| |
––––––––
I TOOK A sip of sweet, cold Riesling and selected a salted pecan from a small, hand-glazed pottery bowl. Sophie had bought the bowl at that shop next to Janey's Place, the one owned by that young couple whose names I could never remember.
It was six p.m. and we were comfortably ensconced on Sophie’s patio chaises. Sexy Beast lay dozing on the lawn. The evening was balmy and overcast. I just hoped if it was going to rain, it would hold off until I got home. Sophie had laid in some big citronella candles in ceramic tubs, and they did a decent job of repelling the mosquitoes.
She’d just gotten home from the Town Hall where she worked. She and her lawyer had met with Bonnie that morning while the padre and I had been saving Porter’s bacon.
We’d waited for Porter’s mother to return home before making tracks. She’d been shocked at the condition of her beautiful leaded-glass bow window, but once she realized what had caused it, her only concern was for Porter. By the time we left, his doctor and brother—who happened to be one and the same—was on his way to the house.
Sophie took one look at me and assumed I’d been in a car accident. I’d told her about Lacey’s certain guilt and how Porter had covered up the crime, but she was still worried about the damning story Dean had concocted. He must have laid it on Bonnie right after the town meeting the night before. It’s why the detective had phoned Sophie for another meeting.
“Come on,” I said, “how much credence do you think Bonnie’s going to give a ridiculous tale like that? Especially considering Porter’s much more believable version of events?”
“Well, Bonnie can be irritating as hell,” Sophie said, “and she has a way of getting sidetracked, but I like to think she’s too smart to be taken in by Dean’s venomous nonsense.”
“He’s never let go of his bitterness toward you,” I said. “That’s what’s driving his absurd lie.”
“Be that as it may, she has a responsibility to follow up on all leads.” Sophie tossed a few nuts into her mouth.
“Did you mention the time-sheet thing to her?” I asked. “You know, that Sten can probably produce the old records and show that you were in the office when Ernie was killed?”
“Got Sten to look for it last night and give it to Bonnie. For all the good it did me. She was like, right, no one ever fudges those forms.”
“She’s such a cynic.”
“Comes with the job,” Sophie said. “And she’s right, a law-office time sheet alone doesn’t count for much. Spend twenty minutes shooting the breeze around the water cooler, that time’s got to be accounted for. Some client’s going to pay.”
“But the time sheet shows you didn’t go home for lunch, right?” I insisted.
“Yep. Every little thing helps, Jane. Keep that agile brain of yours perking away.”
I poured us each a little more wine. “What exactly does your charming ex say happened the day Ernie died?”
“Says I went home at lunchtime, argued with Ernie—about his homosexuality, natch. Which we never did. I mean, I used to get after him about the clutter in his basement music studio, and he got after me about working too many hours, but once I got over the shock of marrying a gay guy, we never fought over that. Would’ve been like fighting over the color of his eyes.”
“So you and gay hubby had it out,” I said.
“In the fairy tale Dean spun for Bonnie, yeah. Then I snuffed gay hubby—with what variety of weapon, he declined to say—and called my lover Porter to get rid of the body for me.” Sophie snickered. “Can you see that? Porter Vargas and me? He was Ernie’s best friend, we used to get together with him all the time, but there was never that kind of sizzle between us. And anyway, neither of us would’ve done that to Ernie.”
For Sophie, marriage to a man she could never be intimate with was still marriage. I had to admire her character, though I didn’t think I could live with the same choices.
Of course, if said choices were sweetened with three million smackers, I might be tempted.
I said, “And why, pray tell, did your ex wait all these years to inform the law about the coldblooded killer he married?”
“Oh, he has an answer for that,” she said.
“What a shock.”
“Seems when Dean got home from Boston—the same day they discovered Ernie’s suicide boat, but later—I wasn’t all that broken up about my sudden widowhood.”
“Oh no?” I deadpanned.
“Nope. I was pretty much okay with it, according to him. Also, he says he had a few drinks with Porter not long after, and Porter told him it wasn’t suicide and how the two of us did the deed. Meaning the murder, not sex. Well, that too. According to Dean.”
“And he didn’t come forward with this rather critical information back then why?” I asked.
“Because Porter had been drunk,” Sophie said, “so Dean didn’t believe his outlandish story. Also he didn’t want to think that another man was doing it with his beloved Sophie. So he kept quiet all these years.”
“He’s still angry at you for not throwing your money away on his stupid schemes,” I said. “That’s all this is.”
“No kidding,” she said. “He says that after Ernie’s murdered skeleton was discovered, he suddenly recalled Porter’s drunk confession all those years ago and confronted me about my guilt. Seems I tried to pay him off, and when that didn’t work, I threatened to bash his head in, too.”
“Well, the whole thing’s too preposterous,” I said. “Bonnie can’t possibly take him seriously.”
“Think not?” Sophie said. “Porter’s story isn’t the final word by any means. Remember, he only came under suspicion when his wife claimed he murdered Ernie.”
“Out of vindictive fury when she learned that he killed Tim,” I reminded her.
“Yeah, but why would she have accused her husband if she herself was the murderer? You see what I’m saying? She risks Porter telling the cops who the guilty party really is—her.”
“Except he loves her too much to let her take the rap,” I said.
“Does she know that?”
“I think she does,” I said. “And if she’s capable of murder, she’s not above letting her husband pay for her crime. Especially after learning he’s responsible for Tim’s death. Lacey has no perspective where Tim’s concerned. In her memory he’s larger than life, like some kind of god.”
Sophie drained her wineglass. The way she looked at me, it was clear she was about to change the subject. “So here’s the thing, Jane. Rumors are flying about Dom and Bonnie.”
I’d always admired Sophie’s directness. That admiration didn’t keep my stomach from clenching. I set down my wineglass. “Okay, um... so what are people saying?”
She gave me a look. What do you think they’re saying?
“He still wants to marry me again.” Was that my voice, so weak?
“When’s the last time he brought it up?” she asked.
“Well, I don’t know, um...” When had he last mentioned it? At Jimmy’s Sweet Shop, when he’d tricked her into going on a date with him? What a silly, sweet gesture. “Two days ago,” I said. Was it possible for things to change so drastically in two short days?
“I’m not going to ask if you want to marry him,” Sophie said. “It’s complicated, I know that.”
I sat up straight. “Right, and that’s the thing he doesn’t seem to understand. To him it’s so simple. He wants what he wants, and that’s all he knows.”
Sophie let out a big, expressive sigh. “Well, you’ve got to talk to the boy. Sort it out.”
“If he’s been cheating—” I cut myself off. There it was again. That word that might or might not apply in this situation. “Anyway, that would be a deal-breaker.”
“What about you and Martin?”
“Martin?” I tried to look astonished, but her expression asked who I thought I was kidding. “There’s nothing between us, Sophie, and that’s the truth.”
“Your choice or his?”
I opened my mouth to answer. My lower jaw just hung there for long seconds. Finally I said, “Damned if I know. I can’t figure him out.”
“I think that’s by design,” she said.
“What do you mean?” I flopped back down and rooted around in the nut bowl for another pecan. Settled for a hazelnut.
She said, “I can’t find anyone who has any solid intelligence on that guy.”
That was saying something. Sophie was the human embodiment of the FBI, the CIA, and Wikipedia all rolled into one. If she didn’t know about someone or something in Crystal Harbor, it was because there was nothing to know.
“You think he’s dangerous?” I asked.
She cackled, and okay, yeah, my question might have sounded more intrigued than scared. I recalled that the mayor herself hadn’t been immune to bad boys at one time. She’d admitted it herself when explaining the illicit appeal of the young Dean Phillips.
“Dangerous in a good way or a bad way?” she asked. “If it means anything, I don’t think Martin’s going to slit your throat for asking him to pick up his dirty socks.” She looked past me and gave a wave. “Good evening, Norman.”
Sexy Beast awoke instantly and trotted over to check out the interloper. I turned to see Sophie’s across-the-street neighbor make his way to us.
“Good evening, dear.” Norman looked as dapper as ever in a long-sleeve dress shirt, bow tie, and argyle sweater vest, despite the heat. At his advanced age—I put him at well into his nineties—he probably welcomed the extra warmth. I rose to give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek, lifting SB so the old man could pat the little dog without having to bend.
“Good heavens, what happened to you?” he asked, alarmed by all my cuts and scratches.
“It’s nothing,” I said. “I, uh, fell off my bike.”
I positioned a cushioned armchair for him, knowing from experience that he was more comfortable with a straight-backed seat. Norman propped his cane against the nearby patio table. He possessed an impressive collection of antique walking sticks, all passed down through his family. This particular one was crafted of some dark, burled wood and topped with a bent ivory handle carved in the shape of a naked woman. There was nothing remotely pornographic about the piece, which was elegantly sensual in an old-school way.
Sophie poured him a glass of wine without asking. Norman never turned down an evening libation.
Now that he was seated, it was easier for him to reach down and give some love to my obsequious pet. “This isn’t a dog,” he teased for probably the hundredth time in his cultivated Ivy League tones. I knew he had no idea he was repeating himself. “Father had a dog back in the late thirties that would put this animal to shame.”
As if ninety-nine percent of the dogs who’d ever roamed the earth wouldn’t put this animal to shame. I’d heard him wax poetic about Father’s remarkable beast on numerous occasions.
“Her name was Candy,” he said. “English setter, white with liver ticking. Best gun dog I ever saw. She had the sweetest temperament, but get her out there in the field and no grouse was safe. Broke my heart when Father eventually had to put the old girl down.”
I asked, “Norman, I was wondering—did you get a chance to phone Detective Hernandez?”
He thought about that a second. “I don’t believe I know a Detective Hernandez. Is he with the Crystal Harbor Police Department?”
“Yes,” Sophie told him. “And the detective is a she. Bonnie Hernandez. She was at the town meeting Tuesday night.”
Sophie and I shared a silent communication. We’d be surprised if he remembered the meeting, his short-term memory being what it was. As for long-term memory, however, his detailed stories about his family, historical events, and cultural references from decades earlier were, without exception, flawlessly accurate.
“Oh yes,” he smoothly prevaricated, having had plenty of practice in concealing his diminished powers of recollection. “That was an interesting meeting.”
“So I take it you didn’t call her,” I said.
He gave me a quizzical look. “Call who, dear?”
I waved off my question. “It doesn’t matter. It was about Ernie.” Norman had claimed to remember more from back when Ernie died, besides the price of gas and the abomination that was New Coke.
His expression turned sad. “What a terrible shame, a nice young man like that committing suicide in the prime of life.”
I glanced at Sophie, letting my expression do the asking. Her shrug said he had indeed been informed of recent developments. Perhaps she hoped repetition would help the concept stick, because she said, “Actually, Norman, I’m afraid it was worse than that. Ernie was murdered. His body was discovered last week, after all these years.”
Sadness turned to shock and dismay as he said, “No! How awful. I’m so sorry to hear that. Do they know who did it?”
“Not yet,” she said, “but the police have a couple of leads.”
“Well, I hope they catch the person soon.” He shook his head. “I liked Ernie a great deal.”
“He liked you too,” Sophie said.
“He used to come across the street whenever it snowed and shovel my walk,” he said. “Most young people nowadays would never think to do something like that for a neighbor.”
Just as Norman would never think to fork over a few bucks to those wintertime entrepreneurs who knock on your door after every snowfall, shovel in hand. Like many old-money types I’ve known, he squeezed his pennies so hard you’d never guess he was sitting on tens of millions in stock, real estate, and in his case, Ched’r Wheelz With X-treme Cheese! and Picante Gigante Tac-O’s.
Yeah, that’s right, the guy was heir to the KrunchWorks snack-food empire. Then he’d gone and married Maud Miriam Shelby, heiress to the perennially popular Easter Buddy egg-dyeing kits, which had been around in one form or another since before the Civil War. Theirs had not, however, been a coldblooded, dynastic union. By all accounts, the two of them had been deeply in love.
“Ernie had a generous soul,” Sophie said. She blinked and looked away for a moment.
“That last year when my Maud was so sick,” he said, “we had a little birthday party for her in the upstairs parlor. Ernie composed a song for her. He brought his guitar over and sang it. She was so touched.”
“I remember,” Sophie said. Yep, her eyes were wet. “I was there.”
“Yes, you were, dear. You gave her that beautiful alpaca shawl from Peru. Lavender and green, Maud’s favorite colors. She loved that shawl. That was May eleventh, thirty-two years ago. Just a few weeks before Ernie committed suicide.” He shook his head. “What a terrible shame, a nice young man like that taking his own life.”
“It was a hard time for me,” Sophie said, in a rare display of emotional vulnerability. She leaned forward and reached for his hand. “You and Maud were so kind.”
“Well, it was nothing compared to how kind you’ve been to me all these years with her gone.” He squeezed her hand.
Sexy Beast roused himself to get between them and nudge their joined hands. As far as he was concerned, humans had no business touching each other when they could be giving him scritches. Little Mr. Needy-and-Greedy got what he wanted before trotting across the lawn to patrol the property’s perimeter, sniffing ferociously for the least sign of danger. It was a perilous, thankless job, but some pampered little lapdog had to do it.
I said, “Norman, this might seem like an odd question, but bear with me.”
“My word,” he said, taking in my sliced-and-diced appearance. “Whatever happened to you, dear?”
“Hawk attack. It tried to make off with Sexy Beast and I had to fight it off. So listen, on the day Ernie died—that is, the day before his boat was found—did you notice any unusual activity around here?” I knew that Norman had stuck close to home in those days, tending to his sick wife.
“Unusual?” He frowned, plunging into the crystal-clear depths of his long-term memory. “I do recall he had visitors that day, which surprised me at the time.”
Sophie slowly straightened. She looked intently from Norman to me and back again.
“Why did that surprise you?” I asked.
“Well, because Ernie possessed an admirable work ethic—he spent most of every weekday writing his music.” He turned to Sophie. “Isn’t that right, dear?”
She nodded, as if she feared her voice might break the spell of remembrance.
“Do you recall who visited him that day?” I asked.
“Let’s see... his friend Porter was here. I saw him arrive from up in my studio.”
“Norman has an art studio on the top floor of his house,” Sophie explained. “The third floor where it’s all skylights.”
“I’ve seen your work,” I told him. A couple of his paintings hung on the walls of Sophie’s house—large, dramatic landscapes executed in vivid colors. I wasn’t just being polite when I said, “You’re very talented.”
“Thank you, dear,” he said. “Painting keeps my old mind sharp.”
Uh-huh. “Do you remember what time Porter arrived?”
“In those days I painted only for an hour or two after lunch when Maud napped. So it had to be sometime between one and three.”
“Did you see him go inside the house?” I asked.
“No, he rang the bell, but then when there was no answer I saw him go around back. Ernie sometimes took that electric keyboard of his out here to the patio when the weather was nice. Why stay cooped up when you can accomplish the same thing while breathing fresh air?”
“Makes sense to me,” I said. “You can’t see back here when you’re in your house, though, right? Even from your third-floor studio?”
“Oh no.” He swept a gnarled hand toward the far reaches of the sprawling lawn. “I can see that area back there, and the woods, of course, but nothing closer to the house.”
“Can you see the carriage house?” I asked.
“Certainly. Well, part of it,” he said. “I can’t see its doors from my studio. Too many trees in the way. Not that I try,” he hastily assured Sophie. “I’m no snoop. Plus when I’m up there, my attention is on the canvas before me. I was working on a view of the salt flats in Death Valley that day. Maud and I had taken a trip out there the year before.”
Sophie said, “That’s right, I remember you showing me that painting shortly after Ernie died. It was still wet.”
So even if Norman had been in busybody mode that day, from his vantage point behind his third-floor windows, he apparently couldn’t have seen Porter carry Ernie’s body into the carriage house and place it in the trunk of Ernie’s car.
“Do you know how long Porter stayed here?” I asked.
Norman shook his head. “I didn’t see him leave. I did see Ernie drive off, though.”
Sophie jerked slightly. I asked, “You saw Ernie get into his car?”
He thought about that. “No, it was parked in the carriage house. But I glanced out the window and saw it come down the drive and turn onto the street.”
With Ernie in the trunk and Porter behind the wheel. From Norman’s vantage point, he wouldn’t have been able to make out the driver.
“The young lady left then, too,” Norman added, “but she was on foot.”
Now it was my turn to jerk. “Young lady?”
“Oh, didn’t I mention her? She slipped in through the gate and crouched among the bushes there. No doubt some sort of game the young people were playing.” Chuckling, Norman pointed to the dense stand of hydrangeas that grew along one side of the property not far from where we sat. The bushes had been there as long as I could remember. It was the ideal hiding spot from which to observe the entire backyard undetected. And yes, the doors of the carriage house were clearly visible from that spot.
“What did this young lady look like?” I asked.
“All I recall about her,” he said, “is long, dark hair and a pink headband. And eyeglasses.”
Sophie turned to me and mouthed, Lacey. I wasn’t surprised Norman didn’t recognize her. That long-ago day when she hid in the hydrangeas would have been the first time she’d set foot on Ernie and Sophie’s property.
He doesn’t know I was there that afternoon, Lacey had said that night when she’d accused her husband of murder. Now we had a witness who could place her at the scene. But what had she been secretly observing from the cover of those bushes? Her husband covering up a murder he’d committed? Or her husband covering up a murder she’d committed?
“When did she get here?” I asked.
“I spotted her not long after Porter arrived.” He sipped his wine. “Now I must ask you something.”
“Shoot,” I said.
“Why do you want to know who was here the day that poor boy took his life?”
Sophie fielded this one. “I was wondering about his final day,” she said. “Who he interacted with, that sort of thing.” It was the truth, just not every last little scrap of it.
“One never truly gets over the loss of one’s dearest love.” He gave her a smile full of compassion and commiseration. “I know that better than most. But it’s been thirty-two years, dear. You need to look to the future, not dwell on the past.”
This sweet speech would have had more oomph if not for the Big News of the preceding week. An unsolved three-decades-old murder demanded answers.
She squeezed his hand again. “Thank you, Norman. And thank you for answering all our dumb questions.”
“Thank you for the excellent wine,” he said. “It will help me get a good night’s sleep.”
“You be sure to give my best to your family.” To me she explained, “Norman’s granddaughter and her husband and kids have been staying with him for the past week.”
He appeared happily surprised by the news.
“Ah, a full house,” I said. “Great-grandchildren. That’s wonderful. Listen, before you go, Norman, can I ask just one more question?”
“Anything, dear.”
“You said ‘visitors.’ He had ‘visitors’ that day, as in more than one.” Norman appeared confused, prompting me to clarify: “You told us that on the day Ernie died, Porter came by. Did anyone else visit him?”
“Why, yes,” he said. “Dean dropped by in the morning.”
Sophie frowned. “My husband Dean? My ex-husband, I mean. Dean Phillips?”
“Well, naturally. I don’t think I even know another person by that name. There is a film actor, I believe, called Dean—”
“Are you sure it wasn’t someone who just looked like him?” Her voice was tight. “Dean was in Boston the day Ernie died.”
“You might not be recalling things too clearly.” He patted Sophie’s arm. “It can happen to anyone, dear. It was your Dean, all right. Well, he wasn’t your Dean at the time, of course, he was merely a friend.”
Sophie appeared at a loss for words, struggling to process this information. Norman seemed so certain, but could his recollection be trusted?
“Did he ring the front doorbell?” I asked.
He shook his head. “When I opened the bedroom drapes—it was after breakfast, around ten, I’d say—I saw him approaching from the trees back there and waving hello.” He pointed toward the stretch of woods that bordered the back edge of Sophie’s property. “I assumed he was waving to Ernie here on the patio, but from inside my house, most of your backyard isn’t visible. Not that I look, mind you. I’m no snoop.”
“Wait,” Sophie said. “Dean came on foot through the woods? He didn’t drive up to the house?”
“That’s right,” Norman said. “I assumed he was out for a morning stroll and decided to drop in on Ernie.” As if the man who’d coveted Ernie’s wife, not to mention Ernie’s wife’s fortune, would pay an impromptu social call on the man who was living the life he dreamt about. Well, except for the gay part.
“Do you know how long he stayed?” she asked.
“Haven’t a clue. Ernie must have had a devil of a time trying to get any work done with people popping in all day.” More somberly he asked, “You don’t suppose that had anything to do with the poor boy’s suicide?”
“No, I’m sure it didn’t,” she said.
He nodded, reassured, and glanced around for his cane. I handed it to him. He noticed my myriad lacerations and said, “Good grief! What hap—”
“Who knew you shouldn’t dry off a hand grenade in the microwave? Last question, I promise,” I said, as we all rose. SB stretched luxuriantly, shook himself, and did his happy where are we going now, what are we doing now dance. “Do you recall anything else out of the ordinary about the day Ernie died?” I asked Norman. “Anything at all? Aside from the unusual foot traffic back here?”
He shook his head. “Just that and the mess those young hoodlums made. Otherwise it was a perfect June day. I was finishing up a landscape of the Death Valley salt flats that day. Took me forever to get the light just right. My daughter Margaret fell in love with that painting, so I gave it to her. It’s hanging in her—”
“I’m sorry, Norman,” I said. “Some young hoodlums made a mess? I don’t think you got to that part.”
“Didn’t I? Well, it’s hardly worth mentioning. I came over here in the late afternoon. The mailman had delivered a piece of your mail to us by mistake—” he directed this to Sophie “—and I didn’t want to leave it in your mailbox. It looked to be official, a tax refund or some such. Ernie didn’t answer the bell, so I assumed he was still outside.”
“So you came back here,” I said.
“And it’s a good thing I did. The patio furniture had been overturned. The birdhouse knocked down. One of the cats had been pulled right out of the ground. Ernie’s keyboard and music notebook were on the grass. I set it all to rights.”
Sophie looked grim. To me she said, “I was wondering why he’d left his new keyboard outside. And then when he didn’t come home that night... I didn’t know what to think.”
Until his boat was found floating off Montauk the next morning.
She said, “Why didn’t you ever tell me about this, Norman?”
He gave a dismissive wave. “I didn’t want you upset over nothing, especially the next day after...” He sighed. “No doubt it was a couple of delinquents showing off for each other. I’m just glad they didn’t decide to—” he made spraying motions “—decorate the place with graffiti like you see on television.”
I said, “What does that mean, ‘one of the cats was pulled out of the ground’?”
Sophie pointed to the memorial cat statues. “Those guys.”
“Yeah, but—”
“The white one.” Norman strolled over to it and tapped it with the tip of his cane. “She’s my favorite.”
“What’s to pull out of the ground?” I asked. “Don’t they just sit on top of it?”
“Nope,” Sophie said. “They have built-in pedestals. Only the actual sculpture sits aboveground.”
My nape was doing that prickly, nagging thing. Wakey, wakey, Janey, it was saying. You might want to splash some cold water on your gray matter right about now.
The black cat still crouched, ready to attack. The white cat, the lazy one, still reclined in feline languor, licking that one pearly paw. I squatted by her and ran my fingers around her base, scraping away a little dirt. It was true. The marble extended belowground. I got a solid, two-handed grip on the thing and glanced up at Sophie. “Do you mind?”
“Knock yourself out.”
I very nearly did just that. One good yank and that hunk of marble popped like a twenty-pound cork, leaving me sprawled in the grass and Sexy Beast yelping in alarm. I sat up, dusted myself off, and examined the statue’s base, normally hidden from sight.
The pedestal was squared off, a perfect cube about six inches on all sides, with no shortage of hard, sharp edges.
One look at Sophie’s face and I knew she was thinking the same thing I was. I asked her, “So when’s the last time you pulled this thing out of the ground?”
“Never have,” she said. “Bad luck.”
“Bad luck, huh?” I gave her a wry smile. “You’re the least superstitious person I know, Mayor.”
“Yeah, well,” she said, “I’ll bet you anything it was damn unlucky for Ernie.”
