Booked for Trouble by Eva Gates Page B

act an end in itself, but if my mother were a kleptomaniac, she—and my father—wouldn’t have been able to keep it a secret all these years.
    If someone was trying to frame Mom, the only person I could think of with a motive, as well as the meanness to do it, had to be Karen. Who was no longer around to be questioned about it.
    â€œIt’s perfectly obvious to me,” Aunt Ellen said. “That’s exactly what happened. Suzanne’s bag was nothing but a convenient depository. I trust they will be fingerprinting this necklace?”
    â€œIt’s been sent to the lab.”
    â€œAnd we all know how long it will take to get those results back,” Aunt Ellen said.
    â€œIt might be faster than usual,” Uncle Amos said, “if Watson makes the case that the necklace is tied up in the murder.”
    â€œBut Lucy overheard the owner reporting it missing this morning,” Josie said. “Not yesterday.”
    â€œThe woman says she saw it last when she checkedinto the hotel and unpacked on Sunday. She’s visiting for the birthday of her great-granddaughter. The necklace was to be her gift. When she went to get it this morning to take to the birthday lunch, she found it missing and called the police.”
    â€œI don’t see what it can possibly have to do with Karen,” I said. “The necklace was stolen at the hotel. Karen was killed at the lighthouse.” I stopped talking. Karen. Had Karen stolen the necklace and hidden it in Mom’s bag to get it out of the hotel, planning to retrieve it later at book club?
    If so, had someone killed Karen for the necklace? Without realizing that she didn’t have it on her?
    The expression on Uncle Amos’s face indicated that he was thinking the same thing. “We can’t forget that those two incidents happened around the same time. You can be sure Watson isn’t forgetting it.”
    â€œI thought him perfectly capable of forgetting his head if it wasn’t attached,” Mom said, as she signaled the waiter to bring her another martini. We hadn’t even had time to order food yet. I buried my head in the menu, trying to unobtrusively eye my mother at the same time. She looked as she always did, perfectly dressed, perfectly groomed, perfectly composed. But there were fissures beneath that composure. I could tell, by the way Ellen threw worried glances her way, that my aunt noticed them also.
    â€œDo you have something wrong with your eyes, Lucille?” Mom asked.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI ask because you seem to be staring. I do not need to explain my behavior to you, but I will anyway. I have had a most trying day.”
    â€œI know that, Mom.”
    â€œI wonder if you do.”
    â€œDon’t mistake Sam Watson for a fool, Suzanne,” Uncle Amos said. “Or for a small-town, hick cop. He spent years with the NYPD. Homicide.”
    Mom sniffed, not impressed.
    But I was. “Oh,” I said.
    â€œHomicide,” Josie said. “We seem to almost be forgetting about Karen’s death.”
    â€œKaren and Mom were in high school together,” I said. “Did you know her, too, Aunt Ellen?” Ellen was the older of the sisters.
    Aunt Ellen’s lips pinched together. “She was in your mom’s year, so I didn’t have anything do with her at school, but Sue brought her around to the house sometimes.”
    â€œRarely,” Mom said.
    â€œQuite often in junior year, as I recall. Then, when you were both seniors, you had other things on your mind than your school friends.” Meaning my dad and getting out of Nags Head. “After we left school, I’d see her around town and we’d say hello, but that was about it. She had children and the children got bigger, and then she was with little children again. Her grandchildren. Must be nice to have grandchildren.”
    â€œYes, Mom.” Josie rolled her eyes at me.
    My mom could usually be