Gillian nagged Donald to finish electrical work in basement, without help from Nick. Just impatient, or—?
She gave her maid Monday off, unusual.
Alone in house, she locked all doors—so no one would disturb her?—and went down to cellar.
She wore Whitney’s thick-soled sneakers. To insulate her, when she fiddled with electricity?
Had Gillian damaged the wiring and generated the spark that started the fire in the basement? Was she trying to do some of the work herself, or to do damage? Burning to death certainly would be a roundabout and ghastly way to commit suicide; anyway, her daughter didn’t think Gillian even knew about the nearly odorless gas behind the walls. So exactly what was she trying to accomplish?
My already smoldering suspicions had been fanned to a blaze by Mom’s ironic legal anecdote. I punched Bonelli’s number on my phone, hoping the detective would finally be willing to confirm them.
* * *
Dawn’s dining room was as unique as every other space of her apartment, which occupied the whole second floor above her shop. Tall, arched windows faced the street, and she dressed them only with white gauze curtains pinned back at the sides. In front of these, retro macramé hangers held pots of various ferns, vines and succulents, thriving in the muted light. The back wall displayed a large, freeform tapestry created by Dawn’s mother, a professional fiber artist.
Next to this hung a masterpiece I’d never seen before—an oversized Pop portrait of Dawn herself as a hippie princess. Obviously based on a photo, it zeroed in on just the left half of her face, the one eye shut and the rosy lips smiling. A string of beads draped across her forehead anchored her wavy russet hair as it lifted in the breeze.
“This is stunning!” I told her when I first set foot in the room. “Don’t tell me . . . Keith?”
She nodded, blushing a little. “He dropped it off last week, called it an early birthday present. I feel kind of funny, looking at myself in close-up while I’m eating, but if I didn’t hang it somewhere prominent, I’d hurt his feelings.”
“It’s perfect here.” I’d known her longtime boyfriend was a sought-after commercial artist, but this suggested an even more serious level of talent. “It’s a painting, right?”
“Airbrushed, yes. He’s got a few more in his studio—not all of me—and I told him he should try to get into a gallery show.”
I thought instantly of Chadwick’s own storefront art gallery. “He should show them to Nidra at Eye of the Beholder,” I said. “She likes modern, unusual things, and he could play the ‘local artist’ card.”
Dawn had draped her rustic dining table in a cloth with a Southwestern pattern; the half-dozen mismatched chairs had been painted in coordinating colors. She brought out a kind of tureen and ladled vegetarian chili onto plates for the two of us—the pieces all handmade pottery glazed in earth tones and freeform designs.
The recipe blended tomatoes, squash, zucchini, broccoli, chickpeas and corn; the spices also mixed well, with just a hint of South-of-the-Border fire. Dawn served it with chunky, organic sourdough bread.
As we tucked in, she reminded me, “So, you told me on the phone that you solved Gillian Foster’s murder.”
“Not exactly,” I corrected her. “Between me and Bonelli, I think we figured out how and why Gillian died. And it might have involved an attempted murder.”
While doing justice to the chili, I summarized for my friend the clues I’d tallied up. “Whitney told me Gillian saw a therapist in the past, and Donald mentioned that she’d also been on medication for her ‘anxiety.’ But Bonelli said that, with their latest move, Gillian decided she didn’t need either the shrink or the meds anymore, and that’s when her mood swings got more extreme. She also got more possessive of Whitney, complaining that the girl would rather spend time with her father, or even her horse, than with her own mother. Donald said he tried to tolerate these tantrums, and to persuade Gillian to go back to her therapist. But she just accused him of trying to sedate her so he’d be free to play around with Linda, the designer.”
“There was nothing between those two?” Dawn asked.
“They both deny it, and Bonelli believes them.”
“Seems strange that Gillian would become so obsessed with that idea, would almost want to believe Donald was unfaithful and out to kill her, with so little evidence. You studied psychology, Cassie. Any theories?”
I had given the question some thought since Gillian’s death. “Maybe those are the things she would have done, in her husband’s shoes. Or maybe she knew, on some level, how difficult she was to live with.”
With a baffled shake of her head, Dawn offered me more chili and took a couple additional spoonfuls herself.
“Anyway,” I continued, “our intrepid detective also checked out the wills of both the Fosters. Gillian had a decent income and savings from her work as an efficiency consultant, but the real money was Donald’s. If she divorced him, she might get a share of it, but more if he was unfaithful and she could claim emotional damages.”
“Sounds like she was trying to prove that,” Dawn said. “Not only accusing him to his face, but in front of their daughter and even outsiders, like Nick.”
“Yes, it could’ve been a cold-blooded plan . . . except Gillian may have even convinced herself. She probably didn’t need his money that badly, but I think she grew paranoid. Nick heard Gillian tell Donald that the only way he’d ever leave her was over her dead body. Maybe she even thought he planned to do away with her.”
“Is there any evidence of that?”
“Not much,” I admitted. “But Bonelli checked the recent activity on Gillian’s phone, and found that she visited several sites that explained electrical work on an old house, including the risks of electrocution. So you might ask, was she worried about Donald’s safety? Or planning to do him in? The fire investigator said the wall and part of the ceiling had been opened up in the area where the fire started. Nick said he did that, to check out the gas pipes. But some of the old knob-and-tube had been pulled through the gap, and both Nick and Donald denied touching that.”
“Gillian did hear them talking about that stuff, right? So she knew it was hazardous.”
“She did. The cloth covering on some wires was badly frayed, and those fibers also were found on the wire cutters. Nick and Donald knew the gas behind the walls was dangerous, so they’d never have exposed themselves by risking a spark.”
“But Gillian didn’t understand that risk,” Dawn offered.
“And finally, Nick had warned Donald that the old wires weren’t color-coded the same as they would be today. So even if he turned a circuit off, he should still assume a particular wire could be live until he tested it. Whoever stripped those wires on Monday apparently didn’t have that information, either.”
“Had to be Gillian, right?”
I nodded. “Our theory is that she intended to sabotage the job. The next time Donald turned the circuit on and touched a wire, at the very least he’d suffer a bad shock. If he just got injured, maybe Gillian would consider that his punishment for cheating on her. But if he died accidentally, she’d inherit everything. Including the complete attention and devotion of her daughter.”
Dawn tilted her head, bemused. “I guess because she always planned things so carefully, with such attention to detail, she believed she could pull off the perfect crime.”
A good insight, I thought. “She never learned what most of us come to accept, early on: Nothing in life is ever perfect.”
Chapter 24
In spite of both of our speculations, Bonelli decided there really was no point in trying to prove that Gillian had accidentally killed herself while trying to do away with her husband. It would only hurt Donald and Whitney, who already had been through enough. So the official report by the Chadwick PD concluded that Ms. Foster may have tried to finish the electrical work in the cellar herself, unaware of some serious hazards, and sparked the fire. Based on that theory, the case was dec
lared closed.
This allowed her husband and her daughter to bury Gillian with a dignified funeral, attended by friends, family and a few business associates. Whether or not Donald or Whitney nurtured any lingering suspicions as to what she’d been up to in the cellar that Saturday, others accepted Gillian’s death as simply a tragic accident.
Donald hired a contractor who specialized in older homes to finish the cellar quickly and simply, with an eye to safety rather than period detail. As soon as the repairs were finished, he put the Ramsford-Cooper house on the market. In the meantime, the Chadwick Historical Society finally added the home to its official register; possibly that would blunt the negative impact of the previous owner having died there. The real estate ad stated that historically minded buyers were welcome to also purchase any of the antique furnishings.
When I last heard from Donald Foster, he and Whitney had moved to a new-build condo in a neighboring town. He said they badly needed a place with “no maintenance, no history. . . and no painful memories.”
* * *
Over Fourth of July weekend, as part of Chadwick’s annual outdoor celebration, several area bands were scheduled to perform in the quaint gazebo of Riverside Park. Quintessence got a slot on Saturday afternoon and invited Mark to sit in with them for three numbers, his first public gig as a jazz guitarist. I rallied as many people as I could to come with me, so that afternoon the audience included Sarah, Robin, Dawn and Keith.
It was a lovely, clear day. At least a hundred people sat in lawn or camp chairs, or sprawled on blankets, covering the swath of grass between the gazebo and the nearby river. I knew Mark worked some Saturday mornings, but as I listened to Quintessence’s first few numbers, I kept wondering when he would show up. About five minutes before he was due go on, he texted me to say he was running late. He must also have contacted Stan, because shortly afterward the group went ahead and played “Summertime,” one of the arrangements I knew Mark had rehearsed with them.
Tracy did a good job on the song, her style less breathy than usual. Her outfit today also was more family-friendly, though still forties flamboyant—a “patriotic” combo of red shorts and a snug blue sailor top over a red-and-white-striped tee.
Eventually Mark came hiking up from the parking lot with his guitar, his dark hair a bit tousled and his demeanor sheepish. As he took to the stage, Stan introduced him and added, “Dr. Coccia apologizes for his late arrival, but at least he had an original excuse—he was spaying a rabbit.”
Many in the crowd chuckled, as did the other band members, and the drummer heckled Mark, “C’mon, man, you expect us to buy that old line?”
They went into a peppy rendition of “Blue Skies,” and Stan stepped aside to let Mark demonstrate how much his chops had improved over the past month or so. He diverged more confidently from the basic melody and rhythm, injecting just enough surprises to keep things fresh. The rousing applause at the end of the song seemed to recognize not only his musical skill, but his courage to step out of his customary role as hardworking veterinarian.
Before they began his second number, Tracy dedicated it to “a very special guy. I wasn’t sure he’d be able to make it here this afternoon, because he’s got an important job—life and death, really—and deals with a lot of emergencies. But I know he really wanted to come and I’m so glad he’s here!”
Lounging in a lawn chair among my friends, I started to fume, and Dawn glanced toward me in sympathy. If Tracy embarrassed both me and Mark in front of everyone in this park, I’d hunt her down some night and pepper-spray her so bad, she’d never sing another note again.
“Freddy,” she finished, in her vampiest tone, “you’ve started a five-alarmer in my heart!”
Everyone turned to stare at a muscular young man who blushed to the roots of his blond crew cut—one of the Chadwick firefighters who had responded to my 911 call at the Foster house.
I exhaled with a laugh, and Dawn grinned, too. We both probably shared the same thought: If Tracy had publicly declared her devotion to this guy, I shouldn’t have to worry about her bugging my boyfriend anymore.
I didn’t mind her sultry delivery of “Body and Soul,” because she obviously aimed it at the hunky fireman. Instead, I could relax and go on appreciating Mark’s inventive guitar work. He embellished this number with countermelodies that wove subtly in and out of Tracy’s notes. Once again, the group’s performance earned hearty applause.
When at last Mark joined us in the audience, Sarah, Robin, Dawn and Keith all praised his playing, and scolded him for keeping it a secret from them until now.
“Did Stan make up that story about the rabbit?” I asked him.
“Nope, absolutely true. I thought it would be a quick job, but after the surgery she had a bad reaction to the anesthesia. I couldn’t leave until we got her stabilized.”
Keith needled him, “Well, once you’re a famous jazz guitarist, you won’t have such hare-raising problems anymore.”
Though Mark grinned, he insisted, “Stan has no serious competition from me. I’ve enjoyed improving my guitar skills, but that will always be a hobby. If I’d had to choose between saving an animal’s life or getting to this gig, it would have been no contest. I knew a five-year-old boy was worried that his bunny might not make it, so seeing her EKG waves go back to normal was the bigger rush.”
I put my arm through his. “Good to know you have your priorities straight.”
* * *
By late July, the Tillman house also had gone on the market.
Bernice’s murder and Chester’s close call finally shamed his son and daughter into paying more attention to his living conditions. They hired a service to clean out his home, though they spared a few mementoes and collections that meant a lot to their father. They also vowed that under no circumstances would they ever sell the place to Dan Pressley.
Meanwhile, because complaints about Officer Brewer and Chief Hill came to the attention of the county prosecutor, the Dalton Police Department also had gone through some serious “housecleaning.”
Swayed by pressure from Sarah and Robin, Chester’s adult children did move him into Mountainview, just outside of Dalton. It allowed each resident to keep up to two small pets, so Chester brought both his indoor cats—his “girls”—Candy and Minnie. Becky and Chris talked Mountainview’s administrators into letting them bring their shelter kittens to visit one day each month, and also added Sugarman to their program. They told me the dementia patients especially benefited from this experience, often reminiscing fondly about pets they’d had in their younger days.
The doctors at the community did not consider Chester’s memory problems too severe, so he was allowed a fair amount of independence. Every Sunday morning, Robin drove him to services at the First Baptist Church, where the parishioners welcomed him back warmly.
His new one-bedroom apartment included a good-size living/dining area with a kitchenette. (The residents could get more substantial meals in a larger, common dining room.) A housekeeper tidied it regularly, but the community’s staff knew better than to change things around too much, or store them out of sight, without the residents’ permission. Chester would always have a tendency to clutter and misplace things, but with fewer possessions it did not get out of control.
He’d kept a dozen tapes of his radio interviews with famous sports figures, along with an old-school cassette player. These helped him make friends among the other men. They sometimes gathered at Chester’s place to listen to his conversations, recorded in the 1970s and early ’80s, with Jersey-born greats such as Joe Theismann, Dennis Rodman and Drew Pearson.
At Smiley’s house, the police had found the Nintendo games that Philip Russell had rejected as not worth much, as well as a few Star Trek toys for which Bob had not yet found a buyer on eBay. Chester didn’t care much about getting any of those things back. It angered him more to hear that Smiley had sold the American Girl doll online for a good price, and he grumbled, “Just hope it went to somebody who
appreciated it more than my daughter did.”
Though the cops also searched online for the Roger Maris baseball, it never resurfaced—whoever had bought that treasure would not be giving it back. We also never recovered Chester’s stolen Blue Note albums, but since I’d made a list of them, Sarah, Robin and I purchased several that had been remastered on CD.
One evening in mid-August, on his eighty-first birthday, we visited Chester to present him with these. I threw in a compact, easy-to-operate CD player so he could listen to the albums on his own or share them with his new friends.
Chester thanked us with a tear in his eye, not only for the gifts, but for helping to prove the plot against him and to nail those responsible. All three of us assured him that we were just glad we’d been able to help him get justice, for Bernice and himself.
The community had made him a birthday cake, and he offered us slices of what remained. With Robin’s help, he chose a CD to play—Moanin’, with Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers, first released on vinyl in 1958. The restoration had a clean, vibrant sound, and we all enjoyed the music. I made a mental note that Mark would probably love this album, too.
During the slow, romantic tune “Contemplation,” Chester leaned back in his easy chair and shut his eyes. “This was Bernice’s favorite,” he told us in a soft voice. “I just know she’s up there now, eavesdropping.” He sounded more nostalgic, though, than sad.
Candy, the pretty calico, responded to this mood by jumping onto Chester’s lap; the older man smiled and cuddled her. Minnie-Mouse, the tuxedo cat, balanced with queenly poise on the back of the sofa behind Sarah, Robin and me. The living room’s deep windows offered a lovely, twilight view of the community’s landscaped gardens, shadowed by mature trees. Here Chester could leave his curtains parted and his blinds open, with no worries about predatory neighbors or rogue cops who might be out to harm him.
The windowsill held an electronic picture frame, a birthday gift from his son, James. Chester already had shown us the pictures loaded into it—various shots of both James and Sylvia with their spouses and Chester’s grandkids. Next to this stood a large vase filled with tiger lilies and other late-summer flowers, from the congregation at First Baptist.
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