"Good job, Bolt,” I said. I thought we'd need a court order to get time with April. Earlier, both parents went ballistic when we wanted to question her alone; now, Meredith had agreed without a murmur. “People are awfully inconsistent,” I observed.
His brow crinkled. “Are you commenting on the way she fluctuated between trying to implicate Jason and trying to implicate Krista,” he asked, “or on the inconsistency between her statement that she's a sound sleeper and her remark about peeking at her father's house at any hour, day or night?"
Actually, I hadn't been commenting on either of those things. But they both sounded pretty good. “Take your pick,” I said, as April walked into the library.
I sat on the edge of the desk, to make things feel more informal. “Try to relax, April,” I said. “We're your friends. You know policemen are your friends, right? And we just want to ask a few questions, to get a clearer picture of—"
"You think somebody in my family killed Andrew,” she cut in, “and you're trying to figure out which one."
I nearly fell off the desk. “We're not asking you to accuse anyone. We're just trying to get facts straight. You could start by telling us about what happened after you went home with your dad and Krista last night."
She took a deep breath. “I went to bed, but I couldn't sleep. So I went online, and then Dad came upstairs—"
"Was that around twelve thirty-five?” Bolt asked.
She looked surprised. “How did you know?” she asked. Good question, kid, I thought. How did we know?
"He and your stepmother said they watched Conan O'Brien,” Bolt said, “and then your father checked on you. Conan's show ends at twelve thirty-five, so we assumed that's when your father came upstairs. And Mr. Atherton posted his message shortly after twelve. Were you on your MySpace page when your father came upstairs? Did he see the message?"
"Yeah,” she admitted, “and he got really mad. But I didn't want to tell you."
"It's all right,” Bolt said gently. “We already knew. When your father spoke to us, he used a phrase from the message—'my special star'—and alluded to Andrew's remark about Hollywood. So it was obvious he'd read the message. Right, sir?"
"Absolutely,” I said, though it hadn't come close to occurring to me until that moment. “What happened next, April?"
She gulped hard, then spoke in a rush. “Well, Dad ranted around saying like hell I was Andrew's special star, and he went downstairs, and I heard him and Krista arguing. And I heard a door slam, and I went to my window, and I saw Dad walk across the lawn, and I looked at Grandpa's house, and I saw the light in the library was on.” She paused.
"I know this is hard,” I said, “but please tell us the rest."
"Okay,” she said. “So Dad reached Grandpa's house and pounded on the door, and he went in, and maybe five minutes later he walked back, and I heard him and Krista arguing again. And I felt really awful about causing so much trouble, and I got in bed, and I cried, and I guess I fell asleep. And when I came down in the morning, Dad and Krista were up and dressed, and they seemed tense, and they hardly said one word, and Dad gave me my locket back, and I went to Grandpa's house, and I saw Andrew.” She took a long breath, then looked up. “My dad killed Andrew, didn't he?"
"I don't know,” I said, my heart aching for her. “When he and Krista were arguing, could you make out what they were saying?"
"Not much. One time, after Dad came back from Grandpa's, Krista yelled, ‘Idiot! April will hate us. You want Meredith to win?’ But mostly I just heard swearing."
"Thank you, April,” I said, feeling the case was pretty much sewn up, and feeling pretty damn lousy that this poor kid was the main witness against her own father.
"Two more questions, Miss April,” Bolt said. “You said the light in the library was on before your father got to the house. That suggests that somebody was already up. Do you have any thoughts about who might have been up and why?"
"I don't know.” She thought it over. “Unless it was Andrew, looking for money."
"Looking for money?” I said, stunned. “But your grandpa doesn't have a safe."
"No,” she agreed. “He keeps the money in the books. It's supposed to be some big secret, but everybody knows. I'll show you.” She picked up Childhood Psychosis. “It's usually hundred dollar bills—here.” She held out a bill. “He doesn't keep money in every single book, of course. I once overheard Mom telling Andrew about how when she and Dad were married, and they were hard up, they'd sneak over to Grandpa's house when he was out and search for money, then replace it before he noticed."
The bloody hundred dollar bills in Andrew's bathrobe pocket—damn. How had I forgotten about them? “So your mom has a key to your grandfather's house?” I said.
"Sure,” April said. “She has to, so she can help him if he has a heart attack or something. Dad has a key too—he's not supposed to, but he does, and I know he and Krista sometimes borrow money from Grandpa's library too. I figure Dad took my key from my purse one night and had a copy made. That makes sense, doesn't it?"
"Sure,” I said weakly. Too much new information, I thought—how was I ever going to fit it together with all the old information? I dreaded Bolt's next question.
"Also,” Bolt said, “does your grandfather know how to send text messages? Do your parents?"
"My parents, yeah,” April said. “But not Grandpa. He hates cell phones."
"Thank you, Miss April,” Bolt said. “Is there anything else, Lieutenant?"
"No, nothing,” I said, eager to shut this kid up before she got me even more confused. “Do you have a bedroom in this house? Good. Why don't you stay there a while? It might be uncomfortable for you in the kitchen."
"It would,” she said fervently. “They'd all ask me what I told you.” She started to leave, then turned abruptly. “I just wanted to say—I had fifty-eight lines, and that's more than anybody else except Billy Newton, and he messed up half of his, and the only reason he got that part and I didn't is that you can't have a girl play Abraham Lincoln. And I never had stagefright, not for one second, and Andrew wasn't the only one who thought I was the star of the show because our director, Miss Blake, said the same thing, and she's not playing up to my mom to get her money.” She turned around and walked away.
I shook my head. “The things kids know. But why would her mother say she had a small part and was scared to get onstage?"
"Probably to make her feel dependent,” Bolt said. “The more worthless April feels, the more she'll think she needs her mother. But children are often wiser than we think. More resilient too—thank God for that.” He sighed. “What's our next step, sir?"
"I guess we bring Jason back here,” I said, “and break him down."
Bolt nodded. “Ah—the indirect approach. I see your strategy, Lieutenant. It should be relatively easy to get him to confess. Shall I fetch his wife as well?"
"I don't see much point in that,” I said. “They'll just back each other up."
"Initially, yes,” Bolt agreed. “But she seemed the more level headed of the two. I think we'll find it easier to persuade her to make a deal. Then she can persuade him."
I felt my theories slipping away from me, like they always do when Bolt starts talking about a case. “We can't offer much of a deal on murder,” I pointed out.
"And I think she'll help him see that, sir,” Bolt said, nodding again. “I think she'll convince him that by making a deal on the failure to report a felony charge, they'll avoid the far greater danger of risking a charge for murder."
Failure to report a felony? Was that all they'd done? Then who killed Andrew?
It was one of those moments, Mother. I realized I had absolutely no idea of what was going on, and I should've admitted it. But even when I do try to admit that to Bolt, he doesn't believe me, or just doesn't notice. So I might as well play it cagey. “You figure Krista was an accessory on the failure to report?” I said.
"I'd assumed so.” He looked surprised. “In fac
t, I'd assumed she's the one who retrieved the locket. Let me see if I have this straight. Jason was so upset about the MySpace message that he decided to go to Otis's house—like April, he could see the light in the library, and he figured Mr. Atherton was the one most likely to be up. Krista tried to dissuade her husband, but he left, taking the locket with him. He knocked, and the door was answered by Mr. Atherton, who had been looking for money hidden in the books—probably, he'd already found the eight hundred dollars, and stuffed them in his robe pocket when he heard Jason at the door. Does that sound right so far, sir?"
"Just about.” I'm shameless, Mother—just shameless. “Good work. Keep going."
Bolt flushed with pleasure at the praise. “If you like, sir. Jason got Mr. Atherton to take the locket—Mr. Atherton doubtlessly wanted to end the confrontation to avoid waking Otis—and went home. But Krista was angry, saying April would hate them for returning the locket. Then one of them—Krista, I'd think—saw the light was still on, and resolved to get the locket. She entered Otis's house—perhaps she used April's key, or found the door unlocked. The scene that greeted her was not what she'd expected."
This part, I got. “Andrew Atherton,” I said, “dead on the living room floor."
"Yes,” Bolt said, too caught up in his narrative to notice he was doing almost all the talking. “Probably with the locket in his hand and the tennis award lying, bloodied, next to him. Krista may have thought he'd been killed by a burglar, or she may have suspected someone else. In any case, she didn't want the body found in that condition. So she pried the locket from his hand, possibly damaging it—or it might have been damaged earlier, when Jason forced Mr. Atherton to take it. She opened a window in the library, bent back a screen, and quickly faked other signs of burglary. And, of course, she cleaned the tennis award and put it on the mantel."
This part, I didn't get, and I was too lost to pretend I did. “Why?” I asked.
"Why would she put it on the mantel, you mean?” Bolt said. “Actually, that's my reason for assuming she did the cleanup after the murder. Presumably, Jason was in this house many times while married to Meredith, and he'd remember Otis kept the award in the library. He'd return it to its proper place. But Krista had probably seldom, if ever, been in this house until last night. She didn't know where the award was supposed to go, so she took a guess and put it on the mantel, hoping to keep us from identifying it as the murder weapon. At the party, Jason had called Andrew Atherton a trophy husband—she wouldn't want us to know that, just hours later, Mr. Atherton was killed with a trophy."
A trophy. I had to sit down. Of course. We'd been calling it an award because of that dumb remark I'd made to the coroner, but it was a trophy, all right. A very symbolic murder weapon, one that pointed straight to Jason. Or to someone who wanted to frame Jason—stab Andrew with the letter opener, finish him off with the trophy, put the locket in his hand, and wait for Jason to be arrested.
Someone who wanted to frame Jason—I had just two suspects left, and both fit that description. I tried to focus. Even I should be able to narrow it down now.
And then I had it. I remembered the last question Bolt asked April, and I had it.
"That's why Krista asked about time of death,” I said. “She knew Andrew hadn't sent her that text message because she knew he was dead before 2:12. And Otis doesn't know how to send a text message.” So it was Meredith—she killed her fiancee, then saw a chance to frame the man who'd left her, or the woman he'd left her for, or both.
"No,” Bolt said. “I hope you don't mind that I confirmed that. I'm sure you'd already concluded that Meredith sent the message, since she made a point of telling us Andrew tried to make peace with Krista at the party—clearly, she wanted to plant the idea that he tried again with the text message. How do you suppose it happened, sir?"
I was on a roll now. “The way I see it,” I said, “Meredith didn't sleep well last night. A healthy hypochondriac who tries to force eleven hours is bound to wake up sometimes. And Meredith, like April, probably felt restless after the conflict at the party. So she decides to check on what April had been doing online; we know she did that all the time. She sees the thank-you e-mail April sent Andrew or the message he posted on her MySpace page. She goes to the kitchen and sees the light in Otis's library. Then—"
"Excuse me, sir,” Bolt said. “Could you clarify one point? Do you think Krista, in her haste, left the library light on after faking the burglary?"
"Sure,” I said. “It'd be a natural mistake. Meredith sees the light, and—damn.” I stopped cold. Krista left the light on when she faked the burglary? But she didn't fake the burglary until after Andrew was dead. And Meredith killed Andrew, didn't she? I felt the blood leaving my face.
Bolt patted my shoulder. “I know, sir. It's hard to go on. It's hard to contemplate such callous behavior. She goes next door to confront her fiancee and finds him brutally murdered. Does she scream? Does she run for the phone, hoping against hope his life might yet be saved? No. She immediately calculates how she might turn this sad event to her advantage. She probably assumes he was killed by a burglar, but she searches for a way to use his death to frame her rival. She goes to his room, gets his cell phone, types a text message to Krista, and—oh! How could she have the heart to do it? She puts the phone in his pajama pocket, and then goes home. She doubtlessly didn't notice the money in his robe pocket. The murderer hadn't noticed it, either."
The murderer, I thought weakly. Not Jason, not Krista, not Meredith, and I damn sure hoped not April. “Otis,” I managed.
"Otis, indeed,” Bolt said. “Do you think Andrew planned all along to steal cash from the library? Perhaps he did so often—perhaps that's why he was willing to stay with Otis, not Meredith. Or perhaps he decided to search for cash only after seeing the e-mail declining his credit card. He'd promised to buy April an iPod, and if he couldn't use his card, he'd need cash. So he waited until he felt sure Otis was asleep, passing the time by posting a message on April's wall. Then he crept downstairs, began his search, and made good progress. But he was interrupted when Jason pounded on the front door."
Bolt paused—evidently, he thought it was my turn. “And the pounding woke Otis,” I managed. “Even if his hearing really is bad, he'd hear that. Or maybe he never fell asleep—maybe, like everybody else, he felt restless last night. Either way, it's no wonder he didn't come down to help Andrew deal with a drunk. Andrew got rid of Jason and went back to searching for money, thinking Otis was asleep. When Andrew didn't come upstairs, Otis got suspicious, and he went to the library and found Andrew going through his books, piling up cash. Maybe Andrew tried to distract him, told him about Jason, showed him the locket. But Otis didn't fall for it. He didn't like the guy anyway, and when he realized he was being robbed, he . . . no. I don't believe it."
"What is it, sir?” Bolt asked. “Do you see a flaw in our theory?"
I shook my head. “It's just that when that I got the call about this case, I felt sure of just one thing: It wouldn't really be a burglary gone bad. Well, there was no illegal entry, and it was the burglar who got killed, not the homeowner. But basically, that's what this is, all right. It's a burglary gone bad.” And I collapsed into giggles.
"Very amusing, sir,” Bolt said politely, though I don't think he really found it all that funny. “Would you care to complete your reconstruction of the crime?"
"Sure.” I got control of myself. “Andrew started to walk away. Otis grabbed the letter opener and stabbed him in the neck; Andrew turned around, and Otis got him in the stomach. And when Andrew tried to crawl away, Otis saw the trophy, and saw a way to get rid of both a new son-in-law he didn't want and an old son-in-law he'd never liked."
"Yes, sir.” Bolt nodded with admiration. “When you pull everything together that way, it all seems so clear. In a deeper sense, though, none of it is clear. All this hatred, all this deceit, all this violence—and why? Because four adults are locked in competition over a thirteen-year-old girl, yet not o
ne of them seems to care about her in any genuine way. The thing that shocks me most, sir, is that all four—April's mother, her father, her stepmother, her grandfather—knew April would be the one to find Mr. Atherton in the morning. They all counted on it. They all knew this young girl would step into this house and be confronted with the bloody corpse of someone she liked very much, yet not one of them shielded her from that trauma. Why?"
Damned if I could tell him. I groped for a way to say how utterly mystified I felt. “You'd need the wisdom of Solomon,” I said, “to answer that one."
His eyebrows shot up. “That's it. To them, April is just a prize to contend for, a trophy, if you will. Not one true parent in the lot. The wisdom of Solomon—Kings, chapter 3, is it not? An apt allusion, sir. Well. I'll fetch Jason and Krista Ralston."
After he left, I scanned the library shelves, found a Bible, and looked up Kings, chapter 3. But I was already pretty sure of what I'd find. Two women come before King Solomon, each claiming to be the mother of a baby boy. Solomon tests the women—he says he'll resolve the dispute by cutting the baby in two and giving each woman half. One woman says fine, but the other rushes forward. “Please, my lord!” she cries. “Give her the live child; only don't kill it!” And Solomon knows the one who'd rather lose her child than see it cut in half has to be the true mother.
The problem was, no one had rushed forward to save April—not last night, and not during any of the long, bitter years since the divorce. All four would rather cut her in half, tear her to bits, in fact, than give up their claim to her. Maybe that's the true test of being a good parent: You have to be willing to sacrifice anything, including your own pride, for the good of your child. Well, if that's the true test, these four had flunked it, big time. As Bolt said, not one true parent in the lot.
That's about it. As Bolt predicted, Jason and Krista broke down quickly, and Meredith didn't take much longer. Otis is still holding out, but with all the other pieces in place, we don't really need his confession. Everybody got arrested, everybody but Otis got out on bail, and the other three will probably end up with community service or some other slap on the wrist. At one point, April pulled me aside and talked hopefully about the chances of getting put in a foster home, but I don't think that'll happen. She'll probably still get pulled back and forth between Meredith and Jason, with Krista doing her best to make things worse. It's a shame. There's not much the system can do to protect a kid like April. Jason and Meredith aren't abusing her, not technically, and they sure as hell aren't neglecting her. Right about now, she'd probably love a little neglect. But as long as her parents feed her, and get her to school, and don't hit her, she's stuck with them. Bolt says kids are more resilient than we think. Let's hope he's right.
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