Heath Van Brunt eased his rented Lincoln Town Car up to the curb outside the elegant brick townhouse on Beacon Hill, and parked it with a sigh. This was his kind of a car. Roomy, luxurious and quiet. The drive from Providence had been a guilty pleasure, since he had exceeded the speed limit most of the way. But the ride was so smooth that you were over the limit before you even realized it. He’d had drivers say that very same thing to him when he was a traffic officer, but it had never prevented him from writing out a ticket. He was just lucky today to have evaded the radar.
Beside him on the caramel leather seat was a copy of the notes he’d taken over the phone from Lou Potter. Nothing unusual on the face of it. A divorce, no children, no obvious animosity between the parties. He was going to have to dig to find anything here. Heath started up the walkway to the house, aware of the attractive figure he cut.
He was fifty, but looked less than forty when he examined himself critically in the mirror. He’d jogged this morning before breakfast. His blue suit fit him closely, his shoes were shined, his reddish-blonde hair neatly trimmed. It was fortunate, he thought, that he happened to be in this vicinity at this particular moment. The idea of being far from Monroe, working on a murder investigation, gave him a sense of gravity and satisfaction that sometimes eluded him in the mundaneness of much of the work which came his way.
Heath rang the doorbell and stood back, folding his hands calmly in front of him. The door opened to reveal a fortyish woman with short, dyed-blonde hair and glasses. She was wearing a blue chambray shirt, sweat pants and running shoes. He looked past her into the foyer of the elegant old building, and realized it was not an apartment building, but a private home. He wondered, briefly, if Ron Hubbell had to support her in this fashion as a result of their divorce.
‘Mrs Hubbell?’ he asked.
‘Are you Captain Van Brunt?’
Heath extended a well-manicured hand and she shook it unenthusiastically and invited him in. He followed her into a Victorian living room and took the seat she indicated on an uncomfortable velvet settee. The house had been decorated in an authentic Victorian style, which included heavy, depressing window treatments, complete with swags and tassels. A laptop computer stood open on a massive mahogany desk, and there was a cup of coffee beside it, which she walked over and retrieved. She offered him a cup of coffee but he declined. She sat down opposite him with a sigh, in a tufted armchair, and crossed her leg in a fashion he found mannish, with her sweat-socked ankle resting on her knee. Behind her glasses, her gaze was level and unflinching. She did not seem to intend to speak first.
‘Mrs Hubbell …’ he began.
‘Actually it’s Edgerton.’
‘You’re remarried?’ he asked.
‘I use my maiden name,’ she said.
‘OK. Miss Edgerton. I guess you’ve heard about your ex-husband’s wife being murdered. His new wife.’
‘Well, when you called me,’ she said.
‘No mutual friends or relations called …?’ he asked.
‘We’ve gone our separate ways,’ she said, shifting around in the chair, but keeping her cool gaze leveled on Heath.
‘You knew your husband remarried, I assume.’
Anita Edgerton nodded. ‘He called to tell me.’
‘Did that bother you at all?’
She looked vaguely irritated, but her tone remained civil. ‘Not at all. I was pleased for him.’
‘Your divorce was amicable?’
‘Yes, and long ago,’ she said impatiently.
‘But you have not remarried,’ he said.
‘No,’ she said.
He looked around at the plush fabrics and antiques in the room. ‘This is a very nice home you have here. Expensive, I should think.’
‘We like it,’ she said.
‘We … being?’
‘My partner and I. Look, Detective, what is it you want to know?’
Heath felt slightly offended and at the same time embarrassed at the implication that he was slow, in more ways than one.
‘We’re trying to determine if there was any reason Mr Hubbell might have had for …’
‘Killing his wife? None that I could imagine,’ she said. ‘He is a perfectly nice man. And it seemed that he was delighted in his choice of a new wife.’
‘Perfectly nice, but …’
‘But what?’
‘Well, you two obviously didn’t get along.’
Anita Edgerton sighed. ‘All right. I don’t see any reason to dance around this. My partner, the person I live with, is a woman, Mr …?’
‘Captain,’ Heath said.
‘Captain Van Brunt. Does that make things clearer?’
Heath did not intend to look like a country bumpkin in this woman’s eyes. Small-town cop or not, he’d been around. He’d half guessed it already. She seemed like a dyke from the minute he set eyes on her. ‘Were you seeing this woman while you were married?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I just … realized the marriage was a mistake.’
‘Was your husband, Mr Hubbell, very angry when you apprised him of this realization?’
‘Yes, he was angry. Did he go crazy and wave a baseball bat at my head? No. He is not that sort of man.’
Heath felt a dislike for this woman that made it difficult to be pleasant. But, he was here on a mission, so he continued. ‘What sort of man is he, when he’s angry? Have you ever known him to be violent?’
‘No,’ she said.
Heath folded his hands close to his diaphragm and licked his lips. ‘Miss Edgerton, you seem to feel that I am imposing on you here. I would appreciate answers of more than one syllable, since we have a woman beaten to death in our town, and your ex-husband is the prime suspect.’
Anita took off her glasses and wiped a hand over her face. Heath could see the vestiges of a pretty woman there. She put her glasses back on, obscuring the view.
‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I don’t mean to be … rude.’
Heath waited, a prim look of rectitude on his face.
‘I would say he is the kind of man who keeps his feelings pretty much … bottled up inside. Even when he’s angry, he keeps it pretty well to himself. It’s not so odd really. A common trait among us New Englanders.’
‘I see. Was there anything in particular that would set him off. That you remember? Have you ever known him to snap out for any reason?’ He could see her starting to reply without thinking. ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d give this some thought. I don’t want a glib answer, Ms Edgerton.’
She looked at him with narrowed eyes. Then she put her head back and examined the ceiling. She looked back at him. ‘No,’ she said.
‘Surely you had arguments.’
‘I would say we argued most often about money. He didn’t care for credit cards, or bills piling up. Sometimes he was bothered about my spending. Even then, it was hard for him to actually say anything. He would brood until I insisted on knowing what his problem was. Sometimes, at tax time, we didn’t talk to each other for several days at a time. Did he ever snap out? No.’
There was a sound of the front door opening, and a minute later, Heath caught a glimpse of a woman with longish hair and brightly colored scarves breezing past the doorway.
‘Hi, it’s me,’ she called out.
‘Hi hon,’ said Anita Edgerton.
Heath felt like he wanted to throw up. That cheerful, intimate tone between them felt like fingernails down a blackboard on his nerves. Lezzies, he thought disgustedly. It’s a wonder Hubbell didn’t kill this one too.
The theme music marking the end of Matthew Riley’s favorite morning TV program began to play, and the credits rolled over it. Matt made a noise of approval and shifted his gaze to his son, Brian, who sat in a slat-backed wooden chair, beside his wheelchair, his hands crushed together in his lap.
‘Guh …’ Matthew tried to speak. His handsome, leathery face was now slack on one side.
Brian nodded, as if he understood what the older man was trying to say, and patted him on the hand. ‘You ready to go back now?’ he asked.
Matt made another guttural noise and Brian responded, ‘OK. We’ll go back.’
He got up and came around behind the wheelchair.
Lou Potter, standing in the doorway to the TV lounge in the nursing home, watched them, his heart overflowing. He and Matt Riley had been boys together, playing cowboys and Indians in the woods. They had graduated from high school together, entered the service on the same day. Lou came home and married Hattie. Matt was on the horse circuit out West until he met Janine. How well Lou remembered the snowy winter’s day when Matt introduced him to his wife.
Brian buttoned up Matt’s shapeless cardigan and pulled it up across his lap so that it wouldn’t catch in the wheels. Watching Brian, Lou felt proud of him. He was the right kind of a kid, treating Matt with such care and tenderness. He understood that Jennifer Hubbell’s family was hurting, but that was no excuse for trying to blame it on Brian. And it didn’t help that Brian’s girlfriend was ready to jump right on the bandwagon. She was probably just mad that Brian didn’t have the energy to cater to her, run out and buy her pickles and milkshakes in the middle of the night. Lou had no respect for women who expected everything given to them on a platter. He and Hattie had stuck together through some tough times. Some bitter disappointments. Hattie knew how to forgive without always reminding you about it. What happened to hanging in there when things got tough? As far as Lou was concerned, Brian was better off without that Russell woman.
Brian guided the wheelchair through the wide doorway and saw Lou standing there. He did not seem surprised to see him. Lou came often to see his old friend.
‘Hey, Chief,’ said Brian.
Lou squeezed Brian’s shoulder. ‘Hey son,’ he said. Then he crouched down beside Matt’s wheelchair and took his old friend’s limp hand in his. Matt looked at him and tears came to his eyes. It wasn’t unusual – this rock of a man now seemed to tear up at the drop of a hat these days – but it shook Lou every time he saw it. ‘How’s my buddy?’ he said, trying to smile and ignore the tears.
Matt tried to reply. Lou could see that everything was functioning behind those eyes. All of Matt’s intelligence and spirit were still there, but the body just wasn’t cooperating. The frustration of it all was probably what made him cry, Lou thought.
‘This isn’t your usual time for a visit,’ said Brian.
‘Actually, I was looking for you,’ Lou said, looking up at him. ‘Matt, I have to talk to Brian for a minute. I’m on duty right now but I’ll come back and see you later, OK?’
Matt frowned, as if perplexed and upset, and once again Lou cursed the duty that had brought him here this morning. A heavy-set, middle-aged woman with glasses came down the hall looking at a chart.
‘Lucy,’ said Brian. ‘Could you take my father back to his room?’
The woman smiled benignly. ‘The handsomest guy in the place. Of course I could. It’s time for your medication anyway, Matt,’ she said, assuming Brian’s place behind the chair. ‘See you later.’
Lou looked around and saw a quiet sitting area across from the nurse’s station.
‘Let’s sit down, son,’ he said. Brian followed him and they both sat down stiffly in a pair of turquoise blue armchairs beside a blonde-wood coffee table covered with unread newspapers, neatly arranged.
Brian sat at the edge of the chair. Lou couldn’t help gazing at him for a moment.
He was a handsome young man, with that black curly hair and broad shoulders. Lou ran his hand through his own grizzled gray hair, remembering what it was like to be young, and handsome, like Brian. Before Lou could speak, Brian blurted out, ‘Look, I know you told me to stay away from Dena, but I didn’t do anything except try to talk to her—’
‘It’s not about that,’ said Lou. ‘Well, not directly, anyway. Have you heard the news this morning?’
Brian shook his head warily. ‘After I finished in the barn I came right over here.’
‘Jennifer Hubbell, the woman whose house your friend is staying at, was killed yesterday.’
Brian stared at him. For a second something flashed in his eyes that Lou could not exactly pinpoint. Almost a kind of … triumph, and then it was gone and Lou could not have sworn that he saw it. ‘Killed? What happened to her?’ Brian asked.
‘She was murdered. Somebody beat her to death with a fireplace tool. Do you know anything about it, Brian?’ Lou watched Brian’s face carefully, out of long habit.
‘What would I know about it?’ Brian bristled.
‘Hey, I’m not saying you do. I’m just asking you a question.’
‘Nothing,’ said Brian. ‘I had nothing to do with it.’
‘I’m not saying you did,’ Lou protested.
‘Yeah,’ said Brian, ‘but you know they have it in for me.’
‘Who’s they?’ Lou asked.
‘Come on, Lou. You know who I’m talking about. Tanya’s family.’
Lou shrugged. ‘I’d be lying if I said there were no hard feelings.’
Brian shook his head. ‘They can believe what they want to believe. She fell. She hit her head. It happens. It’s not my fault.’
‘I know that, Brian. I closed the investigation, remember?’
Brian gave him a fleeting smile that felt like a reward. ‘I know that,’ he said.
‘Still, I have to ask, son. Where were you yesterday afternoon?’
‘In the barn. Working. Where else?’
‘These are routine questions,’ said Lou in a soothing tone. ‘Now look, we know you were at the house the night before. You had an argument with the victim. What was that all about?’
Brian sagged in his chair. ‘I knew it,’ he said. Then he looked up. ‘She was trying to convince Dena to leave me. She did a damn fine job of it too.’
Lou nodded. ‘Well, you’d better know who your friends are in this thing.’
Brian frowned at him. ‘What does that mean? Where is Dena now? She can’t still be at that house after something like that.’
Lou found his question oddly inappropriate. ‘I don’t know. Some fellow from work found her a place. The information is at the station.’
Brian’s eyes became hard. ‘Who was it? What was his name?’ he demanded.
‘Who?’
‘The guy from work. Was it Peter Ward?’
‘Brian,’ Lou said impatiently, ‘I have no idea. I told her to call us with her information and I assume she did. That’s not why I am here.’
‘Why are you here?’ Brian asked warily.
‘Brian, the husband is … um … well, naturally he’s looking for someone to blame.’
‘Yeah,’ Brian said sarcastically. ‘Let me guess …’
‘Well, he told us you had words over your … Dena staying there.’
‘That was nothing. I was just … pissed at Dena’
‘I know, I know. But it’s how it looks, Brian.’
‘How does it look?’ Brian cried, running his hand through his dark hair.
‘Her husband said you were angry about them taking Dena in.’
‘They were interfering,’ he said. ‘Yes, I was angry about them interfering in my private business.’
‘Did you ever threaten her? Mrs Hubbell?’
Brian glanced up at him and then looked away. ‘What? No way! Who said that?’ For a second, Lou had the unpleasant sensation that Brian was hiding something from him.
‘The husband claimed you were very angry. Out of control.’
‘No. I told you. No.’ Brian looked around the little lounge as if he were trapped there. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was working at the barn yesterday afternoon. You know I would never do that. You know me, Chief.’
‘I’m sorry, Brian. I have to ask. There are going to be a lot of questions, not just from me.’
‘I didn’t go there,’ Brian cried. ‘No. No. No.’
‘OK, son, OK,’ said Lou. ‘Take it easy. You know I don’t suspect you. You’re a good kid. You’re … like a son to me,’ he mumbled.
‘I don’t believe this,’ Brian muttered.
‘Look, your girlfriend was staying at their house. We’re questioning everyone who was involved with these people. We need to find out who did this.’
‘What about the husband?’ said Brian. ‘Maybe he’s trying to blame me to cover his own butt.’
‘We’re checking him out,’ Lou insisted, patting him awkwardly on the forearm. ‘Don’t worry.’
A frail, white-haired woman, her gnarled hands wrapped around the edge of her walker, stumped into the sitting area, looking at the two men indignantly. ‘Where’s my pocketbook?’ she demanded. ‘How do I get out of here?’
Lou and Brian exchanged a glance. There was something faintly comical about it, but neither one of them smiled.
Tyrell Watkins knocked on the door of the house three doors down from the Hubbells’. This door, once a shiny green, was dull, and there were flakes of green paint either missing or about to go missing. The whole house had a faded look, as if the owner had given up caring about it.
The peeling green door opened slightly, and a pair of rheumy eyes looked up at him in alarm, from behind the chained door.
Tyrell quickly held up his badge. ‘Monroe police, ma’am,’ he said, before the wary homeowner could slam the door in his face. ‘We’re asking questions about the murder of your neighbor, Mrs Hubbell.’
‘You’re a policeman?’ a cracked old voice said doubtfully.
‘Yes, ma’am. Officer Tyrell Watkins. Here’s my ID.’ Tyrell patiently held up his photo ID of himself in uniform. He couldn’t blame anyone for being cautious – not after what had happened on this street. But he also felt pretty sure that if he was some freckle-faced white boy, they wouldn’t be half so suspicious. Well, it didn’t bear thinking about, he told himself, as the slice of face behind the door studied the badge and the ID he was holding.
‘All right, young man,’ the old person behind the door said, and the tone of voice made Tyrell relax slightly. It sounded just like what his grandmother would say, calling him ‘young man’ in that faintly reproving tone while she fumbled with the door chain. The door opened and revealed a very elderly woman, small and stooped, with an unruly fluff of white hair and arthritic hands that held a little, pilled-up cardigan sweater closed at the neck. ‘Come on in, then,’ she said.
Tyrell followed her into the stuffy, tidy house. The furniture in the living room must have been new in 1955. Everything matched, but was worn and faded. Family photos were framed on every available surface, and there were a number of prayers, embroidered and framed, which hung on the walls. A chenille bedspread was draped over the couch, and tucked neatly into the cushions.
She indicated an armchair for Tyrell, and lowered herself carefully down onto the couch cushions. A large, console television blared in the corner. Daytime talk shows.
The woman didn’t even seem to notice it.
Tyrell consulted his pad. ‘You’re Mrs Drinkwater?’ he asked.
‘That’s right. My husband Cyrus died nearly fifteen years ago. I live here by myself. I manage. It’s not easy but I manage. Do you want a piece of candy?’
Tyrell glanced at the dish of Hershey’s kisses, wrapped in red and green foil. He doubted she had stocked up early for Christmas. More likely they were left over from last Christmas. ‘No, thanks,’ he said.
‘Go ahead,’ she said. ‘They’re good.’
‘No, I try not to eat candy,’ he said, and he patted his jacket, indicating his waist. He was rewarded with a peal of delighted laughter from the old lady on the couch.
‘Oh, candy doesn’t make you fat,’ she said. ‘Look at me. I’m skinny as a straw, and I eat candy every day.’
That’s probably all you eat, Tyrell thought sympathetically. She was a gentle, cheerful soul, despite her obvious pain. ‘Mrs Drinkwater, we knocked on your door last night …’
‘Oh, I was probably asleep. I go to bed at seven thirty every night. I sleep like a baby. That’s how come I lived so long.’
Tyrell mused that there might be truth in that. His own sleep was often fitful. ‘We’re wondering if you might have seen Mr Hubbell coming home yesterday.’
Mrs Drinkwater peered at her front windows, clean but discolored, covered by venetian blinds. ‘Nope, but I wasn’t looking.’
‘Did you notice anything else? Strange people. Unfamiliar cars. Something like that.’
‘Everybody around here is strange to me,’ she said. ‘I don’t know anybody who lives here anymore. All the people I used to know on this street are gone now. Most of them are dead. Some of them moved to Florida. When Cyrus and I were raising our family here, we knew everybody. We’d all visit one another. The children would play together. Now, nobody’s home all day long. All the mothers are off working. The kids don’t get home till dark …’
‘Yes, we noticed,’ said Tyrell.
‘Most days, I’m the only one here, it seems like.’
‘Yesterday?’ he prodded, seeing that her attention was wandering.
‘Yesterday.’ Her eyes had a faraway look.
Tyrell was clicking his pen shut, and preparing to close his notebook when she said, ‘There was a green van.’
‘A green van?’ he repeated. ‘New? Old?’
‘Oh heavens, I wouldn’t know.’
‘Any logo?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Anything written on the side?’
‘I didn’t see anything.’
‘How come you noticed it in the first place?’ he asked.
‘Well, there’s a lot of workmen coming and going over there since they moved in. They’re fixing up the place. I keep meaning to walk over there and ask one of them to take a look at my ceiling upstairs. I think I’ve got a leak in the roof. I told my son about it half a dozen times but he’s been too busy to get by and I’m starting to worry about the water damage.’
Tyrell nodded, thinking guiltily of the household maintenance he sometimes neglected, even when he promised his grandmother he’d take care of it. ‘What time was this? That you saw the van?’
The old lady knitted her eyebrows together in concentration and then shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Afternoon. Two o’clock. Two thirty, maybe.’
Time of death, he thought, his pulse quickening as he remembered the coroner’s estimate. ‘So, did you go over?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she admitted. ‘I got interested in my programs and I forgot to.’
‘You didn’t notice the license plate by any chance?’
‘No,’ she scoffed. ‘Of course not.’ Then she said more seriously, ‘I wish I did. That poor child. How could anyone do such a thing?’
Tyrell stood up. ‘I’m afraid we’re still a ways from knowing that yet. But if you think of anything else …’
The old lady walked him to the door. ‘I’ll call you,’ she promised.
‘You put that chain on after I leave,’ he said. ‘And don’t go offering those Hershey kisses to any old guy with a truck who looks like a carpenter.’
The old lady laughed again, cheerfully sheepish about his warning. ‘I’ll be careful, officer,’ she said.
Tyrell stood on her doorstep and looked up and down the peaceful little street.
The old lady’s observation had his thoughts racing. He had wondered about the husband. But what could turn a loving husband, even one coming home with bad news, into a raging killer? Could Jennifer Hubbell have been entertaining a visitor when her husband came home early from work, he wondered? A visitor who shouldn’t have been there? A visitor who was driving a green van?