by Norah Wilson
“My wife … somebody’s killed my wife. Somebody help!”
Even as we jumped from the car and ran, I was on my cell dialing 911.
“77 Ashfield Drive. Yes, Ashfield Drive, and hurry. I think there’s been a murder.”
I hung up quickly before the emergency dispatcher could ask me a million questions I didn’t have the answers to. Yet.
Yes, I’d be speaking to the police. I had no doubt about that. I had to tell them what I knew, about Jennifer’s visit to my office a few short days ago. But for now, I had to get into that house before they did. See for myself. And it was more than insatiable curiosity; this was personal. This was my client.
Dylan and I ran up the driveway together, but he reached Ned first. Reading my intent, he turned Ned around so that his back was to me as I dashed into the house through the open front door.
The Weatherby home was impressive. Even in my heart-thumping state, I couldn’t help but take in that fact. Great high ceilings, marble flooring in the foyer. The house was huge, and from where I stood, there must have been four or five different doorways or hallways before me. It was like a maze. But I didn’t need a map to tell me which way to find Jennifer Weatherby, I just followed the trail of blood. The trail that started right at my feet.
Already I could hear the sirens, and from just outside the door, the sounds of Dylan gently grilling Ned about what he’d seen.
Quickly I followed along the foyer and through a set of open double doors.
And oh shit, there she was. Jennifer Weatherby lay face down on the floor of what appeared to be a study. A fire burned in the fireplace, incongruously cheery. Two glasses of wine — one full, the other half full — sat on an occasional table between two tall wingback chairs. The plain white pantsuit she wore was soaked through with blood — two dark bullet holes torn in the fabric. One tan sandal remained on her foot, while the other lay askew on the hardwood floor.
I rushed to her and bent to check for a pulse. But before my fingers even touched her neck, I knew what I’d find. No pulse. No life. Just the cold feel of death on my hands. And Jennifer’s blood.
“Oh Jennifer,” I whispered. I knew I’d get no response, but I had to say it. “I’m so sorry.”
Her words rang in my ears. The words I’d so easily dismissed as she’d said them when leaving my office. “Oh, I forgot to tell you, she’s threatened me. Several times she’s called the house telling me she wants me out of the way.”
Guilt lumped itself into an indigestible ball in my stomach. Dammit, I should have done something.
Oh, sure, I’d warned her it sounded like a matter for the police, but when she shrugged it off, I hadn’t pressed it. Mainly because I was convinced Jennifer Weatherby was just being paranoid. And now she lay dead before me. All because I hadn’t taken her seriously.
I stood up, a new determination burning in my gut. I would find that mysterious blond mistress no matter how long I had to tail Ned Weatherby. No matter what it took. Because Jennifer’s other words rang through my mind also.
“It’s a matter for you, Dix. I have faith in you.”
Chapter 3
Yes, I’m cynical. I’ll be the first to admit it. And I have a chip on my shoulder when it comes to some men. Okay, most men. But for good reason. Some days just go from bad to worse to argh!, and when they do, damned if there isn’t always a man smack in the middle of it.
Detective Richard Head was one such man. To say that he’d been a thorn in my side from time to time would be like saying Johnny Depp was just a little bit hot in that pirate costume.
You see, Richard Head and I had a history. No, not a romantic one. God forbid! I wasn’t his type, and he sure as hell wasn’t mine. Our history was one based on mutual dislike, and mutual distrust. We’d flipped each other the finger so often it had become automatic, a reflexive action.
Police Detective Head didn’t like private detectives, and he liked female private detectives even less. And he absolutely loathed a certain female private detective who happened to catch him getting a little too close with the new dispatcher at the 10th precinct awhile back. Actually, Richard’s ex, Glory, had been a client of Jones and Associates two years ago. Or rather had attempted to be a client. But when she couldn’t pay the hefty retainer fee, I’d volunteered my services — off hours and off the books. I know, I know, not very business like. But Glory was a sweetheart. She was only working part time and just didn’t have the money. So I helped her out. And it worked out for both of us. She found out her suspicions of a cheating husband were true. And when I went out on my own, she sent a couple of her friends my way — she had been that impressed with my work.
But Detective Richard Head had not been impressed by my work. Glory had kicked him out on his ear when I handed over the incriminating evidence. Saddled with alimony payments, Richard had been forced to move in with his mother.
His mother. God, I’d almost forgotten that part. No wonder the man hated me.
But my point is, Richard Head never forgave me for doing my job and catching him red handed (or ass handed, if you prefer).
And I’d never wanted him to.
Did I mention I have a chip on my shoulder?
By now, you’ve no doubt figured out which police detective caught this call.
Yep.
By the time Detective Head arrived, the patrol response guys had been there probably five minutes. Ned Weatherby had gotten control of himself. Sorta. By that I mean he wasn’t screaming now so much as crying softly (thank you, Dylan). The police had gotten him inside before too much commotion was caused. Ned kept shaking his head and asking, why, why, why would someone want to do this to his Jennifer? He looked bewildered, lost, his bottom lip quivering as he snuffed back the tears. At least he was acting that way. For all I knew, he and his mistress were jointly responsibly for Jennifer’s demise.
I would find out. I sure as hell wouldn’t leave it to Marport City’s finest.
Of course, Detective Head looked about as thrilled to see me as I was to see him. When the first officer on the scene explained that I’d touched the victim to check for a pulse and that the bloody tracks on the floor were mine, Detective Head launched into a furious attack on me for contaminating his crime scene, compromising the evidence, etc. I fired back that if I hadn’t checked for life signs, he’d be tearing my head off right now for failing to come to the aid of a victim whose life might have been saved by some timely first aid.
Midway through my counter-attack, I saw his expression change. The fury that twisted his features just moments ago was gone. And just like that, it clicked: he’d like nothing more than to pin this murder on me! Considering I was standing beside the dead body, the victim’s blood on my hands, it’s a wonder he wasn’t standing there with a first class woody.
Oh boy.
+++
Minutes behind the many wailing police sirens (guess the boys in blue figured they could afford a few extra cars to a murder scene on Ashfield Drive), came the flashily painted media vans. They parked all along the street, contrasting startlingly with the BMWs and Hummers and Lexuses (Lexi?) of Ashfield Drive. Tanned reporters in their fresh pressed suits and their gelled hair leapt from the vans before they’d barely rolled to a stop. They grilled the neighbors, who were now milling about, for details, staying off the Weatherby property, but precariously close to the yellow police tape. A few officers — the younger ones — strolled into camera range, trying to look appropriately serious and authoritative in the background. But hell, all they needed was a “Hi mom, it’s me!” sign.
No one was admitted to the Weatherby house, of course, except for officials — cops, forensic specialists, ambulance crew, the ME from the Coroner’s Office. Well, hardly anyone. I was still inside. From where Detective Head had parked me on the living room couch with a less-than-polite ‘stay there’, I watched the activity outside through the picture window, gazing through sheers that made everyone look ghostly.
Right behind th
e news crews, a brand-new Porsche pulled up and an anxious-looking Jeremy Poole leapt out. Gawd, he looked just like his media pictures. Did he ever take off his suit and tie? The lawyer approached one of the uniforms on crowd control, nervously running a hand though his hair as he did. From where I sat, I could hear the conversation between Poole and the young officer drifting in the front door, which still stood open.
“I’m Mr. Weatherby’s lawyer. I demand to see my client.”
In his grief-stricken state, Ned Weatherby had called his lawyer? Interesting.
“I’ll need some identification, sir,” the officer said.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Obviously ticked that the officer hadn’t recognized him, he reached into his back pocket for his wallet. He began fumbling through cards, dropping one after the other while the young officer waited, and the media zoomed in.
“It’s all right, officer. I can vouch for Mr. Poole.”
I glanced up to see Ned Weatherby framed in the open doorway. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who’d been watching Jeremy Poole’s arrival. I flicked my gaze back to the scene outside in time to see every cameraman and reporter snap their heads in Ned’s direction as though their necks were rigged together.
“Shut the fuckin’ door!” Detective Head yelled.
But it was too late. At least a dozen photographs had been snapped and every newspaper in the province — hell, every newspaper in the country probably — would have a picture of a distraught Ned Weatherby admitting his lawyer into the house. Speculation would roll like a donut down hill.
“Oh, Jeremy, it’s horrible!” Ned said, clutching his lawyer’s arm and drawing him inside. “Someone’s … someone’s killed Jennifer.”
“There, there, Ned. I know,” Poole said. “I’m … I’m so very sorry.”
“Who would want to do this to Jennifer?” Ned looked like a child asking if the boogeyman had really snuffed out Santa Claus — desperate for answers in the land of disbelief.
“Who’s in charge here?” Even in trying to be commanding, the lawyer’s voice sounded edged with panic.
Detective Head stepped forward. “I am.”
“Your name, sir?”
“They call him Dick Head,” I called from my assigned seat on the sofa.
If looks could kill, the medical examiner would have had another body to deal with, but I held my ground under the detective’s glare. Okay, that probably was not the smartest thing for me to have done, but I wanted Detective Head to get the message loud and clear. I wasn’t about to roll over and do tricks for him on this. I wasn’t scared because I had nothing to be scared of. And I wasn’t looking for an ally in him.
And I sure as hell wouldn’t be intimidated.
“I’ll deal with you later, Dodd,” Head scowled at me before turning to Jeremy Poole. “I’m in charge, and the name’s, Richard Head.”
“Yes, very funny,” Jeremy said, obviously thinking the name was a joke of some sort at his expense.
I snorted a laugh.
“Goddamn it—”
“Jeremy,” Ned Weatherby interjected, “This is Detective Richard Head.”
The lawyer paled. “Really?”
“Really.”
“My apologies, Detective Head.” Poole cleared his throat. “I’m Mr. Weatherby’s lawyer. If you have any questions for my client, you’ll ask them in my presence. We’ll be in the kitchen.”
“Why do you think Weatherby needs a lawyer?”
Good one. Damn, I hated giving that guy credit, even in my mind.
“Mr. Weatherby is not merely a client. He’s also a personal friend.” Poole laid a hand on Weatherby’s shoulder. “Come on, Ned. I’ll fix us some tea.”
I guess Poole wanted Head to know where things stood also, because with that they turned their backs on the detective and headed toward the kitchen.
“Did you call Billy Star yet?” I heard Poole whisper as they passed me.
My ears perked up as I recalled an angry Billy Star from the pics I’d shown Dylan earlier.
Ned’s shoulders sagged. “Oh, Christ, no, I haven’t called anyone. I .. I suppose I’d better call him. That’s one call I sure as hell don’t want to make. And … and I need to call Luanne too. I need to call her first.”
The kitchen door swung closed slowly behind Ned and his lawyer, and all Head could do was watch it close him out.
He kicked the sofa. “Pansy. Did you see the shoes on that lawyer guy? He must spend on loafers what I spend on my whole fuckin’ wardrobe.”
“It’s going to be a long night, isn’t it, Detective?”
“Shut up, Dodd.”
By the time midnight rolled around, every light in the Weatherby mansion blazed. Almost every inch of the house had been dusted for fingerprints. Detective Head had personally overseen the CSI’s work as they swabbed my hands and seized my bloody-soled runners and neatly tagged and bagged the evidence. He looked on as they fingerprinted me, and smiled as they took a hair sample (more like a handful of it). If there had been a way he could have gotten away with it, I’m sure he would have ordered a cavity search.
“Let’s go over it one more time, Dodd.” Detective Head chewed on a toothpick like he was warming up for an Olympic sport. Oh, geez, he must be trying to quit smoking again.
Could this day get any worse?
“Shall I go slower this time, Detective?”
“Just keep it up.” He glared at me. “You’re in serious shit here, Dodd. And your smart mouth isn’t doing you any favors today. But that’s just fine with me. Just fine. I’d like nothing better than to throw you away for a good long time.”
“You can’t just—”
“I can do what I damn well please.”
“Ah, there’s this little thing called ‘the law’. You might have heard of it.”
Head leaned in close. Close enough so that no one else could hear him, and so that I could smell mint on his breath. Apparently, his toothpicks were flavored. “I never liked you, Dodd,” he said. “I don’t like anyone who makes their living by being a rat.”
Sure, blame the rat for nailing the snake.
He leaned closer still. “Which is why it’s going to give me so much pleasure to personally see to it that you rot in jail for this crime.”
“Even though I didn’t do it, Detective?” I kept my voice calm; I didn’t so much as twitch a muscle. My eyes were clear and steady. But on the inside, things were liquefying as fear spread. “We both know I didn’t kill Jennifer.”
He eased back, a tight smile on his face. “I know no such thing.”
“I told you — several times, in fact — Jennifer Weatherby hired me to follow her husband.”
“Yeah right! She hired you to trail her husband, because of some mysterious blond mistress that nobody else has ever seen or heard tell of. How do we know she exists? Maybe she’s one of them ET types, huh? Straight from the planet Pleasesavemyass.”
“You’re an asshole, Head. And you look the part, too. It’s a wonder your mother doesn’t dress you better.”
His fists clenched, but he was smart enough to unclench them. “You know what I think, Dodd? I think you’ve got a thing for Ned Weatherby yourself.”
My jaw dropped. “You can’t be serious.”
“I don’t think anyone hired you. I think you’ve got the hots for moneybags and that’s why you’ve been stalking him. That’s why you had the pictures and all those notes. Jesus, you followed him into the locker room! We got laws about stalking in Ontario. You might have heard of that.”
I tried for calm. Fought for control. “You know you’re reaching for straws, don’t you, Dick?”
He glared at me.
“Jennifer Weatherby came into my office just this past Monday,” I continued. “She was extremely upset. She was convinced her husband was cheating on her. And she wanted me to follow him for a week to see if her suspicions were correct. That’s what I did. Thus, the pictures.”
“How convenient. What
did you do Dodd, sneak back here when Ned was in a meeting? Wait till he left for work then sneak in here and shoot Mrs. Weatherby? Get her out of the way so you could have her husband?”
I bit down on the other words — harsh, angry, four-letter words — that threatened to color the room. I was losing my patience. “Look,” I said. “You can waste your time harassing me. You can diddle the night away because of some personal vendetta. So be it. But damn it, Dick, there is a murderer out there. She threatened Jennifer, and apparently has made good on those threats. So what are you going to do about it?”
The smile on his face slowly widened as he stared at me. He chuckled. Chuckled deeper. Then he laughed out loud.
Okay, when Richard Head laughs out loud, everyone hears him. Everyone turns and stares. And he knows it. He starts out putting his hands on his belly. He squares his shoulders. And he tosses his head back as if his thick, red neck were made of rubber. Then he bellows his ha-ha’s. Red-face roars them. This theatrical-grade performance will go on for a good minute, while everyone within hearing distance — let’s say about eight square miles — runs to see what’s so damn funny.
And yes, every damn cop in the house came into the living room where he sat across from me.
He wiped the laugh-tears from his eyes. “Okay, then Dixieland, or whatever your name is….”
“My name is Dix. “
“I don’t really give a rat’s ass what your name is. Listen to me very carefully, Dodd,” he said. The room was so still and quiet his words couldn’t be mistaken. Nor could their meaning. “Let me tell you a story…. Let me tell you what I’ve got here. I’ve got one dead woman, to wit, Jennifer Weatherby. I also have one wealthy widower. And I look at a woman like you, alone and wanting a man. Needing a man — if you know what I mean. A woman like yourself would find Ned Weatherby quite appealing. Quite the catch for an old—”
“Now, wait a minute—”
“I’m not finished.”