“The suicide may have been spur of the moment.”
“On the servants’ night out?”
“He wanted the volcanically hot wife to find him.”
“The volcanically hot wife who was sleeping in a separate bedroom?”
“Now you’re making my case for suicide,” Tony said. “Round one goes to me.”
“You wish,” Nola scoffed. “You proved nothing. I still think she did it.”
“Hey, midlife-crisis girl, yesterday you insisted a junkie with the victim’s guitar and blood on his sweatshirt was innocent, today you’re ready to convict young Miss Goodthighs without a shred of proof. Hmm, now what could we deduce from that?”
“Okay, I admit, one glance at that girl and I spontaneously developed early-onset menopause.”
“And now you’re planning to bring her down with your Super Dryness Force?”
“That’s funny. I bet her husband would laugh his head off, if he still had one. The fact that I wish I had her youth . . . and her beauty . . .” Nola glanced up at the portrait again. “And that dress has nothing to do with the fact that I think we should at least entertain the idea that this might be murder, and she might be a suspect.”
“Fine, she’s a suspect,” Tony said. “How ’bout I tail her for a year or two?”
“You couldn’t keep up with her.”
“That’s what you think. I could follow that girl with my eyes closed.”
“Ah! See? You’re the one who can’t be objective because of her looks. You’re mentally sexting her right now.”
“I do like soft things,” he said, smiling.
“Bet you could strike a match on what’s underneath,” Nola replied, doing her best Lauren Bacall.
“Actually, Grandma, people use lighters these days. You gotta try and keep up with the cool kids.”
“LMFAO,” Nola smirked. “Okay, round two, my turn.”
“Okay.” Tony mimed limbering up. “Aside from the fact that she’s incredibly young and so smeltingly hot that you’re insanely jealous, tell me why you think she’s guilty.”
“FACT: I just spent three hours with a girl whose boyfriend dumped her. Real grief is messy, ugly, swollen, and red-nosed. Your Miss Goodthighs is crying like she couldn’t get the spray-tan appointment she wanted. Which, by the way, she doesn’t need because she has a spray-tan setup of her own in that airplane hangar she calls a bathroom.”
“No kidding.”
“She probably has one of the maids hose her down every morning before she leaves the house. CONCLUSION: It’s pretty damn obvious she didn’t really love the dearly departed.”
“Proves nothing.” He waved his hand dismissively. “If not loving something made you guilty, you’d get arrested every time I dragged you to a Dodgers game.”
“I go for the hot dogs.”
“Hopefully she does, too.”
“Uck, and might I add, uck. And stop getting off point. FACT: She doesn’t love him enough to sleep in the same bed with him, yet she claims to have cradled his bloody body till the EMTs got here? CONCLUSION: She’s lying. Why would she hug a man’s corpse when she wouldn’t hug his living, breathing body?”
“Shock reaction? Latent vampire tendencies. Tripped and fell into the viscera? There’s a million plausible explanations.”
“Yeah, like mucking up the evidence to fool forensics. That’s the one I’m going with.”
“Objection,” he said playfully. “The witness is arguing facts that haven’t been introduced into evidence.”
“What? Are you her lawyer now?”
“I didn’t realize I needed one.” Haven’s voice was cool and matter of fact.
She was standing in the arched entrance way wearing a white terry robe that was so short Nola half expected her to announce she was ready for her waxing. Too pussy-punched to think on his feet, Tony stood in silent admiration, leaving Nola to make their apologies.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Gillette. It’s nothing personal. At this point in an investigation, we have to regard everyone as a suspect.”
“Do you usually look for suspects when a desperately sad man commits suicide?” Haven asked caustically.
“Things aren’t always what they seem,” Nola said, with an apologetic smile. “Take a suicide home after last call, and sometimes you wake up with a murder.”
Haven wasn’t amused. She fixed Nola with a superior look that said, Really? That gun with those shoes? then turned the full force of her babeliciousness on Tony. “And what do you think, Detective?”
Too smart to take sides in any girl-on-girl subtextual power plays, Tony deflected. “I think maybe we’re getting off on the wrong foot here.”
Nola hiked back up to the high road. “I know this is a terrible night for you, but I’m afraid there are still a few more questions we have to ask.”
Haven’s eyes remained zeroed in on Tony. It was the classic hot-girl-in-high-school move, signifying they were the only two people in the room who mattered. When she answered, it was directly to him. “You mean, questions, like, why did I kill my husband? That’s simple, I didn’t. Why would I? Certainly not for money. The banks are taking everything, this house, the yacht. I don’t even know where I’m going to be living next month.”
Tony was instantly taken in. His concern for her welfare, where she could go, who she might call, was totally undermining the interview. Another minute of steady eye contact and he’d be handing her a get-out-of-jail-free card. Suppressing the urge to Cher-slap him and shout, “Snap out of it!” Nola soldiered on with the questioning: “You and your husband were sleeping in separate bedrooms. Were you having marital problems?”
Haven released Tony from her ice-blue trajectory beams and flashed a withering glance at Nola.
“Just his snoring. You think I killed him over that?”
“You wouldn’t be the first,” Nola quipped.
Anger sparked somewhere deep and dark. “My husband just blew his brains out, Detective. Pardon me if I don’t think this is the best time for jokes.”
The rebuke stung, mostly because Nola knew she deserved it. Tony shot her a look that said the comedy club was closed. Retreat with what little credibility you have left, and don’t forget to tip your waitress.
“I’m sure my partner didn’t mean to be disrespectful,” he said, in a vain attempt to smooth the waters. “Sometimes we get a little hardened in this line of work.”
Haven produced a pristine tissue from the pocket of her terry robe. There weren’t any real tears to wipe away, just a new little throb in her voice when she answered him. “It’s just this whole thing is like a bad dream, and then to hear myself being accused. . . if I’m guilty of anything, it’s not being the kind of support Gus needed in his time of crisis. If I’d known what to do or say, maybe he wouldn’t have done this horrible thing.”
Nola saw a chance to play the C card while still sounding sympathetic. “I’m sorry for being glib, Mrs. Gillette, it was entirely inappropriate. And try not to be too hard on yourself. It’s difficult for anyone to know what to say when someone they love is dying of cancer.”
“Cancer?” Clouds of confusion blurred the Cover Girl countenance. Ah, thought Nola, so you didn’t know.
“I’m sorry,” Nola said, feigning regret. “I assumed you were aware that your husband was ill.”
“No, Detective, I didn’t know.”
Haven crossed to the wall of windows and stared mournfully out at the ocean to buy time to think. So, the big blow-hard had cancer — no wonder he didn’t take the bribe. All that crap about wanting to be a better man. A better man wouldn’t have let his life insurance lapse, leaving her with nothing. Obviously, she should have gone through his computer more thoroughly. But she’d only been looking for his speech to the Coastal Commission. The one she’d cleverly rewritten to support the Wyatt Development deal. The one the cute boy-cop had undoubtedly discovered. Pretending not to know Gus’s password and placing the photo of the I Got Mine by his laptop
before the police arrived had been a last-minute stroke of genius. Believing she had no prior access to the speech, they’d have no reason to be suspicious when she presented it to the commission in Gus’s place. But how best to respond to this new bit of cancer news? She dabbed another fake tear as she thought it over.
Not buying Haven’s “sad thoughts at the window” bit, Nola shot Tony the “can you believe this crap?” look they always shared when it was obvious a suspect was faking. When he didn’t give her the usual nod back, she knew he was lost.
“We’re sorry you had to find out this way, Mrs. Gillette,” he said in a voice so sweet it should be dodging hummingbirds.
When Haven turned back from the window, she was the living image of the brave, philosophical wife. “Terminally ill, with no money and no health insurance. I guess I can’t blame the poor man for taking his own life,” she said, chin held high.
Nicely done, Nola thought. She had to give her props, the girl had game.
Tony ended the interview with what had to be the understatement of the century: “I think we have all we need for now, but I’m sure we’ll be in touch.”
As they walked back to their cars, Nola was close to bursting. “Well, that was a perfectly vomitous display. Since when are you such an all-day sucker for a pretty face?”
“If you’ll keep your voice a notch below fishwife, I’ll tell you. Much as I hate to admit it, I think there’s a chance you may be right. There’s something not quite kosher here.”
“Then why were you playing good cop, smitten cop?”
“Because you were playing bad cop, bat-shit-jealous cop. One of us had to seem normal.”
“Sorry. Seeing you falling for that eye-contact trick made me go all Single White Female. Nice acting, by the way. I really thought you wanted to sleep with her.”
“I do.”
“You just admitted she might be a murderer.”
“So? Afterwards I just won’t remove the handcuffs.”
“I don’t know why I always just assume you’re joking.”
“Yeah, I don’t know either.”
Haven watched from the windows that flanked the big front door till Nola and Tony were safely in their cars. When she lost sight of their taillights, she went to the kitchen and felt around the Sub-Zero for the disposable cell she’d duct-taped there earlier. Removing the sticky silver tape, she dialed a number and waited for a sleep-addled voice to answer. It was the voice that was going to make her rich again.
Eleven
The remainder of the day was swallowed up in background checks, interviews, and ballistics reports. Nola reminded herself that being a good detective was like being a good mom. With children and victims, it was never cool to play favorites. Still, she’d been more than a little disappointed when Sam had sent Tony to further investigate Charley’s case, leaving her to follow up on Gus. Nothing she’d learned about Augustus Gillette the Third had made her very sympathetic to his plight. Charley, on the other hand, had been a fixture in her life without her even being aware of it. His smile and songs and random compliments had been part of the charm of State Street. Since his death became public, people had been leaving flowers, candles, and cards on the sidewalk spots where he used to play. In a few weeks, the cards and flowers would be gone. People would forget. The bell had tolled on Charley’s brief life, and Santa Barbara was the lesser.
The fact that Charley had been so popular was making Tony’s job close to impossible. No one he interviewed had a clue why anyone would want to kill such a nice, harmless guy. The reports from Chicago P.D. were all good. Charley didn’t have a record, just a devastated mother who couldn’t afford to fly his body home to be buried. A jar was passed around the squad room and a notice put in the local papers asking for GoFundMe donations, which were already pouring in. There was no indication that Charley was involved with drugs, save the raggedy old roach in his pocket, and if he’d been at the bad end of a romance gone wrong, he’d kept it so far on the down low that nobody knew a thing about it. Ballistics confirmed he’d been clocked with a .38 auto from a distance that suggested the killer was highly proficient with a gun. Ergo, the possibility that the shooting had been accidental was, fittingly, a long shot.
With nothing new to go on, Sam had gone ahead and filed a murder indictment against the little misery they’d arrested at the pawnshop. Further interrogation had yielded no new information — the guy was sticking to the only part of the story still velcroed to his brain. “Dude just shot him, click, click, click.”
Nola periodically texted Tony to keep apprised of his progress, while she conducted her own go-nowhere investigation on Gus.
Alex’s autopsy report gave the suicide theory two bloody thumbs-ups with no mitigating facts a gal could hang a hunch on. No ligature marks, scrapes, or skin scrapings under the fingernails to suggest Gus had been bound or attacked in any way. No sedatives or signs of poison in his system. The pancreatic cancer was stage four, but there was no evidence of medication. To make matters worse, the trace-evidence report indicated there was indeed gunpowder residue on Haven’s suntanned skin and nightie, but it was consistent with her having cradled the body postmortem. Haven one, Nola zero.
When Nola questioned Gus’s oncologist, he confirmed the autopsy findings. Gus’s cancer had only recently been detected during a routine physical. Prior to the tests, Gus had chalked up his dwindling energy and appetite to the overwhelming stress of losing his financial empire. In spite of the oncologist’s dire warnings, he’d refused to initiate any form of treatment, saying he’d rather go out high on morphine than sick on chemo.
“Do you know if his wife was aware of his illness?” Nola asked. She was positive Haven was clueless, but he was a doctor, and it never hurt to get a second opinion.
The oncologist set Gus’s chart aside on his desk. “I never met his wife. But when I asked if he’d like me to speak with his family, he laughed. Frankly, I’m not surprised he chose an early out.”
“Actually, we’re not quite ready to rule his death a suicide.”
“Really? From what you’ve told me, I can’t imagine why not.”
Annoyed by his imperious tone, no doubt derived from years of being deferred to by patients and staff, Nola still had to admit the man had a point. Aside from Haven’s magic mascara and reality-defying story — hugging the headless corpse of the husband she didn’t love — there was no evidence to suggest she’d been anything more than a witness after the fact to Gus’s death.
The next stop was Gus’s yacht club, where his buddies lifted a rare Sherry Oak Macallan single malt in his memory. Nola got the feeling glasses were raised every day about that time anyway. There were dent marks in their elbows from leaning on the bar. Eyes lit up when she mentioned Haven. They didn’t have much to say about her, but what they’d clearly like to do to her would probably get you beheaded in most Muslim countries and Kansas. It irked Nola’s feminist pride to admit it, but maybe her maudlin fear of middle age was making her a little too eager to cast the younger, far prettier girl as a modern-day Clytemnestra.
Gus had lost his money and his health. He had a gorgeous child bride with an American Express Black card where her heart ought to be, and a bunch of friends who didn’t give a damn about him. It didn’t make for a heartfelt eulogy, but that’s the way it was. What ex–fat cat in his position wouldn’t consider turning to a little Remington Steele for relief? Just one question continued to be a burr under her saddle. Why no suicide note? Important men, accustomed to being the center of attention, were usually loathe to shuffle off this mortal coil without at least trying to get in the last word. Judging by the length of the speech Gus had drafted for the Coastal Commission, he was a man who liked making other people listen, so why at the penultimate moment of his existence — silence? It didn’t make sense. Haven just had to be involved.
Nola had one last person to interview before she’d have to quit swimming upstream of popular opinion and give up and go with the flow. But getti
ng an interview with Gus’s ex-wife, Angry Susan, was proving to be a huge pain in the ass. Susan was out at Two Bunch Palms, a luxury spa in the high desert, and had only agreed to drive back to Santa Barbara after Nola threatened to have a couple of cops from Palm Springs come and drag her out of her meditative mud bath by force. That had been hours ago. Susan moved on her own timetable; there was nothing for Nola to do but take a walk on the beach and wait for her call.
Twelve
Ironically, Angry Susan lived in peaceful splendor. Her modest, five-million-dollar cottage was perched high in the foothills overlooking Montecito Village, Santa Barbara’s slightly sexier suburb to the south. Rather than invite Nola inside, Susan had a maid usher her out to a tranquil Zen garden in the back. Nola followed the maid down the white marble “thinking path” to a secluded spot where single-stemmed plantings and muted green lounge chairs sat quietly in the shade. In a nearby reflecting pool, languid koi swam in dazed circles through the water, never raising a ripple. The serenity was so oppressive even the birds were afraid to chirp. The only sound in the garden came from a small fountain under a lemon tree, where a happy Buddha contemplated the water gently trickling through his bowl. It was the kind of Prozac landscaping an anger-management professional might design for an insane asylum.
The maid produced passion fruit iced tea and assured Nola that “Mrs. Susan” would be joining her momentarily.
Earlier in the afternoon, while Nola was waiting for “Mrs. Susan” to return from the desert, she’d done a little internet research. Unlike Gus, Susan hadn’t tried to make up what she’d lost in the divorce by investing in any get-richer-quick schemes. In fact, while not as flush as before the split, she was still sitting pretty. Nola sipped her sweet iced tea, breathed in the even sweeter smell of lemon blossoms, and waited. She was still soaking up the vibe when a snapping-turtle voice abruptly broke the spell.
“So the bastard shot himself. I don’t see what right that gives you to ruin my spa trip.”
Marry, Kiss, Kill Page 5