“No problem. I’ll come by again,” Tip said, and as he walked toward the car he heard
George called him. “What’s that?”
“I said, you were right. I am a cranky old fuck. But if you don’t mind talking to one, come by and visit again.”
Tip smiled, and called back over his shoulder. “You can count on it, old man.”
“And make it before I die.”
Tip waved as he got into the car. He pulled out his phone and made a note to follow up on Grayson and on Clyde Bannick. And then he put a reminder on his calendar to call George three weeks from now and come for a visit.
Nobody deserves to die alone.
CHAPTER 49
WHO ARE YOU?
I headed back to the station to pick some things up, and then went straight to Ingle’s house. Tip must have felt like he could get a good lead from his friend George, or else he’d have waited and come with me just so he could get another look at Anne Ingle. Memories of her in that bathing suit popped into my mind.
I think I’d have let George wait.
I pulled up to the house and parked. The limo was in the drive. I hoped that didn’t mean RB was home. I rang the bell, expecting to see the maid at any minute, but when the door opened I was greeted by Reggie.
“What can I do for you, Detective?”
“I’m here to see Mrs. Ingle.”
He stepped aside, and I walked in.
“Come with me,” Reggie said.
I followed him, joined by Ingle’s dog as we passed the dining room on our way to the study. Mrs. Ingle sat on the sofa reading a magazine. The dog jumped up on the cushion next to her. It wasn’t much bigger than a basketball, not like Tip’s dogs.
I reached to shake her hand but she remained seated and offered no handshake. So much for my dreams of her being an irresistible warrior and wanting to ravish me. “Detective Cataldi, what brings you back here?”
“I have a few more questions.”
She nodded to Reggie, who left the room and closed the door.
“Mr. Ingle isn’t here?” I said, looking around as I did.
“He’s working, but he sent Reggie by in case I needed anything.” She was petting the dog, but stopped to reach for a glass of water. “You said you have questions?”
“We need to clarify some things on the night of Ms. Camwyck’s murder. I thought you could help with that.”
The dog nudged her arm and her drink spilled. She jumped up. “Fluffy! Look what you’ve done.”
She brushed off her skirt, then went to the door and opened it. “Manuela, please bring a towel.”
The maid came running, and from the expression on her face, I wondered what the reprisals were for not rushing.
“Fluffy spilled my drink,” Anne said.
Manuela handed her towel, and then hurried to the sofa and began wiping it dry, then patting Anne’s clothing dry.
Before leaving, Manuela scooped the dog up in her arms. “You come with me, bad dog.”
Anne took a seat at the other end of the sofa—the dry end—and flashed me what I perceived to be a fake smile. “Sorry about that, Detective. If you’ve ever owned a dog, I’m sure you understand.”
“I don’t own dogs, but my partner has several, so yes, I do understand.”
I waited a few seconds then said, “What can you tell me about the night of the murder?”
She leaned against the back cushion, crossing her legs as she did. “If I remember, we got to the club about 7:32. Shortly after midnight, Reggie informed me we’d be leaving. We left at 12:24, if memory serves me right.”
I wrote down what she told me. “And Mr. Ingle was there all night?”
“As you know there were a lot of people who attended. I can’t vouch for Bob’s whereabouts every minute, but I did bump into him now and then.”
“You have a pretty good memory, Mrs. Ingle—recalling what time you left down to the minute. Saying 12:24 is rather odd. Most people would just say 12:25, you know, round it up.”
She chuckled. “I spent too many years in an orphanage run by Catholic nuns. They have a way of drilling things into your head.”
My own memories from Catholic school brought a smile to my face. “Tell me about it.” I was about to say something else when the sound of her yelling “Fluffy! Look what you’ve done,” came to mind.
Fluffy.
And what she just said about the orphanage…it reminded me of what the mystery caller said that night on the phone, about the fire, and going upstairs and down the long hall. And about the girl never saying it was her sister, and of the shoes she couldn’t replace for a week.
And of a dog named Fluffy.
Suddenly Anne’s accent seemed very familiar. I narrowed my eyes and looked at her from a different perspective.
Could she be the caller? As ludicrous as it sounded for RB Ingle’s wife to be the caller, I had to give it a shot. “Do you still like expensive shoes?”
She had been in the process of situating herself on the sofa, but when I said that, she whipped her head around. She quickly recomposed, but not before a flicker of surprise registered on her face. She blushed, then lowered her head. “Detective, I’m sure a lot of people like expensive shoes. Just what are you implying?”
There was no way I could stop now. She didn’t get that look on her face for nothing. “I’m not implying anything. I asked if you still liked expensive shoes.”
She cocked her head to the side, just a little, and stared at me from a different angle. “As in…”
“As in Ferragamo shoes. As in the story you told me about the fire at the orphanage and your dog at that time—who was also named Fluffy. I’m assuming you named this one after in honor of the one you had in the orphanage.”
For the longest time she sat still, then she nodded. “When did you figure it out?”
“When you mentioned the orphanage. Combined with Fluffy it struck a chord.
She smiled, but it looked as if it were a fake smile, too quick, almost as if she was angry at herself. “I knew it was wrong as soon as I said it.” She moved to sit in a chair and folded her hands in her lap. “It seems we have a lot to discuss.”
“A whole lot,” I said. “I think I’ll take that drink now.”
“I don’t remember offering you one.”
“You didn’t but I’ll take it anyway.”
She got up and fixed drinks then took her seat in the chair.
I sat, dumbfounded, wondering where to start.
Did I hear right? Did she admit to being the mystery caller?
“Ask away,” she said. “I’ll answer your questions.”
Her revelation was so unexpected that I didn’t know where to start, so I opened my mouth and let words fall out. “Why did you call me?”
“I discovered you were on the case. From what I’d heard you seemed…honest, so I chose you.”
I tasted my drink, then took another sip before I got the nerve to continue. “How did you know about Ms. Camwyck?”
She took a long swig—enough to tell me she’d had more than a few drinks in her day—then she stared at the wall before turning to face me. “My husband was having an affair with her, as you know. I knew too. It had been going on for a long time.”
I gulped. I couldn’t help it, but I did. “How did you find out about it…the affair, I mean.”
She hesitated again, thinking before speaking. I would do well to learn that trait. “I knew about many of his affairs, but when I saw the pictures in the paper, I…” She got up and fixed another drink.
“Another for you?”
“No thanks.”
She walked back, handed me a drink I hadn’t asked for, and sat in her chair, leaning forward. “When I saw that picture in the paper I panicked. At first I didn’t know what to do. I was horrified. Then I felt a great rush of anger…then I felt pity—for her.” She shook her head. “That poor woman. What someone did to her.”
I waited a reasonable amount of
time, at least I thought it was, then continued with my questions. “And you recognized her from the picture in the papers? The one in the Chronicle?”
She nodded. “As soon as I saw it.”
“Did you say anything to your husband? About the affair, I mean?”
She rested both hands on her knees, wrapped around the glass. “His relationship with Barbara Camwyck had been going on far longer than I care to think about. From what I’ve learned, it started before we were married, and it never stopped.”
“And all this time you’ve said nothing?” I realized how stupid it was of me to say that, but not until after the words left my mouth.
She narrowed her eyes, but then they softened, almost as if she forgave me. “I hope your marriage was a good one, Detective—yes, I know your wife passed—and that you never experienced the pain I’ve been through. But if it wasn’t, or if you have someone close to you that has been through this…then you’d know. After a while, saying something does nothing but agitate the situation.”
Her hands were shaking. For a moment I was afraid the glass she gripped might break. “I felt infuriated…then hurt, then jealous…” She looked down at her knees, then back at me. “Eventually I believe it grew into guilt. Somehow, Bob’s indiscretions caused me to feel guilty. How that happened I don’t know, but happen it did. Soon, I was less than a woman. I was nothing but a rich man’s mute wife.”
I thought I saw a tear in her eye. I wanted to hold her and tell her it wasn’t her fault, that she didn’t deserve this…but I sat there, silent. I no longer saw her as a sexy woman, or an object of desire, or even as a rich businessman’s wife—she was a person in need, and I wanted to comfort her.
I took a deep breath, trying to figure out how to ask the next question. “How did you know about the dress…and the shoes?”
She stared at her glass, as if it could provide the answers, then she looked at me. “She was at a party for Rusty the night before. She wore a blue dress and Ferragamo shoes.”
“That was the night before she was killed.”
“I know,” Anne said. “I do remember she left early. Perhaps she met someone, or maybe Bob asked her to leave. I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t meet one of her clients there and then leave.”
I jotted down notes. “I have to ask, Mrs. Ingle, was your husband at the event the entire night? Do you recall him leaving at any time?”
“Do you mean at the club, or the private party the night before?”
“The club. The night Ms. Camwyck was killed.”
She took a moment, perhaps to gather her thoughts. “As much as I’d like to say he slipped out…to my knowledge he didn’t.”
“Do you know of anyone who would have wanted to harm Ms. Camwyck?”
Her eyes took on a hard glare. “Do you mean besides my husband?”
I tried a fake smile, but I knew it didn’t work. “Yes, ma’am. Besides him.”
“I hope your notebook is empty.” Her face seemed to harden and her voice dropped. “Let’s start with Cybil and Rusty Johnson. I’m sure you’re familiar with them.”
I nodded while I wrote.
“Add Randy Beaucamp to the list.”
She must have seen the look on my face, because she immediately expounded on her statement.
“Randy is one of the biggest campaign donors to Texas politicians.”
“Why would Randy have a motive?”
“I’m surprised at you, Detective. Ms. Camwyck was one of the biggest cogs in that political wheel ya’ll call the good old boys network.”
She had switched to the accent she used when she called me, and I had to admit it was pretty damn good, if a bit exaggerated for this occasion.
Anne downed the rest of her drink, but still clutched the glass in both hands. She seemed to be a broken woman. When she spoke again, it was with a new resolve.
“Barbara Camwyck had more ambition than anyone I know, with the exception of Bob and Tom Marsen. She worked for Tom when he was a senator; she worked for Rusty; and she worked for anyone else who could pay her fee—including my husband. In the end though, she proved to be a master at extracting secrets from the men she bedded. She made herself rich from those secrets, and she made Rusty and Cybil powerful. Eventually she built a business out of providing young girls to powerful men.” Anne stood and paced a moment. “Didn’t you wonder how she earned that condominium?”
I slipped into detective mode before I realized. “And you didn’t have a motive?”
Anne smiled. “I’m flattered, Detective, in a way. Insulted in another. But I was at the event all night. And I was in Houston when the woman in Dallas was killed. I have any number of people who are able to vouch for my whereabouts, and as to motive, other than her having sex with my husband, I had no reason to murder Ms. Camwyck or the other woman.” She sighed. “And while that is deplorable, it certainly is no reason to kill someone.”
Her tone sounded like a teacher admonishing a student. I’m sure I blushed. “I had to ask,” was all I managed to give as an apology. “Who else might be suspects, or should I say, have a motive.”
“Ralph Duerr, Billy Watkins, Emerson Dodds…” She walked to the bar but just got water. “There are too many to list. You can add any male who has been in Houston politics for the past 20 years and you’d have a starting point. That list, of course, includes my husband.”
That was the third time she mentioned her husband had motive. I made sure to put that in my notes. “And the mayor and his wife. You mentioned them first…any reason?”
“If you mean other than the fact that Rusty had been sleeping with Barbara since she was seventeen…”
“Son of a bitch!”
“Precisely my point. Barbara was a person who used whatever information she had to get what she wanted. How would it look if Houston’s mayor was involved with a teenager?” She lifted her head toward the ceiling, as if thinking. “I believe they call them hebephiles, at least according to Google.”
“Excuse me, ma’am.”
“I’m sorry. I was ranting. A hebephile is one who is attracted to adolescents. Rusty Johnson falls squarely into that category. From what Bob told me, Rusty preys on them.”
“So you think the mayor could have done this?”
“I don’t know what to think. I only know that this investigation threatens to expose a lot of people, including my husband, as adulterers. By itself that would be embarrassing, but not catastrophic; however, it also threatens to expose them as potential conspirators in blackmail operations and political corruption.” She raised her eyes to the ceiling again, this time with a sigh. “I believe you can figure the rest out, Detective.”
I scribbled a few more notes, then pressed her with the question that had been bugging me since the first time she called. “Why were you so interested in the time of death?”
I expected a stalling tactic, something to give her time to compose herself and come up with a response. But she answered right away—almost too fast.
“I had to know the time of death so I could be certain that RB wasn’t involved.” She paused and took a deep breath. “After I was certain it couldn’t have been him, I gave you the clues.”
That took me by surprise, but it made sense. “If you recognized Camwyck, surely your husband did.” I put it out there and waited for her to respond.
“I can’t speak for RB,” she said. “Or for Cybil, or Rusty, or any of the others who must have recognized her—including your captain. All I can tell you is that the relationship between all of them was fragile at best. Considering what went on in those days—with the blackmail and prostitution—there is little wonder they didn’t come forward. Who wants to be associated with a prostitute?”
She was right. Knowing what I do now, there was no way any of those people were going to admit an association with a dead prostitute.
I looked into her eyes, stared at her lips, and risked a quick glance to those legs, bestowed upon her by a god or goddess. I
had a rotten feeling in my gut telling me something was wrong, but I couldn’t put my finger on it and I didn’t trust myself to reason it out. Not with her so close to me. I decided to play this out and see where it went. After a deep breath, I did my best to hold her stare then stabilized my voice.
“How would you continue with the investigation if you were me?”
Anne thought for a moment, then as she started to answer there was a knock at the door.
“Come in.”
Reggie Grage poked his head in and spoke in a voice that seemed just loud enough to reach us but probably not five steps beyond. “We need to be going. Mr. Ingle called and I have to pick him up early.”
She looked at her watch and nodded. “I’ll be one minute.”
Grage closed the door and exited.
I stood, not knowing what to anticipate.
“I have to leave, but we can continue this whenever you want. Just call me.”
As I stepped toward the door, she called me back.
“Can we keep this private? This talk?”
This was an interesting twist. “Why?”
She looked to the door, as if checking to see it was still closed. “As you have probably gathered, my husband isn’t the man the public thinks he is. In fact, he’s…” She shook her head. “Never mind. Forgive me for asking. I know you have a job to do.”
She started for the door and I grabbed her arm. “Has he hit you?”
“For God’s sake, no.” She said it, but I didn’t believe it. Not even a little bit She had a look of fear in her eyes when I mentioned it.
“I can keep it quiet,” I said. “At least for now.”
She closed her eyes and sighed. Then she took my hand in hers and whispered, “Thank you.”
Reggie was waiting to escort me out. As we walked through the house, I said, “Are you going to tell Ingle I was here?”
Old Wounds, a Gino Cataldi Mystery Page 26