Part 6 (1/2)
”No!” Cookie was shocked. ”She knew better. But of course she hardly slept a wink. Oh! Here she comes now. How are you, honey?”
Tiffany Eriks Rafferty wandered into the living room, wearing a green cotton bathrobe that would have been two sizes too small for her even if she hadn't begun to show. I a.s.sumed the robe belonged to Cookie. Tiffany wasn't a large person, but she was well proportioned, unlike her skinny, shapeless mother.
Tiffany didn't look at me. ”I'm thirsty. Is there any more apple juice?”
Cookie's face expressed alarm. ”Oh, dear! I'm not sure. I'll go see.” She left the room, leaving me alone with her daughter.
Tiffany finally gazed in my direction. ”I have to lie down on the sofa, Emma. Can you move?”
”Sure,” I said, getting up and going over to an armchair near the fireplace. ”I'm so sorry about what's happened. Let me know if there's anything I can do to help.”
Tiffany collapsed onto the sofa. She was barefoot, and her right arm dangled toward the floor. ”What can you do? It's all too awful.”
”Yes,” I agreed, but felt obligated to a.s.sure Tiffany that she wasn't the only person who had to navigate rough waters. ”As you know, I raised a child by myself. After I did that, his father was killed years later, before we could be married. In fact, Tom died in my arms, murdered just as Tim was.”
A faint spark lit in Tiffany's eyes. ”Are you saying I should have been there when Tim died? Is everything my fault?”
”Of course not,” I said firmly. ”I'm trying to tell you that many other people have suffered tremendous losses. Look around you. It's hard to find anyone who hasn't suffered. It's part of life.”
”I guess.” Tiffany looked unconvinced. She seemed to be sulking. For a woman in her early thirties, she struck me as incredibly immature. But she'd led a sheltered life. In many ways, growing up in a small town is difficult enough. But after the death of her brother, I guessed that her parents had been overly protective. Then, upon coming of age, she'd fallen in love with Tim, who took over where her parents had left off. One of his virtues was that he'd always seemed concerned for her welfare.
”I realize you lost your brother, too,” I said, making my voice gentle. ”How old were you then?”
Tiffany scowled at me as if I were Torquemada, leading the Inquisition. ”Seventeen. Ringo was four years older. Why do you want to know? I wasn't there when it happened.”
Her defensiveness was becoming a leitmotif, like the ominous Fate chords in Carmen. ”I know,” I said, although I didn't remember the story very well. I made a mental note to check it out in our back issues. ”I imagine the two of you were close.”
Tiffany held up one hand and stared at it, as if she were deciding on whether or not to get a manicure. ”He was my big brother. Sometimes they're okay, sometimes they're a pain.”
”That's true,” I allowed. Ben was older than I was by almost the same number of years. When we were growing up, he'd always treated me with a superior air. It was his due, of course. Sometimes he still pulled rank. And sometimes his att.i.tude maddened me.
Cookie returned with a yellow plastic tumbler. ”I couldn't find any more apple juice, hon. Is orange okay?”
Tiffany made a face. ”Orange juice gives me heartburn. I'll just have some bottled water.”
”Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot! I'll get the water. If I can find it.” Cookie retreated to the kitchen.
I had several questions I wanted to ask Tiffany, specifically about the circ.u.mstances of Tim's death. But her self-absorption and her suspicious manner stymied me. Nor did I want to upset her. People showed their pain in different ways. I couldn't get a good read on Tiffany Eriks Rafferty.
I stood up. ”I should be going. I understand you have an appointment this afternoon. I don't want to keep you.”
Tiffany glanced across the room at a clock with hands and numbers on a wood slab decorated with a painting of an idyllic farm scene. ”I've got plenty of time to get ready.” She looked at both hands. ”I should do my nails, though. They get ruined using the cash register so much.”
”Yes.” I couldn't think of what else to say. I made my way out before Cookie returned with the bottled water.
IT WAS AFTER noon, and I was hungry. But instead of heading for a restaurant, I drove to the Grocery Basket. I could pick up something from the deli and, with luck, talk to Jake O'Toole. If I got even luckier, Betsy O'Toole might be there. She would not only be more candid, but wouldn't abuse the English language the way her husband did.
The store was busy. I saw Buzzy, Jake's brother, in the produce section, unloading ears of corn into a bin. Jake was talking to a man wearing a Budweiser jacket and holding a clipboard. If Betsy was around, she'd be in the office. Katie Freeman, the high school princ.i.p.al's daughter, had just finished checking out Bertha Tolberg, who had purchased a half-dozen bags of groceries. The Tolbergs raised chickens on their farm, so I a.s.sumed Bertha wasn't buying eggs.
With a nod to Bertha, I approached Katie, a tall, fair-haired teenager who wore transparent braces. ”Is Betsy in the store?” I inquired.
”Oh, hi, Ms. Lord.” Katie's smile was self-conscious. ”Yes, she's working on invoices. Should I page her?”
”No, I'll surprise her,” I replied. I needed privacy. ”Thanks, Katie.”
The O'Tooles' office was only slightly bigger than my own cubbyhole and even more jammed with materials. I knocked first, then opened the door as I heard Betsy respond.
”Emma,” she said in a pleasantly surprised voice. ”To what do I owe this honor? Or did we sell you a bad ham?”
I shook my head. ”I've come to grill you, not your meat.”
Betsy smiled. ”I'm not sure what's worse.” She pushed her chair back a few inches from the desk and removed her gla.s.ses. ”Let me guess-it's about Tiffany and Tim, right? Have a seat-if you can find one.”
The only other chair in the little room was piled high with folders. ”May I?”
”You can toss them in the Dumpster for all I care,” Betsy said. ”Jake's overorganized. I drive him nuts because I'm not.” She waved a hand at her surroundings. ”He saves every sc.r.a.p of paper and files it away for G.o.d-only-knows-what. Then he gets ticked off at me because I don't keep everything in here neat. I tell him I keep our house tidy, why should I have to be the cleaning lady at the store? Men!” She shook her head.
I set the files on the floor next to a Campbell Soup carton that was filled with yet more folders. ”I just came from calling on Tiffany and her mother,” I said. ”Have you gotten to know Tiffany very well since she started working here?”
Betsy shook her head again. Maybe she was showing off her recent foil job, which had turned her shoulder-length hair into leonine streaks of brown and gold. ”It's hard to communicate with fog. Talking to Tiffany is like talking to a phantom. Honestly, the poor girl isn't very bright.”
”But she could handle her job?”
”Once she caught on,” Betsy said. ”It took a while to train her. Katie Freeman is half her age, and she learned in about an hour. But the real problem with Tiffany is her att.i.tude. She's rude with customers, especially the older ones who get a little fuddled. A week ago, she practically had Grace Grundle in tears.” Betsy hung her head. ”I shouldn't be talking about Tiffany like this, especially after what's happened. But frankly, Jake and I would have fired her if she hadn't been pregnant, and we knew she'd be quitting in a few months. We hoped she wouldn't want to come back to work. Now that Tim's dead, I suppose we're stuck with her.”
Betsy was more than candid; she was downright blunt. But that was her style. She'd honed it over the years with the public wrangling she practiced with her husband. After the visit with Tiffany and Cookie, I found Betsy's att.i.tude refres.h.i.+ng.
”Do you think that pregnancy caused her irritability?” I asked.
”Maybe. But Tiffany never has been the cheerful type.” Betsy sighed. ”I suppose you're trying to figure out if she was having problems at home with Tim.”
Having had people wonder about the status of her own marriage over the years, it was natural for Betsy to a.s.sume that any outward display of discontent would indicate relations.h.i.+p problems. ”Well,” I said, not entirely sure what I was trying to find out, ”I was thinking more along the line of money trouble. Tiffany must have had to work. Obviously, she isn't cut out for a career.”
”She sure isn't,” Betsy agreed. ”She has no ambition, and she's lazy. But they bought that property by you and they built that house. Tim's jobs never paid very well, though I understand he did some of that E-trading on the Internet.”
”He also had a baseball memorabilia collection,” I pointed out.
”Oh, that's right.” Betsy paused as the phone rang. ”I'd better take that. I'm expecting a call from our produce people. They're mad because we've been buying so much local stuff this summer.”
The call, however, was from Ryan O'Toole, their oldest son. Betsy made it quick. ”The big black suitcase is in the bas.e.m.e.nt behind the furnace. Don't touch the rest of the luggage. The red ones are strictly for your dad and me. And take out the garbage.”
She set the receiver down in its cradle. ”Ryan's off to WAZZU. They start early because of the semester system. He leaves for Pullman tomorrow. Would you believe he's a soph.o.m.ore already?” Once more, she shook her head. But before I could say anything, she snapped her fingers. ”That's right! Ryan bought some baseball stuff from Tim a couple of years ago. He saved his money from working as a box boy here and got some autographed cards. Only four or five, but they cost him fifty dollars. I thought it was a gyp, but then I'm not a baseball fan. Jake and I like hockey.”
No doubt the fighting part, I thought. ”Then Tim did sell some of his collection,” I remarked before confessing that I'd never noticed his ad in the Advocate.
Betsy shrugged. ”So what if you can't keep track of every detail? That's what a staff's for. You think I know every item we stock in the store? I don't. For one thing, Jake's always changing brands or trying something new.”