Viv narrowed her eyes at me again, studying. “No, I don't think this is what you have.”
I shook my head. “No, thank goodness.”
“I think what you have is just...”
“A bad case of immaturity?” I offered.
Viv nodded. “Exactly. Okay, can we go now? Imogene left five minutes ago.” She tilted her head toward the window.
I stood on tiptoe and peered down at the parking lot, far below. I took one more deep breath and squared my shoulders. “Absolutely. Let's do this.”
Viv opened the door and headed toward the elevator. “Finally.”
I followed her into the elevator and concentrated on breathing normally, not wanting to set myself off again. As the elevator stopped with a soft ding and the doors slid open, I said, “Where are we going now?”
“To talk to Bitsy Browning, the young pregnant widow. Do try to keep it together, won't you?”
As we passed through the lobby, I looked at the row of portraits along one wall. I stopped with a gasp. “Viv, look! It's Imogene Walker!”
“Would you give it a rest! I told you, she left.”
“No, look. On the wall.”
I approached the portrait of Imogene, in line with other portraits of men. Judging by the hairstyle, the portrait was forty years old, but it was definitely Imogene. Her skin was smoother but her expression was just as severe. I stood back and found a plaque that described what all these 1970s faces were doing there.
“Cool,” I said. “Imogene was one of the architects who studied the building after the tornado and helped get it back into shape for occupation.”
“Would you look at that hair,” Viv said.
“Well, it was the ’70s,” I said.
“There were a couple of good hairstyles from the ‘70s. She could have chosen one of them.”
“She was too busy being a high-powered architect,” I said. “Moving and shaking, you know.” I studied the row of pictures alongside her. There was the original architect from the ‘50s, the real estate developer who'd had the place built, and a couple of other men who had been involved in getting the building back into usable shape. Imogene was the only female. I wondered how they had treated her. Maybe that's why she was so grumpy. She was tired from fighting for her gender for so many years.
I chewed my lip. “I'm about to suggest something, and I want you to tell me no,” I said.
“Got it.”
“Remember Browning's interviews with Baucum, where he talked about how they design buildings for worst-case scenarios? Imogene would probably know something about that. We could talk to her about it.”
“Nope.”
I nodded. “Yes, I know, but...”
“Nope. Not happening.
“But what if...what if Browning had the wrong end of the stick, somehow? What if he latched onto this one thread to explain that disaster, but that wasn't really the whole picture? Imogene would probably know something about it.”
“So what if she did? What would that have to do with Browning's death?”
I didn't really know how to answer that one. It probably had nothing to do it with it. But I still felt like I needed to talk to Imogene and get her take on Browning's interviews with Baucum.
I shrugged. “Probably nothing,” I allowed, turning to go.
“Besides, you would probably get nervous and giggle your fool head off.”
“Mmmm, you're right.” I shuddered. Nobody needed that.
By the time we got to Bitsy Browning's place, I had fully recovered. Although I did have Itsy Bitsy Spider stuck in my head.
Viv killed the motor and sat back in her seat.
“You ready?” I grabbed my purse off the floorboard.
“Hang on.” She was staring straight ahead, breathing in a weird way.
My heart lurched. It was easy to forget that Viv was 80-something—I didn't really know because she refused to say, so even that was a guess based on some of her drunkalogue stories—but at times she would take on a look that reminded me. One of my worst and most secret fears was losing Viv. “Are you okay?”
She shook her head. “I just remembered we're about to go talk to a brand new widow who's almost nine months pregnant. I'm trying to figure out what to say to her.”
I tried to remember a time when Viv had appeared to care one bit how anyone reacted to her. “Wow, Viv,” I said. “That's surprisingly thoughtful of you.”
“I know,” she said. “I think that yoga did something to me.”
“Does that mean we're not going back?” I asked, trying not to sound hopeful.
“Oh, we're going back,” she said. “I look dynamite in my leotard. Okay, we're going to tread carefully here,” she said.
“Are you thinking like Trisha does, that she couldn't possibly be responsible because she's pregnant?”
“Not necessarily. I just feel like the odds are against it. I mean, just going by our list, she's at best got a 25 percent chance of being our guy.”
“Yes, but going by larger statistics—society at large, I mean—the first person the police look at in a crime is always the spouse. So we have to bump her up to at least 50 percent.”
Viv sighed. “I know you're right. But let's just tread carefully on this one.”
She didn't have to tell me. She was the one without a filter. But still, I said, “Okay, I'll follow your lead.”
Viv rapped lightly on the door, and Bitsy answered almost immediately.
“Come in,” she said, stepping back to let us in.
“Thank you for agreeing to see us,” Viv said.
“Patrice told me it would be a good idea to talk to you.”
Viv and I looked at each other. That helped.
I wasn't sure what I had expected from someone newly widowed—maybe that she'd be still in her pajamas in the middle of the afternoon, with dark circles under bloodshot eyes. But Bitsy looked fairly well put together. She only had light makeup on, but I was pretty sure she was wearing some. Her dark curly hair was held back by a purple headband, and she wore a purple and black maternity smock.
She led us into a small living room, tastefully decorated, and indicated chairs for us. She sat and folded her legs under her. She was the daintiest pregnant woman I had ever seen.
“It's sweet of you to be taking on this case,” Bitsy said.
I experienced the now-familiar moment of resistance to the idea of anyone thinking of me and Viv as actual detectives. But we had been involved in some fairly high-profile events, so I supposed it had come to appear we knew what we were doing, anyway. Maybe if you acted enough like you knew what you were doing, people treated you like you did, and eventually you just did. Self-actualization.
Maybe I should try that with being skinny. Being a good wife. Being a fully-functioning, responsible adult.
“Patrice told us how frustrated she is with the police. She thinks they are writing Peter's death off as—self-inflicted—” Viv left just the merest hint of a pause. “She's afraid they're not investigating it as thoroughly as they should be. Is that your opinion as well?”
Bitsy nodded with a brave smile and tears pooled in her big amber eyes. “I know what it looks like. I understand that they're doing their job, and they're going by the evidence they see. I know it appears he was alone, and I know they found that note. But I know Peter.” Her voice broke, and she swallowed. “I know him. He wouldn't have done that. He was excited about the future. He was excited about our baby.” She shook her head. “I don't believe it. I'm sorry. I just don't believe it.”
Viv and I exchanged a brief look.
Viv said, “What I'd really like to do is get your thoughts. You were privy to his thoughts and fears. I don't want to be too intrusive, but I think it would be most helpful if you could share some of your thoughts on who might have wanted to harm Peter and make it look self-inflicted? Was there someone he was particularly fearful of? Someone who had made threats?”
“Well, you can imagine. He did th
at story on the police last year and that made him pretty unpopular. Both of us, actually.” She shook her head, her fat curls bouncing, then stared at the ceiling and blinked back more tears. “I was threatened at a Junior League meeting, for heaven's sake.” She laughed through tears. “Three of the policemen's wives cornered me in the ladies room and told me I'd better get my husband to shut his mouth or we were both going to regret it. They said pictures would turn up of him in a compromising position. He would become the laughingstock of the entire town, and he could kiss his career goodbye.”
“Jeez,” I said. “The Junior League, really?” I knew I was right to be intimidated by those women.
“Seriously. It was so...ridiculous, but still so scary. Peter said they were all talk, they couldn't actually do anything, but it was terrifying. Every time I passed a police car, I would have a panic attack. Imagine, if the people in power really are corrupt? I mean, who do you turn to? Who do you trust?”
“From what I remember, the officer who was implicated in that case resigned and moved away. Is that right?”
Bitsy nodded. “He was from Colorado, and last we heard he lives there. He's not a cop—he can't be, legally. He can't even be a security guard. I think he was selling cars at a friend's dealership in Denver or somewhere around there, although I'm not entirely sure about that. That's just what I heard.”
“Did he threaten Peter?”
Bitsy shook her head. “I really don't know. After the thing with the Junior League, Peter stopped talking to me about it. He didn't want me to worry. He wanted to convince me that everything was fine.”
“Did he seem afraid, though?”
“Honestly, no. He seemed excited. I think he really got into the idea of being a crusader, you know? He was energized by it. And once that whole thing was cleared, he really seemed a bit bummed by it.” She laughed, then sniffed back tears.
Viv and I looked at each other. That lined up with what Dorsett had said. He needed to be the David to someone's Goliath.
“And once that officer resigned, was it over? I don't remember hearing much more about it.”
“Peter was pretty upset that no charges were filed. He didn't like the brush-it-under-the-rug aspect of everything. But the guy lost his career, he wouldn't be able to be in a position of authority like that, a position of power. So Peter said that had to be justice enough.”
“He was a believer in justice.”
“He was definitely a believer in justice. Like I said, a crusader.”
“How was his relationship with the police after all that?”
Bitsy shrugged. “Like I said, he stopped talking to me about stuff like that. From what I saw, though, it was okay. Maybe Patrice would be the one to ask about that.”
“Do you think that the whole scandal has anything to do with how they're handling this case now? That maybe they're not investigating as hard as they could, because they're holding a grudge?”
She took a deep breath. She thought for a moment. “I don't know. I hate to think that, but...”
“Well, I guess it's one possibility that we ought to keep in mind,” Viv said. “What other stories come to mind, when you think of people who could possibly want to harm him?”
“This whole thing with NorthStar and Baucum Engineering, of course. Dorsett Oil. All the stories he pulled together with the earthquakes and other failed buildings. I mean, he talked to a lot of people, and several of them didn't come off looking too good.”
“How did he react to David Baucum's death?” I blurted the question without thinking. Viv gave me a look. Possibly this was the kind of question she had been trying to avoid asking.
“He was really upset by it, of course. I mean, it was so sad and so senseless.” She shook her head. “Tragic.”
I wondered if she would say anything about the irony of the two men's deaths. The connection to the events at NorthStar. That event had been the end of one man's career and looked to be the catalyst for another man's rise. Both had died by what appeared to be self-inflicted means, and both conclusions were questionable. Did Baucum intend to kill himself, or had he just become careless? Did Browning kill himself, or had someone made it look like he had?
I studied her face to see if there was anything else there—resentment toward Baucum, for example. Anger. Remorse.
I couldn't see much, but it did seem like she was holding something back. Her mouth tightened and she drew back into her chair just the tiniest bit. But she just shook her head again and repeated, “Tragic.”
“Bitsy, Patrice told us about the note that was found in Peter's car. She said it said something like, 'I never meant for this to happen.' Do you think he was talking about David Baucum?”
“The note said, 'I didn't mean for it to turn out this way.' And I know that's what the police think, that it was a suicide note speaking to David Baucum's death. And I can understand that, to a point. I mean, the fallout from David Baucum's mistakes has been enormous, and a lot of people have used Peter as the lightning rod for all that fallout, because he was a visible entity. He put a face to the entire debacle coming to light. But it's not as if Peter caused any of that to happen. And it's not as if anyone else couldn't and wouldn't have asked the same questions Peter did. It's not as if the same conclusions would not have been reached, should someone else have been the one to grab that ball and run with it. Peter did an excellent job of ferreting out the truth and bringing a real problem to light, but it's not as if he caused the problem.”
“I understand,” Viv assured her. “But did Peter understand that? What I'm asking is, is there any possibility that he carried remorse—”
“No.” The word was spat out, and Bitsy's once-friendly eyes turned bitter. “I know what you're asking, and the answer is no. He was sympathetic to the tragedy that David Baucum's decisions caused, and he was sympathetic to a man who had to live with knowing he'd caused so much damage. But he felt no ownership in that man's decisions. David Baucum is the one who decided to drink half a bottle of vodka and take a bottle of Ambien.”
“What do you think the note meant?” I asked.
Bitsy shrugged. “It could be anything, right? I mean, maybe he was writing a note about Baucum. Maybe he felt some—some sadness about what Baucum did and wanted to communicate that to the family. But it could have been something as simple as he hadn't intended for a story to be produced or edited differently from the way it was. It was scribbled on a notepad that he kept on his desk, and it could have meant anything. Anything at all.”
Viv gave me a side-eye, and I knew what we were both thinking, but we silently agreed not to say it. The note could have referred to Misty Monahan, of course. That he'd never intended to have an affair with her. That he'd never intended to have a child with her.
“I know you've already addressed this, but I feel like we need to ask again,” I said. “Just in case. Did he seem fearful at all about retaliation from Baucum Engineering or Dorsett Oil? Any of their employees? Shareholders?”
Bitsy sighed again and shook her head. She seemed a little sad now, or maybe just very tired. “No. I keep going over and over it in my mind. The thing is, the last several months I've been totally wrapped up in my own world, you know?” She ran a hand over her rounded belly. “All I've talked about is baby. What she looks like now, what's developed, how I want to decorate the nursery, all the things I want to do with her as a mom. All the things I wanted us to do as a—” She stopped and swallowed. “As a family. So maybe he was concerned and I just didn't notice. But he was also excited. He loved that he was getting attention from the bigger stations. He was so excited about that. We were already planning where we'd move next. He wanted to go to Dallas or Houston, or maybe even out of state. He had talked to a station in Atlanta. He was looking forward to the future. I honestly never remember anything that seemed fearful.”
“Fair enough,” Viv said. “We'd like to conduct some more interviews, of course. Would it be okay with you if we make it known that we have y
our permission? That helps sometimes.”
“Of course,” Bitsy said. “Feel free to have them call me. I appreciate everything you can do.”
We stood to go, and there was an awkward moment when I felt like she should do something else—shake hands, or hug, even. But we all just nodded and then she turned toward the door.
We were on the front porch when she said, “Oh, hey. I just thought of something I was going to ask you. The police asked me if Peter had been in a fight or had injured himself somehow, before he died. But they wouldn't tell me why. Do you know anything about that?”
Viv and I looked at each other, then we both shook our heads.
“I keep thinking about it, because he said it a couple of times—like, did he injure himself that day, or the day before?” She sniffed back more tears. “They wouldn't let me see him, you know. When they found him. He'd been lying in that mud for three days, and apparently some...animal had been at him.” She looked at the ceiling and blinked, her voice shaking. “I wanted to see him, but they just would not let me. So it must have been bad, right? But even with...all that...he asked about a fight or injury during his last few days. So that's something. Right? It means something?” She shook her head. “I just don't know what.”
We could only shrug and shake our heads. “We'll definitely let you know if we find out,” Viv promised.
I checked my phone again when we left Bitsy's. Nothing.
Suddenly tired, I invited Viv over for dinner, secretly hoping she would offer to buy takeout.
No such luck. “I'm going home to do some research.”
“That thing she said about an injury?” I was curious about that, too.
“What? Oh, no. I've watched the entire first two seasons of Marple and I have yet to find anything remotely attractive about that woman. It might be time to move on.”
“From Nigel?” Indeed it might, I thought.
She looked at me like I was crazy. “No, not from Nigel. From Marple. There's got to be an attractive female detective in a great nation like Great Britain.”
“Well, good luck with that,” I said as she dropped me off. It was just as well. My mind was about done in, thinking about Peter Browning, Bitsy Browning, Dorsett Oil, Imogene Walker.
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