Ulterior Motives

by Terri Blackstock

  “Have you tried calling Mr. Dubose again?” Jenny asked. “Maybe he’s cooled off by now, and he’ll talk.”

  “I tried,” Ben said. “There’s still no answer. Besides, he had nothing to cool off from. I didn’t do anything to prompt it.”

  “Are you sure?” Anne asked again, as she’d asked a thousand times since yesterday. “Ben, think. A man doesn’t fire you from your job and evict you from your home the same afternoon, if you haven’t done anything. If you could apologize, maybe—”

  He stiffened. “Anne, how many times do I have to tell you? There’s nothing to apologize for! When are you gonna believe me?”

  She held up a hand to stem the argument, and breathing a deep sigh, turned back to the children.

  “This is awful,” Jenny whispered.

  Ben nodded and raked his hand through his long disheveled hair. “I never would have dreamed I’d have to take money from your mother to keep my family off the street.”

  “Mom didn’t mind. She was happy to do it.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet.” Catching himself, he muttered, “It really was nice of her. She didn’t have to do it.”

  Jenny sighed and looked helplessly around the room. Little Emily was so tired that she could hardly eat, so Jenny went over and pulled the cotton-topped five-year-old into her lap. “Come on, Emily. Let me help you with this.”

  She began to feed the child one french fry at a time.

  “She needs a nap,” Anne said. “She didn’t sleep very well last night. Bobby kept coughing, and the car wasn’t all that comfortable.”

  “Anne, if Bobby gets worse, you’ll take him to the emergency room, won’t you?” Jenny asked.

  Anne shot Ben a look that said they couldn’t do even that without money. “Yeah. Somehow, we’d convince them to treat him. There’s always the health department. They treat indigents.”

  Ben stiffened, knowing that her remark had been intended to sting. “We are not indigent.”

  “Right,” Anne said sarcastically. “We’re just homeless, penniless, and jobless. At least we’re not sleeping under a bridge somewhere. I guess I should brace myself. That could be coming.”

  Ben went into the bathroom, the only place to which he could escape, and slammed the door behind him.

  The sound woke Bobby, and he began to cry, making Ben feel even worse. He sat on the lid of the commode, rubbing his stub-bled face, fighting feelings of terror and despair.

  So he had come to this.

  As always in times of stress, old tapes of Sharon’s voice played in his mind.

  You’re irresponsible, Ben. When are you going to grow up and start acting like an adult?

  You’re selfish! You don’t care about anyone but yourself. You think you’ve got it all figured out, with your artsy friends and your own set of rules. But this charade of a marriage is going to show everyone just how much of a loser you are.

  She had been in pain when she’d said those words, reacting to his own cruelties. But knowing that didn’t take away the sting of her accusations—and now he wondered whether he hadn’t just proven that they were all true.

  He only wished he hadn’t spent every penny he made, always counting on the gallery to keep handing over monthly paychecks for his restoration work and the rights to show his work exclusively. He should have been smarter with finances, like his ex-wife was. In five short years, she’d gone from being a struggling real-estate agent to a six-figure wage earner. When she’d bought that house last year, he had convinced himself that it was intended as a slap in the face to him—a way of showing him what he could have had if he hadn’t left her for greener pastures. But then he’d felt ashamed of those thoughts when he’d heard how she’d taken in a couple of unmarried pregnant women who’d needed a place to stay while they carried their babies, and then a family whose house had burned down. Her success, he’d finally realized, didn’t have anything to do with him at all, one way or the other. She’d simply worked hard for herself and her daughters. His feelings that she was rubbing his nose in her wealth was his problem, not hers. He was the one who made comparisons. She had just gone on with her own life.

  And he had his life with Anne. Although it had grown increasingly difficult as the infatuation had worn off and reality had set in, he had tried to make it work. He wasn’t going to hurt two more children through a needless divorce. It’s not as if he was a victim here. He had the power to turn this around.

  But right now, he hated the feeling of Anne’s disgust with him, so much like Sharon’s. In fact, he realized, she had started reciting Sharon’s tapes. Without using the same words, her very tone suggested that he was stupid, selfish, irresponsible, a loser . . .

  But he’d prove to them that he wasn’t a loser. He had to pull himself together, had to be rational. There was much to be done in the next few days.

  Jenny was walking Bobby around the room, trying to make him stop crying so that Anne could eat, when a hard knock sounded on the door.

  Anne, who was sitting with food balanced on her lap, sent a pleading look to Jenny. “Would you get that?”

  “Sure.” Still carrying the crying baby, Jenny stepped over Christy, who was sitting in front of the television, and opened the door.

  Two men stood outside, one, a brunette dressed in jeans and a windbreaker and the other, a tall blonde, in khakis and a sport coat.

  Bobby still cried, so the man in the sport coat had to raise his voice to be heard. “We’re with the St. Clair Police Department,” he said, flashing a badge. “I’m Detective Tony Danks, and this is my partner Larry Millsaps. We’re looking for Ben Robinson. Is he here?”

  “Sure . . . uh . . . just a minute.” Anne began to put her food down, and Jenny stepped back over Christy and went to the bathroom, bouncing the crying baby on her hip. She knocked on the door. “Daddy, someone’s here to see you.”

  Ben came out, looking more drawn and weary than she’d ever seen him.

  “Someone’s here,” she repeated, then gave a worried glance back at the cops. “Policemen,” she whispered.

  Bobby’s crying grew louder, and the baby reached for his mother. Anne took him, then followed Ben to the door.

  “Officers,” Ben said with a nod as he reached the door. “What can I do for you?”

  “Ben Robinson?” one of the men confirmed.

  “Yes,” he said.

  The one with the windbreaker pulled a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket. “I have a warrant for your arrest for the murder of Louis Dubose. You have the right to remain silent—”

  “No!” Anne screamed, and Jenny rushed forward.

  “Daddy!”

  “Murder?” Ben asked as they got the cuffs on his hands. “What do you mean, murder?”

  “He was found dead an hour ago,” Tony Danks said. “You have the right to an attorney. If you can’t afford an attorney—”

  “There must be some mistake!” Anne cried. “My husband didn’t kill anybody.”

  The baby was screaming louder, and now Emily and Christy abandoned their food and stood holding hands, fearfully watching the scene.

  Jenny grabbed her father’s arm as they tried to pull him toward their car. “Daddy, tell them you didn’t do it! Tell them!”

  “It’s okay,” Ben said hoarsely. “We’ll straighten it all out.”

  But his family, stunned and terrified, watched as he was guided into the back seat of the squad car—and he looked anything but confident, trembling, his eyes wide. They watched wordlessly as the car pulled out of sight.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The phone was ringing when Sharon walked into her house. She had just closed the deal on the house on Lewis Street, then had shown three houses to Mrs. Milford, a client who she suspected would never settle on anything. Dropping her purse and briefcase, she picked up the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Oh, Mom, thank goodness you’re finally home. I’ve been trying to reach you, but you never answered your car phone.”


  “I was showing houses. I must have been inside when you called. What’s wrong?”

  Jenny was crying, and her pain came right through the phone. “Oh, Mom!” She sobbed, caught her breath, and tried to go on. “Daddy’s been arrested! They think he killed somebody!”

  “What?”

  “Mr. Dubose, the gallery manager, was murdered, and they think Daddy did it. Mom, he couldn’t have! He was with us! But they won’t listen—they don’t believe us, and they say he was killed yesterday. Daddy was the last one to see him alive, so they’re blaming him. Mom, I don’t know what to do! My father is not a murderer!”

  “I know he’s not,” Sharon said. “Jenny, where are you?”

  “At the police station. We’re all here. Anne’s a basket case, and the kids are all upset . . . Christy and Emily don’t understand, but they’re smart enough to know that their daddy’s going to jail! Mom, we’ve got to get him out!”

  Sharon held the phone between her ear and shoulder and grabbed her purse. “Jenny, I’m coming down to the station. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Does your father have a lawyer?”

  “No. They can’t afford one.”

  “I’ll call Lynda,” Sharon said. “She’s one of the best lawyers in St. Clair.”

  “Yeah, I forgot she was a lawyer. Mom, ask her to hurry,” Jenny said. “They’re in there with him right now. Oh, and Mom? Could you stop by the store and get some cough syrup for Bobby? He’s coughing his head off.”

  Sharon didn’t like the thought of detouring on her way, but she muttered, “Sure. I’ll bring it.”

  She hung up the phone and quickly dialed Lynda Barrett’s number. They were good friends from church, and she knew the number by rote.

  “Hello?”

  “Oh, Lynda, I’m so glad you’re home. I didn’t have time to look up your office number.”

  “Sharon, what’s wrong?”

  “Ben . . . my ex-husband . . . he needs a lawyer. He’s been arrested for murder.”

  “Murder?” Lynda repeated.

  “Lynda, the man’s one of my least favorite people, and he’s capable of a lot. But he’s not a killer. You’ve got to help him. I’ll pay you, if he can’t. He’s at the police station, and they’re interviewing him as we speak.”

  “I’ll be there in five minutes,” Lynda said.

  Sharon hung up and breathed a sigh of relief. Then she rushed out, more concerned about the state of mind of her children than that her ex-husband was being accused of something he couldn’t possibly have done.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Ben hadn’t had a shower since yesterday, and as he sat in the over-heated interrogation room—no doubt kept that way by design—sweating and trying to answer all of their questions, he wished he’d at least had time to take a quick bath before the police had come. With his oily ponytail, a two-day growth of stubble, and clothes he’d had on for two days now, he must look like a biker who wouldn’t think twice about killing his boss. Now he wished he’d never let his hair grow this long. But he liked the bohemian look that said he didn’t have time to worry about his appearance because he was too busy cultivating his imagination. Part of the look was for effect, he admitted, but part of it was reality. Often he got so lost in his work that he didn’t remember to shower, shave, or eat. That was why he still didn’t have the mid-life paunch that most of his contemporaries had after crossing the forty-year mark. He had crossed it last October, and still prided himself on looking ten years younger.

  “Look, I told you,” he said, keeping his voice even so he wouldn’t appear to be losing his temper. “The last time I saw Louis he was locking himself in his office.”

  “But you were angry at him, weren’t you?”

  “Yeah, of course I was angry. You’d be angry, too, if your boss threw you and your family out into the street, and wouldn’t even give you your last paycheck!”

  Lynda Barrett, who had burst in just moments before and announced that the family had retained her to be his lawyer, touched his arm to shut him up.

  Ben had almost told her no-thank-you when he’d realized that the aggressive brunette was Sharon’s friend. But when he’d seen that she knew the two cops well, he decided to accept her services. Maybe she’d have some pull with them.

  “Larry, Tony, my client has already told you everything he knows.”

  “He hasn’t told us why we found the murder weapon in a dumpster behind the gallery—a pistol that was registered to him. And his fingerprints were all over the glass,” Tony said.

  “No way,” Ben argued again. “I’ve never owned a gun in my life. I don’t even know how to use one.”

  “Were his fingerprints on the gun?” Lynda asked, taking notes.

  “No. The killer obviously wore gloves.”

  Lynda looked up, smiling wryly. “Larry, you said his fingerprints were all over the glass. If he was wearing gloves, how could that be? Make up your mind.”

  “I did put those fingerprints on the glass,” Ben said. “We live in back of the gallery, and the day before I was fired, my little girl, Emily, was playing peek-a-boo with me outside the glass. We both got our fingerprints all over it. I meant to clean it off.”

  Tony pretended to be making a note. “Fingerprints due to peek-a-boo.”

  “I’m serious!” Ben said.

  “There was obviously a struggle,” Larry went on. “There was some overturned furniture.”

  “That doesn’t mean I was there,” Ben said.

  “There was also a money clip next to the body. It obviously fell out of the killer’s pocket. It had the initials BLR, and your fingerprints.”

  Ben sat straighter. “My money clip? I don’t even know where that was. I haven’t carried that in a couple of years.”

  “And there were strands of hair in Dubose’s hands, like he’d gotten in a struggle and pulled it out of the killer’s head. Blonde hair about your length. At first we thought it was a woman’s, but now that we see you . . .”

  “So I’m a killer because my hair is long?” Ben asked.

  Lynda was still taking notes. She flipped her shoulder-length hair behind an ear. “Where was the entry wound, guys?”

  “His back,” Tony said, shooting Ben a look. “That ought to make you proud. Courage that matches the hair.”

  “I would never shoot someone in the back! I would never shoot anyone period!”

  Lynda shot Ben a stern look, telling him to shut up. “So if he was shot in the back, then you must have figured out the range by now. How far away was the gun when it went off?”

  “We’re guessing a few feet.”

  “All right, then, how did he get a handful of Ben’s hair if his back was to him and he was a few feet away?”

  “They obviously fought before he turned his back.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” Ben shouted. “I’ve never fought with him in my life! I don’t fight with anybody! That’s not my style!”

  “Ben, let’s go back,” Larry said, playing the good guy in the good guy/bad guy routine. “Think about what you two talked about in your last few conversations. Was there anybody else there? Anyone you talked about?”

  “No. He was kind of preoccupied.”

  “With what?” Larry asked.

  “I wish I knew. Probably with his plans to throw me out. Then yesterday, out of the blue, he told me I was terminated and that my family and I had to be out of the apartment within the hour. I was stunned. I couldn’t believe it.”

  “Angry, too, huh?” Tony asked.

  “Of course I was angry. I was furious.”

  Lynda nudged his arm again. “That’s enough, Ben.”

  “Not angry enough to kill him! But it was crazy. I tried to go up to my studio and get my paintings, but he said the gallery owned them—that they had paid me to paint them—and that I couldn’t take them. I lost my temper when he refused to give me my last paycheck—”

  “Ben, as your lawyer, I’m telling you that you’ve given them enough,” Lynda insis
ted.

  “But I have nothing to hide!” Ben said. “All we did was argue, and then he went up to that office of his and locked himself in. He said if I didn’t leave within the hour, with my children and my wife and everything we owned, he’d have the sheriff escort me out. So I went to the apartment and started packing. We were gone an hour later. I tried calling him several times from pay phones to reason with him, but the line was busy.”

  “We can get the records from the phone company,” Lynda told Larry and Tony.

  “That’ll only prove that a call was made to the gallery. It doesn’t prove that Dubose was alive when he left him.”

  “Right,” Ben snarled, slapping his hands on the table. “I got into a knock-down, drag-out fight with Dubose and shot him, then left my gun exactly where I knew you’d look for it, then called him afterward just to see if he was really dead.”

  The detectives both stared at him without amusement, and Lynda closed her eyes and began to massage her temples.

  “I’m being sarcastic!” Ben shouted. “Why did I call the guy if I thought he was dead? And about that gun, you need to check out that registration, because I’m telling you, I have never owned one! Ask anybody. You won’t find a registration with my name on it.”

  “We already have, pal.”

  Ben looked flustered. “You can’t. It’s impossible. I don’t believe in owning guns. I have small children.”

  “Tell it to the judge,” Larry said, jotting another note on his pad.

  “People have been known to use other people’s names and credentials to get guns,” Lynda pointed out. “He has an alibi, Larry.”

  “Yeah, his wife. Big surprise.”

  “My children, too,” Ben said. “One of them is sixteen years old. She’s old enough to remember where I was when.”

  “Daughters are usually loyal to their fathers,” Tony said.

  “Then ask my ex-wife! She hates my guts and would probably love to see me rot in jail, but she’ll tell you that Jenny was with me part of yesterday and this afternoon.”