“I made a note about that in my report. I guess you didn’t spot it,” Anita said. “Forest Park Terrace is an old name, from the turn of the century. It’s Lindell Boulevard now.”
PJ sighed in exasperation. “Why does the Simmons home have a turn of the century address?”
“You’ll have to ask them. The house is about a hundred years old. I guess they thought it was classier to keep its old address, impressive in gold ink on invitations, that kind of thing.”
“Snootier, more likely. How do they get their mail?”
“Post office box, I suppose. Anything else, Boss?”
“Yes. Tell me how to get there. I just passed this huge gate with marble columns and a statue of a nude woman.”
“That’s Carrie. The statue, that is. The street you passed was Kingsbury.” She gave directions from there.
“Got it, thanks.”
The driveway was long and tree-lined, and the bare tree branches were covered with Christmas lights. The place must look fabulous at night, considering that it already looked fabulous during the day, without the benefit of holiday lighting. A gardener was working near the driveway, raking leaves that must have blown in from the neighboring house. He was young, early twenties, and had an amazing physique that drew PJ’s eyes. When he turned toward her, she saw that his face was disfigured on the left side, maybe a burn scar. He wore his cap pulled low on his forehead. He was putting leaves into an open-topped compartment on the back of a utility vehicle, a kind of lawn tractor without the mower blade. It had wood rails all around the back end, like a large children’s red wagon. She’d seen something similar at the Missouri Botanical Garden, but here it was at a private home.
Imagine having the resources to bring in a gardener and a cart for a few stray leaves.
The wind swirled the collected leaves, lifting some out of the cart. The gardener patiently went after them, and waved to her as she pulled up to the house. He had a smile that made it easy to forget the scar on his face. She smiled back.
There were marble columns on May’s house that made the ones at the Kingsbury gate look like stubby imitations. Looking up while waiting at the door, PJ noticed a massive chandelier suspended above her head. She couldn’t get over the fact that it was the front door light. The one at her house had one bulb and a little white globe that accumulated dead bugs.
The double doors must have been ten feet tall, and when one of them opened inward, she almost expected Igor, Dr. Frankenstein’s assistant, to be standing there. Instead, there was a maid, attractive, thirtyish, and wearing a classic uniform of black and white, including a frilly white cap that covered her head. It was an outfit that would be at home in the 1890s.
“Is that a real mobcap?” PJ said. She’d meant to introduce herself, but the question just slipped out.
A slim hand patted the crown of the cap. “Yes, it is, ma’am. What can I do for you?”
“I’m here to see May Simmons.”
“Missus May isn’t seeing anyone right now. If you’ll leave your calling card, I’ll let her know you were here.”
What century is this? Calling card? She could imagine what Schultz would say in this situation. Just thinking of his name brought back the exasperation she’d felt earlier, in her office. She hoped that the maid would think her reddened cheeks had to do with the weather.
“Uh, I’m Dr. Penelope Gray, a consultant with the St. Louis Police Department.” PJ fumbled in her purse, extracted a business card that had bent corners and a stray pen mark, and handed it over. “Please let her know I’m here, and I’m willing to wait. Going to wait,” she finished more forcefully.
The maid snatched the card from her hand and closed the door. Several minutes went by. PJ figured it would take that long just to walk through the house to deliver the message. Leaning against the marble, she felt its chill in the slanting December afternoon sun.
It would probably be August before this place warmed up.
Another five minutes, and the door opened.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Dr. Gray. Missus May will see you right away.”
PJ was barely in the door when May came down a sweeping grand staircase. She was wearing a long, black skirt with a lacy white blouse that had gathered sleeves, full cuffs, and a high neck.
Time warp. Abandon ship.
May approached PJ, who automatically extended her hand. May clasped it in both of hers. She had cold fingers.
“Welcome, Dr. Gray. It’s been quite a strain, you know, with Frank being taken out of here in handcuffs.”
“Sorry to disturb you. I’m wondering about the costumes.”
“Oh, these? Mary Beth and I have been rehearsing for a play, a charity performance. We do stay in character quite a bit, as an acting technique. What must you think of us! Mary Beth, please bring us some tea in the drawing room.”
Now there’s a line I don’t get to use. In my case, it’s “Thomas, bring me some popcorn in the living room,” followed by, “Get it yourself.”
May ushered PJ into a large, formal room set up to receive guests. There were several sofas and chairs scattered about in a room that had a fireplace at each end. In one of them, a fire was burning, and the two women settled onto facing loveseats in front of the fire. The furnishings, unlike May’s clothes, were modern.
While waiting for tea, PJ studied May’s face, looking for a sisterly resemblance. It was there, around the eyes and in the aristocratic nose. But what was attractive on June was stunning on May’s face. There was no weak chin, no lollipop shape. May could be a beauty queen. She certainly carried herself royally.
Mary Beth arrived with a tea cart and serving set of delicate china, translucent with gold edges. PJ took the small teacup in her hand and hoped she wouldn’t break it. The cost of replacing it might bump Thomas out of private school for a semester.
May didn’t look like a woman whose husband had been carted away in handcuffs with a murder charge hanging over his head. PJ couldn’t see any sign of the strain the woman had mentioned. May was so concerned that she was busy playing dress-up.
“What can I do for you, Dr. Gray? By the way, what kind of consulting work do you do for the police?”
“I’m following up on the interview you had with Detective Anita Collings. I’m a psychologist helping the police develop criminal profiles.”
True enough. Now that PJ had been unmasked as a psychologist, she felt free to assail May with shrink questions. “I have to say that you don’t seem very disturbed that your husband has been charged with murder.”
May waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, that’s all a mistake, I’m sure. Our lawyer, Jack Nordman, is on top of it. Jack’ll get the charge dismissed. My husband will be out on bail, and this will just make a good story to tell at our next social function. Very exciting, you know, having the police search your home. Puts us right up there with O.J.”
“Except that O.J. went on trial, and you don’t expect your husband to.”
“If you knew Frank, you’d know the idea of him committing murder would be ridiculous. He’s a kind, gentle man. Works with children’s charities.”
Psychos can be charming when they want to. Merlin said that, and it’s true.
She noticed that May raised her little finger as she sipped from her teacup. The woman was too composed. PJ needed to get under that veneer of hers.
“What’s your explanation for the bloody knife with his fingerprints on it then?” PJ said.
“I’m sure something will turn up. That’s why we pay Jack the big bucks.” She smiled sweetly. “I won’t be home when Frank gets back; I have some holiday shopping to do.” She looked pointedly at a wall clock. “We have reservations at Tony’s tonight, though, to unwind from the stress.”
“How are your children taking the news? Are they worried?”
The smile slipped away briefly, and then her face brightened. “They’re fine. Nanny’s taking them to see Santa today at Plaza Frontenac.”
“Brian
and Amelia are six and nine years old, Mrs. Simmons,” PJ said, pushing harder. “They know enough to realize something’s not right when the police haul away their dad. Don’t you think they’re worried?”
She shrugged. “I told them he was late for a business trip, and the police were helping him get to the airport. He does travel often.”
“So you lied to your kids about the fact that their father has been arrested for murder? Don’t they know June and Arlan Merrett? Do they even know Arlan’s dead?”
At the mention of June’s name, something flickered in May’s eyes, something unpleasant. “Of course they know Aunt Junie, and that her poor husband is dead. What I tell my kids is none of your business, Dr. Gray. I’m lying to them about Santa, too. Are you going to arrest me for that?” May’s voice had a snippy edge to it.
Ah, now we’re getting somewhere.
“Of course not,” PJ said, leaving out the fact that she couldn’t arrest a person anyway. “I’m just speaking as a concerned parent. You can tell your children anything you want, as long as you’re not severely beating them when you do it.”
May’s cheeks acquired a touch of redness that wasn’t rouge.
God, I love my job.
“So you don’t think your husband had anything to do with the killing?”
“No, I don’t. He’s just not that kind of man. He had reason to want Arlan out of his life, but he certainly didn’t act on it.”
PJ sat back, keeping the smug look from her face. She’d irritated May enough to make the woman incautious. This was information that hadn’t surfaced during Anita’s interview.
“What reason did he have to want to kill Arlan?” PJ said.
“For a psychologist, you don’t listen very well. I didn’t say anything about killing Arlan. I said Frank just wanted him to stop being a pest. Arlan had been trying to pressure him into investing in some out-of-town real estate deal. A scam, no doubt.”
“Do you know any details?”
“I know that Arlan was trying to get him to part with two million dollars to buy some run-down warehouse. Can you imagine that? A warehouse! What would Frank possibly want with property like that? It’s probably an insurance fraud thing, you know. Abandoned warehouse goes up in flames. Arlan’s had some screwball schemes before and lost money. That’s why it’s embarrassing the way June talks about how prosperous they are. I mean, have you seen where she lives?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Well, there you go. Her place is so tacky. Did you see that big oil portrait of her? I don’t think she paid the artist well. He didn’t touch her up enough.”
No love lost here. PJ forged ahead, trying to keep May off balance. “Were you aware of the photo album that June used to identify the scar on her husband’s body? The foreplay album?”
“The what?”
“A collection of revealing pictures of each other—very revealing—that they used to warm each other up for sex?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes. Now I’ve heard everything. I can see why Arlan might need a little kick-start, though, to work up any interest in June. And she actually admitted this to the police?”
“Seemed rather proud of it.”
May shook her head. “I didn’t think even June could be so depraved.”
Probably not a good time to mention that June said pretty much the same thing about you.
“She also said that you were jealous of her, and should be considered a suspect in Arlan’s murder. You, not Frank.”
That was unexpected. May’s eyes were as round as the saucer underneath PJ’s teacup.
“So,” PJ asked, “where were you on the night of Arlan’s murder?”
Leo would be proud. I’m getting the hang of this.
“Jealous! What could I possibly have to be jealous about? She’s the one who’s jealous of us, Dr. Gray! Look around you. Don’t you think June wants to live like this? She’s so bitter she can’t have any kids that she doesn’t even send our sweet children birthday gifts. Do you know how hard it is to explain to kids that their Aunt Junie forgets, year after year? Next year I’m going to buy presents myself and say they came from her.”
May raised her teacup to her lips, forgetting the little finger, and took an audible slurp. Her eyes narrowed and she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Did you know that my Frank used to be her boyfriend? She could have had this life, if she’d been able to hang onto him. As soon as he met me, he dropped her like the piece of trash she is. That’s a motive, isn’t it? Maybe she killed her husband and is trying to make it look like Frank did it. The police should be interrogating her instead of Frank.”
“I’m sure the police are looking into that.”
“Well, they’d better. No telling what that crazy woman will do,” she said. May put down her teacup and patted her perfectly coiffed hair, as though she expected to find a renegade hair out of place. PJ could see her breathing deeply and visibly relaxing. She’d obviously caught on to the fact that PJ was deliberately and expertly rattling her cage.
Darn. Well, soldier on.
“You didn’t answer the question about where you were, Mrs. Simmons.”
“I told all that to the detective woman who was here earlier.”
“Humor me.”
“I was out of town. A dear, dear friend of mine passed away. Lung cancer, poor thing, and she gave up smoking years ago. The irony of it! I didn’t get back in town until Sunday evening. I didn’t even have time to get my hair done before Frank and I took off for Powell Hall.”
“There’s been another murder and the victim looks very much like June. So much so, it would be easy to picture the victim as part of your family. June said there were rumors about that. Do you have an older sister, Mrs. Simmons?”
It was new territory, something none of the investigators had asked before. Again May’s hand explored her hairdo, then fluttered at the nape of her neck with nothing to do. She was silent.
PJ pressed further. “Where can I find your older sister? I’d like to speak with her.” She picked up a button-sized, shortbread cookie from the serving tray and popped it in her mouth. It was smooth and buttery, just sweet enough, and practically melted on her tongue. May still said nothing, so PJ went for another cookie.
May sighed. “June’s mistaken, Dr. Gray. Or delusional. I hate to bring that up, but there it is. It’s just the two of us in this family. Maybe June had an imaginary friend when she was a child. It wouldn’t be out of character.”
Imaginary friends don’t end up in the shower with knives in their hearts.
“Do you mind if I look around?” PJ said.
“It’s a large home,” May said. She seemed guarded, but it could have been the result of PJ’s earlier sharp questioning. “The police have already done this. Is there anything in particular you’d like to see?”
The skeletons in your closet would be nice.
“Just the basics. The greenhouse, where the knife was found.”
“It was sealed by the police. Are you authorized to break the seal, Dr. Gray? I thought you were a consultant, not a law enforcement officer.”
Busted. “How about the rest of the ground floor, then?”
“Of course. I’m not sure what you’ll learn from that, but I’ll have Mary Beth show you around. I really do need to get on with my shopping.”
The maid had changed out of her early 1890s outfit into a practical uniform of black trousers, white top, and white shoes that would have gladdened a nurse’s heart. Once out of hearing range of the lady of the house, Mary Beth Paulson was friendly and informal. Chatting with her turned out to be more valuable than the tour of large, high-ceilinged rooms. The maid knew a lot about the interior design.
“I’m going into that some day, I’m not going to be a maid all my life, you know.”
PJ was treated to a litany of colors, fabrics, and proportions.
PJ learned that while Frank seemed to genuinely treasure his beautiful wife and would love her e
ven if they lived in a doublewide, May was a calculating social climber who had set her sights early on the name, the house, and lifestyle, and the perfect little kids, whom she relegated to the care of a nanny. On one subject, Mary Beth was emphatic: Frank was a nice guy and would never have killed his brother-in-law. He wasn’t so nice to competitors. He was ruthless, but that was business.
PJ had already gotten a glimpse of May’s self-serving attitude, and it wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine her as part of a killing team if there was something in it for her. Motive was the problem. It seemed like killing Arlan would be slumming for her.
PJ and Mary Beth ended up in the staff kitchen, a cozy place no bigger than PJ’s own kitchen but containing upscale appliances and granite counters. There was a separate area where Chef worked, and he scolded the staff if they went in to raid his refrigerator, so this place was a refuge. They sat on stools around an island with a gleaming sink. Mary Beth looked like she was glad to be off her feet for a time. PJ was more comfortable in the relatively modest surroundings in the kitchen than in parlors with grand pianos.
“What do you think of May’s sister?” PJ asked.
Her companion hesitated before answering. “You can say what you want, there’s nobody listening here. Is there?”
Mary Beth laughed. “Even the Missus isn’t that paranoid. There’s no hidden microphone in the flowerpot. It’s just that I don’t quite know what to think of June. She comes over often, but I think it’s not so much to visit her sister as to visit the house.”
“She’s jealous, then.”
“Not exactly. It’s more like she’s shopping for ideas, things May’s done that she can adapt to her own life.”
“Ever heard them fight?”
“Never.”
“I noticed a control panel by the front door,” PJ said. “Is that for the security system?”
“Yes, there are several of them in the house. Each room has a panic button, too, even the bathrooms and the walk-in closets. The kids get a kick out of pressing them. We have the cops out here at least once a month. Used to be more often. I’ve never heard Nanny lecture them about it, though. Those kids do pretty much what they want.”
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