by Warren Adler
With her curiosity operating at full bore, she inspected every room on the upper floors with the exception of the one in which the fire had been set. Many of the rooms were obviously guest rooms that apparently hadn't been used for years, although they looked as if they were all well cared for through the years. A number of them contained paintings, mostly landscapes, although none bore the mark or style of Roy Parker. No family portraits were displayed.
She went back into the great room and sat for a long time pondering the portrait of the young soldier.
Roy had acknowledged that he had been smitten at first look, using the time-honored cliché "love at first sight." As near as she could calculate, considering that the date of the first dog picture was in February 1943, Roy had arrived on the scene at the beginning of that year. Certainly, there was no reason to believe that Roy's affair with Deb Shipley had started prior to William Shipley's death.
Or did it?
Finding religion, Fiona speculated, allowing her imagination to flow unimpeded, was often spurred on by a desire to rid one's conscience of past sins and giving it over to some forgiving divine force.
On the other side of a lustful nature are a chasm of guilt and an explosion of conscience. Deb, if one could use Roy's nude paintings of her as an illustration, was a woman of strong sexual impulses. The face of her dead husband in photographs looking out at her shame might have been too much for her to bear and she had them not only removed but destroyed, except for the monument in the great room, a necessary shrine to validate her son's legitimacy.
Fiona continued to study the portrait, until its imagery became lost in a meaningless mass of melded colors. Studying it became a pointless exercise in hyperactive curiosity.
A detective's imagination could often get too revved up by a plethora of conflicting possibilities. Catching a killer, getting beyond the circumstantial, was more of an art form than a science.
Finally, Fiona tore her eyes away from the picture, which had, by then, mysteriously faded from her frame of reference. All right, there were secrets in this house, she told herself. But every house, every family, every person held secrets, some darker than others, some minor in consequences. Most grew more obsessive in the imagination, mythologized by time and overzealous introspection.
She looked at her watch. It was after midnight. She had been here six hours. Whatever mysteries were churned up in her mind, whatever unanswered questions, Roy, she was certain, had the answers to quell wild speculations. At their next interview he would answer them for her.
Fiona admitted to a sense of alarm that Roy had not returned. Perhaps he had simply gone to some bar to try and chase away the specters that were plaguing his life at this moment in time. No way, she decided. Besides he seemed too sickly and debilitated to drive a car.
She was good at concocting scenarios, preferring at this juncture to create optimistic ones. At the same time she rebuked herself for taking Roy Carpenter too much to heart. Emotional involvement could be a homicide detective's nightmare, corrupt judgment and prevent the free flow of investigative imagination.
Stop overanalyzing Fiona, she cautioned herself. Her mind felt filled to capacity with speculation. Enough, she decided, clicking off the lamps in the great room, then roaming the house, flicking switches until the house was nearly dark.
As she moved through the house, she realized that she still held the sketchbook. Passing through the kitchen she put it back in Roy's storeroom where she had originally found it. Then she continued on her way through the house shutting off the remaining lights until it was completely dark. While still uneasy about Roy's absence, she rejected a police search for the car. He would have to return. He had no place to go.
The blackness seemed to chase her from the house and she quickly exited through the unlocked front entrance, got into her car, and headed for home.
CHAPTER 20
She saw Hal's note sitting next to hers, leaning against the coffee machine. He had been distracted enough to neglect to shut off the machine and the coffee was caked at the bottom of the glass carafe. Removing it and shutting off the machine, she read his note until the words shimmered in her tears.
"My darling Fi. I am trying to understand, but with difficulty. Perhaps, despite my dealing with the most modern of technologies, my expectations in purely human terms are rooted in the past. The bottom line, I think is that you see the role of a wife in different terms than I do. And yet, I still believe that love conquers all. I guess such a thought marks me as a hopelessly out of touch romantic. So be it. I will always love and respect you. Hal."
She let the paper on which he had written these words, flutter to the floor. It took her awhile to regain her sense of place and she headed to the den where she poured herself a half tumbler of scotch. For a moment, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror behind the bar. Was this her face or the face of a stranger?
She lifted her glass and tipped it for a first sip, then upended it until every drop was gone. She felt the burn in her chest as she stretched out on the couch, waiting, and hoping, for oblivion.
But oblivion would not oblige. She awoke from a restless semi-sleep, remembered Roy, then dialed the Shipley house again. No answer. She tried again an hour later. Nothing. It was only then that she finally dozed off, wakening to the sound of the persistent ringing of her telephone. It was Gail.
"I called Roy," she said.
"So did I," Fiona said. Her head ached. Her mouth was dry and tasted foul and her throat was hoarse.
"You sound awful."
"I went there last night, Gail. He was gone."
"Gone where?"
"I thought, perhaps, to a place to store the pictures."
She held back the information that she had spent hours at the Shipley house and said nothing about what she had done, nor anything about the nagging questions that had arisen from her inspection.
"Are you having second thoughts about the way we handled Roy?" Gail asked, knowing the answer in advance.
"Third and fourth," Fiona admitted. The scenarios crowded into her mind were now on the pessimistic side. Suppose they were dead wrong about Roy? Suppose ... she dared not explore the possibilities further.
"How long will it take you to pull yourself together?" Gail asked. Fiona felt that her partner was staring at her through the telephone. She stood up and looked at herself in the mirror behind the bar.
"Lots of repair work required."
"I'll pick you up in a half hour." She paused. "And Fi. I don't think there's any need to tell the Eggplant about this."
"I like that Gail. You discussing needs."
She hung up. The remark cheered her.
"What's going on?" Fiona asked as they pulled up in front of the Shipley House.
It was perfectly clear, of course. Two huge moving vans had pulled up in front of the house and movers had already nearly completed filling up one truck with its contents.
In front of one of the trucks was the Governor's limousine, but no one was inside. Fiona and Gail rushed into the house. Madeline was supervising the packing going on in the great room, where two men and a woman were busy putting various fragile items into cartons. The ubiquitous Clayton, hidden behind his dark shades, stood by, ever alert, his head scanning the room like a searchlight in a prison yard.
"You don't waste much time," Fiona said.
"No point to it," Madeline said. "Swifter the better."
"Beat the media to it." Gail said. The sight of Madeline had put her in her expected sour mood.
"Name of the game," Madeline said with obvious toleration. "They could do a number on it. The demise of a social queen. Somehow relate it to William and me." She looked around the great room. "Who knows what they could dredge up?"
"What are you going to do with everything?" Fiona asked.
"Split it up between our various houses. Some of it is quite good." She smiled at Fiona. "I had no idea Deb was in such bad financial shape. If William and I would have known, we'
d never have let it get this far."
Fiona let the remark pass. There was, in fact, no way that they could have stopped her financial decline. Mrs. Shipley would never take a dime from her son, and especially that woman. The star! Even now, dressed in tight jeans, her famous décolletage graced with a ruby pendant, her black hair piled helter-skelter on her head, her violet eyes shining, she looked every bit the star. This woman, Fiona decided, could get an emotional response from a dead man.
Fiona directed her gaze around the room, resting finally on the painting of the heroic dead soldier. It was still in its place above the mantle. Madeline noticed her studying it.
"Magnificent wasn't he? I'm having it cleaned up and retouched, then we'll put this in a real prominent place in the Mansion. Always loved this painting of William's Dad."
"It is impressive."
Still, the odd feeling Fiona got from observing the picture the night before still lingered. What was it? Fiona demanded to herself.
Madeline moved to the other side of the room cautioning the workers to be careful in packing some of the more fragile items.
"Quarter for your thoughts, Fi?" Gail asked, noting Fiona's concentrating gaze.
"I'm not sure," Fiona answered. "Something strange."
Gail studied the picture.
"Strange?"
Clayton moved to get a better view of Madeline.
"Where's the Governor?" Fiona asked.
"Richmond," Clayton said.
"Did Mrs. Shipley come up this morning?"
He shook his head.
"Spent last night in Middleburg," Clayton said with his usual economy of language. His remark confirmed what Fiona had suspected. His principal role was as bodyguard for Mrs. Shipley, validating again her view that it was Mrs. Shipley who played the dominant role in this political partnership. She supposed the Governor had body guards as well but it was Clayton who was the ubiquitous presence.
"Seen Roy Carpenter?" Fiona asked him. She hoped that her inquiry appeared casual,
"Who?"
"That old man who worked for Mrs. Shipley?" Gail prodded.
Clayton shrugged and shook his head.
They moved through the corridor to the kitchen. The movers had not yet reached that part of the house, although someone had closed the door to Roy's room. Fiona opened it.
"Roy," she called.
He was not inside. Before entering it, she inspected it carefully.
She compared it to the memory of when she had last seen the room and it's contents. Roy on his back, the blanket pulled over him to his chest. She had put the sketchbook back on the table where she had found it in the storeroom and she had closed the door, more a reflex than for any other reason.
The room's present state did not fit the matrix in her mind. The door to the storeroom was open, the sketchbook had been removed and the blanket on the bed had been neatly folded and placed on a chair. She explained to Gail the differences, including what she had discovered in the sketchbook.
"Considering my bias, I'll follow you on this one," Gail said.
There was no need for Fiona to ask for clarification. They were both on the same wavelength.
"Roy awoke. He felt stronger, decided to go ahead with his original plan to get the paintings out of the house and store them. He was determined. His betrayal of us didn't matter." Fiona said, trying to be her own devil's advocate. "He awakened, got the car started..." She stopped herself. "The car!"
Gail followed her to the back door, then across the alley, past the little pet cemetery, to the garage. The car was in place. The pictures in the back seat were gone. Gail opened the trunk with the keys she had taken the day before. There were no pictures in the trunk.
"Maybe," Fiona speculated trying to generate an air of relief." He took off, put the pictures in storage somewhere, came back, discovered the movers emptying the place, then took off again on foot."
"Sounds logical," Gail said. "At least he didn't try again to burn the place down."
"If he knew that Madeline had bought it, he probably would ... or want to."
But as she explored the logic in her mind, she became less assured, more anxious about Roy.
"He certainly wouldn't want to be around to see this," Gail said, making a sweeping motion of her arm. "This place was his life."
They moved back into the house, then into the great room. Madeline was observing the moving people packing the pictures. Clayton still stood near the room's entrance, his eye's ever watchful over his charge.
There were a couple of ways to handle this, Fiona mused. Casual or formal. Fiona opted for the formal. She turned to Gail. They were communicating in sync. Gail nodded.
"Can we have a word with you, Clayton?" Fiona asked.
"Word?"
"You know, Clayton. Questions," Fiona said. Behind her she knew that Gail was watchful, tense and ready for anything.
"I'm listening," Clayton said.
"I mean privately," Fiona snapped. Clayton's head snapped forward and although she couldn't see his eyes behind the dark glasses, she could feel the intensity of his gaze.
"I'm on the job, woman," he grumbled.
"So are we Clayton," Fiona said.
"I think maybe we got a problem," Clayton said slowly, moving his head in the direction of Madeline.
"What is it Clayton?" Madeline asked from across the room. She turned to the people doing the packing. "You can do the big one now," she said, then turned and moved to where Clayton, Fiona and Gail were standing. Two people, a man and a woman, began to pull apart an expanding ladder.
"Just be careful," Madeline said to the two people. "That's precious goods." She turned to Fiona and smiled pleasantly. "What seems to be the problem?" she asked, her violet eyes flashing.
"We have some questions for Clayton, Mrs. Shipley," Fiona said.
"Questions? What sort of questions?"
"Questions of movement, of time and place."
"You are cryptic today, Sergeant FitzGerald."
"I don't mean to be," Fiona said. "We are, after all, still investigating your mother-in-law's murder."
"I certainly hope so," Madeline said sweetly. "But what has that got to do with Clayton?"
"That's the point of the exercise, Mrs. Shipley." Fiona said.
Madeline Newton's eyes narrowed, cutting out the light. The violet faded abruptly, the pupils becoming dark nuggets.
"What has Clayton to do with that?" she asked.
"We thought it more appropriate for us to question him in private."
"I told them I was on the job," Clayton interjected.
"And you are, Clayton."
She turned to Fiona, her glance shifting from her to Gail.
"Still on that, are you?" Madeline asked. "I can't believe this." She turned to Fiona. "Do I assume this is official?"
"It is," Fiona said.
"You're serious," Madeline said searching Fiona's face.
"Very much so," Fiona said, standing her ground.
"I think maybe I should call your superior," Madeline said, keeping herself in control.
"Be my guest," Fiona snickered.
Madeline reflected for a long moment.
"On second thought, I think I'd like to explore this a little further, get a better idea of what you have in mind."
"That's the simple part Mrs. Shipley. We're looking for the person who put Martine up to killing your mother-in-law. Nothing has changed. As you know, we thought we had someone, but that didn't pan out."
"And you think it's me?"
"There's a long leap of faith between benign questions and a serious accusation," Fiona explained, trying to keep her voice neutral.
"I'll tell you what.... girls," Madeline said. "I'm paying these people by the hour, but I'll be happy to suffer through any lack of supervision while we discuss this fantasy at length." She turned toward Clayton. "No point in raising a ruckus, Clayton. We both know they're pursuing an absurdity. Or it's a ploy to get their faces on TV. Is t
hat it girls?"
Fiona and Gail exchanged glances.
"I'll consent to that," Fiona said, ignoring Madeline's needling.
"It's alright Clayton," Madeline said. "Ask away. We'll get into the rebuttal after we get this job over with." Suddenly she called out to the two people who were removing the portrait of the young soldier. They had leaned the extended ladder along the wall above the mantle and were carefully detaching the painting from its anchors in the wall.
"Would you care to sit down?" Fiona asked.
"Stop being polite, FitzGerald. Just direct your questions. It's all right Clayton. I'm sure you have nothing to hide."
Fiona turned to Clayton.
"Can you account for your movements on the Wednesday evening before the ... before Mrs. Shipley was murdered?"
"Your simple basic question," Madeline sighed.
Clayton did not respond, his lips pursed.
"Simple question. Simple answer," Madeline said.
"The question was directed to Clayton."
"Alright then..."
Clayton nodded and turned to Madeline.
"You were opening that art gallery in Alexandria," Clayton said.
"Exactly," Madeline snapped. "The Governor was not able to be with us. You drove me to the gallery. We stayed for an hour or so, then you drove me back to Middleburg. Is that your recollection, Clayton?"
"Yes, Ma'am. That is exactly my recollection."
"What time did you get back to the house in Middleburg?" Fiona asked.
"I'd say about eleven thirty. Wouldn't you Clayton?"
"That's about right Ma'am," Clayton said.
"And you didn't go out again?" Fiona asked.
Clayton shook his head.
"Why would I do that?" he asked.
"We're asking the questions, Clayton." Fiona said, realizing how futile it was. If they were in it together, they would naturally back up each other's story. The fact was that the only solid proof of Clayton's involvement had to come from Martine, an identification process that would have little or no credibility. She remembered how she had instinctively reacted to that possibility at the Eggplant's office. "We could rattle his cage," she had said then.