“Sure. Go,” he said briskly. He scooped up a few more paperbacks. “Thanks for doing that.”
I had no trouble locating the master bedroom. It was the largest room in the house, very much a man’s room with ponderous dark furniture and a profusion of competing textures. The gargantuan en suite bathroom was tiled in stone and outfitted with ultramodern amenities—an exquisite blend of rustic and modern that took my breath away.
The his-and-hers walk-in closets were outfitted with all those organizational doodads you see in decorating magazines, prompting a serious case of closet envy. Swing hadn’t come close to filling the “his” closet, and I swear the empty “hers” was bigger than the sad little basement apartment I’d moved out of when I’d inherited—all right, when a certain toy poodle had inherited—Irene McAuliffe’s five-bedroom house in Crystal Harbor.
Doing a three-sixty in that huge, empty “hers,” I thought of Chloe. There was no sign of her here or in the closet Swing had used. He’d kept a robe at her place, but here I saw no woman’s robe, nightie, or change of clothes. I flipped through the garments on hangers, pulled open drawers. Well, that’s what I was there for, right? To sort through his stuff? So it wasn’t snooping.
All I saw was men’s stuff—until I opened the built-in laundry hamper and noticed a flash of vivid fuchsia among the undershirts and boxer shorts. I pulled out a bra, an ooh-la-la concoction of lace and underwire. Here at last was evidence that Swing’s fiancée had set foot in his house.
Or not, I mused as I held up the bodacious garment. Chloe was petite all over, a B-cup at best. I squinted at the bra’s size label: 36DD. I gave poor dead Swing a mental shake. Why get engaged in the first place if you can’t keep it in your pants? No one had forced him to put his great-grandmother’s ring on her finger.
I felt for Chloe, having been on the receiving end of that kind of pain myself. About ten years ago I’d been dating a guy I really liked. Alan. When I found out he was slipping around on me, I was devastated. The difference between Chloe and me? I’d lost no time kicking Alan’s sorry butt to the curb. I can’t identify with women who put up with a cheater, though I try not to judge.
I tossed the bra back into the hamper and shoved it closed. I’d gone up there for a reason. Time to get on with it. I started with Swing’s suits. With the ease and speed of long practice, I checked all the pockets, depositing assorted change, a half-used roll of mints, and a concert stub in a ceramic valet tray sitting nearby. I recognized the artistry of the tray. Clearly it had come from the little pottery gallery located next to Janey’s Place on Main Street, owned by a young couple whose names I never could recall. I made sure the suits sported no rips or stains, not that I’d expected to find any, then hauled them out of the closet and deposited them on the bed.
I left the bespoke tuxedo in the closet for now. It appeared brand-new and fiendishly expensive, and I thought it possible that Victor, who was the same height as his brother but a bit slimmer, might want to have it retailored for himself. He’d either think that a swell idea or consider me a ghoul for suggesting it. Either way, it was his call.
I performed the same routine on Swing’s jeans, trousers, and sport jackets, piling them on the bed next to the suits. I sat and rested a moment. My gaze fell on the night table, which held a reading lamp, a coaster, a half-filled water glass, and a book. I leaned over and lifted the book, which turned out to be the French translation of a best-selling thriller. I could tell by the cover art and the author’s name. Swing had used, what else, a folded five-dollar bill as a bookmark. He was two-thirds of the way through. He never got to find out the stepson did it. I’d bring this volume down to Victor, to add to one of the cartons he was filling.
The night table had a drawer. I had to check it because after all, Swing might have kept more clothes in there. Very tiny clothes. The drawer held a vial of prescription sleeping pills identical to the one in Chloe’s medicine chest, reading glasses, a bottle of antacids, and a strip of condoms. My gut told me this last item had nothing whatsoever to do with his fiancée—a reasonable assumption based on what I’d found and, more to the point, hadn’t found in Swing’s home.
I cast my eyes heavenward and pleaded with my dead friend to stop trying to make me dislike him.
I took a break from my task and went back downstairs. I found Victor in the dining room, standing in front of the china cabinet. The glass doors were open. He held a porcelain soup tureen, turning it over in his hands, examining it lovingly. Hearing me enter, he returned the tureen to its shelf and closed the doors.
“Maman’s china,” he said. I could have guessed.
“Victor, I have to ask you… have you found anything of Chloe’s in the house?”
He frowned. “Is she missing something?”
“No, no, I just… well, your brother kept a few things at her place. Toiletries, a robe. I noticed them when I was there yesterday.”
“You want to know if she kept anything here,” he said.
“Well, it would make sense, right?” I said. “I mean, they were engaged.”
He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I haven’t come across anything.”
“And no photos of her,” I said. “There was a photo of the two of them in her living room.”
“Well, Pierre was not one to display personal photos.”
“That’s not strictly true. There’s the one of your parents in the den,” I said, “and another on his bedroom wall of the whole family. You guys are kids in it. Your grandparents are there, too.”
“My father’s parents.” He smiled. “It was taken in Uzès at the farmhouse when they still lived there.”
“Well, I guess I just thought he’d have a picture of his fiancée somewhere.”
“That’s because you think like a woman,” he said with a impish smile. “A man would say, why should I hang a picture? I know what she looks like.”
“Dang!” I snapped my fingers in mock frustration. “You guys are just so darn logical.”
“Since you bring it up,” he said, “it does seem odd that we see nothing of hers here. Usually one invites a girlfriend to leave a few belongings, yes? For convenience. And always there are items left by accident.”
“Items?” I said.
A negligent shrug. “Makeup. Jewelry.”
He was too gentlemanly to mention undergarments. I thought of Swing’s 36DD friend who for some reason had waltzed out of here braless. Well, I could think of one reason she’d do it: to ensure she’d see him again. Had he been that good a lover? Did it run in the family?
Okay, I give you permission to tell me to get a grip. Bet you thought you’d never see the day.
“Perhaps he always slept over at her house,” Victor said, “never the other way around.”
“Why?” I leaned against the dining table and folded my arms over my chest. “I know you haven’t seen Chloe’s place, but you could fit three or four of her houses in this one. And she has this dinky little double bed.”
What, didn’t I mention that I peeked into her room on my way to the john? Well, who says I have to tell you everything?
“Again you are incapable of thinking like a man,” he said.
One of my eyebrows rose. One finger might have done the same. “Oh, do enlighten me,” I said.
“It makes sense that if Pierre entertained other women here, he might not want his fiancée to sleep over.”
Entertained? I flashed on an image of Swing juggling condom packets. Come to think of it, isn’t that what he was doing, with Chloe on the one hand and his assorted lovers on the other? A juggling act?
“I’m not talking about them staying over on the same night!” I said. Unless Swing was kinkier than I’d imagined.
“You know what I mean,” Victor said. “It would be disrespectful. To Chloe. I’m thinking Pierre would see it this way.”
“Oh, that would be disrespectful,” I blurted, before I could wrangle my sarcastic tongue into silence.
&nbs
p; “You know how I feel about Pierre’s...” He sighed and looked away. “His dishonorable behavior.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I shouldn’t have—” I flapped my hand as if that could erase the past thirty seconds. Victor had loved his brother. He didn’t need to be reminded again of Swing’s failings.
“Don’t worry.” He laid his hand on my shoulder. It felt absurdly comforting. “I brought it up, after all.”
Time to change the subject. “Come upstairs with me, Victor.”
His slow smile tugged at my insides in a most distracting way. “If you insist.”
I answered his flirtatious teasing with a playful smack on the arm. He was teasing, right? I turned and led the way before he could see my face turn assorted shades of red. “There’s a tux you need to look at.”
15
A+ for Penmanship
“I USUALY FIND moonlit walks on the beach to be pretty darn romantic,” I said, “but tonight I’m just not feeling it.”
“Moonlit?” Bonnie tightened the hood of her rain jacket and squinted through the icy mist at the impenetrable blackness overhead. If not for the meager glow from the parking-lot security lights some distance away, I wouldn’t have been able to make out her form. “I don’t see a moon.”
“Are you always so literal?” Dom’s fiancée had phoned earlier to ask me—more like order me—to meet her at the town beach at ten pm. I could have told her I had better things to do on a Friday night, particularly on what I had every reason to believe was Victor’s last Friday night in Crystal Harbor.
Bonnie had warned me not to tell anyone about our little meeting tonight. Clearly she’d chosen the setting with privacy in mind. The beach was deserted on this wet and chilly autumn night. I’d left my houseguest at home watching a movie. He thought I was out picking up a late dinner. My favorite pizzeria doesn’t deliver. Well, I was planning to bring home a buffalo chicken pizza, along with some clever excuse to explain the delay.
“Where did you park?” I asked. My car was the only one in the beach’s lot.
“Near the playground. I didn’t want to risk anyone spotting both our cars here.”
The playground was way at the other end of Nevins Park, a sprawling recreation area bordered on the north by this beach, which faced the bay after which the town was named. Bonnie Hernandez, girl spy, had trekked a long way on a crummy night to make sure no one saw us together.
I stopped walking and waited for her to turn and face me. “I’d better leave here with some nuclear codes to peddle to China,” I said, “or I’m unfriending you on Facebook.”
“I’m not on Facebook.”
See what I mean? Literal.
For someone who’d gone to great lengths to arrange a private tête-à-tête, Bonnie appeared awfully reluctant to reveal what was on her mind. Her troubled gaze scoured our surroundings.
Don’t worry, I wanted to tell her, we’re the only numbskulls dumb enough to be out here. The mist had turned into a light rain. The baseball cap I’d donned to keep my head dry was now saturated, as was my suede jacket. Yeah, poor choice, what can I tell you?
Finally she slid a white, business-size envelope out of her pocket, holding it close to keep it dry. “If you tell anyone I gave you this, you’ll be very sorry.”
My ex-husband’s fiancée was threatening me. Nice. “You know what, Bonnie? I don’t need this crap.” I turned and strode briskly away. I’d made it to the edge of the parking lot when her iron grip on my arm jerked me to a stop. I tried to yank it away. She wasn’t letting go.
She said, “That didn’t come out the way I meant it.”
My bark of laughter called her a liar.
“You wanted this.” She released my arm and shoved the envelope at me. When I didn’t move, she said, “Take it. Maybe you can do something with it.”
I crossed my arms.
“Okay,” she said, “I apologize for… for the way that sounded before. This whole thing has me...” She took a deep breath and pushed the envelope closer to me. “Burn it after you read it.”
This spy stuff was getting old. On the other hand, I’d never before seen Detective Bonnie Hernandez so rattled.
Ultimately I let my curiosity make the decision. I reached out for the envelope and slipped it into my jacket pocket.
“It didn’t come from me,” she said. “If it turns out to be anything usable, I don’t want to hear word one about it, I don’t want to be associated with it in any way. Go through channels and keep me out of it. Is that clear?” Without waiting for an answer, she took off in the direction of the distant playground.
I got behind the wheel of my Mazda, tossed the sodden cap into the backseat, and turned on the map light. I ripped open the damp envelope and unfolded the single sheet of paper it contained. The first thing I noticed is that it was a photocopy. The second thing I noticed made my heart kick. It was a photocopy of a page in a notebook. A notebook that looked to be three by five inches and spiral-bound at the top.
The kind of notebook Detective Paulie Cullen carried.
What you’re asking is not only unethical, Bonnie had said that day in the bookstore when I’d asked her to sneak a peek at his notes, it would get me in serious trouble if I got caught. I won’t do it.
It would appear she’d had a change of heart. But why? One reason was obvious. Dom. He might no longer be the number-one suspect, but that status could change in a heartbeat, especially with a nitwit like Cullen at the helm. But I doubted that was the whole story. Whatever our differences, I never questioned Bonnie’s commitment to the job, her bone-deep need to put away bad guys and see justice done—an unlikely outcome in this case if Cullen called all the shots.
Her integrity was something else I never questioned. She must have grappled with her conscience before making the decision to smuggle her colleague’s notes to a civilian. I still didn’t like her, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t respect her.
Before, if you’d asked me to guess, I’d have speculated that Cullen’s handwriting would be close to illegible, the physical extension of a disorganized mind. Not so, as it turned out. The notes I was looking at were written in the precise penmanship of a second-grader intent on mastering cursive. The words never strayed from the lines. I was in no mood to ponder the psychological significance of this surprising discovery, but I invite you to give it a whirl.
“Phone tip” was written at the top of the page, along with the date and time: September 9, 7:12 pm. The day Swing died. Cullen had written the name “Meredith Dorn” and “Tolland, CT” along with several cryptic notations: “watched Ramrod News” and “hysterical” and “nutcase.” No mention of what specific tip she was reporting or why he considered her a hysterical nutcase. The detective might have A+ penmanship, but as for attention to detail, we’re talking D-, tops.
But there was more. Under that he’d written, “Followed up on tip, dead end.” So whatever it was, at least he’d looked into it.
Below that was a second date and time: September 23, 7:01 pm. Last Monday. He’d written “Same caller,” along with “Ramrod” and “still hysterical.” Which is one of my least favorite words. I mean, when’s the last time you heard it applied to a guy?
Cullen added the words “Told her I’d look into it blah blah.” He actually wrote that. Blah blah. Our tax dollars at work. It was clear his only goal had been to pacify the caller and get her off the phone. No notation this time about following up.
The Ramrod News shows on those two dates had centered around Swing’s murder. Chloe and Tooley had been the featured guests the first time. Then this past Monday it had been the two of them plus Leonora and Nina. Something about those two episodes had triggered Meredith Dorn’s “hysteria.” Clearly Bonnie had little faith in how her colleague had handled this particular phone tip. And with so few concrete details to go on, could you blame her?
When I finally walked through the doorway with the pizza, Victor was surprised to see me soaked to the skin. I babbled som
e lame excuse about making multiple stops trying to find orange soda, never mind that I have a case of the stuff in the pantry. I did not tell him about my side trip to the beach. For one thing, I had no intention of violating Bonnie’s trust. And for another, well, Victor didn’t need to know everything. And not because I considered him a suspect, because I didn’t. Not really.
*
THE BIG WHITE colonial stood on a large, meticulously landscaped tract of land in Tolland, a charming town in northern Connecticut. The drive from Crystal Harbor had taken three long hours during which I berated myself for squandering a perfectly lovely Saturday chasing down a lead that had already been investigated.
By Paulie the Perv. It was his new nickname around town. I was still waiting for news regarding the investigation of his possible misconduct, but Sophie was keeping mum. Whatever actions she and the Town Council were taking behind the scenes, they weren’t sharing until it was over.
The door swung open as I was making my way up the brick walkway to the wide, colonnaded front porch. Meredith Dorn appeared to be in her late forties. She had long auburn hair and wore little jewelry. Her well-nourished form was flatteringly displayed in a watercolor-patterned tunic and slim jeans.
From the bit of online snooping I’d done before leaving Crystal Harbor, I knew that Meredith was a widow with two college-age kids. She’d lived in Tolland for the past two decades and worked at Travelers Insurance in nearby Hartford.
We exchanged smiles and handshakes. “I’m sorry,” Meredith said as she ushered me through the foyer and into a comfortable, traditional living room, “I don’t recall your name. I should have written it down.”
“Jane Delaney.”
“You’ve had a long drive from the Island, Detective Delaney. Can I get you some coffee? A cold drink?”
Okay, for the record, I had not claimed to be a police detective! How underhanded do you think I am? Don’t answer that.
Perforating Pierre (Jane Delaney Mysteries Book 3) Page 20