Sunday early morning
In a tailored midnight-blue suit, starched ivory shirt, and a tartan-plaid tie, Richard was ready for the busy day ahead. He looked much more alert than I felt; dawn had barely cracked and I’d been up all night. June had called me around three a.m. with Nikki’s answers to my questions. Nearly all the puzzle pieces were now locked in place, so I could paint the picture for my boss.
I inhaled deeply to capture any stray caffeine molecules emanating from Richard’s coffeemaker. “About a year ago, Zoë Schubert murdered her third husband with an overdose of insulin,” I said. “Her daughter, Nikki, knew, but didn’t tell anyone until Kent Mercer started looking for someone to blackmail. Nikki saw a perfect blackmail opportunity: her wealthy mother had gotten away with murder.”
“The daughter set up her mother for blackmail?”
“Yup. Mercer and Zoë meet. He tells her he knows she killed Oscar Schubert and demands money to keep quiet. Zoë’s angry, asks him how he found out. He says Nikki told him.”
Richard’s chair squeaked as he swiveled. “This was on the eleventh CD.”
“The following day, Zoë pays him—that’s the fifty thousand deposited in his bank account. But then she finds out he’s recorded their brief conversation. She goes to his house to get that recording.”
“To kill him?”
“Maybe not at first. But Zoë must have been furious. She’s paid Mercer fifty thousand dollars but it’s only the beginning of his blackmail. When she gets to his house, he’s unconscious, the perfect victim. She grabs his computer and cell phone, which might have copies of the recording. Then, to ensure his eternal silence, she finds a sharp knife in the kitchen and severs arteries in both his arms. Lincoln Teller drives up and finds the body as she hides under the deck.”
“The daughter must have known what happened all along.”
I nodded. When June had asked Nikki my question—why did you stick the purple knife in the brie?—Nikki wept. Secrets poured out, lies were recounted. Nikki confessed to her aunt, and June—once I assured her Nikki wouldn’t be considered an accessory or charged with obstructing justice—had shared Nikki’s statement with me.
I now shared it with Richard. “When Mercer is killed, Nikki makes the connection—Mercer’s blackmail has backfired.” My mother has murdered my lover and it’s all my fault. “Nikki begins to search the Mercers’ house, looking for the recording, but I stop her. Later in the afternoon, in her mother’s car trunk, she finds Mercer’s laptop, his phone, the purple knife—still a bit bloody—and her mother’s blood-smeared clothing. Horrified, Nikki pockets the knife. She’s ambivalent—emotionally tied to her mother, complicit in the blackmail, wanting Zoë to be stopped, yet unable to bring herself to turn her mother over to the police. Nikki brings the knife to the dance, and stabs it in the cheese. A small cry for help but a lousy clue.”
“The previous murder? Zoë’s husband?”
“Nikki says Zoë deliberately overdosed him with insulin. Oscar Schubert was cremated, but Lt. Morales has requested his autopsy report.”
The coffeemaker huffed steam, smelled divine. Richard selected a mug, poured himself a cup, and added a drop of cream. “What about the attempts on Lincoln Teller’s life?”
“Zoë thought Lincoln saw her car in the driveway and might describe her car to the police. But it turns out Lincoln’s colorblind. He did see the car, but he thought it was Mercer’s. To him, they were the same gray color.”
“She knew how to cut brake lines? Not something most women—or men—could do.”
“Zoë had scrabbled up the social ladder, but she had lots of practical knowledge. Her first husband owned a garage, and Zoë worked right alongside him. She could find brake lines with a hacksaw. And she’d been a nurse, knew all about IV equipment. I even saw her in the hospital the day of Lincoln’s morphine overdose. But the evidence is circumstantial.”
He took a cigar from his drawer but left the wrapper on. “The Soto shooting?”
I closed my eyes, unable to speak, stunned by a sudden memory of Emilie’s eyes as she’d struggled to breathe.
He waited. “Stella?”
I took a deep breath. “I don’t know how to link her to that. But I think she did it. We know the gun came from June and Erwin Devon, but Zoë was in their home occasionally. And she was a good shot. She hunted for food as a child.”
“What’s her motive for trying to kill Dr. Soto?”
“When Zoë learned Nikki was having sex with Mercer, she sent Nikki to Dr. Soto for a private consulting session. Then, after Mercer started the blackmail, Zoë realized Nikki wasn’t keeping the Schubert murder a secret between them. She panicked—she thought Nikki had also blabbed to Dr. Soto. Zoë shot Dr. Soto to silence her. And to frighten me.”
“You think she was the Brevard sniper?”
I froze. I knew guilt was written on my face.
“Some agents—most agents—follow protocol.”
I recognized sarcasm. Should I apologize? “I didn’t want to cause you any trouble,” I said. “That’s the truth.”
“Not quite. You didn’t want to ask permission. A very different thing.”
“If you don’t know, you won’t worry. I didn’t want you to be responsible for me.”
“Are you crazy?” Richard stood, like he might vault over his desk and throttle me.
“Sir, I apologize. Sincerely. Yes, I do think Zoë shot at me in Brevard. She knew where Nikki and Bryce were camping because they’d told her. It was a place Nikki had been before. So Zoë followed me. She waited near the trailhead for me. I doubt she enjoyed sleeping in the woods, but there was nothing fragile about Zoë Schubert.”
Richard sat down again. His rage had vanished as quickly as it came, like a ten-second thunderstorm. I knew he was processing what I’d told him, thinking about ramifications, the press coverage, the attorney general.
“Nice work, Stella.”
That was unexpected. Richard was notoriously stingy with compliments. “Thank you, sir, but I know it’s not a tidy resolution.”
“Never is. Have some coffee.” He picked up the black carafe and poured me a cup. I sipped it gratefully, savoring its earthy flavor, a symbol of his approval.
Wired on excellent coffee, the adrenaline of the night’s events, and the elation of solving my case, I drove to Fern’s to help her clean up after the party. When I reached her mailbox, I had to pull aside to let another car out of her driveway. Wesley Raintree threw me a jaunty wave as he pulled onto the road.
I parked in front of the porch, its gleaming white balusters beckoning me onto the bounce-free floor. The rooster crowed, Bill and Hillary brayed a greeting.
Fern opened the screen door. “You’ve just missed Wesley.”
“I saw him. Nice man.” I followed her inside and picked up a dish towel. “Do you ever think, ‘what if?’ ” I asked as I dried plates, a motley collection, some of them surely older than Fern, with darkly crazed surfaces and worn gold edges. “What if Mercer had been kinder to Temple? She wouldn’t have gone out shopping that day. Or what if he’d kept a closer eye on Paige and not let her wander off? There were so many ways he might not have died.”
“You can think ‘what if’ all you want. Things happen for a reason.”
“What’s the reason for murder?”
Over her coffee cup, she blinked at me with true-blue eyes. “To teach us a lesson.”
“And . . . the lesson is?”
“You have to figure it out. That’s your purpose in life, to learn your lessons.”
I didn’t, and never would, accept any reason for murder. But I didn’t contest Fern’s platitudes. They helped clear away the muck of her bad memories, stirred up by my work.
We went onto the porch. The air was cool, the sunshine warm. A bluebird fluttered his bright wings from his perch on top of the birdhouse, inviting the girl birds to check out his real estate. Questions swirled in my mind. Would Clementine get the help she needed? I hoped that Lincoln—back with his family—would see his dream of a successful restaurant realized. What path would Nikki follow, now that she was orphaned, wealthy, and on her own? Would the Navy take Bryce? Would he strengthen or crack in the forge of military life? I marveled at Temple’s strength and courage, the rage that overcame her natural gentleness and helped her pull the trigger of her gun. Perhaps her children would teach Grandpa Wesley their tender ways, so he, in turn, could show them anthills, stars, and rivers.
Fern smoothed aside my hair and kissed my forehead. “The swelling’s gone down,” she said. “You’ll probably always have a scar.” Zoë’s mark.
Through the fallen cloud of morning mist that lay over the field, I could see Merle digging furiously. He froze, then attacked the ground in a different spot. His purpose was clear and he was learning his lessons, light-years ahead of me, as usual.