by Rachel Brady
Will try to write from Barcelona, but my days are about to get really tight. Back in the U.S. in just over a week. Can’t wait to see you.
Love,
Diana
Similar letters came that year from Milan, Paris, and London. It wasn’t clear from her notes how long Diana had been jet-setting the globe in the name of high fashion, but she was certainly committed to make the most of her travels, often describing the landscape and buildings in great detail. In 1981 she’d have been in her early twenties and I was impressed such a young woman would expend as much effort as she had to absorb every morsel of the world that she visited. I tried to imagine her then—energetic and hopeful, more worldly than most women twice her age. Platt, only a few years older, had probably been in medical school during Diana’s burgeoning modeling career. There was no indication how or when they’d met, but it was probably a safe assumption that any man who knew Diana back then never forgot her.
June 24, 1983
The Space Shuttle Challenger landed out here in California today. You used to give me so much grief about my travel. Well, how about that Sally Ride? Two and a half million miles in six days. My hero!
Same stuff here…still living out of suitcases and racking up frequent flyer miles. If you’re ever in L.A. look us up. Hope you and Melissa are well.
Best,
Diana
The lines had been scrawled on a postcard with progressively-shrinking characters until she’d run out of room. Her closing sentences wound across the bottom of the card and up the right side until they blended with his address. I stared at the phrases “look us up” and “you and Melissa” and wished I had information that would bridge 1981 to 1983. The last item in the stack was a Christmas card. Two black bears in sweaters hauled a decorated tree into their den.
December 14, 1985
Fair warning, I’m moving back to town after New Year’s, this time as a divorced woman. Save your speeches, I’ve heard them all from my father.
I read about the new practice, can’t say I was surprised. No one deserves it more than you. When I get back to Texas I hope we’ll catch up. Plus I want a nose job and could use your opinion.
Happy Holidays,
Diana
Maybe it was the fresh sting of divorce, but the tone of the card sounded more like the Diana of today. The mid-eighties were possibly when Diana’s nature deteriorated from exuberant to prissy. I thought this was a shame.
What did it mean that Platt had saved these notes? Had she sent more that he hadn’t kept, or was this it? Plenty of folks kept boxes upon boxes of worthless, forgotten crap in their attics or basements. Ask them what was in any given box and they never knew without opening it.
But this wasn’t the case with Platt. His home was Spartan and crisp, organized to a fault. He didn’t accidentally keep anything, and that worried me. For thirty years and through a marriage, he’d saved Diana’s letters—maybe hidden them—and then had kept them in a safe spot, reserved only for them, until the end. Why?
I stacked them neatly and returned them to their folder, then pulled his phone log list from my purse. I skipped what appeared to be business calls—those from places like Baylor College of Medicine, a local music store, Tone Zone, and Purple Heart. Of course, the Tone Zone calls might have been Diana calling, but if that were so, then calling that number back wouldn’t get me anywhere anyway. That left a list of sixteen personal calls.
I needed to figure out an excuse to use when I called these people. Some might not even know Platt was dead. Contacting them, probing for their history with him, would require delicacy and tact—scripts that, for me anyway, required a few drafts.
I went to my kitchen junk drawer. Platt would have frowned at the Chap Stick, luggage tags, burned out night lights, freebie magnets, expired coupons, and spare guitar strings I shoved aside before finding a notepad and pen.
One problem was settling on a verb. Passed or passed away were softer than died, was murdered, or was killed. Yet, it was important to be direct. I was looking into a homicide—That’s good, I thought, Write that down—and I didn’t figure homicide investigators sugar coated things. Homicide, though? I’d scale it down and simply say I was looking into a “death.” I corrected it on my paper.
A work-sponsored course in Effective Communication had once reinforced what intuition told us anyway, that bad news should be preceded by a tip-off. I have something difficult to tell you…We need to talk…I think you should sit down…
I scribbled a list of openers and summarily rejected each one. They seemed more appropriate for bailing out on a blind date than for breaking news like this.
When it was as good as I could make it, I placed the first call. An answering machine picked up and I panicked, my thoughtful preamble now all for nothing.
“My name’s Emily Locke,” I said, struggling for a graceful transition to the next sentence. “I’d like to speak to you about Wendell Platt.” I hoped this individual knew enough of the circumstances to respond. “If you could call me back…” I fumbled through my phone number and hung up, frustrated. It hadn’t occurred to me to prepare a separate spiel in case of answering machines.
As I was dialing the next number, the doorbell rang.
I replaced the phone in its stand and surveyed the room to make sure everything case-related was tidied up. I slipped my list of phone numbers into the folder with Diana’s old letters and crossed the room. The last thing I needed was a string of questions from Florence about my week’s adventures in “private detecting.”
It was Richard, though. “You’re not answering your phone.”
His short-sleeved button-up and crisp Dockers did nothing to disguise his malaise. Like everyone else who spent any amount of time outside, Richard’s weary posture and flushed complexion underscored one truth: July beat down Texans indiscriminately, whether natives like him or transplants like me. I ushered him into my foyer, not to be polite but to keep my A/C inside.
“My phone hasn’t worked right since I got stuck in yesterday’s monsoon,” I said. “That’s work-related damage. You want to reach me? Replace my phone.”
Without invitation, he made for the kitchen, pulled open my refrigerator, and extracted two bottles of Sparkletts, apparently both for him. The first went down in two passes. He sat at my kitchen table in the same chair I’d used while searching Claire’s mail. I leaned on the arm of my sofa, facing him.
“I’m not kidding,” I said. “I’m buying a new one today, as soon as you leave, and you’re going to pay me back.”
“Platt’s Uncle Carl talked to me today.” He spoke as if he hadn’t heard me. “Guy’s almost ninety.” Richard twisted the cap off the second bottle and took a sip, this time slowly. I didn’t know what to make of the sudden change of topic, but I figured there’d be time to deal with the phone later. “Says Platt and Diana King go way back.”
“Thirty years, actually.”
He looked at me in a mocking, suspicious way. Unsure if he was impressed or skeptical, I didn’t elaborate.
“Sounds like Diana’s up for a fair chunk of his assets, namely his share of that fancy health club.” He tipped the water bottle toward me as if making a big point. It was an important point—I knew that—but I kept my reaction neutral.
“Who gets his share of the surgery center?”
“The uncle. King’s already angling to buy it.”
“What are those businesses worth? His shares in them, I mean.”
Richard stared at me. “Come on, I couldn’t ask that.”
“Seems a little early to be reading a will.”
“It is. This is all based on Carl’s earlier talks with his nephew. It’ll be a while before folks get around to the will.”
“Then it’s not confirmed.”
He cocked his head by way of agreement. “But it’s on good authority. Why do you suppose he didn’t leave the gym assets to his uncle too?”
I shrugged. “Sometimes it’s hard to know wh
y folks leave things to the people they do. Who gets the house?”
“The remainder of his estate goes to the American Cancer Society.”
“Wow.” I imagined the remaining assets. “Some donation.”
“It was ovarian cancer that took his wife Melissa.”
I thought about Platt’s house—its simple furnishings, sparse decorations—and felt disappointed that no family or close friends would be coming for those things. Maybe the jarring absence of personal artifacts like jewelry and photographs could be explained by the premature death of his wife. Losing Jack and Annette had taught me that recovery is sometimes easier without reminders in full view. Maybe Platt had known that too and emptied his cottage of painful memories, sending Melissa’s things home with her friends and loved ones years ago.
“Strange, don’t you think, that he left so much to Diana?” Richard tapped his open palm on my tabletop. His wedding ring clanked each time. “With the club doing as well as it is, that was probably a hefty bequest. Maybe it was enough motive for Diana to push him out of the picture.”
“If that’s your rationale, you should start looking at Uncle Carl too.”
He scoffed. “He’s ninety!”
“Just because a woman’s named in a will doesn’t make her the Grim Reaper.”
“She hated Claire and stood to gain a lot if Platt died. It makes sense.”
“Not to me.”
He didn’t answer right away, opting instead to shift his weight backward in the casual manner of a one who’s finished a satisfying meal. He stretched one arm to the side so that its elbow rested on the back of an adjacent chair. “You know something.”
“I think so.”
“What did that note say? The one she left on your windshield this morning.”
“The note’s a problem.” A question was forming on his face, so I kept going. “Actually, that’s only true for you. Or it could be. So here’s the deal. We can’t talk about it. Don’t ask me about the note anymore.”
He’d rehydrated and cooled off enough. Richard was an ex-police detective, an even-keel, logical thinking sort of guy. His clarity and focus on an average day beat mine by a long shot even when I was at my best—which I was not. My thinking was muddied. I weighed the day’s newest discoveries against the necessity of misleading Richard about how I’d made them. Meanwhile, he sat patiently and watched me, so cool and sharp that he might as well have been reaching into the folds of my brain tissue with bare, steady fingers to hand-pick the very facts I was trying to keep private.
“I don’t like when you look at me that way.”
“You feel guilty about something.”
“Shut up.”
I must have been an easier mark than the criminals he’d once interrogated because he made no effort to conceal his huge, smug grin.
“I’ll tell you what I know if you don’t ask how I found out,” I said.
His moment of levity came to a quick end. “You didn’t do something illegal?”
“That was a question,” I said. “Those aren’t allowed. Just listen.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Richard was never a very good sport when I went subversive on him.
He had decades of law enforcement experience, extensive training, and masterful foresight for the way evidence would play out in court. But for all his skills, Richard remained impervious to what I thought was the most important piece of any investigation—people.
“You’re telling me Platt was in love with Diana.”
“They were in love with each other. At least at one time.” I hesitated, remembering the strange evolution of her letters. “I think.”
“You think.” It was more muttered than spoken.
I couldn’t tell him about the letters or the matching halves of the enormous amethyst geode. There was no way to summarize what little I knew of their history without explaining how I’d found out about it. I couldn’t describe Platt’s otherwise barren domicile and express the significance of his having saved something—anything—of hers. The fact that Diana had kept her own key to his bungalow, and given it to me, spoke volumes. But I couldn’t tell Richard that either.
“You’re going to have to trust me,” I said. “Something was going on between those two that transcended time and multiple marriages. Maybe love, maybe friendship. Possibly both. But whatever it was, Diana King’s not his killer. She was special to him.”
“Yes,” he said. “So he left her his share of a very profitable business. This doesn’t mean he meant anything to her, though.”
“He did. I’m sure of it.”
“How?” A brief, forced exhalation communicated his worsening impatience. “Right. You can’t tell me.”
“Look, Richard. I’m not trying to be a problem. The opposite, actually. You just have to trust me.” There was that word again. “Listen to what I’m telling you. It wasn’t Diana.”
Absently, he flicked the tabletop in front of him, slowly at first, then faster, and eventually only in spurts. I slid from my sofa’s arm rest down into a proper seat on its cushion and hugged a throw pillow while I watched him brood. It was during times like these that I thought his salt and pepper hair most suited him. When he was thoughtful, he looked impossibly distinguished. At that moment, I knew he was mentally reorganizing. The most helpful thing I could do was sit still and wait.
A few moments later he stood and moved to the love seat across from me. He dropped into it, all signs pointing to exhaustion, crossed an ankle over a knee, and spread his arms wide over the cushions on both sides—body language he’d once said indicated an open mind.
“So what do you think?” He finally said. “Where does that leave us?”
I shook my head. “Daniel?”
He shrugged. “Or Claire?”
Ugh. I did not want to go down Claire Road again.
“What?” he said. “What’s that look?”
Claire and all her paradoxical personality quirks would quickly and totally deplete my energy if I allowed more second-guessing. I’d convinced myself of her innocence. At some point, a person must simply commit and stop looking back.
“Let’s look at it this way,” I said. “Mick Young’s paying us to help him defend her. For purposes of our work on his case, let’s assume she’s off the table.”
He nodded. “We’re short on leads.”
“Hey, I forgot something.” I pushed myself off the couch and returned to the laptop. “Claire’s e-mail account.”
I brought Richard up to speed and told him what I’d failed to find in her e-mail folders. The machine had booted and I’d launched my browser when the front door swung open and slammed into the wall behind it.
“We’re home!” Annette paraded into the living room carrying a leftover bag of movie popcorn. “Want some? Hi, Richard.”
Jeannie kicked the door closed behind her. “It’s so hot out there that Satan’s looking for shade.” Her hands were full of shopping bags and empty Slushy cups. She brushed past Richard and me on her way to the kitchen. “Hi, Bossman. What are you kids up to?”
He took a handful of popcorn from Annette’s bag. “I hope you kept your friend on a short leash.” He winked at her.
Annette giggled. “She’s not a dog.”
He chuckled and returned to my laptop.
She brought me the popcorn next but instead of reaching inside I took the whole bag. “I’m starving,” I said. “Thanks.” Then I kissed her cheek.
“Wow!” she said. “A fish! Is it ours?”
She spun to face me, pigtails bouncing. I hadn’t thought she could muster more energy, but everything from her huge eyes to her jumpy, skittish movements said we’d reached a new level of hyper. Overcome with excitement, she could not stand still and I loved it.
“Not ours,” I said. “Yours.”
“Can he live in my room?”
“He can live anywhere you want.”
“Yes!” She pronounced this with a hiss, like a teenager who’
s scored the car keys. Carefully, she lifted the little bowl, and right before she slipped out of view, I grabbed her arm and pulled her back. Water sloshed out of the bowl.
“Am I in trouble?”
I smiled at her. “No. What’s this?” I stroked the base of her ear. Fake sapphires, new since this morning, glimmered in her delicate little lobes.
Annette’s grin was enormous. “Do you like them? It didn’t hurt much. I got candy for being really still. Aunt Jeannie bought me other, fancier earrings but I have to leave these in for six weeks so the holes won’t close. They’re blue because I’m September.”
Richard turned in his chair. “Hey, Emily, what’s—”
“Not now.” I shot him a look.
I pulled Annette in close, more carefully this time out of consideration for the fish. “They look really pretty and you were very brave. I’m proud of you.” I hugged her.
She let go of me first, her normal thing. “I’m going to put the fish away and then go look in your jewelry box. I’ll share my earrings with you if you share yours with me.” She was around the corner in the hallway before she’d finished talking.
“Emily,” Richard said. “Who’s—”
“I’m going to have to explain that to Betsy and Nick,” I said. Jeannie and I had discussed the earring milestone earlier. Annette had been asking for weeks and Jeannie was looking for a bonding event. Still, I couldn’t help but worry about how the surrogate family would respond.
“You don’t have to explain jack to anybody,” Jeannie said. “You’re her mother.” She shook her head, annoyed. Richard didn’t finish what he’d started to say, but I knew he wouldn’t wait long to try again.
Jeannie continued. “You have more important things to think about than Betsy Fletcher.” Without waiting for a reply, she slipped off her shoes and padded around the corner to go play with Annette.
“She’s right.” Richard said. “Who’s FastCruzn?”