, I thought. “Suzette must be, what, fifteen years younger than Greg?”
“More like twenty. Not that most guys mind hooking up with younger women.” She sounded disgusted. “Abigail knew Greg wasn’t above cheating. That’s how she snagged him in the first place.” I wanted to pursue that little bombshell, but Connie preempted me. “Speaking of attractive men, Ms. MacPhail, what’s up with you and Tom?”
“Tom Saunders? How do you know Tom, anyway?”
“He went to school with my big brother. They had a horrible garage band in high school.” She crinkled her pert little nose in disgust. “Tom was at our house all the time. He making music with you now?”
“Don’t be silly. I barely know him.”
“Why, Janet, I do believe you’re blushing!”
Before I could plead a hot flash, Connie glanced at her watch and started piling wrappers and cups onto her tray. “Gotta run.”
I nodded, already drifting through a tangle of convoluted thoughts. Even if Greg were fooling around, why kill his wife? All those years with her acid words eating at him and he’d never strangled her. Why now? Then again, inheriting from a dead wife might be better than losing a wealthy one through divorce. But we don’t even know that she was murdered. And if she was, it might not have been Greg. What if Connie was right about Suzette? It wouldn’t be the first time a lover waiting in the wings knocked off a spouse who held center stage too long.
24
When I got home from breakfast with Connie, the little red light on my answering machine was flashing. I sent the dogs out the back door and pushed the playback button. The first message was from an editor at Dog Fancy who wanted me to call back about some photos for an article on rally obedience. Then a message from Greg Dorn. He was sorry he missed me the day before, and he’d be home the rest of the day. He’d like to get Pip, so could I call him?
I brought the dogs in, checked their water, and sat down at the kitchen table with my cell phone. I punched in the number on Detective Stevens’ card, then waited while the dispatcher connected us.
“Stevens!” The line crackled, then cleared.
“This is Janet MacPhail.”
“Ah, Ms. MacPhail. Janet.”
“Greg Dorn called and said he’d like his dog back. You told me to check with you first.” She said that would be fine, then asked, “Do you have time to talk this afternoon? Say four o’clock?”
Oh no, not again, I thought, wondering vaguely whether I’d be arrested after the “removing evidence” incident. “ I teach a class tonight at six. That would cut it a little close, depending on how long you need me.”
“Where’s your class?” I gave her the name of the junior high school. “You teach a junior high class at night?”
“Heavens no! I wouldn’t want to teach a junior high class in broad daylight.” I heard her chuckle, which was something of a relief. “It’s a Neighborhood Connection class.” She wasn’t familiar with the Adult Education program of the Fort Wayne Community Schools, so I explained about the variety of non-credit classes they offer on everything from Windows to watercolors. We agreed to meet at the Firefly Coffee House on North Anthony at four o’clock.
Next I called Greg’s number. On the fourth ring, a woman answered. The voice was soft, sultry, vaguely familiar. “Dorn residence.” I asked for Greg.
“He’s unavailable. Perhaps I can help you?”
“My name is Janet MacPhail. I’m taking care of Greg’s dog. Who’s this, please?”
“A friend.”
I was starting to get peeved when I heard a scuffle on the other end of the line, and whispering I couldn’t make out.
“Janet! It’s Greg.” He sounded even more annoyed than I was. “Thanks for calling back.”
“Greg, how are you?”
“Not great. Getting by.” His voice cracked for a second, then he went on. “I’d like to bring Pip home.” Something scratched through the line and Greg said, “Hang on
“More like twenty. Not that most guys mind hooking up with younger women.” She sounded disgusted. “Abigail knew Greg wasn’t above cheating. That’s how she snagged him in the first place.” I wanted to pursue that little bombshell, but Connie preempted me. “Speaking of attractive men, Ms. MacPhail, what’s up with you and Tom?”
“Tom Saunders? How do you know Tom, anyway?”
“He went to school with my big brother. They had a horrible garage band in high school.” She crinkled her pert little nose in disgust. “Tom was at our house all the time. He making music with you now?”
“Don’t be silly. I barely know him.”
“Why, Janet, I do believe you’re blushing!”
Before I could plead a hot flash, Connie glanced at her watch and started piling wrappers and cups onto her tray. “Gotta run.”
I nodded, already drifting through a tangle of convoluted thoughts. Even if Greg were fooling around, why kill his wife? All those years with her acid words eating at him and he’d never strangled her. Why now? Then again, inheriting from a dead wife might be better than losing a wealthy one through divorce. But we don’t even know that she was murdered. And if she was, it might not have been Greg. What if Connie was right about Suzette? It wouldn’t be the first time a lover waiting in the wings knocked off a spouse who held center stage too long.
24
When I got home from breakfast with Connie, the little red light on my answering machine was flashing. I sent the dogs out the back door and pushed the playback button. The first message was from an editor at Dog Fancy who wanted me to call back about some photos for an article on rally obedience. Then a message from Greg Dorn. He was sorry he missed me the day before, and he’d be home the rest of the day. He’d like to get Pip, so could I call him?
I brought the dogs in, checked their water, and sat down at the kitchen table with my cell phone. I punched in the number on Detective Stevens’ card, then waited while the dispatcher connected us.
“Stevens!” The line crackled, then cleared.
“This is Janet MacPhail.”
“Ah, Ms. MacPhail. Janet.”
“Greg Dorn called and said he’d like his dog back. You told me to check with you first.” She said that would be fine, then asked, “Do you have time to talk this afternoon? Say four o’clock?”
Oh no, not again, I thought, wondering vaguely whether I’d be arrested after the “removing evidence” incident. “ I teach a class tonight at six. That would cut it a little close, depending on how long you need me.”
“Where’s your class?” I gave her the name of the junior high school. “You teach a junior high class at night?”
“Heavens no! I wouldn’t want to teach a junior high class in broad daylight.” I heard her chuckle, which was something of a relief. “It’s a Neighborhood Connection class.” She wasn’t familiar with the Adult Education program of the Fort Wayne Community Schools, so I explained about the variety of non-credit classes they offer on everything from Windows to watercolors. We agreed to meet at the Firefly Coffee House on North Anthony at four o’clock.
Next I called Greg’s number. On the fourth ring, a woman answered. The voice was soft, sultry, vaguely familiar. “Dorn residence.” I asked for Greg.
“He’s unavailable. Perhaps I can help you?”
“My name is Janet MacPhail. I’m taking care of Greg’s dog. Who’s this, please?”
“A friend.”
I was starting to get peeved when I heard a scuffle on the other end of the line, and whispering I couldn’t make out.
“Janet! It’s Greg.” He sounded even more annoyed than I was. “Thanks for calling back.”
“Greg, how are you?”
“Not great. Getting by.” His voice cracked for a second, then he went on. “I’d like to bring Pip home.” Something scratched through the line and Greg said, “Hang on
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