Sweet Revenge

by Diane Mott Davidson

  The coroner’s van pulled up. So. Drew Wellington hadn’t made it.

  Two investigators I knew, Sergeants Boyd and Armstrong, separated themselves from the crowd and came over to join us. Once we were all sitting in the van’s cold seats, I turned the engine on and clicked the heat over to high. We were rewarded with a blast of frigid air.

  “Before you say anything,” I began, “could you arrange for quilts to be brought to the library staff who had to deal with this?”

  “Absolutely,” said Boyd. “‘To deal with this,’ she says.” He paused, then said, “My, my, my.” He withdrew his notebook from inside his sheriff’s-department jacket. “Trouble just follows you around, Mrs. Schulz, doesn’t it?”

  4

  Boyd regarded me with his black eyes. When he shifted his barrel-shaped body, the backseat squeaked. I switched on the van’s interior lights. Boyd’s scalp glistened beneath his unfashionable crew cut, and his carrot-shaped fingers clasped a ballpoint pen, poised over his notebook. “Not meaning any disrespect,” he said with a half grin.

  “Don’t worry,” Tom interjected. “She’s used to it. Trouble, I mean.”

  Sergeant Armstrong, whose short wisps of strawberry-blond hair fell forward as his lean body tried to get comfortable, said, “All right, Mrs. Schulz, you know the drill. Start with when you woke up this morning, and take us up to where we are now.”

  I closed my eyes and thought back. There had been Arch’s mad dash about the house as he’d tried to find, and then gather up, the index cards he needed for the review his Latin class had planned this morning. He hadn’t been able to find his Latin textbook, and had pawed through every pile of stuff in his room to find it. He’d gone through the same drill trying to locate his thick notebook. For reasons unknown to me, Arch loved Latin. Still, the exasperation and frustration he’d exhibited trying to find his school materials resulted in him being extremely nervous and stressed out. The chaos he now lived in, I believed, was to blame. I’d been perplexed that he’d changed from being a neatnik child to a teenager who lived in a muddle of litter and confusion—a muddle he refused to allow me to clean up. That was why I was insisting he organize the mess as soon as the exam was finished.

  But I didn’t tell the investigators all that. I only told them about getting Arch out the door with Tom, then spending time on the telephone with clients as I figured out the work for the day. I still had those gingerbreads to make. As I worked packing up the paraphernalia for the library gig, I’d talked on the phone to my assistant, Julian Teller, about the vegetarian dinner over in Boulder. We’d also discussed two other parties, the ones we were doing for the MacArthurs tomorrow night and Monday. “Drew Wellington was supposed to be at the first one,” I added. “It is going to be, or was going to be, a very big deal, celebrating an acquisition the MacArthurs had made.”

  Armstrong whistled through his teeth. “Okay. Tell us about the MacArthurs and where they live.”

  “They’re at 202 Wild Bill Way, over in Regal Ridge Country Club—”

  “That big new development south of the interstate, near the ski area?” Armstrong interjected. “Looking at the houses on those cliffs just gives me the shakes.”

  “Tell me about it,” I said, thinking of my first run-in with maybe-Sandee. “Anyway, Smithfield MacArthur was very anxious that Drew and somebody named Larry were going to be invited to the party.”

  “Spell these people’s names for me,” Boyd ordered. This I did. Then he said, “Why did he want Drew at the party?”

  “Hermie MacArthur said the party was to celebrate map collecting. Drew was their dealer, I think.”

  Armstrong snorted. “Their dealer.”

  I felt a chilly wash of fatigue, as if all the day’s energy, and the adrenaline rush from the mess I’d witnessed at Roberta’s side, were suddenly receding. I was desperate to head back to our place, to be with Tom in our own environment.

  “The sooner you can go on about your day,” Tom said gently, “the earlier we can get home.” It wasn’t the first time he’d read my mind.

  I told the three of them about how I’d packed up the van, because of needing to set up for the library breakfast the next morning. They asked me if I knew Roberta Krepinski, and I gave them a quick summary of my visits with the reference librarian. Then I briefed them on the interchange between Arch and the bald guy.

  “This guy have a name?” Boyd asked.

  “I’m sure he did, but we didn’t get to introductions. Arch related what happened to another investigator already. We both gave a description of the guy.”

  “And this man was aggressive,” Tom said. “Threatening? He shoved Arch?”

  “He did.”

  “What happened to him, do you know?”

  I told them about laconic Hank forcibly leading the protesting bald fellow out of the library. I then pointed out my van window at Hank, who was being questioned by two detectives. With their pens poised over their clipboards, they seemed to be waiting for longer answers than what they were getting.

  “After Hank, what?”

  “Well,” I said, pausing, “the library was closing.”

  They waited.

  “Then I saw something, or someone,” I went on, still hesitant, “through the windows of the reading room. It was a person hanging around over by the stacks, near where Roberta and I eventually found Drew Wellington.”

  When I didn’t elaborate, Boyd finally said, “Okay, Mrs. Schulz. Who was it?”

  “Please call me Goldy,” I prompted.

  “Mrs. Schulz,” Boyd continued, “was this a person you recognized?”

  “I thought so. She was acting suspicious, anyway, and that’s what caught my eye. She wasn’t looking for any books. I think I also saw her a little earlier, walking through the stacks. It was almost as if she was stalking someone—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Goldy,” Tom said, “tell them.”

  “Sorry. I thought it was Sandee. You know, also known as Alexandra Brisbane, the woman who killed my ex-husband—”

  “What?” said Armstrong. “Are we talking about the Sandee Brisbane who confessed in front of a slew of firefighters and law enforcement personnel—”

  “And me,” I interjected.

  “And you,” Armstrong went on, “and then jumped off a boulder into an out-of-control forest fire that claimed several lives, including hers?”

  I kept my voice quiet. “Except they—you—never found her body. Or her skeleton, or anything.”

  “We found her locket,” Boyd interjected. “Her body could have, you know, ended up some place we haven’t looked yet.”

  “Did she have something against Drew Wellington?” I asked.

  Boyd shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation. Maybe Jimmy Hoffa and Drew Wellington had a falling-out, too, and Jimmy came back to whack him. Schulz? We got any issues with teamsters in this county?”

  “Beats me,” my husband said. Behind us, Boyd and Armstrong began to chuckle. Tom went on: “You should tell them you saw a woman who looked like Sandee a couple of weeks ago. Three weeks ago, to be exact.”

  “Yes, I did.” I tried to keep the defensiveness out of my voice. “This woman was the image of Sandee, only with brown hair. This woman seemed to know me, too. I slammed on my brakes when I saw her, and then she gunned her car around me—”

  “And where was this?” Armstrong asked.

  “It was when I was on my way to the MacArthurs’, to book this party I just told you about.”

  Neither one of them was writing anything down.

  “Mrs. Schulz,” said Boyd, his tone indulgent. “There’s no way that Sandee Blue Calhoun Brisbane, or whatever name she was using six months ago, could have survived that fire.”

  I said, “Sandee was a member of Aspen Meadow Explorers and knew her way around that wildlife preserve the way some people know their yards. Plus, the rescue workers found two bodies, both of them confirmed to be missing hikers.” But even a
part of me was doubtful. I thought, That fire was just too hot, too omnipresent, for her to have escaped. Maybe she just burned up, her body vaporized by the heat. Maybe she drowned in Cottonwood Creek, and they’ll find her corpse when the spring snowmelt drains into Aspen Meadow Lake—

  I exhaled. I’d been worrying myself sick for three weeks. Had the woman I’d seen been Sandee? Was she back? If so, why? And why had she been at the library this afternoon, right before Drew Wellington had turned up dead?

  “Okay, so you thought you saw Sandee,” Armstrong said, in a let’s-get-on-with-it tone. “Then what?”

  I told them about hearing the high whining noise, and then Roberta, about running into Jamie the toddler and his impatient mother, and then about finding Drew Wellington. There’d been confusion trying to get an ambulance, the frigid air sweeping in from the opened emergency exit, and finally, attempting to keep curiosity seekers away from Drew. At some point, one of the staff had gone next door and called in the three sheriff’s-department officers on duty. We’d all ended up outside. Neil Tharp, Drew’s partner, and Elizabeth Wellington, Drew’s ex-wife, had approached me and demanded to know what had happened.

  Following Boyd’s instruction, I spelled Neil Tharp’s name, and told them about how he and Drew had hustled rich folks during the coffee hours at St. Luke’s.

  “Hustled rich folks for what?” Armstrong pressed.

  “Sorry,” I said, again aware of fatigue creeping up my bones. “For their business, Mile-High Maps.” I paused. “There’s one other thing. When I was unloading, there was an SUV pulled up by the library’s rear door.” I thought back. “At least I thought it was an SUV. It might have been one of those big station wagons with four-wheel drive. When I came out later, after we found Drew, the vehicle was gone. And before you ask, no, I didn’t get a license plate. Sorry. I can’t even remember what kind of car it was. That’s all I know.”

  The only noise in my van was the engine and the whirring of the fan, which was finally bringing warmth to the four of us.

  “Think they’ll cancel?” Boyd asked out of nowhere. “The library staff having the party, I mean?”

  “Why?” I demanded, confused.

  “’Cuz I’m getting damned hungry,” he replied, his tone indignant.

  I turned in my seat and lifted my chin, indicating a plastic-wrapped platter that was right behind him. “Those are the platters and things I was going to put into the staff lunchroom refrigerator tonight. Storing food at the place where you are going to be doing an event can help, as long as nobody’s there to get sticky fingers.”

  Boyd said, “Is it lucky for us that you didn’t have time to get it into the staff refrigerator?”

  I couldn’t help it; in spite of everything, I laughed. “Why don’t you reach around and bring out that first tray? We can have some chocolate-raspberry cookies. They’re called Bleak House Bars—”

  “Forget it!” When Armstrong bellowed, he sounded like a foghorn.

  “Why?” Boyd whined. “I haven’t eaten since this morning.”

  “Because it’s a bribe,” Armstrong said. “You know the captain would have a conniption if he knew you were taking food from a witness.”

  “I’m not a witness,” I protested. “I just helped the librarian bring Drew Wellington down to the floor.”

  “That’s enough for me,” said Boyd. He stretched around and grasped the tray. Under the plastic wrap, four dozen bar cookies glistened in the van’s light. My stomach growled.

  “The captain smells that on your notes, he’s going to have your hide,” Armstrong warned.

  “Fellas, fellas.” Tom’s voice was soothing. “We’re friends here. Let’s all have something to eat.”

  With this permission from their boss, Boyd and Armstrong lost no time ripping the plastic off the platter. While the crinkling paper occupied them, I gave Tom a puzzled look. But his eyes were hooded, so I knew something else was going on. If we all had something to eat, would we find out what two Furman County investigators thought of Drew Wellington, former district attorney?

  I didn’t know. In addition to being tired, I, too, was hungry. I sank my teeth into one of the Bleak House Bars, then swooned over the combination of chocolate, raspberry, cream cheese, and toasted pecans.

  Boyd licked his fingers and picked up his notebook. “Anything else you can tell us? Such as whether you recognized anyone in the library, besides Sandee Brisbane, that is,” he said, trying to sound serious. I thought again and said I wasn’t sure. I would have to ponder that one. Something was niggling at the back of my brain, but I couldn’t think of what it was.

  “You remember what kind of noise Roberta Krepinski made when she found Drew Wellington?” Boyd asked, casting a regretful glance back at the tray of Bleak House Bars.

  “She was moaning and calling for help. Loudly.” I described finding Roberta and then following her lead by helping the limp Drew Wellington to the floor. Suddenly I felt dizzy.

  “Wrap it up, guys,” Tom told the sergeants. He was gazing at me. Apparently, the two investigators weren’t going to divulge their opinions of Drew Wellington. Wait—now I remembered what had been bothering me. Should I tell Boyd and Armstrong about Marla hearing somebody else tell her about overhearing…Drew Wellington’s cell-phone conversation at DIA?

  “Hey, Goldy, look me in the eyes, would you?” Sergeant Armstrong commanded. I obliged. “Anything you know about the former district attorney that we might not?”

  What, was Armstrong reading my mind, too?

  “You’re hesitating,” Boyd prompted me.

  “Sorry.” I could hear the guilt in my voice. Could they? Best to come clean. “It’s just that my best friend, Marla Korman, shared some things with me about Drew Wellington. Unsubstantiated things.” When nobody said anything, I reluctantly went on. “Marla said that he was involved with Patricia—”

  “Ingersoll,” said Armstrong. “Yeah, we’re aware of her.”

  “Marla also told me Drew preferred women who were younger than he was. She mentioned a cell-phone conversation Drew Wellington had at DIA that a bunch of folks overheard.” I told them about the former district attorney’s complaints concerning the women in his life. “That’s it, guys. That’s all I know.”

  “Mrs. Schulz, I want to hear what else you know,” Armstrong ordered me, not as nicely this time.

  I glanced at Tom, waiting for support, direction, I knew not what. But he was looking at his large hands. What was going on here? I glared at Armstrong.

  “What?”

  “You’re sure you saw Sandee Brisbane?” he asked mildly. “Watching, stalking, from the stacks? Right near where Drew Wellington was sitting?”

  “Why are we coming back to this?” I asked, my tone brusque. “So your guys can laugh at me again?”

  Boyd was rubbing his hands together. “Well, maybe you’ve heard something from the supposed killer of your ex-husband—”

  “Supposed?” I interjected. “I was right there when she confessed. As were half a dozen firefighters, who just happened to be able to confirm the story. Besides, you all just said she was dead.”

  “Right, right.” Armstrong again. “We do all know that Sandee Brisbane confessed to killing your ex right before she disappeared over the ledge into the Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve, which was on fire.”

  “She did,” I insisted. Why wasn’t Tom saying anything? I looked to him for confirmation. Why was he still staring at his hands?

  “You guys need to tell me what you’re saying,” I said firmly. “And what this has to do with Drew Wellington.” And why you’re asking me about it, I wanted to add, but thought better of it.

  Armstrong inhaled loudly. “We’re not saying she’s alive. But if you saw her near Drew Wellington, well, that might be a different story.”

  When he didn’t say more, I rubbed my forehead and looked out at the crime-scene unit, which had set up bright lights around their large van. The cop cars’ flashing lights lit the night.
How soon would I be able to go home? I wondered.

  “What I tell you stays in this car, okay, Goldy?” Boyd asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Drew Wellington,” he went on, “recently received three threatening e-mails. Very graphic threatening e-mails, saying the former D.A. needs to keep his pecker in his pocket and move. Move away from Aspen Meadow, that is, or else. The person sending the e-mails says she’s a woman who knows what to do if her words aren’t taken seriously. The whole department has been alerted, and we’re supposed to be on the lookout for her.”

  “Be on the lookout for whom?” I asked. “A woman you say is dead?”

  Nobody said anything for a minute. “All we have,” Armstrong reluctantly said, “is a partial view from a security camera. Maybe a woman, maybe sort of young, wearing a sweatsuit with the hood up. You didn’t see anybody like that, did you?”

  “That’s too general a description, I think. What security camera are you talking about?” I asked.

  “Not a very good one,” Boyd interjected. “But that’s ’cuz all the threatening e-mails have been sent from within the Furman County Library System, and each library only has one surveillance camera near the main entrance.”

  Great, I thought.

  Tom, Boyd, and Armstrong were all called away briefly to look at something inside the library. I sat quietly with the engine running. Threatening e-mails from inside the libraries? What had this woman, or this man posing as a woman, been threatening to do to Drew Wellington? And why had the innuendos been, ah, sexual in nature? Why had Wellington been told to move from our town?

  When Tom and the two sergeants returned, they looked unusually weary.

  “What is it?” I asked. Tom shook his head. I asked the sergeants about the nature of the threats against Drew Wellington.

  Armstrong and Boyd exchanged a glance. “Not that she was going to kill him,” Boyd finally said. “And we’ve told all the librarians to look out for this young brown-haired woman that you thought you saw, and to give us a call stat if they see her.”