In contrast to that black pit, visiting Virginia Mitchell’s mother didn’t seem so bad.
Marcy Mitchell owned a neat, small house on a street filled with similar houses. It was located in one of the older neighborhoods outside Truman, once a little town located in what had been open country between Lawrenceton and Atlanta. “Older” is a relative term in this vast conglomeration of bedroom communities. The house had been built fifteen to twenty years ago.
Maybe Truman had once had a character of its own, but now it was homogenized. We had passed a Chili’s and a Napa Valley Auto Parts and a CVS Pharmacy before we turned in to the subdivision. It was full of curb-parked cars, basketball goals, tricycles discarded in the yard, and the other signals indicating Americans were going about their lives in a normal way.
Mrs. Mitchell’s house was different. There was one car parked in her driveway. The one-car garage was closed. The curtains were closed, giving the house a blind look.
“She expects us?” I said dubiously. “Maybe she went to work or something.”
“She said she was staying home this week, in case news came about Virginia,” Aubrey said. “I told her I might drop by.”
“Might drop by?” I may have sounded a little sarcastic.
Aubrey looked uncomfortable. “I told her I’d come today, and I might bring you with me.”
“Aubrey, what’s going on here?”
He looked even more uncomfortable. “We’ll see,” Aubrey said, and then he crossed the little yard to the front door.
I felt obliged to follow—he was my friend and my priest—but to say I was unhappy would be a huge understatement.
Aubrey rang the doorbell, and in just a few seconds it opened. Through the glass storm door, we looked at a woman I assumed was Marcy Mitchell. She was wearing blue jeans and a flowered blouse. Her hair had been straightened and had a glossy sheen, unlike her daughter’s short and natural do. But I could see the resemblance of daughter to mother: the shape of the face and mouth, the way the eyes were set.
“Come in, please,” our hostess said, opening the storm door. “You must be that preacher?”
“Yes, I’m Aubrey Scott.”
“They call you Father?”
“Some people do,” Aubrey said, smiling. “You can call me Aubrey, or whatever makes you comfortable. This is Aurora Teagarden, Mrs. Mitchell.” He said that with a kind of heavy significance. I could practically hear a “Ta-DAH!”
“You’re the lady with the baby.” Since she was holding the glass door open, we had to step past her into the living room. It was dark after the bright day outside. I could barely make out the silhouette of someone else sitting in the room.
“Yes,” I said, belatedly. “Sophie’s two months old.”
“How is Sophie?” said the person on the couch.
It was like having a bucket of cold water thrown on my face. I adjusted to the gloom and my eyes confirmed what my ears had already told me.
In front of me, very much alive and not visibly hurt, was Virginia Mitchell.
Chapter Twenty-two
I’d had some shocks in my life, but this certainly ranked as one of the most severe. I had so many things to say to Virginia—and her mother, and Aubrey—that the words clogged up in my throat, like too many people trying to get through a doorway at the same time.
Probably just as well. I was very angry.
“Aubrey,” I said. “Tell me you didn’t know about this.”
“I give you my word I had no idea she’d be here.”
He sounded shaken, too, more than a little.
I took two steps to position myself right in front of Virginia, who stood. Maybe she wasn’t sure what I was going to do. I wasn’t sure, either. I took a couple of deep breaths before I spoke. “I’m relieved you’re alive, Virginia. And you look like you’re okay. But you should have told me earlier.”
“We didn’t want you to call the police,” Marcy Mitchell said. “Can I get you a drink? Tea? Sweet or unsweet?”
This was just nuts. I closed my eyes and took another moment. When I opened them, all three were staring at me hopefully.
“You realize that my husband and I are under suspicion for having killed Tracy Beal? And possibly you?” I asked Virginia directly. Her eyes shifted away. Not looking at me directly.
“I’m really sorry,” Virginia said, and she did sound as if she regretted it. But she didn’t continue, I’m going to explain all of that to the police as soon as I clear up a few things.
“Tell me what happened,” I said. Even to my own ears, I sounded angry.
“Please sit,” Marcy said. “We’ll just talk about it. Virginia’s been so upset. You’ll understand.”
I very much doubted that.
But okay.
I sat in a very uncomfortable chair, clearly the one an unlucky family member got when all the others had been taken. It was a church chair, the folding metal kind. Aubrey was enveloped by an ancient recliner. Marcy perched by Virginia on the rusty-brown couch.
Marcy repeated her offer of a drink. She was determined to observe the ritual of courtesy, no matter how grotesque it seemed in this context. After Aubrey accepted a glass of unsweet, Marcy relaxed. This meeting had turned into something she could handle.
I was too furious with the Mitchells to want anything of theirs.
Once Aubrey had his damn tea, I raised my hand, palm up. “Let’s hear it,” I said.
“Before I even start telling you, I don’t know the whole story,” Virginia said. “I don’t know who killed that girl.”
“Um-hum. Talk.”
Virginia sighed, and looked as though she wished she were miles away. “You were so sick, and Sophie was sound asleep, so I called my ex-boyfriend.”
“Is his name Harrison?” Amina had said it was a movie-star name.
“Ford Harrison,” Virginia said, looking at me with some surprise.
I nodded. “Okay. What happened then?”
“Ford had called me the night before to say he was sorry for the burglary, for about the millionth time. Ford got arrested a few months ago.” She looked at me questioningly.
“Yeah,” I said. “I heard something about that.”
“I hadn’t seen him in months. When he called, I told him what I thought of his behavior,” she said proudly. She was no pushover, she wanted us to know. “But we talked, and we talked. The next night, I thought I’d call him back. He sounded really sorry. I just … missed him.”
Her mother scowled. I felt I knew the whole backstory from that one expression.
But I had to hear the rest.
“I had put up bail for him,” Virginia said, her back stiff, not meeting our eyes. “He did something wrong, I know, but it wasn’t violent or … I thought he could be an all right man. Everyone makes mistakes.”
“Naturally.” I tried to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. I didn’t succeed.
“So Saturday night we had another long talk. But I kept the monitor with me! So I could take care of Sophie. And you.”
I gave a jerky nod, acknowledging her words.
“The house was kind of still and muggy. I went in and out of the patio door a few times. I could tell a storm was blowing up. The wind and the change in the air. Getting out felt good.”