by JoAnn Chaney
“What happened with Kara Mason?” Spengler asked curiously. The three women exchanged looks, but she didn’t think she’d have to push them to talk about this. They wanted to tell her what’d happened, that’s why it’d come up in the first place. The juicier the gossip, the more satisfying it was to pass along.
“Last year, Marie suggested a change to the school’s lunch menu,” Alice said. “Kara Mason opposed it and things got pretty nasty between them.”
“I’m sure you’ve realized our school is named after former president Taft, who was severely overweight, and obesity is a huge issue facing our children,” the woman to the right said, her eyes lit up with a fervor approaching something holy. “At the beginning of the school year, Marie implemented a program to offer much healthier options to the students. Low-fat, gluten-free, responsibly grown food from local farmers. Artisanal breads, meats, and cheese that comes from free-range, grass-fed cows. Do you know what I mean?”
I had a Pop-Tart for breakfast, Spengler thought, smothering a smile. She nodded, because she recognized the look in the woman’s eyes. It was obsession, plain and simple. For some people their obsession was drugs and alcohol, for others it was plastic surgery or biting their fingernails or gambling. But for women like these the obsession was food, in monitoring every bite they ate, in making careful lists for the grocery store. Organic, gluten-free, grass-fed, seasonal—those were their buzzwords. These were women who had the leisure time to spend hours poring over their meals, who didn’t have to budget their grocery bill. These women drank black coffee blended with coconut oil and a pat of butter, who drank water only if it was full of electrolytes.
“Kara was extremely vocal against the changes,” Alice said, leaning forward and lowering her voice. It’d started to feel like she was telling a ghost story around a campfire. “She started spreading all sorts of lies about Marie. Said she’d seen her eating cheese puffs while she was waiting in the carpool lane and that she’d caught her sticking her finger down her throat after a PTA dinner to purge. And then Kara started going around with a petition to have Marie removed from her post as president.”
“And people were actually signing it,” woman number three said, holding up her fingers and counting off the complaints. “They said Marie’s plans weren’t budget friendly. That she was running the school like she owned the place. That she didn’t actually care about the students, just herself.”
“So Marie decided to call a truce. She rented out a banquet hall and had the whole thing catered, made Kara the guest of honor. She told everyone she was waving her white flag, that she wasn’t up for the fight anymore. They needed to put their differences aside and do what was best for the students.”
“I was at the same table as Marie and Kara that night,” Alice said. “You’d think those two were best friends, the way they were laughing and toasting champagne.”
“It was a good party,” number three said.
“Oh, it was a wonderful party,” Alice said. “But I think Kara must’ve had a bit too much to drink, and she started throwing up all over the table and herself. It was disgusting. And the next day, the nudes started showing up on Instagram.”
“Nudes?” Spengler asked.
“Kara claimed her phone had been stolen that night at the party, and her personal photos were starting to pop up on her Instagram feed,” Alice said. “Sexually explicit photos, if you get my drift. They were so obviously Kara, she didn’t even try to deny it. And sometimes they’d be up online for hours before she’d figure out how to remove them.”
“And there was a man in some of the photos. Not her husband.”
Spengler looked back and forth between the three women. They might’ve been rehashing the drama of their favorite soap opera, that’s how involved they were. It was almost scary.
“So Kara’s husband left her, and all she had were her kids and the PTA. But everyone was so disgusted with her at that point, no one would really even speak to her, and her petition died,” number two said. “Then she baked a tray of brownies and brought them over to Marie’s house as a peace offering. Figured the best way to get back in everyone’s good graces was to make nice with Marie.”
“Oh, I was there when she dropped them off. Poor thing looked like a wet, dirty rag, that’s how bad things had gotten for her,” Alice said. “And Marie was so gracious, accepted the brownies and said the family would eat them for dessert that night. But they never did. I was with Marie in her kitchen and that stupid cat of hers jumped up on the counter and started eating them. I saw it with my own eyes. And then that thing started howling and choking, and then it fell over and died.”
“What happened?” Spengler asked.
“Marie took it to the vet and had tests run. They all came back inconclusive, but you know what I think?” Alice leaned closer. Her eyes glittered meanly and her lips had gone razor thin, smearing lipstick on her teeth. “Kara had tried to poison Marie and her whole family because she thought Marie had stolen her phone and published those nudes. And once everyone found out about those brownies and Marie threatened to press charges, Kara was done. She had to pull her kids out of the school and move. None of us have seen her since.”
Alice sat back, satisfied with herself.
“Did Marie steal Kara’s phone and put the photos online?” Spengler asked. She’d thought all three might be shocked and offended at the question, that they’d shut her down and ask her to leave, but that wasn’t the case.
“Of course she did,” Alice said. “I’m sure Marie has done all sorts of crazy things, but she’s smart about it. Doesn’t tell anyone and never gets caught.”
“Like the time Maddie was the understudy in Romeo and Juliet, and Juliet just happened to slip in the locker room and break her leg, so Maddie took the role.” Woman two shrugged. “I could never figure out how she did it, but it had to be Marie. She was furious when Maddie didn’t get the part.”
“Or that time Principal Lee denied Marie’s request for a larger PTA budget, and Lee’s tires were slashed the next week? Officially it was blamed on a student, but—c’mon. Totally Marie.”
“You all knew what she was doing and never said anything?”
“Well, we knew what she was doing, but it’s not like we knew, if you get my drift,” woman number three said. “And it’s not like she ever killed anyone. Well, I always wondered about the cat. I know how it looked, but I couldn’t really see Kara trying to poison anyone. But I guess you don’t have to kill a person to destroy them.”
“So you think Marie—”
“Oh, I don’t think anything. But Marie doted on that cat. Fancy canned food. Always letting it up in her lap, letting it sleep in their bed. When it died she was devastated.” The third woman paused, running the sharp point of her tongue over her lips. “All I’m saying is that I wonder. The cat turning up dead in front of everybody was the best way to get rid of Kara, once and for all.”
“If you stayed on Marie’s good side, she was the most generous, loving friend a person could have,” woman two said. She looked down at her hands while she spoke, spinning the wedding ring on her third finger. “She was always a lot of fun. But she could be crazy.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Spengler was driving back to the station when her phone rang. She pulled over to answer. It was the Evanses’ insurance agent. The woman hadn’t bothered returning any of her calls or emails, so Spengler had stopped by the office that morning before heading to the high school to meet with the PTA ladies. People moved faster when they saw a badge and a gun.
“Sorry it took so long,” the woman said. “With the holiday weekend and tech issues, I’ve been swamped.”
“Of course,” Spengler said graciously. That was the standard excuse when anything went wrong these days. Tech issues. “What do you have for me? Any changes to their policies recently?”
“Marie Evans came in at the end of January and upped her life insurance policy,” the insurance agent said. Spengler unrolled her w
indow as she held the phone to her ear, hoping for a breath of fresh air, but the street smelled faintly of wet garbage. “Mr. Evans’s policy stayed at three million dollars, while Mrs. Evans’s went from a half a million up to three.”
“That’s a lot of money,” Spengler had said. A homeless man strolled past on the sidewalk and saw her sitting there. He grabbed his crotch and shook his hips in her direction, stuck out his tongue in a leer. It was like some men were conditioned to be disgusting and disrespectful to women. She wasn’t in the mood. Not that she was ever in the mood for it. Without putting the phone down, Spengler pulled her gun from the holster at her waist and pointed it at him, mimed pulling the trigger. Bang. He ran in the opposite direction, giving her a terrified look over his shoulder. He wouldn’t be shaking his dick at anyone again in the near future. It was unfortunate, but sometimes a woman had to take extreme measures to teach a man a lesson.
“It is a large policy but not unheard of, especially for a couple with the net worth they have,” the agent said. “What is unusual is to have that amount of coverage when Mrs. Evans wasn’t generating any income. It was ultimately approved after she’d gone through a physical and had blood work—all standard procedure on a policy that high—but it did seem odd.”
“Did both the Evanses come in to your office to update the policy?”
“Oh, no. Just Mrs. Evans. Such a nice woman. As she was signing the papers, she did say one thing—I really didn’t think about it until I reread the notes I’d put in the system after she left.”
“What’s that?”
“She mentioned it was her husband’s idea that she up her policy. She said he’d been pushing her to come in and take care of it. She thought it was funny, I remember. She laughed.”
Of course Evans had pushed his wife into it. But here was the question: Why? Spengler had received most of the Evanses’ financial records and one thing had become clear after one look: if Matt had killed his wife, it hadn’t been for the insurance. They had a big house—the mortgage balance almost paid—lots of money in savings, fat retirement accounts. They had virtually no debt and plenty of capital. They were comfortable. So why would Evans want his wife to have such a high insurance policy on her head?
“I did tell Mrs. Evans she could certainly come back anytime and we could lower the amount of the policy if she was having second thoughts, but she never did. And I’d completely forgotten about the whole thing until I got your call. Are you thinking Mr. Evans pushed his wife off a cliff so he could collect her life insurance?”
Another call came through before Spengler could answer, not that she intended to give any sort of response to the woman’s question.
It was Loren.
“Spengler, Evans had a fucking map in his desk,” he said. “It’s got the point where she fell marked, like he’d planned the whole thing ahead of time.”
“Hang on,” she said. Her phone had started buzzing as she held it against her ear. Another call was coming through. It was Jackson, head of the search team.
When it rains it pours, she thought.
“Hikers spotted a body about ten miles farther south,” he said. “I’m here now, we got her out of the water. Looks like your gal.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
September 5, 2018
“You all right?” Spengler asked, concerned. “You look dead on your feet today.”
“I’m fine,” Loren said. He took both hands off the wheel and rubbed the ridges of his brows. Alarmed, Spengler saw he was steering the car with his left knee. “I didn’t sleep well, that’s all.”
“Maybe you should let me drive—”
“Yeah, right,” Loren said. He put a hand back on the wheel and Spengler’s heart rate dropped again. “As if I’d let you behind the wheel of my pride and joy.”
“You call this your pride and joy?” she asked, astonished.
“What would you call it?”
Loren waited for her answer, but Spengler kept her mouth shut. Probably the best decision. He snorted and reached over, twisted the volume dial on the radio. His car was an early-nineties brown Chrysler LeBaron—This is the height of luxury, Loren told her when she first got in, thumping his fist on the steering wheel, and she hadn’t been able to tell if he was trying to be funny. Probably not. The car was old, but it ran nicely and the interior was in perfect condition. She’d been surprised at how comfortable it was inside. Good lumbar support, Loren had said as she settled into the passenger seat, not the merest flicker of a joke in his eyes.
Loren was an old white man driving an old white man’s car, all kinds of stereotypes there, and she’d assumed that he’d listen to news radio when he drove, or to country music. But Loren liked rap music and R&B, would only listen to a local Denver station, and he always played it loud.
“One-oh-seven-five,” Loren said when she asked. “It’s the only thing worth turning on around here.”
Maybe she still hadn’t worked with Loren long enough to realize that you couldn’t put him in a box, that if you tried to guess what he was going to say or do you’d almost always be wrong.
“Watch yourself!” Loren shouted, jerking the car to the next lane to avoid being hit, causing her shoulder to ram against the door. He might have been yelling at the other driver, or it might’ve been directed at her. It was impossible to tell.
She’d gotten back to the station before Loren and run upstairs, ducked into Chief Black’s office without knocking first. He’d been typing when she came in, his fingers moving surprisingly fast over the keyboard. She’d expected him to be a hunter-pecker sort of typist. She’d dropped the file Ortiz had given her on his desk and waited as he flipped through. Then he’d turned his rheumy eyes up to her, unimpressed.
“This Ortiz guy sure is getting around,” he said.
“You already know about this?”
“Not much goes on around here I don’t know about.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“I don’t want you to do anything. Give it to Loren if you don’t want it anymore. Or shred it. That might be even better.”
She didn’t understand what was going on. It was like watching shapes move under a blanket. Were those bumps just feet sliding around, or were they monsters? Someone else might know the truth, but she didn’t.
“Here,” she said, not looking away from the road as she jammed the rolled file at Loren, poking him in the side until he took it from her. “I think this belongs to you.”
“What’s this?”
“Look at it.”
“In case you haven’t realized this, Spengler, I’m driving,” Loren said drily. “So unless you’d like Jesus to take the wheel, maybe you’d better just tell me what it is.”
“Detective Ortiz gave it to me.”
Loren gave her a measured look from the corner of his eye, then accepted the folder, laid it across his thighs.
“You read it?”
“Yeah, last night.”
“Okay.”
“Did you kill your partner?”
He didn’t answer.
“Ortiz thinks you did,” she said. “And from what’s in that file, it sure looks like you might’ve murdered him.”
She’d joined Homicide fully aware of all the gossip surrounding Loren: he was mean as a rabid dog, and sometimes stupid. There were stories about his hot temper and the way he liked to use his fists, and the crazy things he’d do to close a case. She’d heard he’d once assaulted a suspect, kicked the guy between the legs so hard it’d actually ruptured his balls. He dressed up like the criminals he was hunting, took on their personas, ate what he thought they ate, picked up their bad habits. Hunting, that’s what he called it, like he was dressed in camouflage with a shotgun slung over his shoulder, pushing aside the undergrowth to track prey.
She’d heard all of this about Loren and laughed. How could all that be true about one man? But when she met Loren, when she spoke to him and saw the slow, pendulating way his eyes would constantly
swing back and forth and how he’d clench his fists, open and closed, over and over again, she thought the stories might be true.
“Loren, did you hear me?”
Loren was mean and ugly—so ugly he didn’t just fall outta the ugly tree, he planted the damn thing, put it in the dirt, and pissed on it to make it grow—but he was also smart and quick and funny—she’d heard him call Chief Black Rumpleforeskin and Queef Biscuit—but he also seemed … lost? She couldn’t put her finger on what was wrong with him, because it wasn’t just one thing. It was everything. It was the way he’d always hum under his breath without seeming to notice, or the way he’d start speaking out of nowhere, as if he was restarting a conversation that’d already ended, or the way he’d hold his phone up to his ear and listen, even when the screen was black. And it was his office, the walls covered in crime scene photos and typed reports, and the clown paintings. There was an evidence bag tacked up beside his office window, holding a single child’s shoe. Toddler sized, with several drops of blood dried on the toe and laces.
Loren scared her, but she pitied him, too, although she didn’t know why.
“What if I told you I didn’t want to talk about it?” he asked slowly.
“I guess I’d have to accept it. For now, at least,” she said. “But everyone talks, sooner or later.”
Loren sighed.
“You’re a fool if you believe that, Spengler.”
He didn’t speak again for the rest of the drive.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Loren’s father was singing and he wouldn’t shut up.
Bad boys, bad boys, he crooned. Whatcha gonna do, whatcha gonna do when the law comes for you?
“Inner monologue, my fucking ass,” he muttered.
“Loren, you alright?” Spengler asked. She couldn’t hear the singing, of course, that was his own special gift, a little welcoming gift for his descent into Crazy Town.
Loren closed his eyes, didn’t respond. Nothing, that’s what he figured he’d do, until he didn’t have a choice. He didn’t have the time to worry about Ortiz and Gallo and all the other ghosts from his past. He was supposed to be thinking of other things at the moment. Like the dead woman on the ground in front of him. She was bloated and pale, her dark hair still wet and stringy from the water. Her skull was shattered in the back. It looked like an egg that’d been cracked once against a counter and then the yolk had done a slow exit.