Abbie jotted down the names, then asked, “Do you know of anybody in the ward who didn’t get along with Brother Smith?”
“No one I’m aware of. Brother Smith was very friendly. He was always there to lend a helping hand. During the winter, he and his sons shoveled driveways for the older members in the ward and mowed lawns in the summer. He was very generous in terms of making sure the storehouse was well stocked. Not that we have much need in this ward, but even here there are members who fall on hard times and need some help to become self-reliant again.”
“How long have you known Brother Smith?” Abbie asked.
“We met in college at Weber State. We lost touch after graduation. My wife and I moved to Logan; Steve and Melinda moved here. Steve convinced me to buy our house here, and that’s when we reconnected.”
“How long had the two of you served in the bishopric together?” Abbie asked.
“Just over a year.”
“He was paying his tithing in full?” Abbie knew this wasn’t a subtle question. To be worthy of a temple recommend, Mormons had to tithe ten percent of their income. Some people tithed ten percent based on their pre-tax income. Abbie guessed Smith calculated his tithing on his post-tax income. There were very few circumstances under which an active LDS family would not tithe, and a non-tithing family would definitely be on the Bishop’s radar. Abbie had seen enough of Smith’s financial accounts to suspect he had gone through a number of periods with “cash-flow” problems.
The Bishop said nothing, but nodded his head to indicate that he was affirming Smith paid his tithing.
“He hadn’t spoken to you in confidence about any financial or business difficulties?” Abbie asked.
“No.” The Bishop shifted in his seat.
“Nothing about filing for bankruptcy?”
“No.” The Bishop had absolutely no intention of telling her anything important. Abbie was beginning to resent the arrogance of this man, who seemed to believe that by virtue of his gender and religious calling, he was entitled to tell Abbie only what he felt like telling her—which wasn’t much. Abbie was about to let her frustration get the better of her when she realized she’d hit on something. There was something about discussing Smith’s business and financial dealings that made the man sitting in front of a framed picture of Jesus Christ uncomfortable.
Abbie exhaled slowly. She wanted to savor this moment. In a low voice, she asked, “What about Celestial Time Shares?”
For the briefest moment, Abbie detected an element of unpleasant surprise—maybe even fear—on the Bishop’s face, but he recovered quickly. He shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and gave an apologetic smile.
“Sorry, doesn’t ring a bell.”
Abbie looked Norton straight in the eye and said calmly and very slowly, “This is a police investigation into the death of your Second Counselor. We know Smith filed for bankruptcy for most of his construction businesses in Utah. We also know he founded a new company called Celestial Time Shares.”
The smile on Bishop Norton’s lips didn’t waver, but Abbie could see it was taking an enormous amount of energy for him to maintain his pleasant expression.
“Detective Taylor, I’m aware of the gravity of this situation, but as I understand it, Smith took his own life, for what reasons, I cannot guess. You’re wasting your time and mine trying to understand his life.” The Bishop looked down at his Tag Heuer watch and said disingenuously, “I’m so sorry, I have a meeting that can’t be delayed. May I show you out?”
“No, that won’t be necessary.” Abbie stood up and walked out the door. She heard the Bishop’s phone ring as she was just steps down the hall from his office. Abbie debated tying her shoe to give herself a reason for lingering, but Bishop Norton closed his door quietly and firmly before he answered the phone. The long hallway was dark and silent.
ELEVEN
“We need to figure out Celestial Time Shares. I don’t know if it’s the project itself or Smith’s role in it, but Bishop Norton didn’t want to talk about it.”
“Huh?” Clarke looked up at Abbie, who was standing in front of his desk. He had been so engrossed in looking at spreadsheets that he hadn’t noticed her. Clarke had convinced Abbie that no one in the office was going to have any idea what he was looking at. Henderson seemed preoccupied with something else. He’d ignored both Abbie and Clarke since he’d told them to be discrete.
“Let’s go visit the widow again.” Abbie said in a hushed tone. Henderson hadn’t been giving her a hard time about keeping a low profile on the investigation, but she didn’t want to tempt the fates.
“You don’t think she knows about any of this?” He waved his hand at the screen, making it clear that he had very little confidence that Smith’s wife had the intellectual capacity, let alone curiosity, to understand a spreadsheet.
“I doubt it,” Abbie said. “Melinda Smith doesn’t strike me as the kind of wife who takes an interest in finance. My guess is that so long as the money was coming in, she didn’t much care how it got there. She pretty much said as much when we saw her last time.”
“Then how is she going to help us figure out what happened with the bankruptcies or Celestial Times Shares?” Clarke asked.
“I have a feeling Smith had a home office,” Abbie said. “His wife would know about that.”
Less than a half an hour later, Abbie and Clarke were parking her Range Rover in the driveway at the Smith house. A few moments after they rang the doorbell, a slender woman in her mid-forties answered the door. She was the woman from the Bishop’s office, the woman getting her temple recommend. Abbie’s first impression of her had been accurate: she looked effortlessly chic in the way men mistook as natural but women knew was the result of hard work. Her sheer manicure was perfectly gleaming, her eyebrows were well arched without a stray hair to be tweezed, and she had the lean muscle tone that came from a clean diet and a disciplined regimen of Pilates and barre classes.
“Good morning. I’m Detective Taylor, and this is Officer Clarke. We’re here to see Sister Smith.”
“Good morning. I’m Sariah Morris, a family friend from the ward.” The woman stopped speaking and smiled at Abbie. “You look so familiar. Do we know each other?”
“No, but we met briefly outside Bishop Norton’s office.”
Sariah would have no reason to remember Abbie’s name, but Abbie knew she wouldn’t forget Sariah’s. Sariah, like Abish, was one of the few women referred to by name in the Book of Mormon. Plenty of LDS parents named their sons after men from the Book of Mormon. Women were not that central to the founding Mormon scripture, so there were far fewer names to choose from and, consequently, far fewer girls named after figures in the Book of Mormon. Sariah was a woman known for her role as matriarch. She was a mother who took care of her family, the wife of the prophet Lehi who led his family from Jerusalem to the “promised land” in the Americas.
“Ah, that’s right,” Sariah said. “So nice to see you again. We’re in the kitchen.”
Sariah led the way to the back of the house into an enormous kitchen with double-thick granite counters and gleaming cherry-wood cabinets. Melinda was sitting at the center island drinking a Diet Coke, the official drink of the LDS in Utah. Even the righteous could use a little oomph now and then, and, without coffee or tea, there were only so many options. In front of Melinda was a basket of homemade muffins. Judging from the crumbs, bits of chocolate, and pleated paper circles on the plate, she had already eaten two. Sariah didn’t have a plate, but she did have a Diet Coke.
“Would either of you like a muffin?” Melinda asked.
“No thanks,” Abbie said.
“They’re the best on the planet. Sariah says the secret is breaking up both Cadbury and Hershey bars for the chocolate chunks.”
“I’d love one,” Clarke said enthusiastically. Sariah put her hand on Melinda’s arm, signaling for her to stay seated. Sariah got up herself to get Clarke a plate. She placed an oversized muffin on it and hande
d it to him. He peeled back the ruffled paper and took a bite.
Melinda looked tired, but less shaken than she had the day they delivered the news. There was an awkward silence as Clarke chewed another bite of his muffin, which, apparently, was as good as advertised. This was probably as comfortable as it was going to get under the circumstances.
“Sister Smith, we’re hoping you can tell us a little about what your husband was doing in the days before he went to Costa Rica. Are you up for that?” Abbie had thought long and hard about using the designations “Sister” and “Brother,” since the words had just slipped out of her mouth the last time she was here. Since returning to Utah, she had assiduously avoided using terms that would indicate she was part of the community she’d consciously left. That was a personal decision. Now, though, it was professional. She knew she’d get further in this investigation by not drawing attention to the fact that she wasn’t an active member of the dominant religion.
“Yeah, I think so.” The widow looked at Sariah. “Can you stay, please? I really don’t want to be alone.” Sariah had already grabbed her tote bag from the chair where it was resting. The widow turned to Abbie. “Is it okay if she stays?” she asked, like a child asking permission from a teacher for a hall pass.
“Of course,” Abbie said. Sariah put down the bag and sat back down next to Melinda.
“Can you tell us a little more about your husband’s business in Central America?” Abbie asked.
“Sure. He was working on a big project to build a resort. The plan was to do this one and then more all around the world. He started last year. He had some pretty important investors from the Church. Last year, Steve had a meeting at the Joseph Smith Memorial Building with some General Authorities…” Melinda paused for a moment and then added, “Not to brag or anything.” Which, Abbie noted, was exactly what Melinda was trying to do. For whose benefit? Abbie’s or Sariah’s?
“Do you remember anything unusual about the day he left?” Clarke asked. He had finished his muffin, although he was clearly eyeing another one.
“Not really. It was an early flight. I was still asleep. Well, not quite asleep, but I didn’t get out of bed. Steve tiptoed around, getting ready, trying not to wake anyone up. It was dark, and he didn’t turn the light on in the bedroom. He came over to my side of the bed and kissed me…”
Melinda stopped talking, as if she had just realized this was the last time her husband would kiss her. Abbie knew what it was liked to be ambushed by your own emotions. Out of nowhere, something that was otherwise innocuous would trigger a deluge of tears. For months after Phillip’s death, Abbie had worn waterproof mascara because she never knew what would set her off. She’d bolted out of an elevator once just because a man was wearing the same aftershave Phillip had worn. She’d collapsed into a whimpering heap on the ground just as the doors closed, sparing her the embarrassment of showing such raw emotion to complete strangers in an office building in midtown Manhattan.
Melinda took a deep breath, dabbed her cheeks already smeared with black mascara, and went on. “He put his suitcases in the Hummer the night before so he wouldn’t have to worry about them in the morning. He kept his computer and his temple clothes in his carry-on. Steve went to the temple every week, no matter where he was.”
Again, Abbie wondered why Melinda was adding this information about Steve’s religious devotion. Clearly, it was important to her that everyone in the kitchen believe her husband was thoughtful, successful, and—most important—a devout Latter-day Saint.
“Steve drove himself to the airport?” Abbie asked.
“Yeah,” Melinda said.
“Do you remember what time he left?”
“I’m not exactly sure,” Melinda answered. “I didn’t look at the clock. I know he wanted to be at the airport by six or a little after that, so it had to have been around five, maybe. Steve usually drove a little faster than the speed limit.”
The fact that Smith exceeded the speed limit wasn’t surprising. Abbie was beginning to get a sense of the kind of man Steve Smith had been in life: a guy who didn’t think the rules applied to him.
“I know this is hard for you to think about right now,” Abbie said, “but do you remember anything unusual about your husband’s behavior before he left?”
“No, I mean, Steve was himself. He was an optimist, always looking for the bright side of things. You know? Like, even though there was this downturn in construction in Utah, Steve had business contacts in Costa Rica. Next thing you know, he had this great opportunity to build a resort for people traveling to the temple there. At least that’s how he explained it. I never really understood exactly how his businesses worked, but he was a genius. He really was. When he had to close down Smith Contractors or Smith Construction, Steve still made sure we were taken care of. He made sure the businesses were separate from our finances so that even when he had to declare bankruptcy for the business, the family was protected. He was so smart.”
Melinda started crying again. She grabbed another muffin from the basket. Sariah got some more tissues. Between sobs, Melinda took big bites. Abbie understood the desperate craving for anything that could dull the pain, even if only for a moment. When Abbie had gone through those first brutal weeks of grief after Phillip died, she’d sipped bottomless glasses of sauvignon blanc. She’d drunk to numb the pain. She’d drunk until she fell asleep and it left her fuzzy-headed in the morning. Melinda’s drug of choice was rather innocuous by comparison. White flour, sugar, butter, and chocolate were probably healthier than wine.
“Thanks,” Melinda mumbled to her friend. The widow’s face was splotchy, with dark black streaks running down her cheeks. She blew her nose loudly and then took a sip of Diet Coke and another bite from the muffin.
“Was it hard having your husband gone? You had to take care of everything here by yourself?” No matter how broken this woman seemed and how much Abbie could sympathize with losing a husband, she still knew Melinda Smith was a person of interest, if only because she was married to the dead man.
Melinda shook her head. “Family was the most important thing to Steve. He always provided for us. Sometimes that meant he’d have to miss things at home because of work. That was okay. I can take care of things at home. I mean, that’s how we do it … did it.” Melinda started crying again, but took a deep breath and regained her composure reasonably quickly this time.
“You said Steve drove himself to the airport. Is his car still there?” Abbie asked.
“Oh, no. I picked it up. If his flights to Costa Rica didn’t leave so early, we would’ve all driven to the airport as a family to say good-bye, but Steve liked getting an early start to his day, and he didn’t want to wake us all up. He drove himself and left the car in short-term parking. It was pretty easy for Sophia, my oldest daughter, and me to pick up the car from the airport. She has her driver’s license. I drive the Hummer back and she drives my car. Last year we made a shopping afternoon of it. Sariah and her oldest daughter came with us that time. It was a girls’ day. We went to City Creek Center first, did some shopping, had lunch at that fun place in Nordstrom’s. Then we picked up the car later. We had a blast, actually.”
Melinda continued, “This time, Sophia and I went to the airport on our own and came right back. Steve’s car is a bright-yellow Hummer, so it’s hard to miss, even though he didn’t park it where he said he would.”
“Where was it supposed to be?” Abbie asked.
“It wasn’t a big deal. Like I said, Steve parks in short-term. He always leaves the Hummer on the second level on the northeast side. For some reason, this time he parked it on the northwest side.”
Abbie jotted a note in her purple notebook. Given how early Smith was supposed to have been at the airport, it was difficult to imagine that he wouldn’t have had his choice of parking spaces.
“And you and your daughter drove back?” Abbie asked. Clarke had started on his second muffin.
“Yes. Sophia loves to drive my car.
It’s a white BMW convertible.” Of course it is, Abbie thought, immediately chastising herself for her snarky thought. Abbie’s eyes rested on the Louis Vuitton tote bag hanging from the back of the widow’s kitchen stool. The dry cleaner had this couple pegged. The Smiths were not a family of understated taste. If they were going to spend money on something, they were going to make sure everyone knew about it.
“His bags weren’t in the car?” Abbie asked.
“No.”
Abbie watched carefully as Melinda answered her question. The widow was processing information and was evidently thinking very hard. Then she blurted out, “I don’t know if it’s my place to ask, but I don’t understand what’s going on. I know Steve was a little overweight and had high blood pressure. His doctor told him with all of his work stress and his eating—well, he warned him that unless he lost some weight and ate a little better, he was at risk of having a heart attack. Steve looked so healthy, though. We weren’t really worried. Why are the police involved in that? Why didn’t the airline call me right after it happened?”
Now the widow’s reaction made sense. Melinda hadn’t asked how her husband had died when she was first informed about it because she’d thought her husband had died of natural causes; she’d thought he had finally suffered the heart attack his doctor had warned about.
“Sister Smith, your husband didn’t die of a heart attack, and he didn’t die at the airport.” Abbie paused, watching Melinda digest this information. “We found your husband’s body in an empty house not too far from here.”
“It wasn’t a heart attack? Are you sure?” Melinda asked.
“Yes, we’re sure,” Abbie said.
“What happened then? Robbery?”
“No, it doesn’t look like it. We’re in the early stages of this investigation. I’m really not at liberty to discuss the details right now.” There was a missing wedding band and wallet—true—but Abbie was pretty confident stealing those was not the motive behind Smith’s gruesome end.
Blessed be the Wicked Page 7