The Marsh Madness

“Well,” said the taller woman, “I hope she manages a bit better. The members are very upset, and people need reassurance. I thought Lisa had more spine, to tell the truth. What do we pay her for if not to be professional?”


Her friend was more sympathetic. “I always thought she carried a torch for Chadwick. Not that he ever seemed to reciprocate, but still, it must be heartbreaking for her.” I suspected she’d carried a torch or two in her own life.

“She’s flipping out, is what I heard,” her friend said, applying a thick layer of Dior lipstick, with hardly a glance in the mirror. “They say she’s unable to hold it together even in public.”

“People should be kinder. It will be devastating for the club if she leaves after this. I think she is the one who actually kept things going. Chadwick wasn’t much for the business side. Really.”

“Well, why would he be, with all that money coming to him? He just had to wait.”

Fat lot of good waiting did him, I thought. I managed to fuss with my frumpy blond hair, visit the dark mahogany stall, emerge, wash my hands again and straighten my suit, fiddling until all the women left the ladies’ room.

I headed off to see Poor Lisa, hoping she could hold things together long enough for me to get some information out of her.


*

THE PALE AND very pretty young woman with the halo of strawberry-blond curls tried everything to keep me from Lisa Hatton in the administration office. Her round china-blue eyes stared at me as she used her body to block the entrance to the office.

“Not sure if you understand, perfectly,” I said, narrowing my eyes grimly at her. “It’s a matter of complying with the letter of the law.” I was blowing hot air. “We cannot let this wait. If”—I glanced at my notepad—“Lisa Hatton is not available, I will need to see the chair of the board. This is a legal requirement, as I have already said and as I am sure you are aware.”

She stared at me, completely unaware of this—or any—legal requirement. That wasn’t a surprise to me, as I had made it up that second.

“It’s all right, Miranda,” a raspy voice said.

Miranda turned and squeaked.

Lisa Hatton had dark shoulder-length hair, cut in soft layers. I figured she was about thirty-five and quite curvy. Her navy suit was about a size too small, and the fuchsia satin blouse she wore was unbuttoned far enough to show a bit of cleavage. I couldn’t tell if that was the way she always dressed or if she was too rattled to do up the third button from the collar. On a good day, the flashing dark eyes, the heart-shaped face and the wide mouth would have made her very attractive. I was betting there was always a hint of cleavage.

But now, with her swollen eyes, crimson nose and tear-tracked cheeks, this was looking like the worst day of her life. Angry splotches covered her face and neck. Some women were not made for weeping. Lisa was one of those.

“Kathryn Risley—” I started.

She shrugged. “Yes, yes. Come in and tell me what you want and why it can’t wait.”

Miranda bit her lip as I passed by.

“Spot audit,” I said as I sailed into the room, stiff curls high. But now I felt pretty low taking advantage of her misery to ferret around in the late Chadwick’s life and affairs. Inside her office the wall was covered with large photographs, each in distinctive sage-and-gold frames, apparently celebrating special moments for the Country Club and Spa. A few more on the dark wood console looked personal, during happier times for Poor Lisa.

I turned to her and said, “I understand that there has been a tragedy, and I am sorry to be here now. Would you like to take a couple of minutes to . . . ?” Platitudinous, yes. But I meant it. I was wishing I’d found a less emotionally intrusive way to get in here. But it’s funny how your moral compass can shift when you’re being framed for murder. Lisa was collateral damage. I was a jerk.

She nodded and seemed to choke back a sob.

“Take your time,” I said with what I hoped was an understanding smile.

She stared at me warily.