Martha Grimes - The Black Cat

Jury had picked up a framed photo of Mariah Cox and sat now looking at it. Here was a plain girl with straight dark hair to her shoulders, untidy bangs nearly eclipsing her eyes. But Mary Chivers was right: you could still see the bones, and they were very good. It was exactly the kind of face that someone trained in the art of makeup could do marvels with. Perhaps Mariah herself had the talent; perhaps there’d been a lot of practice in putting on another face. He set the photo on a glass-topped coffee table that didn’t fit the rest of the furnishings and said, “She’d been gone before, hadn’t she?”

“Well, yes, most weekends, and sometimes she’d stay over in London with this friend of hers she knew at school…” She looked down at the rug at her feet as her voice trailed away.

“Mrs. Cox, has it ever occurred to you your niece was leading a double life?” Jury was leaning forward, trying to make that sound the most natural thing in the world, a double life.

Her head came up smartly. “Whatever are you talking about?” Clearly unconvinced of her own judgment, she sounded like a person desperately wanting to avoid something.

“Maybe you simply didn’t want this woman to be Mariah.”

Her shoulders went back as if about to take Jury on. “So you’re saying I lied.”

“Not at all. I believe you made a mistake, that’s all.” He picked up the picture he’d set on the table. “Straight brown hair and a fringe almost covering her eyes. No makeup. The exact opposite of the young woman who was murdered. It’s what I mean by a double life. They look like two different women. The doctor, who’s a local, thought the dead woman looked familiar. So did another witness. You understand what I’m saying.”

By now, Edna Cox had the handkerchief she’d pulled from her sleeve wadded against her mouth and shook her head. “I can’t believe it.”

But she did. She had. Jury sat back, giving the poor woman some space. He looked around, struck by the room’s insipidity-its mushroom browns, its rainy-day grays. It fit the girl in the photo on the table. No, that was wrong: the girl was not insipid at all. And the room was more sad than insipid. The air around them seemed weighted with sadness. Or perhaps it was his. He was sorry he couldn’t leave Edna Cox with her fantasy and her denial.

There were ample means to establish the two women were one: DNA, dental work, fingerprints.

“You mentioned the London friend. Do you know her name?”

“Oh, dear, I just can’t get my mind round all this. Angela, I think… Adele-the last name, I think it’s Astaire. It’s like the dancer, I think. Yes, that’s what she calls herself. Silly of her.”

“Then that’s not her real name?”

“No. Mariah said it was just her business name. Whatever that means.”

Jury took out his small notebook, wrote down the name. “I don’t imagine you have the address, do you?”

“I don’t, no.”

“Any idea what part of London it is?”

Mrs. Cox put her fingers to her temples, massaging them. “Parsons Green, it could be. Or Fulham. Well, somewhere around that part of London. There might be something in Mariah’s room, an address book or letters or something-”

“Yes, I’d appreciate it if you’d let police go over the room. Not now, of course, if you don’t want us bumbling round the house. Detective Sergeant Cummins might do this later, when it won’t be so disturbing for you.”

Sadly, she nodded. “If you’re right, then what was it she was doing dressed like that? Her face made over? Her hair that color?” She wadded the handkerchief in her hands. “She worked at the little library, you know. I always thought it was the perfect job for Mariah.”

“Why’s that?”

“She was such a quiet person, and she liked being around books. It’s the kind of job that’s not such a strain if you have to deal with the public. You don’t have them complaining a lot or demanding too much. Checking out books, they’re contented, somehow. Mariah didn’t like dealing with the wide world. She kept herself to herself.”

Like bandages coming off a patient’s eyes, sighted or blind; or unwound from a burn victim’s ruined face, Edna Cox’s defensive covering unwound more and more. Jury felt very sorry for her.

“I know all of this must be a terrible mystery to you, but anything you can tell us would help. Things that might not have signified at the time.” He paused, thinking. “Why did you report her missing, Mrs. Cox? I mean, she went off any number of times, yet those other times didn’t appear to worry you.”

She looked puzzled, as if this hadn’t occurred to her before Jury said it. She sat thinking and worrying her handkerchief. “It was because she would have let me know, and she didn’t.” More pulling at the handkerchief, as if it were a knob of taffy. “I mean, Mariah would never just not come back on the Sunday without letting me know. And there was work, too. She worked on Monday at the library. You’d have to know her, how dependable, how considerate she is.” She looked away. “Was.”

“How long had she lived with you, Mrs. Cox?”

“Ten years, about. She came to me after her mother died-my sister. Mariah had been taking care of her; it was a long illness. Lungs. Emphysema. They lived up north in Tyne and Wear. Old Washington, where George was born. You probably don’t know it…”

Indeed he did; he knew it well.

“Her dad worked in Newcastle. You know, it’s always been hard up there, jobs, I mean, and money tight. First her da died and then her mum. We didn’t see each other often, well, hardly ever, really. Christmas and the long school holiday, that was about all.”

“Did Mariah look then as she does in this photo?” He tapped the silver frame.

She frowned. “Not really. When she was younger, she was prettier. She seemed to just grow plainer, though usually it’s the other way round, isn’t it? I don’t understand it; I don’t understand any of it.” She started crying in earnest now.

Jury moved over to the small sofa, put his arm round her shoulders, said, “I’m truly sorry for your loss, Edna.”

He was beginning to feel sorry for his own, too.

“This Devlin, the fiance. You know him?” Jury asked as they pulled away from the terraced house.

DS Cummins nodded. “A bit. Bobby’s the flower guy.” “Sweet. But what does it mean?”

“He grows flowers and sells them. He’s got a fabulous garden-a few acres outside of town.”

Jury powered up his window; it was getting into evening and much cooler. “Any joy there? With Devlin?”

Cummins shook his head. “I’d guess not. I mean, if you’re asking whether Bobby’s a suspect. I know well enough he’d never have hurt Mariah. Never.”

“Where can I find him?”

“Bobby? He’ll be in Market Square. Tuesdays and Fridays he keeps a stall. I can take you there. Do you want me along?”

“No. That’s okay. Just drop me there.”

Cummins was pulling up by a curb outside of the square that had been marked off for pedestrian shopping. He told Jury where he’d find the flower stall, adding, “Listen, if you’ve nothing better going, come round to our place for a drink. Chris’d be glad for the company. Seriously.”

Jury didn’t feel like it, wanted to get back to London, but he hated turning David Cummins down for the second time. “That’d be nice, David. Can you pick me up back here in an hour?”

Looking pleased, Cummins nodded. “Right here, and if you’re not, I’ll wait. You can always call me on my mobile.”

Jury inspected the sky. “Yes, well, let’s just say an hour, okay?”

Cummins drove away.

Jury assumed it was Devlin, the intense, dark-haired young man with an armful of daisies and purple irises, talking to an elderly woman, apparently giving her advice about the care of a plant she was holding. She thanked him and left.