by Sharon Sala
“Oh, yeah,” Red said, and then laid aside the file. “Good. At least that’s one less face to consider.” He stretched, then got up from his desk. “I’m going to get some coffee. Want some?”
“Yeah, thanks,” Ben said absently, and handed Red his cup without looking up.
A few minutes passed before it occurred to him that Red hadn’t come back. He looked up, searching the room for his partner’s face, but he was nowhere to be seen. He stood and stretched. He liked being a cop, but not the paperwork that went with it.
Suddenly he saw Red come rushing into the room. Wherever he’d been, he’d left both of their coffee cups behind.
“Did you have to pick it?” Ben asked.
“Pick what?” Red asked.
“The coffee beans.”
“Oh! Yeah, that’s right. Dang, where did I leave those cups?” Then he shook his head, as if reminding himself why he’d been hurrying in the first place. “Never mind about the coffee. I ran into Jones in the hall, and you’ll never guess what he told me.”
“Jones who?” Ben asked.
“Mike Jones—from the bomb squad.”
An image of a short bulldog of a man emerged from Ben’s memory. “Oh, yeah, that Jones. So, what’s the big scoop?”
“He had a call early this morning to go to a big fire down in the warehouse district. At first they thought it might have been started by a bomb, because someone said they heard a loud explosion. But it was later determined that the fire had been burning for some time before it detonated some stored chemicals.”
“And how does that impact us?” Ben asked.
“Jones said his buddy with the fire department said it was arson, but that’s not the kicker. It’s who the warehouse belongs to that he thought might interest us.”
“And the winner is…?” Ben drawled.
“One Ariel Simmons, that’s who.”
Ben jerked. “The hell you say.”
“Jones also said that there was some real strange stuff in that fire that didn’t bum up.”
“Like what?” Ben asked.
“Like a pair of manacles and chains attached to a wall that didn’t completely bum, and he said there were also the remnants of what looked like a bed.”
“Wouldn’t it be interesting to find out what Ariel has to say about this?” Ben asked.
Red was already putting on his coat. “I knew you’d say that,” he said. “I already told Captain Floyd we’re paying her another visit.”
***
Ariel was playing the role of patient to the hilt. Betty had made two trips to her room since breakfast, bringing honey and lemon tea for Ariel’s cough, and then the morning mail as soon as it came. She was fielding all of Ariel’s phone calls as she’d been instructed to do, so that if questions arose, there would be no doubt in anyone’s mind that Ariel Simmons was ailing.
Just before noon, the doorbell rang. Ariel heard the chimes echoing in the downstairs hall and fluffed her hair just a bit to look mussed, then pinched her nose several times to give it a red, stuffy appearance. She grabbed a handful of tissues and then flopped backward into the nest of pillows behind her, then yanked and kicked the bedclothes to make it look as if she had suffered a long, sleepless night. Satisfied that she was now in character, Ariel waited for the inevitable knock on the door.
“I’m sorry, Miss Simmons, but there are two detectives who insist upon seeing you.”
“If they want to risk my contagion, they are welcome to come up, but I’m not feeling well enough to come down.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Betty said. “I’ll go tell them.”
Within minutes, another knock came. Ariel smirked. Just like moths to a flame, they obviously couldn’t resist seeing if she was really indisposed.
“Come in,” she croaked, and then lowered her eyelids to half-mast as the door opened. “Detectives, forgive me for not greeting you properly, but as you can see, I’m a bit under the weather.”
Red glanced at Ben, trying to judge his expression to see if his partner was as uncomfortable as he was. But Ben’s face gave away nothing of what he was thinking. Red waited for his partner to make the first move.
Ben was quietly judging the scene before him. Granted, Ariel Simmons was in bed, but other than a half-empty cup of tea and a few tossed tissues, he could see no signs of illness. There was no cough medicine in sight, no pill bottle on the table, and there were no signs of illness or fatigue on her face. She didn’t appear feverish, although she was playing it to the hilt, and her eyes were clear and glittering with interest. He decided they were being had and refused to comment on her condition.
“We had a few more questions for you,” he said.
Ariel frowned. At the least, she had expected a word of apology from them.
“If you must,” she said. “But please don’t draw this all out. I’m not well.”
Ben nodded. “So you said.”
Ariel’s color rose, but not from fever. She scooted herself up to a sitting position.
“Ask away.”
“One of your warehouses burned down last night. The firemen found some interesting items in the fire. Items that relate to the picture Chaz Finelli had of you—items that would punch a lot of holes in your claim that the picture in question was faked.”
Ariel’s heart skipped a beat. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. I have no business that has need of a warehouse. You must be mistaken about the ownership.”
“No, there’s no mistake,” Ben said. “The deed on the property states it belongs to the Simmons Ministry.”
Ariel shook her head, still maintaining a perplexed attitude. To throw a little reality into the moment, she managed a sneeze.
“Bless you,” Red said.
“Why, thank you,” Ariel said, and gave him a smile.
“About the warehouse?” Ben persisted.
Ariel shrugged. “I really don’t know,” she said. “However, I will tell you that my ministry receives hundreds of property donations during any given year. I suppose it’s possible that one of my viewers donated such a building in God’s name, but I have no knowledge of it. I will give you my accountant’s name and number. He could clarify that for you better than I. I don’t bother myself with such things. I’d rather focus my energies on the Word.”
Red wrote down the accountant’s name and number as she gave them out, but Ben wouldn’t let go.
“Where were you last night?”
Ariel gave them an indignant look. “Not again!” she cried. “Must I constantly prove myself to you people? Don’t you have someone else you can harass?” Then she picked up the phone by her bedside and buzzed for Betty to come up. “I was in bed last night, suffering from this cold or flu or whatever you call it. Betty was here. Ask her yourself.”
As if on cue, Betty knocked and then entered. “Yes, ma’am, how can I help you?”
“These men have some questions they want to ask you.”
She turned. “Yes?”
For all it was worth, Ben asked the questions, but in his opinion, the woman could easily be lying on her employer’s behalf.
“Betty, is it?”
The maid nodded.
“Okay, Betty, can you tell us what time it was when you last saw Miss Simmons last night?”
The maid frowned, trying to remember. “I brought her some honey-lemon tea for her throat just before ten. She was as ill as she is now, so I left her alone to sleep.”
“Do you live on the premises?” Ben asked.
“Yes, my rooms are directly off the kitchen downstairs.”
“Are you able to hear anyone coming or going?”
“Yes, definitely. My bedroom is next to the garage, and I heard nothing.”
Ariel gave both men a triumphant glance. “That will be all, Betty.” She waited until her maid was gone; then she glared at both men. “Before you ask, yes, that’s my car out front, so if I had driven it, there’s the possibility Betty would not have heard it. However, it
’s been parked out front since the day before yesterday. It has not been moved, and with all your snoopy technology, I’m sure there’s some mechanic or something who could verify that. Now, if you gentlemen will let yourselves out, I need to rest.”
Ben knew she was lying about the fire. He could see it in her eyes, which made him suspect she was lying about everything else. With the right wig and makeup, she could be the woman China had seen. He knew she wore wigs, she’d admitted as much, and she had been lying about everything else from the start of their investigation, but at the moment, he didn’t have any leverage to make her break.
As they started to leave, he saw she’d been reading the Dallas Morning News, which meant she’d seen the picture on the front page. He reached for the paper, then tossed it in her lap with the headlines facing her.
“Interesting likeness, isn’t it?”
Ariel turned pale. “You can’t be serious! That woman doesn’t look anything like me.”
“I don’t know about that,” Ben said, then elbowed his partner. “What do you think, Red? Does that look like Miss Simmons?”
Red squinted his eyes, pretending to study her face.
“Well, with the right wig and makeup, I think she could pass.”
Ariel’s belly lurched, and for the first time since she’d taken to her bed, she really began to feel sick.
“Get out,” she moaned. “Just get out and leave me alone.”
Then she bolted from her bed and into an adjoining bath, slamming the door behind her. The sounds of retching were too real to be faked.
“What do you think, partner?” Red asked.
“I think we hit a nerve.”
Thirteen
Mattie English was all out of sorts, and China had done her best to stay out of her way. The moment Dave Lambert had arrived at the ranch, Mattie’s good humor had fled. As an outsider, it seemed obvious to China that they cared for each other, but she didn’t know enough about their history to question what kept them at odds.
However, Dave and China had hit it off from the start. The retired cop was gruff but gentle with her. At least she knew where she stood with him. But it would seem that Mattie did not. She couldn’t be in the same room with him without making a caustic comment about one thing or another. China went to her room to escape the consequences of both their bad tempers.
By noon, Mattie was frazzled and snapping constantly at Dave. Finally China overheard the confrontation as Dave’s patience ended.
“Damn it to hell, Mattie, I know you don’t want me here. You’ve made that blatantly clear. But this isn’t about you. It’s about that young woman in there. I made a promise to your son, and I aim to keep it, which leaves you with two choices. Put up or shut up.”
China held her breath as the silence lengthened. Then she heard a pan bang against the cabinet as Mattie uttered one word.
“Fine.”
“Fine what?” Dave asked.
“You figure it out,” Mattie said, and that ended that.
China smiled. Although she wasn’t really tired, she decided that she would stay in her room rather than get in the middle of their cease-fire. A small bookcase beneath the window held an assortment of books. She knelt before the shelves, searching the titles for something to read. As she looked, she heard an approaching car and pushed aside the curtains to look out.
It wasn’t Ben’s car, although she hadn’t really expected it to be. It was too early for him to come home. With no knowledge of Mattie’s daily routine, she watched out of curiosity. The car came to a stop at the end of the walk leading to the house. The sun was glaring on the driver’s side of the windshield, so for a moment, she couldn’t see who got out. Then the driver moved into her line of vision.
It was a tall, slender woman wearing dark slacks and a knee-length coat, with a fur-lined hood pulled tightly around her face. A large bag hung awkwardly on her shoulder, while sunglasses disguised a good portion of her face. As China watched, the woman ducked her head and started toward the house at a run.
Staggered by a sudden panic, it was all China could do to get up. She bolted out the door, calling Dave’s name as she ran.
The fear in China’s voice yanked Dave out of his chair. He came around the corner on the run, his gun drawn.
“What?” he yelled.
She pointed toward the door.
“A tall woman—running toward the house. I—”
Mattie was there within seconds. “What’s wrong?”
“China said there’s a woman running toward the house.”
At that moment a series of rapid knocks sounded on the door, and then it flew back against the wall, rattling the ornaments on the Christmas tree standing in front of the picture window.
Dave turned, his gun aimed.
China screamed.
Mattie began to shout as she ran toward the woman. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot. It’s the Avon lady.”
Almost immediately, Dave recognized his neighbor, Patsy Reynolds.
“Damnation, Patsy. You almost got yourself shot.”
Patsy’s face mirrored her confusion. “I knocked,” she mumbled, as her bag slid to the floor. Her eyes filled with tears as she looked at Mattie. “I was in a hurry. I needed to pee.”
Overwhelmed with relief, China started to laugh as Dave began to curse even more.
“Well, you know where the bathroom is,” Mattie said.
Patsy shook her head. “I don’t need to anymore. Guess I got it scared out of me.”
This made China laugh even harder. Patsy didn’t know whether to be insulted or glad no one was angry that she’d come in without an invitation.
Mattie stifled a sigh, although it was funny. Dave looked as if he’d swallowed a bug as he holstered his gun and stalked out of the room.
“Have a seat, Patsy. You’ll have to excuse us, but we’ve been under a little stress, and you just got caught in the middle.”
Patsy Reynolds sat, but on the edge of the chair, in case she needed to make a quick getaway.
“Ya’ll must have really been mad,” she said, eyeing the doorway where Dave had disappeared. “He had a gun.”
This sent China into convulsions of laughter, and she waved herself out and escaped to her room.
“Who’s she?” Patsy asked, as China left.
Mattie rolled her eyes. “Oh… she’s family. Distant… but family, just the same.”
Back to business, Patsy nodded, then reached into her bag. “Here’s the latest brochure. We’ve got a special on hand cream—the kind you like. And if you buy two tubes, you get the third one free.”
The last thing Mattie wanted was to look at Avon products, but considering what could have happened a few moments ago, she decided the least she could do was spend a few dollars for hand cream. It was a whole lot cheaper than flowers for the poor woman’s funeral.
***
Connie Marx stood at the window of her Highland Park apartment, contemplating her life. She’d had her last drink more than two days ago, after accepting the fact that she’d brought every damn thing that was happening to her down on her own head. A Mississippi sharecropper’s daughter, she’d spent most of her life dreaming of success, and she’d had it all—until she’d messed around with someone else’s husband.
All during her days of self-pity, when she’d stayed lost in the whiskey, an old memory had stayed in her head. Just after her sixth birthday, it had started to rain. It rained for five days straight. The river below their house began to flood, and just before sundown, their house was swept away by the waters. Her daddy had stood on a rise above the river with a look on his face that she had never before seen; then he sat down with his head between his knees and began to cry. Two days later, he hung himself from the rafters of his brother’s barn, ending his worries, but exacerbating theirs. In a fit of blind grief, her mother had packed up all five of her children and set out walking. They walked all night and most of the next day before the children began to cry, begging her t
o stop. So she stopped.
But she never managed to get up. Someone passing by on the road reported a woman and five kids were in some sort of distress. Just before nightfall, a couple of police cars drove up and loaded the kids in one car and Connie’s mother in the other. They never saw her again. In later years, she learned that her mother had gone quietly insane and died one night in her sleep. The weakness of both her parents, to just quit on themselves and the children they’d brought in the world, had been something Connie kept to herself. She’d prided herself on being strong and focused, with her eye always on the goal ahead and never on her personal self.
But then she had met Larry Dee Jackson, and the suave, sexy superstar had sweet-talked her right into his bed. In one fit of passion, Connie Marx had traded her dreams for pleasure.
For a while she’d wallowed in self-pity and had even contemplated ending it all herself. But that was before the dream—before she remembered the dark, bloody face of her father as he swung from the rafters, his eyes bulging, his lips slack and swollen, and the puddle of pee on the ground below his feet. She’d come out of her bed with a gasp. In that moment, a plan was born.
Now she paced the living room of her Highland Park apartment, waiting for Detective English to return her call.
A few minutes later, her telephone rang. With a strong sense of déjà vu, she picked up the receiver.
“Hello.”
“Miss Marx, this is Ben English. I have a note here that you called.”
Connie’s fingers tightened around the receiver in her hand.
“Yes. There’s something I need you to do for me.”
Ben had never had a murder suspect ask him for a favor before. To say he was surprised would have been putting it lightly.
“Yes?”
“I want to take a lie detector test, and I want you to set it up for me. I didn’t kill Chaz Finelli, and I want you to prove it.”
Ben was stunned. The vehemence in her voice was not faked, nor was her confidence in herself.
“You know that such a test is not admissible in court,” he said.
“Yes, but I also know the weight one carries in the public eye, and I will not be dragged through any more of the mud Finelli made of my life. He’s dead. I’m not sorry, but I didn’t do it.”