Murder on the Lake of Fire

by Mikel J. Wilson

“I needed a nap, for god’s sake! Excuse me for not answering the phone for a couple of hours during the most stressful week of my life!”

  Emory headed to the door, followed by Jeff and the deputies. As Victor walked out, he noticed the damage caused during entry. “Look what you did to my door!” He pointed an angry finger at Emory. “I’m sending you the bill for the repair!”

  Emory followed Jeff down the hallway, but slowed his pace so he could hear Deputy Harris apologize to Victor.

  Victor took one more look at the room and muttered, “Huh,” before flicking the switch.

  “What is it?” Deputy Harris asked.

  “Nothing,” said Victor “Just funny how places seem bigger when you’re younger. I used to come to this room all the time. My first job here was filing, among many other menial tasks.”

  In the receiving area, Emory and Jeff talked for a moment to the other two deputies before going to the place in the woods where Lula Mae found her husband the previous night. They ducked under the yellow crime tape and hadn’t taken a step before noticing the compacted snow where Sheriff Rome had been left. Emory took pictures of the ground, including the patch of red snow from the wound at the back of the sheriff’s head. He looked at the natural spring behind the barbed wire fence, which was just a few feet away.

  Jeff pointed to the ground. “Over here.”

  Emory joined Jeff and saw numerous tracks in the snow. “Coyotes.”

  “Look how close they got.”

  Emory’s eyes shot to where his father was found and retraced the short distance from there to the tracks. “I’m going to kill whoever did this to him.” He began walking back to his car.

  Jeff hurried after him. “Where to now?”

  “You’re not going to like it.”

  CHAPTER 27

  JEFF SPENT THE ride to the Algarotti house trying to dissuade Emory from his planned confrontation, but the TBI agent’s resolve was proving to be immutable. Emory told him, “The way Pristine met her husband is an important clue that has to be investigated.”

  “I told you that in confidence. You’ll break my client-investigator privilege.”

  “Is there honestly such a thing?”

  Jeff threw up his hands. “It’s more like a code really.”

  “Then to paraphrase Alan Turing, that code’s about to be broken.”

  Jeff pulled down the windshield visor and checked his reflection in its mirror. He snaked his fingers through his thick brown hair, tousling it into charming anarchy. “Why do you even have to bring it up? Pristine can’t be the one behind everything.”

  “What rules her out?”

  The PI pushed the visor back up and stared at the dashboard. “I didn’t know Victor Algarotti’s complete financial situation two years ago when I singled him out for Pristine. What if, when she found out the money wasn’t his, she decided to kill Britt so her husband would continue to have control over it? The murder would be, in essence, my fault.”

  Emory glanced at him, but something else caught his attention—a boy pushing a bike down the road. “Is that Ian?”

  Jeff’s downcast demeanor vanished when he saw the youngest Algarotti struggling to walk his bike. “Looks like Damien’s chain came off.” He smirked at the boy’s misfortune. “He’s got a long walk ahead of him.” When Emory turned on his hazard lights, Jeff asked, “What are you doing?”

  “Helping him.”

  “He doesn’t need us. He has demon-possessed Rottweilers for that.”

  “Stop it. He’s just a kid. What do you have against him?”

  “He gives me the creeps. I know you weren’t there, but I told you about the conversation we had when I returned Britt’s laptop. He seriously lit up when talking about details of Rick Roberts’ death. Sorry for the pun.”

  “We’re helping him.” Emory parked a few yards in front of Ian and got out of the car. “Ian! Do you need some help?” Ian looked at him as if he couldn’t quite place who he was. “Remember me. I’m Emory Rome with the TBI.”

  Ian nodded but told him, “I don’t take rides from strangers.”

  “You’re right. Why don’t you call your dad and ask if it’s okay for me to give you a ride. That way, he knows who you’re with.”

  The thirteen-year-old pulled his phone from his pocket and brushed his blond bangs from his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket. “I’ll text him.”

  Emory looked around, uncertain how to pass the time as they waited for a reply from Ian’s father. “So it feels a little warmer today.”

  The phone dinged, and Ian told him, “Dad says it’s okay.”

  Emory loaded Ian’s bike into the trunk, and the boy scooted into the back seat. “Hey,” he greeted the back of Jeff’s head.

  Jeff lowered the car’s visor and looked at Ian through the attached mirror. “Hey.”

  Emory slipped behind the steering wheel and eased the car back onto the road. “Ian, where are you coming from?”

  “Just riding around.”

  Emory smiled in the rearview mirror. “I noticed the smaller desk in your dad’s office. Is that yours?”

  “Yes. I work for Dad after school.”

  “What’s it like working with your father?”

  “It’s okay.”

  Emory realized that Ian, in typical teenage fashion, had a disdain for elaboration when it came to questions from adults, so he gave up on the conversation.

  After several moments of uncomfortable silence plodded by, Jeff broke it with a question of his own. “Junior high was kind of tough for me. How do you like it?”

  “I’m not in junior high.”

  Jeff’s face cracked into a grin. “Did you get held back?”

  Ian’s sudden glare slapped the smile off Jeff’s reflection. “I’m in high school.”

  “Oh, you skipped a grade?” Emory asked.

  Ian sighed and rolled his eyes. “Two grades.”

  Jeff and Emory glanced at each other. They asked no other questions during the final two-minute drive to the Algarotti house.

  The two men had no sooner pulled Ian’s bike out of the back of the car when the front door to the house flew open and Margaret, the Algarottis’ elderly maid, ran out screaming. Flying out the door behind her, a crystal goblet grazed Margaret’s left ear before smashing onto the driveway, shattering into sharp, sparkling pieces. Hot on her heels, Pristine Algarotti hurried from the house, fumbling with an arm full of crystal goblets. “Pack up your shit, and don’t ever come back!” she yelled as she hurled goblet after goblet at her surprisingly evasive target until only one remained. Margaret ran along the driveway in front of the Algarottis’ house and turned the corner toward what Emory remembered to be the maid’s house in back.

  Pristine swung around and at last noticed the three people watching her. “I can’t stand thief-ry!” She then looked at Ian as if she were about to apologize to him.

  “Are you okay?” the boy asked.

  “I’m fine,” she answered in a more relaxed tone. “Why don’t you go inside, and I’ll make us lunch in a bit?” With that, Ian parked his bike on the porch and disappeared inside the house. Seeing the men’s faces, Pristine’s face again contorted into rage. “She had the nerve to steal one of my crystal glasses.” She held up the only remaining goblet.

  “Why would she steal a glass?” Emory asked.

  Pristine looked at him as if he had asked the stupidest question she had ever heard. “This costs more than she makes in a month.”

  Jeff asked, “If you care so much about the glasses, why did you break them?”

  In a hissy-fit, Pristine threw the last goblet to the ground, shattering it. “It’s the principle!”

  The PI looked at the shattered glass and then at its destroyer. With a bemused smirk, he said, “Touché.”

  Emory let loose a small snicker before getting control of himself, but it was enough to send Pristine fuming toward the door. He tried to stop her with, “I…We need to talk to you.”

  She
grabbed the doorknob and turned around to face them. “What, are you two working together now?”

  Emory looked at Jeff, who answered, “Marathoners in the same race.”

  She snarled, “Why the hell are you running by here?”

  Emory responded, “We have some questions—”

  Pristine started shutting the door. “I’m done with that.”

  “They’re about how you met your husband,” Emory blurted out.

  Pristine looked at Jeff as if searching for a sign of assurance that he hadn’t divulged the truth. His tilted brow and slight shrug seemed to give her an answer. Stepping aside, she waved them into the foyer. “Why don’t you come on in and make yourself uncomfortable, like I am right now.” Once inside, she told them, “Parlor,” as if they should’ve known where she wanted them to go.

  The men walked into the parlor and saw the glass from at least two broken goblets near the bar and a couple of sofa pillows on the floor. Jeff nodded to the pillows and whispered, “Margaret probably used them as a shield from the glass-flinger.”

  “Look at this mess.” Pristine sidestepped the glass. “I’ve told Victor we need more servants.”

  “How do you know Margaret took it?” Emory asked.

  “I found it in one of her drawers when I was looking through the maid’s house out back…” Pristine just realized she had no more crystal glasses. “Great. Now I have nothing to put my protein drink in.” She eyed the metal mixing cup. “I’ll just make a bigger one.”

  Jeff asked, “You suspected she was stealing?”

  As she talked, she mixed her protein drink in the blender, adding water from a glass bottle, ice and three scoops of protein powder instead of her normal one scoop. “No, I had no idea until I saw it there.” She added a generous pour of Tennessee honey whiskey to the blender. “It’s our property. I have every right to go in and look whenever I want.”

  Emory told her, “Uh, not really.”

  Pristine talked over Emory to finish her explanation. “I came back here to confront her, and she started lying.”

  Emory held up his finger. “On that subject, could you tell me why you lied about the basis for your marriage?”

  In lieu of an immediate answer, Pristine kept her eyes on the blender, covered it with the lid and turned it on. Emory watched her stolid face – assuming she was using the noise from the grinding ice to give her enough time to formulate an answer. Once the noise ended, she poured the drink into the mixing cup. “I have to say, Jeff, I’m pretty damned pissed that you betrayed my confidence. Isn’t it illegal for you to share information about your clients?”

  “Not illegal,” Jeff told her. “More of a broken code.”

  Emory tapped his foot a couple of times. “Pristine, answer my question.”

  She glowered at him. “You’re being disrespectful to me in my own house.”

  “If you’d prefer, we could move the conversation to the sheriff’s station.”

  Pristine’s expressions teetered between anger and concern, as if she were uncertain of her next words or the manner of their delivery.

  Jeff joked, “Too bad you’re all out of throwing glasses.”

  A tear rolled down Pristine’s cheek as she appeared to settle on concern – for herself, no doubt. She again delayed her response, this time by sucking in a quarter of her protein drink through the straw. After a deep exhale, she responded, “From your judgmental tone, I can tell you’re not questioning my marriage. You’re questioning my ethics.” She took another drink and meandered from behind the bar. “Our chance encounter did require a gentle prodding of fate, but is that really so unethical? Before you think I want an answer, that question was hypothetical.”

  Emory told her, “I think you mean rhetorical.”

  “Whatever. Mr. Rome, I realize my limitations. I know I’m not talented at anything. I’m not capable of becoming rich on my own. The only way I could ever be rich, without breaking the law, was to marry into it.” Pristine waved off an imaginary fly. “Now I know you think I’m justifying all those preconceived notions you have of me, but you’re wrong. I didn’t lie to you. I love my husband now, and I loved him when we married. That’s all that counts.”

  “Okay.” Jeff glance at Emory. “I think we’ve got the story from there.”

  “Does Britt count?” Emory asked.

  Pristine swallowed more of her protein drink. “Are you suggesting I had something to do with the death of my stepdaughter?”

  “She and Ian are all that stand between you and your dream, being married to a truly rich man.”

  Pristine’s face began to twitch, and she changed direction as if she were looking for something in the room that she just couldn’t find. “When you’re in love, money doesn’t matter.” Her hands shook.

  Believing he was making her nervous, Emory couldn’t keep his lips from curling into a subtle smile of satisfaction. He was about to ask a follow-up question when she asked one of her own.

  “What about her coach? What would I gain by killing him?” Pristine tried to place her mixing cup on the bar, but her hands were shaking so much, she knocked it over. “I think you need to do your job and investigate all the evidence so you can find the real…”

  Pristine’s neck jerked back, and her spine arched. Muscle convulsions overtook her body. Jeff ran to her as she fell back, catching her before she hit the floor. “Pristine!” He looked up at Emory, who was now standing over her. “What’s wrong with her?”

  CHAPTER 28

  EMORY DIALED 911 on his cell phone as he told Jeff, “It looks like a reaction to poison.” When the operator answered, Emory said he believed he had a potential poisoning victim, and he described Pristine’s symptoms.

  As Pristine’s convulsions persisted, Jeff cradled her head in his hands to keep it from banging against the floor. Emory continued talking to the operator while he ran to get a pillow, which he handed to Jeff to place behind her head. He asked the operator, “Should we try to make her throw up?” Once he heard her answer, he shook his head at Jeff.

  Pristine’s convulsions came to an abrupt stop. Jeff checked for a pulse in her neck. “She’s still alive.”

  Emory let the operator know, and she told them to just keep her comfortable until help arrived. He hung up the phone and called Victor to let him know. Cupping his hand over the phone, he whispered to Jeff, “He’s on his way.”

  Jeff glanced at the ceiling. “What about Ian?”

  “I’ll go check on him. Are you okay here?”

  “I’ll stay with her.”

  Emory left the parlor and walked up to the second floor. At the top of the stairs, he saw a long hallway with several doors in either direction and a red runner rug bisecting the burnished hardwood floor. He didn’t know where Ian’s room was, so he started with the left hall and listened for movement. The first door he came to was closed. He put his ear to it, just shy of touching, and moved on when he heard nothing. He then passed by a room that had been converted into a home gym, complete with a treadmill, a few machines and pink dumbbells. Must be Pristine’s. The next door was open, which he found surprising because it was Britt’s bedroom. That’s odd. A parent in mourning will typically shut off a dead child’s bedroom to preserve its essence.

  Emory walked into the lavender-hued room and looked around. Among the trophies, medals, competition photos and jewelry boxes cluttering the tops of the furniture was her laptop where he presumed Ian had returned it. He opened one of the jewelry boxes and found a few costume pieces comingled with the finer ones. “Probably from Dan Claymon,” he muttered about the inexpensive items. He opened the smaller jewelry box and found condoms inside. “Probably for Dan.” He picked up a small framed picture of Victor and Meredith, the children’s mother, holding a baby Britt following her birth. Apart from some crow’s feet, Victor looks pretty much the same. I hope I age so well.

  Emory’s eyes wandered around the room, landing on a poster-sized picture inside a gold frame that, instead of
hanging on the wall, was lying on top of the bed. “Wow,” he whispered in reference to the beautiful shot. It was a black and white photo of Britt looking over her shoulder at the photographer as she walked toward the lake where she would later die. The trees and ground were covered in snow, and she had skates hanging from her shoulder. Her smile was radiant and sweet with no hint of sadness, yet that’s all Emory felt as he stared at it. He snapped a picture of the photo with his phone.

  “That’s the picture we had at her funeral,” a woman said from behind him.

  Startled, Emory jerked around to face the doorway, where Margaret – the now jobless maid – stood. “Margaret. The door was open.”

  The old woman nodded. “I keep shutting it, and someone keeps opening it again.”

  “What are you doing here?” he asked in as delicate a tone as he could.

  She nodded to the half-full grocery tote in her right hand. “I came through the back to get some things I left over here.”

  Emory wondered if they were her belongings, but he left it alone. “This is a great photo.”

  Margaret stepped into the room. “That’s the last picture of her taken alive. Tati, her best friend, fancies herself a photographer, and Britt was her favorite model. She took pictures of her the weekend before she died. She had that one blown up and framed, and gave it to Mr. Algarotti.” Margaret admired the picture, shaking her head. “She was such a beautiful girl. She didn’t belong in this family.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing.” She turned from him and headed toward the door. “I should go.”

  “Could you tell me where Ian’s room is?”

  Margaret pointed toward the direction from which he had come. “He’s on that side.” She left him and headed back down the stairs.

  Could Margaret have poisoned Pristine? Closing the bedroom door, he walked down the hall, listening at each door before opening them to see if the room behind it belonged to Ian. He reached a door and heard the squeaking of a chair on the other side. “Ian?” he called, knocking on the door. “I need to talk to you.”