Free Caught Dead in Philadelphia by Gillian Roberts Page A

the window shades, convincing myself I had not been the murderer’s target. My house was no more than an unfortunate setting. I was therefore in no danger.
    My room looked in order. I opened my pocketbook to get my car keys—one of my self-defense lessons was always to have keys ready before needed.
    And then I saw it.
    â€œDamn!” I’d forgotten the package, the bear, the five-hundred-dollar gift for “honey.” Mackenzie would be thrilled anew to find me withholding evidence.
    * * *
    Liza’s mother lived in an area that hadn’t yet been declared chic and resold at ten times its original price. The row homes, three white steps up from the sidewalk, were not ornamented with window boxes and shutters in authentic colonial hues, as were those on my street. Instead, turquoise-and-white aluminum awnings hung over front doors, and in a few instances, imitation stone facing was inexplicably plastered over the original brick.
    The street was crowded. In my neighborhood, people leave when they reproduce. Our tiny quarters are too small to house several affluent middle-class generations. But here, where the houses were no larger, no such philosophy reigned. I drove carefully, avoiding balls, skates, hockey pucks, and small bodies. I found a space near Mrs. Nichols’s house and rang her doorbell, a bouquet of early tulips and the packet of sympathy notes in my free hand.
    The woman who opened the door had an ample figure, but she looked deflated nonetheless.
    â€œIs Mrs. Nichols in? I’m Amanda Pepper and I—”
    â€œCome in, Amanda, come in. I’ve wanted so to meet you.” She made sociable gestures of welcome, leading me toward a long brocaded sofa that filled one wall of the small living room. “So pretty,” she said of the flowers. “Sit down, sit down. So nice to finally meet Liza’s best friend, and—” And then her voice liquefied and I could feel recent events flood back into her consciousness. She looked confused and fumbled for words, shook her head, and hurried into another room with the flowers.
    I looked down at my hands, embarrassed again by the “best friend” label.
    Mrs. Nichols returned, settling on a stiff, ornate chair next to the television console. The furniture looked plucked in toto from a late-night commercial. The matching brocaded sofa and chairs were draped with crocheted antimacassars, the marble-topped occasional tables, covered with photographs, ashtrays, “conversation pieces,” coasters, and lamp bases that were porcelain ladies-in-waiting from one of the Louis’s courts. Every busy inch was shining, immaculate, and loved.
    â€œI came to say how sorry I am. I brought notes from the class, her students. I wish I knew what else to say.”
    â€œAmanda,” Mrs. Nichols said forcefully, “I know. I understand. I—I feel sorry for you, too.” She sniffed and ran a puffy hand over her eyes. She was a small, plump woman, and hints of Liza’s beauty were still evident inside her puffed features. “I know you had nothing to do with it.” She shook her blue-gray hair. “I told them that.” She pulled a crumpled tissue out of her dress pocket. “I told them.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œThe police. Those detectives. A skinny black man and a big white one. They came last night, to—” her voice dwindled to a whisper—“to…tell me.” She closed her eyes, then blew her nose. “The white one came this morning again. To ask me…things…about…my baby!” She buried her head in her hands, the tissue pressed to her face.
    I went over and crouched by her side, holding her arm until the sobbing stopped. When she spoke again, her voice quavered. “It doesn’t make sense. Who would hurt my baby? Do you know? You were so close, the two of you.”
    I winced. “I don’t know, Mrs. Nichols. I don’t