problem from another angle. “And you think Edward has a motive because he knew about Vickie and Alex.”
“He thought she was going to a cooking class every Tuesday night.”
“With her friends.” This tallied. Sort of. “But if her friends were at the cooking class and Vickie wasn’t there with them . . .” I made a mental note to myself.
“Her friends say that lately, she had excuses for not going to class every Tuesday,” Tyler told me. “She wasn’t feeling well. One of the kids was sick. She was too busy, too tired.”
“But you’re not buying it.”
Without making it look like he was surrendering to confusion, Tyler shrugged. “I’m not sure it adds up. If you could talk to Vickie Monroe’s friends, if you could chat up her husband . . . well, maybe they wouldn’t give you the pat answers they’re giving us. If Edward Monroe found out Vickie wasn’t where she was supposed to be . . . if he found out she was really over at Swallows with Alex . . .”
Again, I nodded. “I wonder why her friends never bothered to mention it to me,” I said, talking more to myself than to Tyler. I knew he wasn’t following so I filled him in. “They told me that Vickie never would have snuck around behind Edward’s back. But they never mentioned that she’d missed cooking classes. They knew she wasn’t with them when they went to Sonny’s on Tuesday nights and she must have missed plenty of classes. She went to Swallows more than once. So what did her friends think she was up to?”
It was a very good question, and I intended to find the answer.
Before I left Bellywasher’s, I let Jim know I would gladly take him up on the offer of the cheese platter and the Greek dessert.
After all, designated cooking expert or not, I was going to a wine tasting, and I couldn’t go empty-handed.
Seven
BETH AND MICHAEL’S HOUSE WAS EVEN MORE elegant than the brick Colonial I imagined for myself. It was sprawling and modern, with lots of windows, clean lines, and a roof sloped at impossible angles. The yard was a match for the house, neat without being severe, landscaped with just the right amount of shrubs to be interesting without being overdone or overwhelming. In fact, the one and only concession to hominess was a too cute Welcome Friends sign on a post stuck into the flower bed near the front door. The sign was shaped like a giant egg and made out of weatherproof resin. The smiling, waving bear and moose on the sign looked as out of place in the gee-whiz neighborhood as I felt.
Beth welcomed me inside, and I saw that the house had an open, airy foyer with a ceramic tile floor in a shade of ecru that appealed to my love of all colors neutral and my sense of decorating restraint. Just inside the front door and at the bottom of a winding staircase, the wall to my left was made from glass block and lit from behind. Set in front of it on see-through shelves was a collection of art glass that took my breath away.
At the risk of being rude, I couldn’t take my eyes off the vases and plates in various shapes and sizes and in a riot of blue, red, green, purple, and orange. Yeah, my mouth was hanging open, but I managed to gasp, “I’m not a fan of lots of color, but that’s just spectacular.”
Perfect hostess that she was, she smiled and thanked me. “The glass is Michael’s baby,” she said. “He’s the collector. I just go along with whatever he wants. That, and take out the feather duster when it all needs cleaning!”
I was so fascinated, I was being rude. I shook myself back to the present, remembered the bottle of wine I’d picked up at Très Bonne Cuisine and the darling gift bag Norman had chosen for it, one with the Eiffel Tower on it. “For you,” I said, handing the bag to Beth. It was the first I registered that she was a riot of color that Friday evening, too, in a floral print sundress as cheery as the daffodils that grew around the front door. “The wine is a zinfandel, just like you asked for. And here . . .” I’d brought the cheese plate and the mizithra, honey, and phyllo dessert in a carry bag and I gave that to her, too. “My contribution