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“I USUALLY FIND moonlit walks on the beach to be pretty darn romantic,” I said, “but tonight I’m just not feeling it.”
“Moonlit?” Bonnie tightened the hood of her rain jacket and squinted through the icy mist at the impenetrable blackness overhead. If not for the meager glow from the parking-lot security lights some distance away, I wouldn’t have been able to make out her form. “I don’t see a moon.”
“Are you always so literal?” Dom’s fiancée had phoned earlier to ask me—more like order me—to meet her at the town beach at ten pm. I could have told her I had better things to do on a Friday night, particularly on what I had every reason to believe was Victor’s last Friday night in Crystal Harbor.
Bonnie had warned me not to tell anyone about our little meeting tonight. Clearly she’d chosen the setting with privacy in mind. The beach was deserted on this wet and chilly autumn night. I’d left my houseguest at home watching a movie. He thought I was out picking up a late dinner. My favorite pizzeria doesn’t deliver. Well, I was planning to bring home a Buffalo chicken pizza, along with some clever excuse to explain the delay.
“Where did you park?” I asked. My car was the only one in the beach’s lot.
“Near the playground. I didn’t want to risk anyone spotting both our cars here.”
The playground was way at the other end of Nevins Park, a sprawling recreation area bordered on the north by this beach, which faced the bay after which the town was named. Bonnie Hernandez, girl spy, had trekked a long way on a crummy night to make sure no one saw us together.
I stopped walking and waited for her to turn and face me. “I’d better leave here with some nuclear codes to peddle to China,” I said, “or I’m unfriending you on Facebook.”
“I’m not on Facebook.”
See what I mean? Literal.
For someone who’d gone to great lengths to arrange a private tête-à-tête, Bonnie appeared awfully reluctant to reveal what was on her mind. Her troubled gaze scoured our surroundings.
Don’t worry, I wanted to tell her, we’re the only numbskulls dumb enough to be out here. The mist had turned into a light rain. The baseball cap I’d donned to keep my head dry was now saturated, as was my suede jacket. Yeah, poor choice, what can I tell you?
Finally she slid a white, business-size envelope out of her pocket, holding it close to keep it dry. “If you tell anyone I gave you this, you’ll be very sorry.”
My ex-husband’s fiancée was threatening me. Nice. “You know what, Bonnie? I don’t need this crap.” I turned and strode briskly away. I’d made it to the edge of the parking lot when her iron grip on my arm jerked me to a stop. I tried to yank it away. She wasn’t letting go.
She said, “That didn’t come out the way I meant it.”
My bark of laughter called her a liar.
“You wanted this.” She released my arm and shoved the envelope at me. When I didn’t move, she said, “Take it. Maybe you can do something with it.”
I crossed my arms.
“Okay,” she said, “I apologize for... for the way that sounded before. This whole thing has me...” She took a deep breath and pushed the envelope closer to me. “Burn it after you read it.”
This spy stuff was getting old. On the other hand, I’d never before seen Detective Bonnie Hernandez so rattled.
Ultimately I let my curiosity make the decision. I reached out for the envelope and slipped it into my jacket pocket.
“It didn’t come from me,” she said. “If it turns out to be anything usable, I don’t want to hear word one about it, I don’t want to be associated with it in any way. Go through channels and keep me out of it. Is that clear?” Without waiting for an answer, she took off in the direction of the distant playground.
I got behind the wheel of my Mazda, tossed the sodden cap into the backseat, and turned on the map light. I ripped open the damp envelope and unfolded the single sheet of paper it contained. The first thing I noticed is that it was a photocopy. The second thing I noticed made my heart kick. It was a photocopy of a page in a notebook. A notebook that looked to be three by five inches and spiral-bound at the top.
The kind of notebook Detective Paulie Cullen carried.
What you’re asking is not only unethical, Bonnie had said that day in the bookstore when I’d asked her to sneak a peek at his notes, it would get me in serious trouble if I got caught. I won’t do it.
It would appear she’d had a change of heart. But why? One reason was obvious. Dom. He might no longer be the number-one suspect, but that status could change in a heartbeat, especially with a nitwit like Cullen at the helm. But I doubted that was the whole story. Whatever our differences, I never questioned Bonnie’s commitment to the job, her bone-deep need to put away bad guys and see justice done—an unlikely outcome in this case if Cullen called all the shots.
Her integrity was something else I never questioned. She must have grappled with her conscience before making the decision to smuggle her colleague’s notes to a civilian. I still didn’t like her, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t respect her.
Before, if you’d asked me to guess, I’d have speculated that Cullen’s handwriting would be close to illegible, the physical extension of a disorganized mind. Not so, as it turned out. The notes I was looking at were written in the precise penmanship of a second-grader intent on mastering cursive. The words never strayed from the lines. I was in no mood to ponder the psychological significance of this surprising discovery, but I invite you to give it a whirl.
“Phone tip” was written at the top of the page, along with the date and time: September 9, 7:12 pm. The day Swing died. Cullen had written the name “Meredith Dorn” and “Tolland, CT” along with several cryptic notations: “watched Ramrod News” and “hysterical” and “nutcase.” No mention of what specific tip she was reporting or why he considered her a hysterical nutcase. The detective might have A+ penmanship, but as for attention to detail, we’re talking D-, tops.
But there was more. Under that he’d written, “Followed up on tip, dead end.” So whatever it was, at least he’d looked into it.
Below that was a second date and time: September 23, 7:01 pm. Last Monday. He’d written “Same caller,” along with “Ramrod” and “still hysterical.” Which is one of my least favorite words. I mean, when’s the last time you heard it applied to a guy?
Cullen added the words “Told her I’d look into it blah blah.” He actually wrote that. Blah blah. Our tax dollars at work. It was clear his only goal had been to pacify the caller and get her off the phone. No notation this time about following up.
The Ramrod News shows on those two dates had centered around Swing’s murder. Chloe and Tooley had been the featured guests the first time. Then this past Monday it had been the two of them plus Leonora and Nina. Something about those two episodes had triggered Meredith Dorn’s “hysteria.” Clearly Bonnie had little faith in how her colleague had handled this particular phone tip. And with so few concrete details to go on, could you blame her?
When I finally walked through the doorway with the pizza, Victor was surprised to see me soaked to the skin. I babbled some lame excuse about making multiple stops trying to find orange soda, never mind that I have a case of the stuff in the pantry. I did not tell him about my side trip to the beach. For one thing, I had no intention of violating Bonnie’s trust. And for another, well, Victor didn’t need to know everything. And not because I considered him a suspect, because I didn’t. Not really.
*
THE BIG WHITE colonial stood on a large, meticulously landscaped tract of land in Tolland, a charming town in northern Connecticut. The drive from Crystal Harbor had taken three long hours during which I berated myself for squandering a perfectly lovely Saturday chasing down a lead that had already been investigated.
By Paulie the Perv. It was his new nickname around town. I was still waiting for news regarding the investigation of his possible misconduct, but Sophie was keeping mum. Whatever actions she and the Town Council were taking behind the scenes, they weren’t sharing until it was over.
The door swung open as I was making my way up the brick walkway to the wide, colonnaded front porch. Meredith Dorn appeared to be in her late forties. She had long auburn hair and wore little jewelry. Her well-nourished form was flatteringly displayed in a watercolor-patterned tunic and slim jeans.
From the bit of online snooping I’d done before leaving Crystal Harbor, I knew that Meredith was a widow with two college-age kids. She’d lived in Tolland for the past two decades and worked at Travelers Insurance in nearby Hartford.
We exchanged smiles and handshakes. “I’m sorry,” Meredith said as she ushered me through the foyer and into a comfortable, traditional living room, “I don’t recall your name. I should have written it down.”
“Jane Delaney.”
“You’ve had a long drive from the Island, Detective Delaney. Can I get you some coffee? A cold drink?”
Okay, for the record, I had not claimed to be a police detective! How underhanded do you think I am? Don’t answer that.
When I’d phoned her that morning I’d said simply that I’d gotten her name from Detective Cullen and could I ask her some questions concerning the Pierre Dewatre murder case. She’d agreed but said she was uncomfortable discussing it over the phone and could we meet in person. Hence the day trip.
“Um, I guess I wasn’t very clear,” I said. “I’m not with the police department.”
Her eyes widened fractionally. “I don’t understand. What’s your connection to the case?”
I took a deep breath. “Well, the victim was a friend of mine, and another, um, friend was the initial suspect, and I, well, I don’t have the utmost confidence in the investigation, so... I decided to see what I could find out on my own.” Please don’t kick me out of your house.
I watched her expression morph from suspicious to comprehending. She nodded. “Please. Have a seat.” She indicated the pale-green sofa crowded with pretty throw pillows, and with relief, I obeyed. “Can I get you that drink?” she added. “A sandwich? You must be hungry.”
“I had a soda and some snacks in the car,” I said. “I’m fine for now.”
Meredith sat facing me on an upholstered swivel chair. “I spoke with Cullen twice. I couldn’t seem to get through his thick skull. Oh, he claimed he looked into it. Yeah, right. Probably made one phone call to the cops up here and concluded I was just some hysterical female. What?”
“It’s nothing.” I chewed back a grin, thinking of Cullen’s description of her. “You called him the day Swing died, after watching Ramrod News?”
She nodded. “And again after that second show. Nothing had been done! They have a killer on the loose, someone who’s done it before, and it’s like nobody gives a damn.”
I’d had plenty of time during that long drive to ponder Cullen’s cryptic jottings and what they might signify. I thought I had at least part of it figured out. But...
Someone who’s done it before?
I said, “Are you telling me you think you saw this person, this killer, on both of those Ramrod episodes?”
“Yes!” She sat forward. An angry flush suffused her face. “What do I have to do to get someone to take action?”
“So he’s killed before?”
“What?” She frowned. “Who?”
“Romulus Tooley. The SEAR spokesman. You said he’s done it before.” Tooley had appeared on both episodes.
As I watched her take in my words, a tremor coursed through me. I said, “You don’t mean...” Could Meredith Dorn indeed be the hysterical nutcase Cullen had called her?
“Chloe Sleeper,” Meredith spoke slowly and clearly, her gaze fixed on mine. “Chloe Sleeper murdered my husband eight years ago. She got away with it and now she’s murdered again.”
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry, wishing I’d accepted a glass of water. “Can you... Can you tell me what happened? With your husband?”
“Tony was a professor at UConn,” she said, meaning the nearby University of Connecticut. “English literature. Chloe was one of his students, a senior at the time. She fell in love with Tony. She was obsessed with him.”
“I hate to ask, but were the two of them—”
“No. They weren’t having an affair.” Meredith’s eyes glistened. “I thought they were, though. I mean, she visited me.”
“Chloe did?” I asked.
She nodded. “She came over one day when Tony was at the campus and told me the two of them were lovers, that it had been going on for months. She said he was going to divorce me and that it would be best for everyone, including our kids, if I let him go without a fuss.”
“How did you know she was lying?”
“I didn’t at first,” she said. “I’d never suspected him of cheating before, but you have to understand. Chloe was so sincere, so believable. Later, after everything, I realized it was because she actually believed her lies. She believed Tony was in love with her and that he was going to leave me and marry her.”
My pulse whooshed in my ears. I took a deep, calming breath. “Let me ask you, what kind of man was Tony? I mean, was he introverted? Physically unassuming?” I pictured a literature professor from Central Casting.
“No, quite the opposite,” Meredith said. “Tony was tall, handsome, outgoing. His students described him as charismatic.”
Like a certain celebrity chef of my acquaintance. “Did you confront your husband? About what Chloe claimed?”
“Of course. He denied it. I wanted to believe him, but... well, I guess I’d been waiting for something like this to happen. His female students were always developing crushes on him. We joked about it. But Chloe... you would have had to be here. Listening to her. She’d convinced herself this mad love affair was real and not a figment of her sick mind, and to my shame, she convinced me too.”
Gently I asked, “What happened then?”
A tear streaked down her face. She swiped it away. “I was going to divorce him. I tried to get him to move out. We had some ugly scenes. But a little part of me still thought... this is Tony. This is the man I love, the man I’ve always trusted. He insisted Chloe was mentally unhinged. What did I really know about her? He was determined to get her to admit the truth. He wasn’t going to let this ‘deranged freak’—his words—break up our family.”
“What did he do?” I asked.
“He... He went over there. To Chloe’s place. She lived in this house with a bunch of other students, but none of her housemates were there that day—it was just her. I’m assuming they argued. At some point they both left the house and she got into her car. She ran him over in her driveway. Killed him.”
“Oh no... that’s horrible.” I shook my head. “How was she able to get away with a thing like that?”
“It was officially declared an accident.” Meredith’s eyes closed briefly. “She told the cops she was trying to get away from him and he leapt in front of her car. She said she was trying to break up with him, that they’d had an affair and her conscience bothered her. He was a married man with a family, after all. But he wouldn’t let her go, she said. He was obsessed with her, she said.”
“Did you tell the police about her visit to you?” I asked.
“Of course. She said she came to see me, but only out of desperation. She claims she tried to get me to help rein him in, to make him leave her alone.”
“Kind of the opposite of what she really told you,” I said. “And they just believed her?”
“When you’ve managed to convince yourself that you had this torrid relationship with one of your profs,” she said, “then you’re not really lying, are you? Others view you as credible. Including the authorities.”
“Didn’t the police interview her housemates?” I asked. “I mean, if they never saw Tony at the house, that has to count for something.”
“Chloe told them she snuck him in and out of the house. She didn’t want the others knowing about the affair.”
I sighed. “Unfortunately, that sounds perfectly reasonable.”
“That’s the problem,” Meredith said. “She always sounds perfectly reasonable, like the skilled little psycho she is.”
“Let me ask you something. Did the police find any belongings of Tony’s at her house?”
She hadn’t been expecting the question, I could tell. But she said, “Yes, as a matter of fact. There was a comb of his, a toothbrush, that sort of thing.”
“Stuff like that can belong to anyone—short of DNA testing, anyway.”
“There were other things,” Meredith said, “things that were definitely Tony’s. A monogrammed shirt. An engraved watch that had belonged to his dad. I remember him telling me they’d gone missing from his office on campus. The shirt was the spare he kept there.”
“When did this happen?” I asked.
“A couple of weeks before he died. She must have snuck into his office and made off with them.”
I thought of Swing’s silk robe at Chloe’s. His razor and prescription bottle. I’d felt in my gut that something was wrong when Victor and I had failed to find anything of hers in his home, but what about the rest of it? The stack of bride magazines. The framed picture of her and Swing. The ring.
Good grief, the ring! If she and Swing had not in fact been engaged, how had she gotten hold of his great-grandmother’s ring? Had she swiped it from his home, along with his toiletries? They were all small, concealable items. Even the silk robe could have been rolled into a compact bundle and shoved into a handbag.
I gave myself a mental shake. The thought of soft-spoken, levelheaded Chloe Sleeper shoving her client’s personal belongings into her purse, then offing him and cooking up a fake engagement, was too bizarre to contemplate. Just like the story Meredith Dorn was telling about her husband and Chloe.
I’d just met this woman. She could very well be the nutcase Cullen had called her. Was I supposed to trust her word over Chloe’s?
“What?” Meredith said, watching me closely. “What are you thinking?”
“It’s just... a lot to take in,” I said.
“Tony died thinking I believed Chloe.” Meredith’s chin wobbled. “Thinking I believed the worst about him. And everyone else, his friends and colleagues, they did believe the worst. I mean, the official verdict was that it was an accident following a lover’s spat, that he was obsessed with her and caused his own death. They still think that.”
“I assume that’s what Detective Cullen was told when he followed up on your tip,” I said.
“I tell you,” Meredith said, “the first time I saw Chloe on Ramrod News, I almost had a heart attack. I knew right away that she’d done it again. And there she was, blaming it on that SEAR fellow.”
