Time of Death

by Shirley Kennett

  “Get off my desk,” she said. “Never know where those hands of yours have been. Somewhere filthy, no doubt.”

  “I lost the book, okay? I lost it. You happy now?”

  “You’re a careless son-of-a-bitch and a liar on top of that. Probably never read a page of that book.”

  True.

  “I was halfway through with it. Look, I’m sorry. I’ll pay you out of my next check.”

  “Fine.” She flashed him a smile that was anything but welcoming. He recognized it because he saw one just like it frequently in the mirror. “Now, can I help you?”

  Yeah, like a snake can help a mouse.

  “I’m working on the riverfront homicide,” Schultz said.

  “Oh, the guy with no dick? Arlan Merrett? Don’t see that every day. Whoever did it must’ve hated that man’s guts.”

  “Thanks for the insight.”

  She pursed her lips, wrinkling the fine hairs of a barely-noticeable moustache, trying to decide if a retort was worth it. Schultz was spared. “If you hang around for a few minutes, I’ll get you a copy of his file. I have to make a phone call first.”

  The phone call turned out to be making hotel reservations through a travel agency. She didn’t try to hide the fact that her vacation plans took priority over his legitimate work request. Schultz kept his face neutral, but wondered what a woman like her did in Cancún, anyway.

  Spend my money, I guess.

  Ten minutes later, he was on his way back to his desk, a plump manila folder in his hand, and it had only cost him a hundred and ten bucks and downing a slice of humble pie.

  When he got back to his desk, Dave was already there. He’d pulled up a chair and was looking over Schultz’s notes.

  “Remind me not to leave my diary out where you can get to it,” Schultz said.

  “There’s nothing in your diary that I’d be interested in reading,” Dave said.

  “How do you know? There’s some hot shit in there. Anyway, I got this file on Merrett. They love me over in Missing Persons.”

  Dave snorted derisively. “Didn’t you borrow something from Ernestine? That woman probably hasn’t forgotten her 1976 grocery lists.”

  Schultz slapped the file on the desk, ignoring his comment. “I’ll take the front half,” he said. He studied the photos Mrs. Merrett had provided, which included a couple of vacation shots with the two of them. Typical tourist photos, the happy couple in front of Old Faithful and in a tropical bar, sharing a drink from a coconut that had sprouted two straws. Seeing them together, he would have to say that based purely on looks, it seemed that Mrs. Merrett had married up.

  They worked in silence for a time, as though Schultz’s desk had a bubble around it that filtered out the noise and general commotion in the room.

  Schultz came up for air fifteen minutes later. “White male, six feet two inches, two hundred pounds, thirty-nine years old, muscular, brown hair, brown eyes. Routinely jogs a fixed route at six in the morning seven days a week and works out with weights at a gym four days a week with a varied schedule. Born in Lawrence, Kansas, parents middle class, divorced when he was eighteen. Formed his company, Green Vista Properties, in 1996. The company renovates homes in marginal areas of the city.”

  “I have more info on that company,” Dave said. “Profits were off the last few years. Merrett took on a partner last year, Fredericka Chase. She brought in an infusion of cash and some new ideas. Green Vista was one of the first to latch onto the loft district along Washington Avenue downtown, and they settled into renovating for the upscale market, half a million dollars plus. Lately Arlan did a lot of traveling, looking into taking the idea to other cities.”

  Schultz whistled. “I suppose June Merrett inherits her husband’s share of the partnership.”

  “Nope. Fredericka gets it all, net worth about four million.”

  They mulled that unexpected bit of information over.

  “Fredericka’s dripping motive with that sole ownership of Green Vista. June might have motive if there’s a lover lurking,” Dave said. “Think either of those women could maneuver that solidly-built victim around?”

  “June’s less than average height and I’ll bet her only exercise is opening her mouth,” Schultz said. “Probably no powerhouse. What about Fredericka? I’m getting an image of a Swedish masseuse with biceps like pythons that just ate, the kind of woman you don’t mess with if you know what’s good for you.”

  Dave shuffled the papers spread out on the desk. “Says here she’s five feet two inches, a hundred and two pounds.”

  “Oh, great,” Schultz said. “Couple of suspects who probably can’t lift a salt shaker between ’em. What say we visit Fredericka and see how she’s taking the news?”

  “We’re supposed to get back to Doc’s office,” Dave said.

  “Do you always do everything you’re told?”

  Chapter 5

  JUNE MERRETT LIVED ON Utah Place in southwest St. Louis, in the Tower Grove Heights neighborhood. The home was Victorian, about a hundred years old. Bare tree branches left shadows like forked lightening across the front walkway.

  When PJ and Anita pulled up, a patrol car was just leaving. PJ remembered that someone had driven June home from the morgue. Anita rolled down the window so she could talk to the officer.

  “Hey, Santo, how’s the little one?” Anita said. “Fedelia, is it?”

  “Fedelia’s sleeping through the night now. The last four months have been living hell. I wanted to take nights just to get the fuck out of there, but I knew Inés would kill me.”

  “Yeah, you had that look the last time I saw you. Ready to spit nails but sticking it out to be nice to the wife.”

  “You got any pictures?”

  Santo’s face split into a wide smile. “Sure, got ’em right here.”

  Anita flipped through a pocket-sized baby book, making all the right noises, then handed the book back. “How’s she taking it?” she said, with a jerk of her head toward the house.

  “Like a drama queen. Hand-wringing, soggy tissues, the whole bit.”

  “Well, whaddya know. Wall said she was more like the ice queen. See ya,” Anita said. Santo drove off, after a little nod of acknowledgement in PJ’s direction.

  “So now I’m the invisible woman,” PJ said.

  “He doesn’t know what to say, you being a shrink.”

  PJ let it pass. Usually she got that kind of reaction from old cops, not the young ones. Stepping out of the car, she noticed there was a faint buzz of traffic from South Grand, but the home didn’t seem part of that world. PJ half expected to see a horse-drawn carriage round the corner.

  The two women shifted so that Anita was in front, PJ to the side and slightly behind. It was Anita who carried the detective’s badge, and besides, she looked more presentable than a rumpled PJ.

  On the walkway, PJ had the feeling the shadows of the tree branches were impaling her, pinning her like a butterfly.

  If I were Schultz, with all his portents and hunches, I’d be a little worried right about now.

  Anita rang the bell.

  Fortunately, I am a cool-headed woman of science.

  Mellow Westminster chimes brought June to the door. She was wearing a flowing red silk robe with a tie loosely knotted at her waist. Her face was bare of makeup. Her features appeared tugged downward by grief, but it could just as easily have been worry or simply fatigue. Red-rimmed, puffy eyes seemed to tower over the lower half of her face, which trailed off with narrow lips and the tip of a small chin. Light brown hair fell straight to her shoulders. There were no slippers on her wide, ungainly feet. Her effort at a smile of greeting fell short.

  In spite of her current appearance, PJ could tell that June was an attractive woman, certainly better than average looking. Her body was half of an hourglass, the top half. Below the waist, her curves flattened out. She reminded PJ of a lollipop: a thin stick with a round top.

  Anita introduced herself and then “Dr. Gray, departmental
consulting psychologist.”

  “I wasn’t expecting anyone so soon,” June said. “I just got home from that awful place and I thought I’d lie down for awhile.”

  “We’ll just be a few minutes, Mrs. Merrett,” Anita said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  June hung her head, almost like the strings holding it up had been cut. “It’s been such a shock. I suppose you can come in, then. Where’s that nice lieutenant, what was his name?”

  “Lieutenant Wall, ma’am. He’s working on other aspects of the case.”

  “Please don’t call me ma’am. Makes me feel old. Arlan started teasing me after I hit the big three-oh.” Her eyes suddenly glistened. “Anyway, call me June.”

  “I’m Anita and this is Penelope.” Anita offered her hand, but June was already retreating into the living room, leaving them to follow her.

  The room had a cove ceiling, with lace curtains that cascaded from their rods and pooled at the base of tall, sparkling windows. The furniture was an eclectic selection, arranged so that there were two distinct areas. The area at the far end of the room near the fireplace had a sparse, masculine look to it, with a worn leather chair next to a reading lamp and built-in bookcases flanking a brick fireplace.

  Near the door, the pieces were crowded close together. Occasional tables held collections of ceramic birds and a glass display cabinet on the wall contained more thimbles than PJ knew existed. There were three clocks spaced around the area so that wherever a person sat, the time was instantly available. There were no clocks near the leather chair at the far end.

  Zoned living.

  June settled into an antique Queen Anne chair with polished walnut arms and upholstery that looked like the original floral needlework. She pulled her red robe tightly around her and crossed her arms across her chest, a defensive body posture if ever there was one. PJ cautiously lowered herself into the facing chair, which was covered in yellow velvet. Anita, apparently not willing to risk sitting in a three-hundred-year-old chair, sat on a nearby contemporary loveseat.

  Two large oil portraits hung on the wall opposite the windows. June and Arlan Merrett, locked in separate frames.

  A metaphor for the marriage?

  Arlan’s was draped in black. PJ wondered when June had time to do that, and whether she kept funeral drape as a household staple.

  June followed her gaze. “Handsome, isn’t he?”

  The portrait showed a man with all the right features, but somehow they didn’t add up to handsome. The eyes seemed no more alive with humanity than the ones she’d seen that morning at the levee. She dismissed the thought, assuming that the artist wasn’t up to the task.

  “Yes, very,” PJ said. She wanted June to do the talking, hopefully of the loose lips variety. “How did the two of you meet?”

  June smiled, and her face relaxed into a natural pose that PJ suspected wasn’t seen too often. She looked serene. Only June’s reddened eyes gave away her new status as a widow. “We met on a cruise to the Bahamas. Would you believe it? Six days and five glorious nights. We came back engaged. That was eight years ago, and it’s been a very happy marriage since then.”

  Anita, who seemed to be counting thimbles, seemed content to let PJ keep the conversation going.

  “A celebration cruise?”

  “Hardly,” June said. The smile dropped away, and it seemed like gravity was operating at double strength on her face. “My parents had died three months earlier. Father was a pilot, a good one, but his small plane went down in bad weather. They were going to Jefferson City to raise money for some politician. It was very oppressive around here after their funeral. My older sister May took the situation very hard. I had to get away for awhile. You know, take a mental health break, if only for a few days.”

  / could use one of those myself. Or a string of them. PJ needed some time to think about her relationship with Schultz. For the past couple of months, they’d been living together part time at her house, but she still didn’t know what she thought about that. Her son Thomas had taken to Schultz, although not from the first, and the two had a strong bond. She was the one with reservations. It seemed like she needed more space than he did. There’d been conflict over that recently, and flashes of anger, like the mood Schultz had been in earlier.

  “You weren’t close to your parents, then?”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean that. It’s just that I’ve always been better at coping with things. More practical, I guess.”

  “Tell me about Arlan,” PJ said. “Let’s start with what he did for a living.”

  “Arlan’s a brilliant real estate developer. He’s a step ahead of everyone, always seems to know what’s going to be hot next. His company, Green Vista, did the first conversions in the Loft District.” Some enthusiasm had crept into her voice. “He’s been doing so well lately that we were planning to trade up our house. We can afford a lot more than the half a million we paid for this place when we were first married.” She gestured around her, with a vaguely disdainful look.

  Let’s see, I could probably fit my house in here five times over.

  PJ thought it was odd that June ventured into personal things like the price of her house, given the circumstances. The woman’s moods seemed to be all over the place. She was persistent in talking about her dead husband in the present tense, as though he would be walking through the front door any minute, which didn’t gel with the reddened eyes. What had the officer said when he was leaving?

  Drama queen.

  “So he was a successful businessman. Did you work outside the home, June?”

  “Oh, no, Arlan insists I stay home. We’re old-fashioned that way. I do a little volunteer work at the city library.”

  June stopped and looked down at her hands, which were busily moving in her lap, rotating her right hand around her left thumb. As though she’d just found out what her hands were doing, she stopped the motion and folded them together in her lap, right hand resting lightly across her left palm.

  Good little girl. Remember your ladylike behavior!

  PJ let the silence stretch, an auditory elastic band. Anita sat placidly, her eyes having moved from the thimbles and found a comfortable resting place on the oil portraits of the lord of the house and his lady.

  “Arlan’s a very happy man, happy with his marriage and with life in general.” June continued as though she’d rewound to the point conversation faltered and was recording over the gap. “He brings me gifts for no reason at all, flowers or a bracelet.”

  “Did the two of you have children?”

  June’s nostrils flared and her lips collapsed into a thin line.

  Uh, oh, sensitive territory.

  “We aren’t ready yet,” June said. “We’re still enjoying our life as a couple. There’ll be time for that. Being thirty years old isn’t the barrier it used to be.”

  This is getting downright spooky. She’s still planning a family with him? Frozen sperm or something?

  PJ decided to see how deep the denial went. “I guess a family isn’t in the future, since Arlan’s dead.”

  June blinked. “I know that. Of course he’s dead. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Listen, I’m really tired now. Could I finish this up with you later?”

  Anita cleared her throat. The soft questioning was at an end.

  “We’ll be leaving soon,” Anita said. “I have some questions I need to ask. Just doing my job. When was the last time you saw Arlan?”

  “We had breakfast together last Wednesday, about eight o’clock. I made my special blueberry topping and he made Belgian waffles. That’s the kind of thing we liked to do. After that, I left for Kansas City to attend a workshop on storytelling. Volunteer work at the library, you know? I attended all the sessions and picked up a lot of tips. I did some shopping, too. Anyway, Arlan was supposed to leave later that afternoon to meet some clients in Chicago, but he never showed up. I left K.C. before dawn for the drive home. I’m an early riser, drives Arlan crazy. When I got home, the h
ouse was empty. I told all this to Lieutenant Wall. I gave him my hotel receipt and a couple of receipts from buying gas. I got a speeding ticket on my way home. I was listening to one of the tapes I bought at the workshop, and I must have lost track of how fast I was going. He said he would check it out. I guess that’s my alibi, right?”

  Anita nodded. “Do you know of any enemies Arlan had?”

  June took her time and seemed to be genuinely considering the question. “I’m sure he’s irritated others, because you can’t get where he did in the real estate business without doing that. You know, people he aced out on a property deal or something. But hate him enough to kill him? I just can’t see that.”

  “Was he involved in an affair with a woman?” Anita said. “Or a man?”

  June seemed completely taken aback at the suggestion. Whether it was for the affair itself or the suggestion of a male partner, PJ couldn’t tell.

  “No, of course not. We have a very satisfying sex life. Arlan is a very physical man, proud of his body. I mentioned that to Lieutenant Wall.” She retrieved an album from one of the occasional tables. “I got the album out this morning. We have this little thing we like to do before we have sex. Like foreplay.”

  When June opened the album across her lap, PJ was treated to an upside-down view of a man’s chest, small nipples marking the sides of the eight by ten photo.

  A ragged, softball-sized chunk had been removed from his chest, directly over his heart.

  “There are matching photos. We each have a paintbrush,” June said. “And a bowl of melted chocolate.” She flipped to the next page, which revealed a photo of a woman’s breasts, nipples hardened with arousal. “Everything from the neck down. It was Arlan’s idea originally. He’s so creative.”

  “We get the idea,” PJ said. “Wall already explained it to us.”

  “Oh, so you understand.”

  Sort of.

  June thumbed through the pages rapidly. Glimpses of bared skin flashed by, as in one of those flip-the-pages books that gave the impression of movement. This one was a body tour, though. An intimate one.