The Damage Done

by P J Parrish

  Louis handed the server his business card and told him to call if he remembered anything else about Anthony Prince. When he climbed in the Explorer, he looked back at the restaurant. Through the window, he could see the server talking to another employee, showing him Louis’s business card. It wouldn’t be long before Jonas Prince’s murder hit the news and the media would be crawling all over this place.

  And all over Anthony Prince’s home.

  He had to get out there before the cameras did.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It was a gated community of just thirty homes called Tammarron North. Big brick mini-mansions set on half-acre lots with circular driveways sporting BMWs and Escalades, sloping lush lawns and manicured shrubbery that reminded Louis of the sculpted bush animals at Disney World.

  Anthony Prince’s home sat at the end of a cul-de-sac. It was a sprawling pseudo-chateau of pale gray brick with a three-car garage and a tri-panel front door of frosted glass.

  Louis rang a doorbell that tolled through the house like church bells. A few seconds later, the door opened.

  Louis expected to be met by a housekeeper, but the woman who stood in front of him looked nothing like a maid. She was tall and willowy, wearing a plain, soft pink, shift-like dress. Her wavy, dark hair was long but neatly pulled back from her moon-shaped face. Her eyes—just about the color of his Persian blue Explorer—stared at him nervously, but warmly.

  “Mrs. Prince?”

  “You’re the policeman my husband called me about.”

  “Yes, ma’am. May I come in?”

  Violet Prince moved back and held the door open while he stepped inside the foyer. He waited until she closed the door and looked at him. She didn’t seem to be wearing much make-up—with her flawless, lightly freckled skin she didn’t need to—but her eyes were red-rimmed like she had been crying.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she said softly.

  “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  “May I get you something to drink first?” she asked. “I have coffee. Or maybe lemonade? I just made it.”

  “No, thank you.”

  Her face melted in disappointment, then she gestured to the hall. “All right then, please come with me.”

  The large living room was carpeted with thick, beige pile and furnished with a pale blue sofa and matching chairs that looked like they had never been desecrated by any human rear end. There were glass end tables, an empty glass coffee table, and a tall glass étagère, which held a collection of pastel figurines that Louis recognized as Lladro, the same ones his foster mother Frances collected. Frances had only a couple animals, including a bunny Louis had given her for her birthday years ago. Violet’s huge collection seemed to be all humans—children in bonnets, a farm boy pushing a wheelbarrow, tiny ballerinas, two little boys in a wooden washtub, praying cherubs, and a trio of Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus.

  The far wall was given over to a huge picture window, framed by knife-pleat, beige sheers, that looked out over a small lake. In front of the window was a glass console on which sat a crystal vase of tall irises so deep blue and perfect that Louis was sure they weren’t real.

  Everything in this room had a slightly unreal feel—no family pictures, no clutter, no sound, no smells. The room felt like someone’s idea of what a beautiful home should be.

  “You have a lovely home,” Louis said.

  “Yes, I suppose,” Violet said, her eyes drifting about the room and finally coming back to him. “Thank you.”

  It was a big house, Louis thought, which meant housekeepers, who were always good sources of domestic intrigue. “It must be hard on you,” he said, “having to divide your time between your church duties and keeping such a big house. You must have good help.”

  “Help? Oh, you mean like servants?” She smiled wanly. “We don’t have any servants. Anthony doesn’t believe in paying for things you can do for yourself.” Her smile faded. “I manage fine on my own, with God’s help, of course.”

  Louis noticed a dark shape set off in a far corner that looked at odds with the light feeling of the living room. He moved closer and saw it was an old organ, made of cherry wood, carved with intricate scrollwork. The half-circle, double-tier keys were yellowed with age. It was only about four feet wide, but its upper wood casing—filled with burnished brass pipes and topped with a cross—rose a good foot over Louis’s head.

  It was the same organ that was in the picture of Jonas and his wife Reeta, in the hallway back at the church.

  “Is this an antique?” Louis asked.

  Violet Prince moved quickly to the organ and stood next to the carved wood bench, nervously brushing dust from the glossy surface.

  “I don’t really know how old it is,” she said. “It used to be in Jonas’s church down in Vandalia.”

  “Where’s Vandalia?”

  “It’s a small town about an hour south of here.” Violet looked off toward the window, and for a moment Louis thought she was staring at something outside. But it was still foggy, and her eyes were unfocused, like she had gone some place far away in her mind. He had to get her back.

  “Do you play?”

  She was slow to turn back to him, and then her face colored slightly. “Yes, but only for myself. I’m not good enough to play for anyone.”

  Louis thought of the huge organ back at the cathedral that seemed to hover over the cavernous sanctuary like a giant, menacing flying saucer, and it occurred to him again how far the Prince family had come in just one generation.

  “Your mother-in-law . . .” he began.

  “Reeta,” Violet said. “I didn’t know her. She passed away before I met Jonas.”

  “I saw a photograph of her, sitting at this very organ,” Louis said.

  “Yes, the organ has been in Jonas’s family since before I met him.” Again, she slid a hand over the cherry wood, and as she did, her eyes brimmed. The way she had said Jonas’s name, there was a tenderness there that, to Louis’s ear, was absent when she said her husband’s name.

  “Were you close to your father-in-law?” he asked.

  She looked up at him as if it was an odd question, though Louis knew it wasn’t. She nodded briskly and dipped her head, but not before Louis saw a tear fall.

  “I lost my own father when I was just sixteen,” she said softly. “Jonas . . . always treated me like his own daughter.”

  It was quiet—a strange, smothering quiet—unbroken by the little, normal heartbeats of a house like a ticking clock or humming heat vent.

  “Mrs. Prince,” Louis said, “I know this is a hard time —”

  “Yes, yes, it is,” she said quickly, brushing at her face. She moved away from the organ, toward the picture window. She was crying softly. She pulled a Kleenex from a pocket and gently blew her nose. Louis waited until she turned to face him.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I . . . this all happened so fast, and I have so many things to do. Anthony told me to start making the funeral arrangements, and I don’t know where to start.” Her eyes drifted to the big picture window. A fog was pressing against the glass, making the lake beyond fade, then disappear.

  “I don’t even know what kind of flowers Jonas might like,” she said. She touched one of the irises. “‘He flourishes like a flower of the field. For the wind passes over it, and it is gone.’”

  The last words had come out in a whisper.

  “Excuse me?” Louis said.

  She looked back at him. “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s a verse from Psalms. I was reading the Bible just before you came. I was looking for something to help me make sense of this all, because the Lord always gives us the right words when we can’t find them ourselves.”

  It was obvious Violet Prince was in a fragile state, but Louis had to get this back on track. “Mrs. Prince,” he said, “I have to ask you some questions.”

  “Yes, of course you do.” She moved to the sofa. “Please, sit down.”

  L
ouis sat down in one of the chairs and took out his binder and pen. “What time did your husband get home last night?” he asked.

  It was a direct assault question, aimed at throwing a spouse off-guard and sending them into a defensive crouch, but Violet Prince sat ramrod straight and didn’t blink.

  “It was right around ten-thirty,” she said.

  “You were awake?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I am on a strict schedule. On Wednesdays, Anthony always goes to dinner downtown. I eat dinner alone at seven, then clean up. I bathe at nine and then read my Bible. Anthony came home at ten-thirty.”

  “People can lose track of time. Why do you remember the time so well?”

  “I am sure because I looked at the clock because I have to take my medication at ten-thirty.”

  Louis jotted this down as he did a quick review in his head. The service at the Beacon Light Cathedral had ended around seven-thirty. Anthony arrived at the Chop House around eight, the restaurant owner said. The restaurant was only a fifteen-minute drive from the church. According to the time stamp on the check, Anthony paid at ten-twelve. The drive from the restaurant to his home was about twenty minutes, which put Anthony pulling into his driveway right around when Violet said he did.

  This pointed to Anthony having what looked like an airtight alibi—except for that ten-minute window just after the service ended.

  As for the body being moved, Anthony could have done that anytime during the night, sneaking out to return to the church after he was certain his wife was asleep.

  Louis decided to change course. “When did you last see your father-in-law?” he asked.

  “Last Sunday night, after service.”

  “Why don’t you go to Wednesday services?”

  “I never go to service on Wednesdays,” she said. “Anthony is usually at the church all day on Wednesday because he has meetings just before the service.”

  “Who does he meet with?”

  “Board members of charities, the church council,” she said. “There is so much business to be discussed. We are a very large congregation.”

  “Did you know that your husband and your father-in-law disagreed about expanding the TV coverage?” Louis asked.

  She hesitated then nodded. “Yes, they did. But except for Fresh Start, I don’t get involved in the business side.”

  “Fresh Start?”

  “It’s a family resettlement program, part of a large effort run by our churches here. I helped Jonas get our program started. We’ve been helping families here in Grand Rapids for more than twenty years now.”

  There was a note of pride in her voice, the first sign of strength Louis had seen in this wan woman.

  “I have to ask you,” Louis said. “Did you ever hear your husband and father-in-law argue about the TV coverage?”

  Violet didn’t move, but a faint cloud passed over her face. “Once,” she said softly. “It was after a Sunday morning service and I was waiting in the receptionist area outside Anthony’s office. I heard Jonas speaking loudly about the eye of the needle.”

  “The eye of the needle?”

  “Jonas was quoting from Luke —‘It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter the kingdom of God, ’” Violet said.

  She let out a long breath. “That was the only time I had ever heard Jonas raise his voice. But I know that, in the end, my husband would have given in to whatever Jonas wanted. My husband deeply respects his father.” She paused, her eyes tearing. “I’m sorry. Respected him, I meant.”

  “Did they disagree about anything else?”

  “No, Anthony trusted his father’s judgment in nearly everything.”

  “Nearly everything?”

  She pursed her lips, a rise of color in her cheeks.

  “Please,” he pressed.

  “Anthony and I . . .” She paused. “The Lord has not blessed us with children, and Jonas wanted us to adopt. He hoped for a lasting legacy to the church, a third-generation minister to carry on his work. But Anthony didn’t want to do that.”

  “Why not?” Louis asked. “Adoption is a very Christian thing to do.”

  “Yes, it is,” Violet said.

  She pressed her lips together and just stared at him. It was clear this hurt her. He resisted the urge to look at all those perfect porcelain children lined up on the glass shelves.

  “Do you know anyone who might have wanted to hurt your father-in-law?” he asked.

  She was quiet for a long time, then she said softly, “That is something I have been thinking about all day. As I said, I have been searching for some sense in all this senselessness, trying to understand who could have done this.”

  Again, she became quiet.

  “Mrs. Prince,” Louis said, “anything you can give me would be helpful.”

  “My husband told you about that man in Detroit?”

  “Yes. Walter Bushman. Anyone besides him?”

  “I hesitate to cast aspersions, but there is Clinton Rose.”

  “And he is?”

  Violet’s face flushed with color again, embarrassment this time. “Clinton is a homosexual,” she said.

  “Why would he have problems with your father-in-law?” Louis asked.

  “He was a deacon in the church, until last month. He decided to reveal what he was to everyone. They asked him to leave the church.”

  “Because he was gay?”

  Violet stared at him, and he knew she felt he was judging her and the church. He was, but he tried to soften it.

  “Your church is not tolerant of things like that?” Louis asked.

  “The church’s official position is that homosexuality isn’t compatible with Christianity,” she said softly.

  “So your father-in-law made this man leave?”

  She nodded. “Jonas believed homosexuals were sinners and should not hold a position of eminence in his church.”

  “How did Mr. Rose react?”

  “I understand that he cried. Then he told my father-in-law that he would open his own church.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a violent man,” Louis said.

  Violet smoothed her dress. He could tell that she was uncomfortable. “Jonas said that they were living double lives, one with God and one with the devil.”

  “I think the devil visits all of us from time to time, Mrs. Prince.”

  Now Violet was staring at him, those rich, blue eyes boring so hard into him that he wondered for a second if she could see inside him, down to that place where his own demons slept.

  Slept until they roared to life and chased him down dark beaches.

  What the hell had made him think of that?

  Violet rose slowly, pushing back a long lank of hair that had fallen over one shoulder. “I don’t mean to be rude, officer, but are we finished? I have so much to do.”

  Of course she did. Anthony Prince would be able to distract himself with the byzantine dealings of keeping a cathedral alive, but it would be left to Violet Prince to deal with the dead. He remembered that’s the way it had been when his mother lay sick and dying back in Mississippi—the churchwomen closed circle to pray at her bedside, prepare the service after she passed, cook the food, and sing the hymns. And afterward, it was the women—always the women—who pulled the weeds from the graves.

  He capped his pen and rose. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Prince.”

  She walked him to the door and held it open until he stepped back to the porch. He started to close his binder but then stopped, looking down at one thing he had printed in caps.

  TAKES MEDS AT TEN-THIRTY.

  He turned to face Violet. “One last question. What do you take medication for?”

  Violet shrunk back slightly, lowering her eyes.

  “Don’t be embarrassed, Mrs. Prince. Please.”

  She met his gaze. “I take Restoril.”

  He knew that name. He recognized it from one of the old cases Steele had forced him to study, a case abo
ut a man who had murdered his wife and children. His defense was that he had been sleepwalking because he had stopped taking his Restoril.

  “Do you sleepwalk?” Louis asked.

  “Yes,” Violet said. “I had been doing it for quite some time before Anthony finally figured out why, on some mornings, things in the kitchen were in such disarray. The medication is the only way I can sleep soundly through the night.”

  That explained how Anthony could have returned to the church to move his father’s body. Violet would never have known he was gone.

  “It’s raining again,” Violet said absently, looking out past his Explorer at the long, empty driveway. Not one other house could be seen from her door.

  She seemed to drift away for a moment, and Louis wanted to say something, anything that might relieve this sad woman’s mood. His own church experience was so spare, and not one Bible verse had sunk in. His own words would have to do.

  “Again, I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Prince,” he said.

  When those blue eyes refocused on his face, there was something there that told him she wanted to say something, or maybe just didn’t want him to leave.

  “It was nice to have someone to talk to,” she said softly. “You’re a very kind man.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  He had just gotten back in the Explorer when Camille called on the car phone. Steele wanted him to head down to Detroit today to interview the atheist Walter Bushman.

  A church janitor had leaked the news about Jonas Prince’s death, and now Steele and the team were doing damage control before the six o’clock news blew the lid off everything. Things had gotten hotter when Cam discovered that, instead of Bushman being on the air during his usual eight to eleven p.m. time slot the previous night, the radio station had run an emergency “The Best of Bushman” tape.

  “The captain said, and I quote, ‘Tell Kincaid to interview Bushman today before he decides to start talking to someone higher,’” Camille said.

  Louis knew Steele was referring to God and meant it as a joke. Dirtbags had a way of finding Jesus when things got too rough, but Louis doubted Walter Bushman was the type. He was, by all accounts, a man of deep conviction, even if his conviction was in nothing. In Bushman’s case, talking to a higher authority probably meant lawyering up.