each other, as I hoped we did. And I still found myself looking at his profile as often as the stage. And after the last curtain call when I introduced him to a dozen old acquaintances the man spewed good will. It took all my effort to push him past the well wishers and drag him to the car through the rain, our programs temporary umbrellas.

Michelangelo was driving my little Tracker because his Lincoln was in the garage at the condo he still called home but these days only visited occasionally to collect his mail. He claimed he avoided taking his car when he went hunting with his friends because he didn’t like bouncing his more sedate vehicle over rough off road surfaces. But I suspected it was more because he liked cruising through the underbrush in his buddy’s four by four pickup with its huge tires and disgusting gun rack.

I didn’t mind copiloting while he drove as long as we weren’t rushing off to some disaster, which tended to trigger his old police cruiser driving habits. In fact, I felt very cozy nestled in beside him in that small space with the rain rattling away on the metal roof. His gray curls glistened with moisture, the dampness trickling down his forehead. I wondered if it would taste salty like tears and fantasized crawling over onto his lap to lick at his face. The thought made me actually giggle. What on earth had I been fretting about endings for?

Or anything else? As far as Michelangelo went, for me there was just hanging in and feeling very good about it.

On our way to the cast party I had promised to attend, we stopped at a liquor store for wine and at a delicatessen for a mammoth cheesecake to be our contribution to the after-theater festivities. In spite of my history with the group, I would never have consented to go if Michelangelo hadn’t agreed to accompany me. I had planned to restrict the occasion to the production only, but Michelangelo looked so spectacular in his chinos and casual jacket, and was so delightfully attentive I felt encouraged to parade him around as long as he’d put up with it. And, when I thought about it, as a West Corner Players alumnus, attending the cast party was practically mandatory.

But I did promise myself that we wouldn’t stay too late. That sort of occasion frequently became an all-nighter and Michelangelo was beginning to show some tension. For one thing he was taking corners too fast. He was slamming from one gear to another in that aggressive way that made me silently apologize to my vehicle for allowing it to be so brutalized. It was a relief when he slowed down and turned into the Riverside Plaza. The stores there had been closed for a full year due to the depressed nature of that part of town but Michelangelo had elected to drive across the parking lot rather than risk the flooded underpass.

If I had been driving in such a downpour I would have done the same thing. As a matter of fact I often cut across there even in good weather in the full light of day. So there was nothing about his choice of a detour that should have rekindled that dread I felt earlier, but it did, though possibly it was only my reaction to the rumbling of thunder. Michelangelo, not intuitive about such things, continued on, avoiding pot holes and scattered hubcaps and discarded bits of beer party trash, and the small red sports car that was parked in the exact center of that wide block of pavement.

Instead of some hot young couple spot lighted in a compromising disarray of flesh and clothing, our headlights illuminated one figure bent forward in the driver’s seat, his head against the steering wheel. It was hard to see through the downpour and the steamed window glass but I assumed the man was sleeping off an evening of excessive imbibing.

Michelangelo, true to his nature, was less sure. I’d better check this, he said and stepped out into the rain. Reaching for the actual umbrella, the one I should have had the foresight to carry to the theater, I popped it open and trudged along on his heels.

Maybe you should go back to the car, he suggested diplomatically.

Don’t be silly, I held the umbrella above his head. You’re getting soaked.

After tapping on the window and getting no response, he opened the door of the small car by gingerly prying up the door handle with his car keys so he wouldn’t disturb any prints. There was no doubt, dead was dead, and in this case dead was a body with multiple holes in it and blood all over the place. It wasn’t until he tilted the head back that I realized it was Paul. Then only the fact that Michelangelo was within grabbing distance helped me to continue to stand upright in spite of my shock.

I suppose I should have recognized the shape of his head, or the brush of gray, or something that would have prepared me, but I didn’t. It had been too long since I had seen him off the stage and up close, and the rain had been too effective a curtain. But in those horrendous seconds that I was standing by that car staring at Paul’s dead face with his skin that bloodless gray, his eyes sightless, soulless slits, I re-experienced that agonizing time when he had ceased being the most important man in my life. I felt that pain of loss all over again, that weak fluttering of my heart, my muscles turning to jelly.

Oh, god! I gasped and stumbled back to my car for refuge, no longer concerned about the rain dribbling down Michelangelo’s face.

For a moment I felt I wasn’t even in that car or that vicinity. I was back in some aching pain that occurred between the ending of my marriage and the rebirth of my soul when I met Michelangelo at Halmeth. I sucked air in, trying not to hyperventilate while I worked to disassociate from that old agony in order to deal with the raw new one. The yellow sky should have done a better job of forewarning me.

Michelangelo spent a few minutes longer checking things out. I could see him leaning into the small vehicle, reaching and backing away. I remembered his telling me a good cop kept his hands in his pockets until the crime scene unit or whatever he said it was called, arrived. But he hadn’t been in uniform for years and I figured that allowed him a bit of investigative freedom.

When he returned to sit in the Tracker beside me he was saturated, his glasses spotted wet, his face shiny and deadly—pardon the pun—serious. Blasted rain, he grumbled. It’ll make everything twice as difficult. He glanced at me while he dialed his cellular phone. Lieutenant Reno?