No Rest for the Dead

by Andrew F. Gulli; Lamia J. Gulli

  Normalcy.

  Getting on with the routine things of life.

  But then just as she was on her way out to the garden to cut roses, Elsie approached her with the cordless house phone. “It’s the museum, asking for Mr. Thomas.”

  Rosemary waited until Elsie was out of earshot. “Hello?”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Thomas.” It was Chris’s secretary. “I hate to bother Mr. Thomas at home,” she cooed. “But something’s come up that needs his immediate attention. May I speak with him, please?”

  “He’s not here.”

  “Oh.”

  The single syllable was heavy on inflection, causing it to vibrate with implication. Rosemary’s cheeks flamed with anger and resentment, but the newfound audacity she’d exhibited last night was made shier by caution this morning. She decided she should volunteer nothing, say as little as possible.

  With all the composure she could muster, she asked, “Have you tried his cell phone?”

  “Numerous times. Mr. Olsen is quite anxious to speak with him. Do you have any idea where I might reach him?”

  “I’m sorry, no.”

  “Or when he might be available?”

  “No.”

  “Will you be coming in today, Mrs. Thomas?”

  The busybody was really rubbing it in, wasn’t she? The department of the museum in which Rosemary worked wasn’t any business of hers. She was fishing for information—about Chris—that was all.

  “Not today, no. Now if you’ll excuse—”

  “You have no idea where I can find your husband?”

  Rosemary pretended not to have heard the question and disconnected before anything more could be said.

  Rosemary didn’t hear the door open or even his footsteps.

  Her brother, the last person she needed or wanted to entertain today, breezed in uninvited. Since their childhood, he’d had a knack for tormenting her when she could least withstand it. He’d shown up just in time for “cocktails, wouldn’t that be nice?” and her lack of enthusiasm for the idea hadn’t deterred him from asking Elsie to roll out the liquor cart.

  Having little choice, Rosemary left Elsie in charge of seeing that the children were given their supper and joined Peter, who had made himself right at home and poured himself a drink.

  “Wild horses couldn’t have kept me away. I couldn’t wait to see what you have planned for an encore. Throwing china at Chris’s head, maybe? Driving his car into the swimming pool? I hope it’s something fabulously dramatic. A drink for you, Rosie? Forgive my candor, but you look like you need a little pick-me-up.”

  “No, thank you. I’m surprised you’re not hungover. You were well into your cups last night.”

  “But not so drunk that I didn’t appreciate the full impact of your performance. My God, Rosie.” He raised his glass in a mock salute. “You made me proud. Standing up to Chris, with past and present lovers hanging on every accusatory word. And the museum mucketymucks, looking on with their mouths agape. It was too, too much. Honestly, I didn’t know you had it in you.” He winked. “Makes me wonder what else you’re capable of.”

  “Shut up, Peter,” she snapped.

  He grinned at her over the rim of his highball glass as he sipped from it. “Will the cheating bastard be joining us for drinks?”

  “I wouldn’t count on it.”

  Peter laughed. “What did he have to say for himself today, now that his sins have been exposed? Has he repented? Brought you flowers? An expensive piece of jewelry?”

  “I haven’t seen him today.”

  Peter set his glass on the table and leaned forward. “Really?”

  “He… he didn’t come home last night.”

  “Hmm. Interesting. I wouldn’t peg him as the tuck-tail type.” Peter looked at her archly. “Of course, who could really blame him for staying away after the public dressing-down you gave him? I suppose he’s playing the injured party.”

  “Which would be like him, wouldn’t it?”

  Peter reached for his drink again and sipped it while watching her thoughtfully. “It’s unlike you to speak ill of Chris. Even knowing what a fornicating, lying, opportunistic bastard he is, you’ve always defended him. Until now. Why the switch?”

  “He asked me for a divorce.” The secret was out. Everyone had heard her; there was no point in hiding it now. “He insisted on a divorce.”

  “And you lost it. Or so I gather by last night’s scene.”

  “Maybe I will have a drink.” She poured herself a glass of white wine and sipped from it, aware of her brother’s amused gaze. She wondered if he noticed that her hands were trembling.

  “Imagine Chris showing up at the museum this morning,” he said around a chuckle. “How did he face the staff? Your friend Tony Olsen looked ready to kill him. He’s probably called an emergency meeting of the board of directors, but I’ll bet he was there to greet Chris—”

  “Chris didn’t go to work today. At least he wasn’t there this morning.” She told Peter about the call she’d received.

  “Where do you suppose he spent the day?”

  “Honestly, I don’t care.”

  “Bunking with one of his lovers?”

  Rosemary acted as though she hadn’t heard.

  “Perhaps making cozy with the beautiful Justine?”

  Justine. Rosemary’s blood turned hot when she thought of Chris’s latest conquest. Everyone at the museum knew he had taken Justine on his most recent trip to France. She was the latest in a long line of pretty curators singled out for special attention by him.

  Peter continued with his speculation. “Or maybe he’s with that redheaded bitch, the one with the long fingernails who was draping herself over him last night when you made your move?”

  “They deserve each other,” Rosemary mumbled. Then, rousing herself, she said, “I don’t know where he is, only that I haven’t seen him since I left the museum last night.”

  “As for the state of your marriage…?”

  Tears filled her eyes. “My children,” she said hoarsely. “This will be awful for them.”

  Peter linked his hands and turned them inside out high above his head, stretching luxuriantly. “Ah, well,” he said on a sigh, “maybe you won’t have to worry about the messiness of a divorce. Maybe Chris’s other sins have also caught up with him.”

  She wiped her eyes. “What other sins?”

  “Come now, Rosemary. You can’t be that naïve. If he breaks his wedding vows, do you really believe he would be true blue to other covenants?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Peter brushed a nonexistent piece of lint off the leg of his trousers. “It’s not for me to say. Maybe you should ask Stan.”

  Stan Ballard, their lawyer and estate manager.

  “What would he know that I don’t?”

  Rosemary could tell by her brother’s sly grin that he was itching to tell. “Remember Chris’s recently broken finger?”

  She nodded.

  “He didn’t get it by slamming the car door on it as he claimed.” Peter’s gaze wandered to the Golden Gate Bridge, which was shrouded in fog. He smirked. “If Chris doesn’t turn up soon, maybe someone should drag the bay for his body.”

  At the San Francisco Police Department, Detective Jon Nunn’s cell phone rang. It was Tony Olsen.

  “Mr. Olsen. What—”

  “I thought we were past that ‘Mr. Olsen’ business.”

  They’d known each other for a few years now, but for some reason Jon Nunn could only think of Tony Olsen as Mr. Olsen. But he humored him now. “All right, Tony. It’s been a while. What’s up?”

  “Do you remember the McFall Art Museum?”

  “Of course,” Nunn said, remembering all too well the awkward hours he’d spent there like a fish out of water. Olsen had enlisted Nunn and his wife, Sarah, for a charity event at the McFall—the museum’s feeble attempt to give back to the community by establishing summer programs to keep kids likely to commit crimes off
the streets. Olsen said the exposure would be great PR for Nunn’s career, and he felt safer having Nunn and a couple of other cops in attendance while inviting a shady element indoors. Sarah jumped at the chance and enjoyed every minute of it.

  “Well, you know I’m on the museum’s board. Chairman in fact.” Olsen paused. “Something’s come up that I was hoping you could help me with.”

  “Sure, Tony.” Nunn was thinking the theft of a valuable painting, vandalism maybe.

  “It concerns Christopher Thomas, one of our curators.”

  Nunn remembered the name—how could he forget with the way Thomas had ogled his wife and every other attractive woman at the fund-raiser.

  “He hasn’t been seen in a week. It seems he’s gone missing.”

  Recognizing the seriousness in the older man’s voice, Nunn stepped into his cubicle to help block out the ambient noise in the Violent Crimes Unit, where detectives who weren’t actively detecting were talking on their phones or bullshitting with each other.

  Nunn listened as Tony Olsen described an ugly scene that had taken place between Christopher and Rosemary Thomas at a black-tie museum function a week earlier.

  “According to the staff, he didn’t report to work the following day, which was understandable,” Olsen said. “Everyone in the hall had overheard the confrontation. It was believed he was embarrassed and needed some time to sort things out with Rosemary.”

  “That’s the wife?”

  “Yes. She’s a dear friend of mine. She also works at the museum. A valued employee, a very knowledgeable woman.”

  “But they had issues.”

  “Well, his affairs have been no secret,” Olsen said scornfully. “He’s not a particularly nice guy, Jon. He and I have had our differences.”

  “Then why are you concerned?”

  “He’s disappeared. He hasn’t been seen since that night. Rosemary had her say, then ran from the hall. Chris excused himself and followed her out. That’s the last anyone saw of him.”

  Nunn thought a moment. “Has she reported him missing?”

  “She’s gone to Mexico.”

  “What?”

  “No, it’s not what you’re thinking. She went on behalf of the museum. There’s an exhibit in Mexico City, Spanish armaments from the conquest. She oversees the Arms and Armor department of the museum, so she went to check it out.”

  “Just like that?”

  “She’s been in conversation with the museum down there for some time. But, yes, her decision to go seemed rather sudden, though I encouraged it. She was still very upset over what she called ‘making a fool of myself at the Pollock event.’ If you ask me, the SOB had it coming to him, and more, for a long time. I told her a few days away would do her good.”

  “Is she aware that no one’s seen her husband since she told him off?”

  “She acknowledged that he didn’t come home the night of the incident, but she wasn’t that worried about it. I’m assuming it wasn’t unusual for Chris to spend a night out. Certainly since she had brought his philandering into the open, it wasn’t surprising that he didn’t go home.”

  Nunn mulled it over. “So no one’s actually reported him missing?”

  “No.”

  “I’m in homicide, Tony.”

  “I realize that. But I hoped to get your read on it before getting the police officially involved. There’s no love lost between Chris Thomas and me, but I’d hate for Rosemary’s heartache to be made public. More so than it’s already been. Not to mention the museum’s reputation. The board’s concern is safeguarding that.”

  “I get it. Donors wouldn’t appreciate a scandal involving museum personnel. But marital problems are marital problems, Tony. Common and not that scandalous.”

  After a slight hesitation Tony said, “I suspect that Chris’s extracurricular activities may have extended beyond unfaithfulness to his wife.”

  “Care to expand on that?”

  There was a pause, then Olsen said, “Not until I have to.”

  “Well, can you venture a guess where he might be?”

  “After five days, when he still hadn’t come to work, the museum staff came to me. Things were stacking up. Issues needed his attention. Beyond that, they were concerned for his well-being. I called Rosemary at her hotel in Mexico. She still hadn’t had any contact with him. She said if I wanted to find him, I should talk to one of his girlfriends.”

  “What exactly is it you’re asking me to do, Tony?”

  “To look into it, his disappearance. You’re the only policeman I know personally, and I know I can trust you to be discreet.”

  “I understand, but if he doesn’t turn up soon…”

  “I know.”

  They talked a few more minutes. Nunn promised to be back in touch soon.

  He would put out feelers, interview the girlfriends, do some snooping, and it would probably result in his locating Christopher Thomas sunning himself on a private beach with one of his babes, her ass in one hand, a tropical drink in the other.

  But a week after Nunn’s initial conversation with Tony Olsen—there’d been numerous conversations since—he was waiting outside customs when Rosemary Thomas reentered the United States.

  She looked bedraggled as she pulled her suitcase behind her. Nunn placed himself in her path. “Rosemary Thomas?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name’s Jon Nunn.” He presented her his badge. “I’d like to talk to you about the disappearance of your husband, Christopher Thomas.”

  6

  FAYE KELLERMAN

  If anything had taught her patience, it had been the past couple of weeks. Ostensibly, the trip to Mexico was a chance for her to eye a magnificent collection of colonial Spanish armor, but the real reason for the sudden departure was to give Rosemary something that she had sorely been lacking for years.

  Perspective.

  She gave the intruder a quick once-over with a cool eye. His jacket was a size too small and a couple of years out of fashion. His hair appeared as if it had been styled by a nearsighted barber, and he was in need of a shave. His mouth was thin, his nose too long, but he was attractive and looked intelligent. “Who are you?”

  Again, Nunn presented his shield, but she shrugged. “I know a dozen artisans who could forge that for five dollars or less.” She started walking, her suitcase in tow. Act tough, she told herself. “Leave me the hell alone.”

  Nunn had to do a two-step to keep pace with her. “Could I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Not for a second.” She stopped and glared at him. “How dare you come to me with your badge and your insinuations?”

  “I don’t remember any insinuation, ma’am.”

  Rosemary kept walking but Nunn dogged her heels. She slung a large purse over her shoulder, almost clipping his face.

  “Your husband’s missing.”

  “Oh?”

  “That doesn’t concern you?”

  Rosemary swallowed. “My husband’s business is not my business.”

  “Really?” Nunn tried to look her in the eye; impossible.

  “Two weeks ago, it might have been, but not now. Christopher told me in no uncertain terms that I was a blight on him both professionally and personally, so why should I give a damn about him?” Rosemary took a deep breath, then another. “I don’t know where he is—and I don’t care.” She reached the automatic doors, and when they opened, she stepped outside. The traffic was thick and the noise deafening. She debated jaywalking to get rid of the cop, but decided it wasn’t worth the risk. She found the crosswalk and waited for the light to turn green. “Please, just… go away.”

  “I hear you two fought. What else?”

  Rosemary kept up the false bravado, though her head was starting to pound. “If you’re a detective, you should know.”

  “Okay, let me tell you what I do know. Your husband had demanded a divorce, and that night you had a meltdown.”

  “And…?”

  “And then you fou
ght, publicly.”

  “Silly ninny that I was. I made a complete ass out of myself.” She tried to smile. The light changed to green, and suitcase in tow, she started across the four-lane roadway. “And for what? For some pompous, adulterous, priggish twit who has been using me—or more to the point, my money—for umpteen years? God, I detest that man!” she said, though a part of her ached when she said it.

  When she got to the other side of the street, she ducked into the parking structure, took a deep breath, and picked up her pace, and Nunn had no choice but to follow.

  “And you have no idea where he is?”

  “No, nor am I concerned that he is missing. If God is half as benevolent as the preachers claim He is, He’ll make good and sure he stays missing.” Rosemary stopped and turned on Nunn until they were almost nose to nose. She wanted to run, but she stood fast. “Have I made myself clear, Officer?”

  “Like it or not, Mrs. Thomas, you’re going to have to deal with the situation.”

  “I told you, Christopher Thomas is no longer my business.”

  “I’m afraid he is.” Nunn looked into the woman’s eyes, which were pale blue and sad. He didn’t buy her tough-gal act. “How about we go for a cup of coffee and discuss this?”

  “Look, mister, I—”

  “It’s Detective Jon Nunn. SFPD—homicide.”

  She eyed him once again. “Why in the world would I want to talk to you?”

  “I’m here because I had my arm twisted by a friend of mine—and yours.”

  “Whose name is…?”

  “Tony Olsen.” He studied her face as her eyes widened. “And he’s worried about your husband.”

  “Well… I’m not.”

  “You’re not the least bit concerned that your husband has vanished?”

  “Vanished is a rather strong word.”

  “It’s an applicable word, Mrs. Thomas. No one has heard from him in two weeks. He’s hasn’t shown up at work. He isn’t answering his calls. His cell phone mailbox is full. E-mails sent to him go unanswered.”

  Rosemary bit her lower lip. “I—I don’t know where he is, Detective. I’m sorry but I can’t help you.”