SCHULTZ CHECKED IN WITH the Florissant police on the murder of the teacher and her neighbor. There had been two developments in the case.
Bernard Dewey died in his living room, wearing a robe and slippers. He’d pulled a phone into his lap and was about to make a call, but died with that intent. A window was broken and the shooter took aim through the hole. It was a low window, and there was nothing about the trajectory that refined the height range of the shooter. No footprints were found, but a piece of broken glass on the ground had captured a few black fibers. They were identified as a Lycra blend in common use for bicycling jerseys and other sportswear. No blood, no torn skin fragments.
The second thing to come to light was that Loretta Blanchette volunteered with parolees in a day-release program, tutoring several of them to get their high school certificates. Once a teacher, always a teacher. Two of the parolees hadn’t reported in on the day of the murder, and were still missing. Interviews with other parolees confirmed that there had been some talk about how Miss B must have a lot of money because she dressed nice and drove a nice car. It wasn’t a big leap from there to the two ex-cons interrogating Miss B to get money that wasn’t there to give, getting disgusted that there was no treasure trove in the old lady’s house, and killing her. The neighbor was just collateral damage when he happened to see them, or maybe they’d invaded next door looking for money.
Schultz had a hard time connecting the ex-con story with the fiber evidence. Ex-cons prancing around in cycling outfits? Maybe, but no clothing had been reported stolen nearby. And even if they couldn’t find the stash of money they’d hoped for in Miss B’s house, they would have taken anything that could be converted to cash. A modest amount of gold jewelry was in plain sight in the bedroom, and a laptop computer sat on a table in the living room. Still, enough doubt was raised that he couldn’t put the killings firmly in the Metro Mangler column.
All that was percolating around in his mind as he drove to the Simmons home on Lindell. He wanted to have a conversation with the maid and see how big the stars were in her eyes about changing careers and becoming an interior designer. Or whether the stars were really dollar signs.
The marble columns and immense entrance doors gave Schultz the impression that the home was a fortress, not so much to repel enemies but to contain secrets.
The object of his interest opened the door. She was trim, early thirties, wearing black slacks and a plain white blouse. She was also wearing rubberized blue gloves that came nearly to her elbows and a jacket to protect her clothing. The jacket was damp in places, and she had cobwebs in her hair. Schultz displayed his badge and identified himself.
“Missus May is resting. She’s not seeing anyone today. You can contact her attorney, Jack Nordman. Do you need his phone number?”
“No reason to disturb Missus May. It’s you I’m here to see.” Schultz had already planted half his bulk over the threshold, so that even the heavy oak door would have trouble budging him.
She frowned and took a step backward, as most people would if Schultz moved into their personal space, and that was the opening he needed.
“Now then, where can we talk?” He plied her with a soothing smile.
“I am rather busy.” She held up her blue gloves.
“Only take a minute. Or we can talk downtown, if you’d prefer.”
“All right.” She stripped off the gloves and jacket and dropped them on the floor of the foyer. “Follow me.”
“Doing some heavy cleaning today?” he said, as she led him through hallways of gleaming tile.
“You might say that. I was working on the children’s playroom.”
“How are the kids doing?”
She stopped and turned around. “Do you have children, Detective Schultz?”
Schultz blinked. He had a son whose face was beginning to fade from memory, permanently overwritten by an image of a gruesome death. And he also had Thomas.
“One son.”
She nodded crisply. “Then you know what it’s like to be a parent. I could count on one hand the number of hours Missus May has spent with her children since their father died. I think the only time she was really there for them was when she was birthing them. And even for that, she was knocked out.”
“So you don’t approve.”
“I had a daughter. She would have been fourteen. Leukemia. It was us against the world. Her father was killed in Desert Storm, and we have no living relatives.”
“I’m sorry.”
She gave him a brittle smile. “It’s just that some people don’t value what they have. Or I should say they value the wrong things.”
By now they’d reached a small kitchen. Mary Beth offered him bottled water and took one herself. He accepted more out of courtesy than thirst.
“Let’s talk about Frank and May,” he said. “Did you think they had a solid marriage?”
She hesitated. “On Frank’s part, I’d say yes. May’s an opportunist. If she had an affair, there would have to be some advantage to it, some leverage she could get. But there was no other man as far as I know.”
He noticed that it hadn’t taken her long to drop the “Missus May” routine. A lack of respect had certainly taken root.
“At the time of Frank’s death, you were in the house, correct?”
“That’s in my statement, Detective. What is it that you really came here to ask?”
So much for my subtle approach.
“Did you let anyone into the house that day?”
“No.”
“Or turn off the alarm system so that someone could get in unnoticed?”
“No. I was here when Frank was shot.” She pointed to the counter where they were sitting. “I’d had a couple beers and gotten drowsy. I was up late the night before, reading a new design book. I put my head down for a bit, and the next thing I knew, there were cops in the house.”
He studied her face. There was defensiveness in it, especially in her eyes and the furrows in her forehead, but no deceit.
“So tell me about this design business of yours,” he said.
“It’s something I’ve wanted to do since I was a girl. It started out as a kind of escape, I guess. My mom and dad fought a lot, and sometimes he hit her when he was drunk. I’d go in my room and lock the door. She told me to do that, just in case he decided he needed another punching bag.”
She sat in silence for a minute, and he let her replay her memories. “I got a dollhouse for my sixth birthday. Pink and white and full of little chairs and tables. There was even a bathtub. I’d block out the noise outside my room and just move those little pieces of furniture around. Kept me sane, I think. So in a weird way I want to be an interior designer in honor of my mother. I’ve got some savings, and I’ve already taken some courses toward my degree.”
Schultz had seen people motivated by stranger things before. He may not be able to wrap his brain around the motivation, but he intuitively knew that Mary Beth wouldn’t do anything to taint her dream, like take blood money to betray her employer.
There was nothing here for him. He chatted awhile with her, shook her hand, and wished her well with her business.
Out in his car, he phoned PJ. He listened to the speculation concerning Fredericka, and learned that Dave was bringing her in within the hour for questioning.
One door closes, another opens.