by Diane Capri
I refused to write George’s name down at all.
But I had to accept, in my less impaired moments, that State Attorney Drake had enough evidence to authorize George’s arrest and was working furiously toward an indictment. I wrote faster, as if mere speed would propel me to victory over Drake’s ambition.
Next, I listed all the motives and opportunities for each of the suspects. Enough reasonable doubt to convince Drake not to indict George was all I needed. After that, someone else could find the killer. All I wanted to do was to save our lives as we knew them. Which meant George had to be exonerated. Fully.
I made my lists, refilled my drink twice, and got lost in the minutiae of the investigation thus far. I read the report of Thomas Holmes’s accident again, and the death certificate. There was no mention of drugs. If a toxicology screen had been done, it wasn’t mentioned here. Had he stopped using before he died? Or was he high at the time?
There were three other issues that I still had to resolve. How did George’s gun get to the crime scene and where did that grey jacket fiber found on the bullet that killed Andrews come from? And where the hell was George when all this was happening, anyway?
Quite honestly, I was more than a little looped when I tugged at some memory in the back of my brain and it started to work its way out. The gin had relaxed me enough that I knew there was something stored on the hard drive of my brain that could help me. I just couldn’t quite get at it.
When I’d finished, I was so exhausted, and it was so late, that I collapsed on my bed. Sleep claimed me in less than five minutes.
While I slept, my dreams were full of cats, beach houses, crashing waves, military uniforms, young boys and good-looking men.
Okay. That last may have been a reflection on the emptiness of my bed.
I tossed and turned and woke up several times with heart palpitations, sweating. What was my subconscious mind trying to tell me? I promised myself I’d think about it in the morning as I turned over and fell back into a deep sleep. I woke up with a jerk at three o’clock in the morning.
My head ached, my eyes were puffy, and my tongue felt like a furry animal had lain on it. But there would be no more sleep.
Stepping over a comatose Harry and Bess, I padded out to the kitchen in my yellow nightshirt. It was more than a little indecent, even thought it covered my arms and everything else to just above the knee. It was cotton, just not very thick cotton. Not that it mattered. Harry and Bess were oblivious and there wasn’t anyone else here to appreciate the view.
While I scalded the milk, the kitchen filled with that heavenly aroma only fresh brewed coffee produces. It’s too bad they haven’t figured out how to get that smell into television commercials. Watching someone else supposedly enjoying the aroma isn’t nearly as powerful as actually experiencing it. And it’s no wonder Saudi Arabian women are allowed to divorce their husbands if he refuses to provide coffee. That should be the law in all civilized countries.
The coffee and the milk finished about the same time. I pulled down a large mug that George had given me a couple of years ago, poured the milk through a strainer and then added coffee to create the right color. I poured four Ibuprofen tablets into my palm and swallowed them without water. Acetaminophen worked better for headaches, but with the amount I drink, my liver can’t take the risk.
The flat was chilly. I’d left the windows open and allowed the night air to come in. I indulged myself further with a small fire in the den’s gas log fireplace.
Then I selected quiet piano nocturnes and turned on the stereo with the volume down, to avoid waking Harry and Bess. I wasn’t worried about them having bags under their eyes or anything; I sought total peace and quiet. Unlike me, they are bundles of energy when they wake up. Of course, I didn’t usually wake them at this hour, so who knew?
During fitful sleep, I had worked around a scenario that answered all the questions surrounding Andrews’s murder, but two very big pieces of the puzzle were wrong.
I began to pace and talk to myself, trying to resolve the problems, as I’d done countless times before.
“George’s fingerprints were found in Andrews’s den. He had been there. But when? The night Andrews died? Or some other time?”
Then, I answered, “Without an alibi for the time of the murder, Drake could easily convince a jury that George was there the night Andrews died. You know juries. You work with them every day. They will believe hard evidence, like fingerprints and murder weapons and jacket fibers. Many a defendant has been convicted on less.”
Turn. Sip. Walk.
“There must have been other fingerprints in Andrews’s den, too. You need to see that fingerprint report.”
Answer: “It’s too early in the morning to call Ben Hathaway to get it. Besides, the mere presence of fingerprints by the other suspects won’t exonerate George if he won’t explain when and why he was there.”
I paced a while longer, but I got nowhere so turned to the second problem.
“How did George’s gun become a murder weapon? George loaned the gun to Peter, who brought it home from the gun club. How did the killer steal the gun from where Peter put it in Aunt Minnie’s sideboard?”
Think it through, think it through.
“George loaned the gun to Peter a week before the murder. Peter put the gun in the sideboard two days before and forgot about it. He didn’t check the gun at any time after that and then it turned up at the scene of the murder.”
Turn. Sip. Walk.
“Right. So the question is, in those two days, who had access to the gun?”
The answer included George, me, and Peter. It also included everyone who worked at the restaurant and everyone who’d been a guest at the restaurant or visited us at home in that time frame.
“But most of those people had no motive to kill Andrews,” I reminded myself aloud.
So I returned to all the names on my list of people who had been in the restaurant in those two days and had at least one motive to kill Andrews.
Everyone on the list had been in the restaurant the night Andrews was killed.
Except Olivia. Or was she there, too, and I just hadn’t noticed because I didn’t care about her then?
“Which one of the suspects with motive and opportunity had taken the gun? It could have been taken the very night of the murder,” I reminded myself.
I went over each suspect carefully; none could be easily eliminated.
Exhausted from lack of sleep and pacing, I returned to the chair, allowed my heavy eyelids to close and visualized everyone at the restaurant that night. It was easy to do. The night was indelibly imprinted on my brain forever, even if the purple lump on my forehead had disappeared.
I imagined the guests as they sat at tables in George’s dining room; I recreated the argument between the Warwicks and Andy; saw Tory Warwick hurling the glass toward me and even felt its solid weight against my forehead. I raised my hand to the place where the lump had come up the next day. All traces gone.
What a shame internal wounds don’t heal as quickly as visible ones.
Okay. Just for starters, I considered that the gun was taken sometime before the night Andrews died. Then, the possibilities were endless and I got nowhere.
So, consider whether someone in the room took it that very night. I looked at each of them closely in my mind’s eye.
What were they wearing?
The gun was too big to conceal in a pants pocket, but it could have been tucked into a man’s waistband or jacket pocket.
I visualized each of the men who were on the suspect list and present that night. All the men were wearing jackets. No one ever came to George’s without a jacket. Any one of them could have slipped the gun into his pocket. No help there.
Or it could have easily been slipped into a handbag. Which one of the women had a handbag big enough to hold a .38 caliber revolver?
I was so startled when it hit me that I nearly spilled my coffee.
Of course! Now I
remembered it.
One of those large, open feedbag types. The kind you could fit the kitchen sink in.
But, had I seen it that night? Did she have it then?
Despite what I had promised Ben Hathaway when he gave me the police file, I knew that nothing but a confession would do. Considering my previous failures with confessions, I should have learned my lesson. Hubris, thy name is lack of sleep. But how could I make her confess?
Mere suspicion was not evidence. I needed a solid plan.
And more information.
And some other suspects needed to be ruled out first, so that there was only one possible killer who wouldn’t be George.
Michael Drake would insist on a solid case he could prove before he’d let George go, because it looked like Drake already had a winner.
I moved to the computer. I waited for the site to load. I’d read the Ask Dr. Andrews column daily, so I’d gotten a feel for Robbie’s style. Her answers were pretty canned as well as increasingly harsh.
The usual questions on the usual topics comprised today’s column. There were three letters about workplace issues involving sexual misconduct of one kind or another. The child-rearing queries were about sexual abuse. And the lovelorn letters were about sexual dysfunction.
Mine was the only letter of the day that wasn’t about sex, but Robbie’s answer was:
Research is conclusive. While even a bad marriage is good for a man, a bad marriage causes negative health effects and can literally kill the wife. If you stay with this man, you can expect further heartache.
You can’t have a sexual relationship with a man who is in jail. If he’s convicted, divorce him or resign yourself to infidelity.
Interesting take on the whole thing, Robbie. Kate says that we all teach what we need to learn. Maybe Robbie should take her own advice.
Robbie had sex on her mind.
Nor did she consider that Faithful Wife’s fictitious husband really was innocent.
What was that about? Guilty conscience?
I hoped so.
I signed off and went back to my journal.
After a couple of hours of playing with one idea and then another, I thought I had it figured out. One step at a time, I’d get to the point where I could expose the killer.
But I needed to line up my evidence and nail it down.
Otherwise, Drake would never believe me.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
Tampa, Florida
Monday 6:30 a.m.
January 31, 2000
I ONLY HAD TO park outside Sheldon Warwick’s house for about half an hour before he backed out of his driveway. I followed him to The Old Meeting house on Howard Avenue, in the district some clever marketer with a sense of humor had now dubbed “SoHo,” meaning “South Howard.”
I opened the door and walked through into history. On the left was the long counter. It was green Formica trimmed in chrome. Stools at the counter were round green vinyl, also trimmed in chrome. The waitress stood poised between the straw dispensers, taking orders for eggs over easy, country ham, and biscuits made with lard. Grits on the side. Sausage gravy smothered everything.
My mouth watered at the greasy smells as I took a seat at the counter and glanced above the open window to the kitchen for the blue plates that were displayed on the wall. Each plate reflected black handwriting that told diners what the supper special was for every day of the week. On Mondays, the special was bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches on white toast, cream of tomato soup, and a vanilla malt.
To say the Old Meeting House was reasonably priced was like saying it snows in North Dakota. People with old money in Tampa rarely spend it.
Warwick approached his buddies dressed for politickin’. He wore an old pair of khaki pants that looked like they’d need a patch any day now. The required beat-up deck shoes, sans socks, and a cloth belt with small fish on it that was ragged around the edges finished his bottom half. His golf shirt was a faded navy blue with a few speckles of paint on it. He’d probably snatched these clothes from his gardener.
Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Warwick was surrounded by several Tampa movers and shakers, all of whom were dressed exactly as unfashionably as he was, but they wore their own clothes. They dressed to be comfortable and because they weren’t trying to impress anyone.
The difference between Sheldon Warwick and his companions was that they were all genuine and he didn’t have a genuine bone in his body.
I skipped the lard, ordered scrambled eggs and coffee.
Warwick’s crowd all recognized me, but theirs was not a gathering where women would be welcome or accepted. They didn’t want to be rude, so they just acted like they hadn’t seen me. Once acknowledged, the southern gentlemen’s code of honor would have required them to include me. And be polite about it.
Seated alone at the counter, the waitress felt obligated to chat me up. We talked about the ice cream special of the day and the balmy weather. Warwick and his cronies laughed behind me while I savored the tastes of childhood.
After I’d finished my eggs, the tone of the conversation behind me sounded like Warwick was about to depart. I left a ten-dollar bill on the counter and followed him out to the parking lot where he tried to enter his fifteen-year-old Volvo. Another sign of old money around here was to buy cars as if they were priced per pound and never replace them while they still moved.
“Sheldon,” I called to him over the noise of the traffic on South Howard.
He turned around.
“Oh, Willa. How nice to see you.” He smiled for the crowds, or at least any crowds he thought might be looking at this hour. He held out his hand and took mine for the same reason. There was no warmth there.
“I didn’t have the impression you’d be glad to see me again so soon after our last chat,” I told him.
“You exaggerate, Willa. You always have.” He turned to unlock his car door. “I do need to be going, though. Have a good day.”
Before he could get seated inside the car, I moved closer to him and took off my sunglasses so that he could see the dark circles under my eyes as well as the seriousness of my intentions.
“Sheldon, I’m sure you know I’m not going to let this rest. Olivia Holmes told me that you have no alibi for the time of the Andrews murder.”
Sheldon removed his sunglasses, too, five hundred dollar ones. I guess when he got dressed for his biscuits with the boys he must have neglected to borrow his gardener’s old aviators.
“Look, Willa, I’ve indulged you because you’re Jason’s sister. But don’t push your luck. I had no reason to kill Andy. As for my alibi, I don’t need one. But I do have an appointment.”
He sat down heavily in the car’s worn leather seats. I grabbed the door handle, refusing to let him pull it closed.
His eyes were completely hidden by the sunglasses, but tone dripped condescension. “If you’re looking for a plausible alternative to George as murderer, you might consider your lawyer. Given her irrational hatred of Andrews, she had more motive to kill him than I did.”
“You’re too power-hungry,” I said, trying out one of my late night theories, while holding onto the door handle and my temper. “Andrews was making you look bad, ruining your hearings, disrespecting you before your constituents. He embarrassed you, exposed your lack of political clout for the whole world to see. Men have killed for less, Sheldon.”
He pulled the door out of my hand and slammed it, started the engine and backed out of the driveway, leaving me standing there holding nothing but the air and a fingernail broken down below the quick.
But I had him running, I consoled myself as I stuck my throbbing finger in my mouth.
I moved to the next step.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
Tampa, Florida
Monday 7:30 a.m.
January 31, 2000
JASON ENTERED THE PRIVATE room I’d reserved at the Tampa Club high atop the Barnett Bank building downtown. The club was mostly deserted and I figur
ed there would be few opportunities to be interrupted.
While we gazed out over the southeast Tampa skyline, the Florida Aquarium, St. Pete Times Forum hockey arena, and Ybor City in the background, Jason ordered an egg white omelet and wheat toast. We talked family matters for a while.
It was pleasant to sit and talk with Jason about ordinary things. We hadn’t had much contact in the past twelve years. He’d been living in Washington, D.C., but he was often out of the country on business for Senator Warwick or helping him campaign in election years.
Jason wanted to be Secretary of State some day. He had high political aspirations and he planned to run for Senator Warwick’s seat when the senator retired.
I would have been proud to have Jason in the senate, but it was a waste of his considerable talent. I’ve made plain my view of the political process and everyone involved in it.
Time to get to the point. “I took your advice and investigated Thomas Holmes’ death.”
“I know. Sheldon told me.”
I smiled. “What did he say about our interviews?”
Jason grinned, too. “That you are an impossible woman and it’s too bad you already have a lifetime appointment. He said he can’t get rid of you, but he won’t support you for advancement to the Court of Appeals, either.” Jason took a sip of his bourbon and water. “Sorry.”
“Actually, unlike the rest of you, I don’t have any aspirations to higher office. So it’s not much of a hardship,” I told him, even though losing the chance did sting me, a little. “Besides, if what I think is true, Senator Warwick won’t be in a position to make a difference to my career if and when I change my mind about that.”
He looked troubled, now.
It was always whose ox was getting gored, wasn’t it?
Jason wanted Warwick to stay in the senate for another term and then retire, endorsing Jason to replace him.
Jason has had his life planned out in concrete progressive steps since he was eight years old. He wouldn’t let anything upset the applecart at this stage of his career. He’d worked too long and too hard and kissed too many asses to get where he was.