I DIDN’T NEED my day to get any worse by showing up at the courthouse without having mailed Patsy’s certified letter, so I stopped at the post office, where I spent the next five minutes trying to place the man in line ahead of me.
He was several inches taller than me with a slender frame and had a windswept shock of graying brown hair that hung past the collar of his leather bomber jacket.
Had we met years earlier? Maybe before the gray in his hair started making an appearance? Some memory from my childhood told me yes, prodding me to say hello, but I sensed he was avoiding eye contact, and I kept my mouth shut.
Just when I gave up on the notion of exchanging social pleasantries with him, the lady at the front of the line inquired after his mother.
His reply was terse and clinical, preceded by an awkward pause as if he needed the time to choose the right words to precisely describe her condition.
I didn’t recognize his voice, and it didn’t have a particularly bassy quality, so I chalked the guy up as one of the thousand residents in town that I had probably served a burger and didn’t give him another thought. That was, until I was about to walk out the door behind him and my buddy Donna Littlefield hooked her arm in mine, diverting me to a wall of post office boxes.
“Did you see who that was?” my favorite cosmetologist asked, her sapphire eyes sharp with interest as she watched him leave.
“I saw him. Who is he?”
“Roman Rutherford.”
No wonder I couldn’t place him. I hadn’t seen Roman Rutherford since he was a geeky twenty-year-old sitting alone at his usual corner booth at Duke’s. “What’s he doing home?”
A tiny frown line cracked the creamy skin between Donna’s perfectly arched brows. “He lives here. Didn’t you know?”
“I thought he was a big deal video game developer in Seattle.”
“He was. He and a partner had a huge hit with that one game Roman designed, but Irene thinks that everything got too big for his comfort level. At least that’s the impression she gave me, like he had to deal with too many people, so he announced his retirement and they sold the business for millions several years back.”
“Wow.” I had no idea Roman had done so well.
“I know! Retired at forty—can you imagine?”
“No.” Especially since it had taken me most of this year to crawl out of debt.
“Then he came home and spent a small fortune to build his mom her dream house. She used to show me pictures when she’d come in to get her hair done. Gorgeous place with lots of space, which is a good thing since Roman had to bring in a caregiver when Irene broke her hip.”
“And she has Alzheimer’s, right?”
Donna nodded, her blonde hair spilling over her shoulder. “Early stages so she tends to get confused.”
I wondered if she’d remember last Friday’s visit from Emmy Lee.
“Roman used to drive her to the shop for her weekly appointment.” Donna sighed. “Wouldn’t come in though, darn it. His mother said the smell bothered him.”
“Maybe it did.” Or he didn’t want to subject himself to the gossipy chatter of Donna’s beauty salon.
“I think the man of my dreams was just playing hard to get.”
“Since when are you into forty-five-year-old geeky boys?”
“He’s single and he’s worth millions. Plus, he’s good to his mother. This geeky boy will do nicely.”
Something Donna had said a minute ago niggled at me. “You mentioned that it was a good thing there was so much space at the house. Is Roman living there too?”
She planted a hand on her hip. “Just because he’s over forty and lives with his mother doesn’t mean he’s not a good catch.”
True. But it might mean that he was one of the last people to see Emmy Lee Barstow alive.
* * *
I slid behind the wheel of my car and was just about to look up Roman Rutherford’s address on my smart phone when I spotted him heading south in a shiny black Porsche.
“Are you heading home?” I cranked the engine so that I could find out.
I held back several car lengths and then lost him when he sped through the yellow light at one of the two traffic signals in town. Fortunately, I regained sight of the Porsche just before it took the right onto 42nd Street.
Gaining elevation as we climbed the bluff, I followed him as we snaked past stately homes nestled into the hillside overlooking Merritt Bay until Roman turned into the high rent district of Conifer Ridge Estates.
When I was a kid riding my bike up here, this area had consisted of forest land filled with thick evergreens, tall grass, and miles of deer trails to explore. Now the trees that had dominated the eastern side of the ridge were all but gone, supplanted by the landscaped thicket of multi-million-dollar view homes I was driving past.
Roman braked and appeared to be waiting for something at the end of the road. As I closed in behind him, the reason became apparent: a metal gate spanning the private entrance.
Correction—since he was out of his car and glaring in my direction, that something he was waiting for was me.
I parked and climbed out to do some quick explaining. “Hi! You might not remember me.”
With a hard stare he stood next to the Porsche, and scanned me from head to foot like he was searching his index.
“My name’s Charmaine Digby and—”
“You were at the post office.” Roman stepped toward me, shifting his gaze to my chest.
I had my coat buttoned up so it wasn’t like there was much to see of the girls, unlike an hour earlier at Steve’s house. “Yes, and I realized after you left that—”
“What do you want?”
Since he hadn’t given me an opportunity to finish a sentence, I flashed my badge to let it do the talking for me. “I’d like to ask you and your housekeeper some questions about a visitor you had last Friday. Your mother too.”
His mouth quirked with displeasure a split second before he gave me a curt nod. “Please, continue to follow me.”
Then for the first time this afternoon, he held my gaze, seemingly waiting. I suspected it was to see if I got his little joke.
I got the playful jab he’d taken at my cloak and dagger skills loud and clear, but I also got the sense that Donna’s favorite geeky boy was wired quite differently from most people I knew, and that might make his body language challenging to read.
I followed the Porsche down a long driveway edged by a low brick fence that wrapped around the landscaped front yard. While Roman pulled into a three-car garage, I parked between an old Chevy pickup and a Volkswagen Passat. I assumed the owner of the truck was the guy in a hooded rain slicker pruning one of the ornamental shrubs bordering a brick window box. He gave me a friendly nod as I passed, a heartbeat before an unsmiling, pretty brunette close to my age swung open the door.
Clearly, the inside help took their lead from the boss.
Tall and trim with guarded dark eyes, she looked at me with the same lack of regard Duke reserved for salesmen making cold calls. “May I help you?”
I heard an accent, Scandinavian maybe.
“I’m Charmaine Digby with the County Coroner’s office. Roman…Mr. Rutherford,” I said, correcting myself in case they weren’t on a first name basis, “…is expecting me.”
Roman stepped up behind her. “It’s okay, Juliette.” He glanced my way. “Come in.”
I followed him into an elegant living room with a large picture window opposite a green damask print sofa on which he took a seat.
Sinking into the soft cushion of the oversized chair next to him, I pulled out my notebook and a pen.
“Would you care for anything?” Juliette asked from the entryway. “Coffee? Tea?”
The only thing I wanted from her was information. “No, nothing, but if you were working last Friday, I wonder if you could join us.”
She blinked. “I don’t…”
Were we having a language barrier? Until now her English had been flawless. “Aren’t you the housekeeper?”
With a cool smile on her pink glossy lips, she sat at the other end of the sofa. “I am Roman’s fiancée.”
Oops. “Sorry, someone mentioned speaking to a housekeeper, so—”
“Personal assistant,” Roman interjected, turning his attention to her well-endowed chest.
Juliette’s smile vanished. “I know. You like to be…what is the word…precise, so let us say former personal assistant.”
Okay, now everyone knew who everyone was, including the man I had thought was in charge here.
Sitting very erect, she folded her hands in her lap. “You said you are with the coroner’s office?”
“Yes, I assume you’re the one who spoke with Vernon Barstow?”
She nodded. “Poor man. Did his wife come home?”
She didn’t know. “Mrs. Barstow was found dead the next morning.”
Sucking in a gulp of air, Juliette covered her mouth with her hands. Interestingly, her eyes were fixed on me instead of Roman.
My first reaction would have been to turn to the man I planned to share the rest of my life with and ask if he had already heard this horrible news. And if he had, why was I finding out about Emmy Lee Barstow’s death from a stranger?
“That’s why I’m here. We’re putting together a timeline of Mrs. Barstow’s activities last Friday.” Okay, that we was stretching the truth, but I wanted to know if anyone here could help fill in the gap between Emmy Lee’s departure and her arrival at the Crooked Lake Resort.
Roman bounded up from his seat. “I was in my office. I never saw her.”
He sounded almost petulant, like a teenager impatient to get back to his video game, which given what I knew about the game designer might not be far from the mark.
Juliette patted the cushion between them, and Roman sat down, his expression blank as he stared at his feet.
Whoa. This couple had an interesting dynamic.
“How can we help?” she calmly asked as if the awkwardness I had just witnessed had never occurred.
I sat at the edge of my seat to get a better view of her face. “Were you here when Mrs. Barstow arrived?”
“I let her in.”
“And what time was that?”
“Close to two.”
“How did she seem?”
Juliette knitted her brow like she didn’t understand the question. Given her ease with conversational English, that struck me as unlikely, but I thought I should offer some clarification just in case. “Happy to be here? Not-so-happy, like something was bothering her?”
“Oh. She was smiling. Very…” She slanted her gaze toward Roman. “What do you call Emmy Lee?”
“Perky,” he stated, his body language anything but.
Juliette nodded. “That’s it. She was perky.”
As I would have expected to hear Emmy Lee described if I hadn’t known the fate in store for her. “What happened after Mrs. Barstow arrived?”
“She delivered a small package to Roman’s mother, and they visited for a while in her room. Then she left around two-thirty.”
“Closer to three,” Roman said.
Juliette’s eyes widened, her lips parting before any sound came out. “I’m sure I—”
“No.” His tone sharpened, making him sound like that petulant teenager again. “I heard her car leave around three, right after those announcements you ordered from that print shop arrived.”
A tiny tug at the corner of Juliette’s mouth kept pulling at her calm demeanor like it was a loose thread. “Excuse me, I must have lost track of time.”
He folded his arms. “Obviously.”
She glanced his way. More tugs. More fraying.
I saw lots of counseling in their future.
But their relationship issues weren’t my concern. I was more interested in the timing of that delivery. Maybe the driver could have seen Emmy Lee on the road. “Which print shop did you use?”
Biting her lip, Juliette shrugged. “One in town.”
There was only one—Tuttle’s. I made a note to find out who had delivered those announcements.
“Back to when Mrs. Barstow was in the house – Juliette, what were you doing during that time?”
“Wedding planning. Roman knows I’m good with details…”
He huffed like a pressure cooker venting steam.
“…so he is leaving that up to me.”
Maybe, but she seemed increasingly twitchy, like she was having trouble holding it together, and that made it difficult to get a good emotional read on her.
I wanted to kick myself for not interviewing them separately.
“So Mrs. Barstow left around three. Did you actually see her leave, Juliette?”
“I saw her to the door.”
“Was she alone when she left?”
Looking down at her feet, Juliette solemnly nodded.
“Did she say where she was going from here?”
“Nei, not to me, but perhaps she said something to Roman’s mother.” She shifted her gaze to me, as good as sending a smoke signal that she wanted this interview to be over.
Not so fast. “What’s your last name, Juliette?” I planted a polite smile on my lips. “It’s for my report.”
“Johansen.”
“And your current address is…”
“Here.”
How cozy. I wondered if she was still on salary. I couldn’t think of a non-bitchy way to ask, so instead I focused on the upcoming marriage that Donna wouldn’t be happy to hear about. “Did you set the date yet?”
She brightened. “Valentine’s Day. It is supposed to be romantic, yes?”
I noticed Roman was staring at his beloved’s rack again. “That’s less than two weeks away.”
“We wanted it to be as soon as possible,” she said, reaching toward him.
He stiffened as if that were supposed to be his cue. “She’s pregnant.”