by Karen Pullen
Zoë lay face down, motionless. Black powder circled a hole in her sheer jacket. I eased the gun out of her hand, felt her wrist. No pulse.
I found a raincoat in the closet and helped Temple put it on. “What happened?”
She swayed side to side, holding the baby close. His button eyes were serious but he had stopped wailing. “When I got out of the shower, I heard Paige crying for me, so I came downstairs. I saw Zoë had a gun. With my children in the room! I went into the closet to get my gun and then she came out with the baby. I didn’t even think about it. I let her walk by the closet, stuck the gun in her back, and pulled the trigger.”
The bullet had entered Zoë’s back. Blood seeped out the wound, staining her jacket. A tangled froth of blond hair clung to her face. I lifted her hair gently. Under perfectly shaped eyebrows, Zoë Schubert’s gray eyes stared blankly at nothing.
CHAPTER 36
Saturday early evening
Someone had to tell Nikki her mother was dead.
I called June Devon, Nikki’s aunt, and gave her a summary of the evening’s events. I suspected Zoë had killed Kent Mercer, and had attempted to kill Lincoln Teller and Emilie Soto. “Can you break the news to Nikki?” I asked her.
She was silent for a moment. “It will be difficult.”
My turn to be silent, knowing there will never be an easy way to tell a child her mother is dead.
“For a long time, all they had was each other,” she said. “They were close. Maybe too close.”
“Nikki has you, and Erwin.”
“Of course we’ll take her in. But she’s almost old enough to be on her own.”
Two weeks ago, after I’d discovered Kent Mercer’s body, I had questions for Nikki the babysitter. Tonight, I had very different questions for Nikki the killer’s daughter. Did she know that her mother had murdered Mercer? Did she know why?
“Can you ask her a question for me? I don’t want to interview her officially. But I need her to confirm some facts.”
“You think she knows something?”
“Wouldn’t Nikki do anything for her mother?” Until she hooked up with a blackmailer.
June sighed. “This will break her heart.” Her voice was weary, overlaid with conure chatter. I could almost see it perched on her shoulder.
My heart was cold, frozen solid by a bloody conch shell necklace, a smashed Jaguar, Paige’s face as she listened to her dead daddy’s voice reading bedtime stories. “Get her to talk to you about her mother. There’s no longer a need for secrets.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Ask her why she stuck the purple knife in the brie.”
“Say again?”
I repeated the request.
“Why should I help you?” Belligerent, the side of June I knew well.
“It will help Nikki, to confide in someone safe. You’re safe. Besides, I kept you out of jail, remember? Call me after she answers the question.”
For the second time in two weeks, an ambulance arrived at 1146 Fair Oaks Lane to transport a body to the medical examiner’s facilities in west Raleigh.
It was nearly eleven p.m. before the sheriff’s deputies finished their interviews and evidence collection. Temple had put her children to sleep. Still wearing the raincoat, she sank into a chair to answer police questions in an exhausted monotone. She showed a spark only when they questioned her use of force. “What was I supposed to do—ask her nicely to please hand my baby back? When she probably killed Kent? That’s nuts. I’m sick of people taking my kids. I’ve had enough. I’m going to bed.” She pulled herself wearily up the stairs.
I confronted Anselmo, trying to appear calm though my temper simmered. “It’s self-defense, plain and simple.”
Anselmo repacked his camera into an evidence kit. “Intentional homicide. Temple shot her in the back. The DA might want to charge her.”
“With what?”
“Manslaughter.”
“You’ll look like a fool. Someone breaks in—”
“Zoë Schubert didn’t break in. Temple invited her in.” He counted over the clear plastic evidence bags arrayed on the floor and compared them to his log list. Methodical, literal, and annoying.
I took a breath, tried to sound calm. “My point is, she entered with malicious intent, to search for that CD. She threatens an SBI agent and two children with a gun. She snatches up the baby and starts to leave. If you arrest Temple, you’ll have every parent in North Carolina calling their legislators. Oh, and don’t forget she’s a murderer.”
Anselmo looked at me. In spite of the late hour, his eyes were clear and calm. “Two things. First. Thanks to you, neither Lincoln Teller nor Bryce Raintree nor June Devon is in prison. Second. You don’t know Zoë murdered Kent Mercer.”
Bryce in jail? Oh, yeah. Anselmo had read transcripts of the encrypted files. I put my hand on his wrist. “Wait until the morning. Temple’s asleep now.”
He pondered a moment. “All right. I’ll talk to the DA. Now you owe me two.”
“Two?”
“I never wrote you up for that accident.” He motioned to Chamberlain to take the evidence bags out to the car.
“I owe you two then.” I tugged on his wrist. “I’m sure Zoë murdered Mercer. I just thought of something. Don’t pack up that fingerprint kit. Let me see her Glock.”
Anselmo frowned. “What for?”
“It will have her prints. Let’s do a quick match with the latent.” I quickly scrolled my phone photos to the latent print found under the decking the day of Mercer’s murder, where someone had rested a bloody hand.
“We’ll get her prints from the ME tomorrow.”
“I know.” I studied the photograph. “This one’s a partial, a pocked-loop type.”
He opened his fingerprint kit and carefully brushed a small amount of black powder onto the Glock. A mess of overlapping fingerprints was revealed. “On the barrel, here, isn’t this a pocked loop? Looks like a left thumb.” He grinned.
I compared the two pocked-loop fingerprints. I wasn’t an expert, and I didn’t want to force a match, but they looked the same. Zoë had crept under the deck and rested a bloody hand against a joist, praying not to be noticed. She’d watched Lincoln Teller feel for a pulse, step in Mercer’s blood. It was her SUV in Mercer’s driveway.
He slid the gun back into its evidence box. A puff of black powder drifted into the air.
“She wasn’t a suspect,” said Anselmo. “She barely knew Mercer. Was she angry about his affair with Nikki?”
“The answer should be on this.” I held up the CD I’d taken from Zoë’s pocket, the eleventh CD, and inserted it into Paige’s boom box. It was a poor recording of a phone call, broken and staticky in places. The woman’s voice was shrill and angry.
“Who is it?” Anselmo asked.
“Listen.” I started it again.
Anselmo shook his head.
“It’s Kent Mercer and Zoë Schubert. That’s the way she sounded when she was furious. She reverted to West Texas. Monophthongs.”
“What?” Anselmo was amused.
“Like ‘watt” for ‘white’. ‘Give me a baat of that thur paa.’ ” I turned up the volume. It lasted less than a minute.
“I can see why she wanted this CD,” he said. Using tongs, he took it out of Paige’s CD player and slid it into a plastic bag.
“Yes,” I said. “It proves her motive. She needed to shut him up.”
CHAPTER 37
Sunday early morning
In a tailored midnight-blue suit, starched ivory shirt, and a tartan-plaid tie, Richard was ready for the busy day ahead. He looked much more alert than I felt; dawn had barely cracked and I’d been up all night. June had called me around three a.m. with Nikki’s answers to my questions. Nearly all the puzzle pieces were now locked in place, so I could paint the picture for my boss.
I inhaled deeply to capture any stray caffeine molecules emanating from Richard’s coffeemaker. “About a year ago, Zoë Schubert
murdered her third husband with an overdose of insulin,” I said. “Her daughter, Nikki, knew, but didn’t tell anyone until Kent Mercer started looking for someone to blackmail. Nikki saw a perfect blackmail opportunity: her wealthy mother had gotten away with murder.”
“The daughter set up her mother for blackmail?”
“Yup. Mercer and Zoë meet. He tells her he knows she killed Oscar Schubert and demands money to keep quiet. Zoë’s angry, asks him how he found out. He says Nikki told him.”
Richard’s chair squeaked as he swiveled. “This was on the eleventh CD.”
“The following day, Zoë pays him—that’s the fifty thousand deposited in his bank account. But then she finds out he’s recorded their brief conversation. She goes to his house to get that recording.”
“To kill him?”
“Maybe not at first. But Zoë must have been furious. She’s paid Mercer fifty thousand dollars but it’s only the beginning of his blackmail. When she gets to his house, he’s unconscious, the perfect victim. She grabs his computer and cell phone, which might have copies of the recording. Then, to ensure his eternal silence, she finds a sharp knife in the kitchen and severs arteries in both his arms. Lincoln Teller drives up and finds the body as she hides under the deck.”
“The daughter must have known what happened all along.”
I nodded. When June had asked Nikki my question—why did you stick the purple knife in the brie?—Nikki wept. Secrets poured out, lies were recounted. Nikki confessed to her aunt, and June—once I assured her Nikki wouldn’t be considered an accessory or charged with obstructing justice—had shared Nikki’s statement with me.
I now shared it with Richard. “When Mercer is killed, Nikki makes the connection—Mercer’s blackmail has backfired.” My mother has murdered my lover and it’s all my fault. “Nikki begins to search the Mercers’ house, looking for the recording, but I stop her. Later in the afternoon, in her mother’s car trunk, she finds Mercer’s laptop, his phone, the purple knife—still a bit bloody—and her mother’s blood-smeared clothing. Horrified, Nikki pockets the knife. She’s ambivalent—emotionally tied to her mother, complicit in the blackmail, wanting Zoë to be stopped, yet unable to bring herself to turn her mother over to the police. Nikki brings the knife to the dance, and stabs it in the cheese. A small cry for help but a lousy clue.”
“The previous murder? Zoë’s husband?”
“Nikki says Zoë deliberately overdosed him with insulin. Oscar Schubert was cremated, but Lt. Morales has requested his autopsy report.”
The coffeemaker huffed steam, smelled divine. Richard selected a mug, poured himself a cup, and added a drop of cream. “What about the attempts on Lincoln Teller’s life?”
“Zoë thought Lincoln saw her car in the driveway and might describe her car to the police. But it turns out Lincoln’s colorblind. He did see the car, but he thought it was Mercer’s. To him, they were the same gray color.”
“She knew how to cut brake lines? Not something most women—or men—could do.”
“Zoë had scrabbled up the social ladder, but she had lots of practical knowledge. Her first husband owned a garage, and Zoë worked right alongside him. She could find brake lines with a hacksaw. And she’d been a nurse, knew all about IV equipment. I even saw her in the hospital the day of Lincoln’s morphine overdose. But the evidence is circumstantial.”
He took a cigar from his drawer but left the wrapper on. “The Soto shooting?”
I closed my eyes, unable to speak, stunned by a sudden memory of Emilie’s eyes as she’d struggled to breathe.
He waited. “Stella?”
I took a deep breath. “I don’t know how to link her to that. But I think she did it. We know the gun came from June and Erwin Devon, but Zoë was in their home occasionally. And she was a good shot. She hunted for food as a child.”
“What’s her motive for trying to kill Dr. Soto?”
“When Zoë learned Nikki was having sex with Mercer, she sent Nikki to Dr. Soto for a private consulting session. Then, after Mercer started the blackmail, Zoë realized Nikki wasn’t keeping the Schubert murder a secret between them. She panicked—she thought Nikki had also blabbed to Dr. Soto. Zoë shot Dr. Soto to silence her. And to frighten me.”
“You think she was the Brevard sniper?”
I froze. I knew guilt was written on my face.
“Some agents—most agents—follow protocol.”
I recognized sarcasm. Should I apologize? “I didn’t want to cause you any trouble,” I said. “That’s the truth.”
“Not quite. You didn’t want to ask permission. A very different thing.”
“If you don’t know, you won’t worry. I didn’t want you to be responsible for me.”
“Are you crazy?” Richard stood, like he might vault over his desk and throttle me.
“Sir, I apologize. Sincerely. Yes, I do think Zoë shot at me in Brevard. She knew where Nikki and Bryce were camping because they’d told her. It was a place Nikki had been before. So Zoë followed me. She waited near the trailhead for me. I doubt she enjoyed sleeping in the woods, but there was nothing fragile about Zoë Schubert.”
Richard sat down again. His rage had vanished as quickly as it came, like a ten-second thunderstorm. I knew he was processing what I’d told him, thinking about ramifications, the press coverage, the attorney general.
“Nice work, Stella.”
That was unexpected. Richard was notoriously stingy with compliments. “Thank you, sir, but I know it’s not a tidy resolution.”
“Never is. Have some coffee.” He picked up the black carafe and poured me a cup. I sipped it gratefully, savoring its earthy flavor, a symbol of his approval.
Wired on excellent coffee, the adrenaline of the night’s events, and the elation of solving my case, I drove to Fern’s to help her clean up after the party. When I reached her mailbox, I had to pull aside to let another car out of her driveway. Wesley Raintree threw me a jaunty wave as he pulled onto the road.
I parked in front of the porch, its gleaming white balusters beckoning me onto the bounce-free floor. The rooster crowed, Bill and Hillary brayed a greeting.
Fern opened the screen door. “You’ve just missed Wesley.”
“I saw him. Nice man.” I followed her inside and picked up a dish towel. “Do you ever think, ‘what if?’ ” I asked as I dried plates, a motley collection, some of them surely older than Fern, with darkly crazed surfaces and worn gold edges. “What if Mercer had been kinder to Temple? She wouldn’t have gone out shopping that day. Or what if he’d kept a closer eye on Paige and not let her wander off? There were so many ways he might not have died.”
“You can think ‘what if’ all you want. Things happen for a reason.”
“What’s the reason for murder?”
Over her coffee cup, she blinked at me with true-blue eyes. “To teach us a lesson.”
“And . . . the lesson is?”
“You have to figure it out. That’s your purpose in life, to learn your lessons.”
I didn’t, and never would, accept any reason for murder. But I didn’t contest Fern’s platitudes. They helped clear away the muck of her bad memories, stirred up by my work.
We went onto the porch. The air was cool, the sunshine warm. A bluebird fluttered his bright wings from his perch on top of the birdhouse, inviting the girl birds to check out his real estate. Questions swirled in my mind. Would Clementine get the help she needed? I hoped that Lincoln—back with his family—would see his dream of a successful restaurant realized. What path would Nikki follow, now that she was orphaned, wealthy, and on her own? Would the Navy take Bryce? Would he strengthen or crack in the forge of military life? I marveled at Temple’s strength and courage, the rage that overcame her natural gentleness and helped her pull the trigger of her gun. Perhaps her children would teach Grandpa Wesley their tender ways, so he, in turn, could show them anthills, stars, and rivers.
Fern smoothed aside my hair and kissed my forehead.
“The swelling’s gone down,” she said. “You’ll probably always have a scar.” Zoë’s mark.
Through the fallen cloud of morning mist that lay over the field, I could see Merle digging furiously. He froze, then attacked the ground in a different spot. His purpose was clear and he was learning his lessons, light-years ahead of me, as usual.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Karen Pullen is the author of Cold Feet (Five Star, 2013), the first book in the Stella Lavender series. Her short stories have appeared in Spinetingler, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Sixfold, bosque (the magazine), Phantasmacore, Reed, Every Day Fiction, and several anthologies. She edited the Anthony-nominated Carolina Crimes: 19 Tales of Lust, Love, and Longing (Wildside, 2014). She earned an MFA in popular fiction from Stonecoast at the University of Southern Maine. She lives in Pittsboro, North Carolina, where she owns a bed & breakfast inn.