An Unattended Death

by Victoria Jenkins

  “Were you engaged?”

  “Engaged?” he said.

  “Had you bought her a ring?” asked Irene.

  “No,” he said. “You mean like go pick out a rock and present it on bended knee?”

  “Yeah, more or less.”

  “I don’t think guys do that these days,” he said. “But we had an understanding.”

  “There’s a really big diamond from Tiffany’s among her things,” said Irene.

  Ira gave her a long, thoughtful look. “No kidding,” he finally said.

  “No kidding,” she said. There was a silence.

  “Maybe it was her mother’s.”

  “Not according to Dr. Paris.”

  “She never wore it,” he said.

  “So where’d it come from?” asked Irene.

  “How would I know where it came from?” he snapped, “I never saw anything like that. Things weren’t that great at the moment but I’d have known if there was someone else. I mean, you’d know something like that.” He sounded, she thought, the tiniest bit insecure. Maybe he was telling the truth.

  “I think you did know,” she said, pushing.

  Ira’s face hardened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Exactly that. I think you did know. I think it was over between you. I think that that was your understanding. Finish fixing your car and clear out. And I don’t think you were happy about it.”

  “I am finished,” he said. “And I’m out of here, you’re right about that part.”

  “Oh?” she said, “When?”

  “Tomorrow. I’m going home. And you can’t stop me unless you arrest me and you’re not going to do that. You’re fishing, that’s all. You don’t know what happened to Anne, how she died or anything.”

  “How long is this transcontinental expedition going to take?” Irene asked.

  “It’ll take however long I feel like taking,” he said. “I’m going to head east and take the Hi-line across Montana and cut up into Canada. It’ll take a while. Six days maybe. Eight days. Maybe more. I don’t know.”

  “Answer your phone and check your messages,” said Irene, “and let me know if you’re broken down somewhere. You’ve got my card.”

  “You bet, Detective. Wouldn’t want to lose touch.” His voice was bitter, none of the easy flirtatiousness of before. She’d made him very angry.

  Irene wondered if it was wise to let him go, knowing he’d be out of the country in Canada for part of his journey—it wouldn’t be easy to extract him from there if she decided she needed to. Oh, well, she thought, he was right, of course. To keep him here she’d have to charge him with something and she had nothing. She didn’t really believe that he’d killed Anne—though the flash of anger was interesting and unexpected—just that he had a possible motive and no real alibi.

  XIX

  Elliot Burton, Irene thought, was nervous as a cat and she wondered why. They were sitting in the Adirondack chairs in front of the Paris house near the bluff and he kept shifting position as though he couldn’t get comfortable. He was handsome in a slightly blurred, boyish way. He kept running his fingers through abundant wavy auburn hair, raking it back off a high, pale forehead.

  “I can’t believe this,” he said. “I’m just having a really hard time with it. I wish I’d been here. I don’t know, I just feel totally weird.”

  The ‘everything happens to me’ sort, thought Irene. A person who, no matter what happens or to whom, it’s always their story.

  “How are your boys doing, do you think?” she asked.

  “The boys,” he said, “Yeah. They seem okay.”

  “And your wife?”

  “Oh, Libby’s fine.”

  “How come it’s so hard for you?” Irene asked.

  He swiveled his head and gave her a baffled look. “Well,” he said, “it’s hard on everybody actually. Nobody’s fine. I didn’t mean that.”

  Irene waited. People like Elliot talked, they filled silences. She’d learned that over the years.

  “Nobody’s fine,” he said again. “I mean, Libby’s not fine, she’s coping is what I meant. You know, I’m sure you’ve noticed, she’s just furiously mowing all the time. This is a totally weird family. No one ever says how they feel. Everyone just goes around with a long face looking somber and holding it all in. No one talks about it. No one cries even. Have you noticed that?” he asked, turning to look at her. “No one cries.”

  “Maybe no one’s sad,” said Irene.

  “Well, Oliver’s sad,” he replied, “that’s for sure.” Then quickly, “I’m sad. We’re all sad. It’s just such a shock it’s hard to know how you feel.”

  “What was your relationship with Anne?” Irene asked.

  “My relationship,” he said, “what do you mean? Brother-in-law.”

  “Did you like her? How did you get along?”

  “Oh, that,” he said. “Well, we were close actually,” his voice softening. “I mean, we always had a special bond. I don’t know why really, but we did.” Elliot, defying the Paris family reticence, choked up. He flushed and put a hand to his face, pinching the corners of his eyes as tears leaked down his cheeks. Irene watched. It could, she thought, be a performance, but it looked like real grief.

  “How close?” asked Irene. “Did you sleep with her?” She didn’t know why she asked it, the question just popped into her head.

  Elliot turned and looked at her, speechless. He wagged his head slowly, more in wonderment than denial, as though such an outlandish concept took a lot of getting used to. It was a long moment before he echoed, “Sleep with her? I’d never do that. I could never do that to Libby.”

  But Irene wondered. She thought it was possible he could look right at her and lie. An innocent lamb. It was what he was trained to do, his profession, make faking look real. She was amazed by a sudden welling frustration. She felt like slapping him. “Did you get the part?” she asked.

  “What?” he said.

  “In L.A., the television part.”

  “Oh,” he said, “I don’t know, I haven’t heard.” He brightened, “It went well.” He looked at his watch. “I should call,” he said, “call my agent.” He paused, then went on. “They never want you to call. They hate for you to call, but the waiting sucks. You know, always waiting for the phone to ring. Bad news travels fast, they say, but in this business it’s the opposite. You get the part and they’re on the phone before you’re even home from the audition. They act like they got it for you, hallelujah—you’re great, they’re great, love, peace, and brown rice. You don’t get it, they wait two weeks to let you know and that whole time you’re still halfway hoping. You know better, but even so, you still hope. We could use the money,” he added glumly.

  “What was Libby’s relationship with her like?”

  “With Anne?”

  “Yes, with Anne.” Deliberately changing the subject, trying to keep him off-balance.

  “Oh, well,” he said after a minute. “It’s just like happenstance really that Libby’s even part of this family. Libby’s entire life experience is completely different. Moving back to Texas, teacher’s daughter, hardscrabble. It’s hard for me to think of them as sisters even.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question,” said Irene.

  “No,” he said. “But, you know, in fact Anne adored Libby. She admired her.”

  “How do you know that?” asked Irene.

  “I know because she told me,” he said. “But you could tell. To Anne, Libby was exotic. Libby’s such a cowboy and Anne admired that. Anne liked to borrow her clothes, dress up like her. Her Levi jacket, her snappy shirts, hooded sweatshirt. Stuff like that. Libby’s authentic in a pretty amazing way. She’s tough.”

  He drifted off in his own thoughts. It took a moment before he turned back to her. “She was born with teeth, Libby was, the sign of a witch. Her mother told me that. But all Libby sees is what she never had and won’t ever have. The Barnard education, all the pretty dresses, money,
Daddy. She’s bitter, if you want to know the truth. It’s all about Oliver really, when it comes down to it. For Oliver, the sun rose and set on Anne. Libby could never get his attention.”

  Pretty much what Irene had thought.

  “Do you smoke?” he asked.

  “No,” said Irene.

  “Hardly anyone does anymore. In L.A. they still smoke.” He flashed her a smile. “Do you want a beer?” He was levering himself out of his chair. “I want a beer.”

  In a moment he was back, sliding in beside her again with two frosty IPAs hooked between his fingers, offering her one. She did want a beer but she shook her head no and watched as he twisted off the cap and tipped it back. He was nervous, Irene thought, needing the beer more than just wanting it. Calming his nerves.

  “Where is everyone?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “We’re all a little catatonic. Oliver is in his study. At least I assume he’s in his study. He always is. Nikki and Rosie are doing Pilates. It’s their big summer activity, the three of them—well, obviously not the three of them now. The two of them. Every morning they watch a DVD on Anne’s computer and follow along. Abdominal exercises for core strength.”

  “Right,” said Irene, peeved. She didn’t need Pilates defined. She wasn’t that provincial. “We’re actually in possession of Anne’s computer at the moment,” she said, thinking that was something else she needed to follow up on. Someone was supposed to be working on getting past Anne’s passwords and deeper into her files and documents and internet history.

  “That makes sense,” he said. “I guess Nikki’s got a computer because they’re inside watching the Pilates DVD. I just saw them. And Libby,” he went on, “I don’t know. I think she’s in the orchard pruning. These old apple trees, they’re heirloom apples and they’ve been neglected so long it’s hard to know what to do. She’s not mowing or we’d hear the machine. Ira,” he said, “presumably is in the barn. At least that’s where he was earlier when I came down from the loft. He hasn’t exactly resurfaced after all this. He was just lying on his cot.” He caught himself and looked sharply at her. “You did know he’s been—well, I’m sure you did know he’s been sleeping in the barn.”

  Irene nodded yes.

  “Yvonne’s been carrying his meals out to him,” Elliot continued. “She likes him because he understands French. He gets special dispensation. And Leland walked down the beach to Nigel’s with my boys, looking for a drink. That’s where I was headed when you showed up. Is that everybody?” he asked, ticking off on his fingers.

  Looking for a drink, Irene thought. It wasn’t even noon. “What are you going to do with your rental car?” she asked.

  He looked at her. “Yeah,” he said, “that’s a problem I didn’t really think about at the time. They really hammer you on these one-way rentals.”

  “What was your big hurry?” she asked.

  “No big hurry,” he said.

  “Why didn’t you sit it out in Portland?”

  He thought for a minute. “I was thinking I got the part, to tell you the truth, feeling flush. Feeling good about things. I was up, you know. Upbeat. Sitting around or taking a bus seemed lame, a loser deal. I’ve been there. It saps you, grinds you down. Being an actor, you have no control over how your life goes. It’s always someone else’s call.” He glanced at her. “You probably can’t imagine the difference between getting the part and not getting the part. It isn’t just the money. The money’s big, don’t get me wrong, but it’s more than that. It’s psychological. It’s affirmation. You’re good. What you do matters. They treat you like royalty, fly you first class. Everyone makes a fuss. I rented a Neon, as you may have noticed. I’d rather have rented a luxury car or a specialty car. I’d like to try out the Solara or the Cayenne or something fun. God, a Taurus even.”

  “You weren’t in a hurry to get home?”

  He looked at her. “I was in a hurry to get home in the ordinary sense of wanting to get home instead of spending a night on a stinking bus or in some lame airport hotel.” He was getting increasingly worked up. “Obviously it was a bad idea. Now I’m stuck with a rental car I don’t quite know how to unload and my own car is parked up at Sea-Tac racking up a tab, my wife is furious and this situation down here makes it a little harder to take off again to deal with any of it. Plus, now here you are, trying to make something out of it.” He looked at his watch again. “I need to call. This whole thing sucks. The business sucks. If you’d asked me yesterday I’d have said I had the part. This was a good part. It was recurring. I’d have been a regular. I needed it.” He got up.

  Elliot, Irene thought, had money troubles. Money troubles and a troubled conscience. Her phone was vibrating on her belt and she nodded up at him, reaching for the phone, dismissing him, the interview over.

  It was Victor—Victor who never called—stabbing her with anxiety.

  “Hi, honey,” she said, walking toward her car, trying to keep the worry out of her voice, “what’s up?” Victor had been asleep when she left the house.

  “Nothing,” he said, “just checking. Are you at work?”

  “I am,” she said. “What about you?”

  “I’m going to work,” he said. “I’m off at seven.”

  “I’ll be home,” she said.

  AND SHE was. She stopped for groceries and was home earlier than she’d been in weeks. She grilled a chicken breast, shredded it and tossed it together with chopped romaine and a dressing she made with lemon, garlic and an egg. Something lean and green after weeks of drive-through.

  “What happened, Ma?” Victor asked.

  She glanced up. He wasn’t looking at her. They’d eaten the salad at the table in the backyard, talking of other things. There was a bicycle Victor wanted with a fixed gear, something she didn’t quite understand and he tried to explain—more retro than anything, he said, an old school bike with only one gear and no brakes. To stop you stood on the pedals. She thought it sounded dangerous but Victor said no, not once you got used to it. He’d seen a used one advertised in the Olympia paper and thought he might buy it. He had enough money. He wondered if she could drive him down there to try it out, and she said yes, on her next day off. But when he asked when that would be she couldn’t answer. After her trip to Boston she guessed.

  Then they were silent for a while until he asked, “What happened, Ma?” not looking at her. Something in his voice telling her that he was afraid for her safety and afraid that whatever happened had something to do with him; that there was something he should do about it but he wasn’t sure what or that he was up to doing it. He wasn’t a child anymore, but the child he’d been didn’t want to lose another parent to violence, and he wasn’t yet sure how to be the man he was becoming or what was required of him.

  Minimize it, she thought. He doesn’t want details, he wants reassurance. “It was something to do with work and it’s taken care of,” she said. “I filed a report and it’s handled.” Which was true. She’d come back into town and written up an account and handed it in to the chief deputy, making a record. “I’m fine,” she said.

  “Okay,” Victor said.

  And that was that. He’d wanted reassurance and she’d given him enough to let him believe that the grown-ups were handling it, other people knew, and he could go back to being a kid. But she’d seen, had a glimpse anyway, of his very adult awareness that it was a perilous world out there where things you didn’t see coming could change your life in an instant.

  Now she was wondering what had passed between Theo Choate and Victor the night before. She hadn’t thought about it at the time, but looking back it seemed obvious that Theo had done as she suggested and stopped by the house, and had probably come to some determination about what he was going to do about Victor and Patrick. Then she turned her mind away. The evening was warm and pleasant, she was glad to be home, and she didn’t want to think about the night before.

  Victor got up and took the plates in without being asked. In the s
treet out front Irene heard the approach of an ice cream truck— a sound of summer—and after a while Victor came back around the house eating an Eskimo Pie with one for her. For the first time in a long time Irene felt totally content and in the moment.

  XX

  Theo Choate had seen Irene’s name on the witness list for the day’s calendar, so he wasn’t surprised when she slipped into the courtroom at the start of the afternoon calendar; but as soon as she appeared he felt himself divided, as though one Theo Choate, the prosecutor, went about his day’s business as usual, while another Theo Choate watched critically from someplace outside his person and kept up a running commentary on his diction, grooming, grammar, necktie, inducing a crippling self-consciousness.

  Irene, on the other hand, wearing dark glasses, narrow black trousers, a snug black jacket, and pumps that made her taller than he remembered as she walked past him when she was called, seemed completely composed and professional. There was nothing in her manner or her expression or the direction of her gaze to indicate they’d ever met or that she had the slightest interest in him.

  She took the stand without removing the glasses, but took them off to be sworn. She looked better than he would have expected—the puffiness around her eye had subsided and whatever bruising had developed was mostly hidden under a thick plaster of makeup. If you didn’t know to look for it you might not even notice.

  The questioning and her testimony was perfunctory, just the dry recounting of the facts surrounding the investigation that had led up to a raid in the woods off Benson Lake Road, where a couple of entrepreneurs were cooking meth in a seventeen-foot travel trailer surrounded by chain-link fencing that contained a vigilant and angry pit bull. Irene related the demeanor of the accused during the arrest and the evidence that had been collected at the scene. Theo needed the testimony and he was glad she’d appeared. Sometimes officers didn’t show up, too busy or unwilling to give up time off, and then it was always harder to get a conviction.