“I know,” Abbie said as the two of them climbed into the car. Neither one of them said anything else for the entire ride. Abbie felt ill. Luckily, Clarke didn’t seem to notice; he looked as if he was feeling just as queasy as Abbie did. It was as though they both sensed in a very concrete way just how unpleasant this conversation was going to be. When they stood at the front door, Abbie heard yelling and someone crying inside. Clarke rang the doorbell.
“Shut up!” someone shouted from inside the house, loudly enough that you could probably hear the voice all the way to the street. A few moments later, Smith’s widow opened the door. Melinda looked frazzled. Her blonde hair had been raked back with fingers into a plastic clip. There were awkward bumps of hair where the top strands had been pulled more tightly than the hair underneath. Nearly an inch of dark-brown and gray roots was showing. Melinda was wearing an oversized button-down shirt that hit her right across her ample hips with turquoise Capri pants that had probably fit her better about fifteen pounds ago. Her feet were bare, and the nail polish on her toes was chipped. Coarse dark hairs sprouted from beneath her thin arched eyebrows. It looked as if she had slept in her makeup.
“Let’s sit in the kitchen, if you don’t mind,” Melinda sighed when she saw the two police officers.
Abbie and Clarke followed her into the kitchen. In stark contrast to the house they had seen on their first visit, the current version of the Smith residence was a study in emotional collapse. Half-eaten Pop-Tarts were stacked haphazardly on plates with dried ketchup and congealed melted cheese. There were bowls with soggy cereal and smudged glasses with a few swallows of chocolate milk or orange juice left in them. An open pizza box soaked in grease with a few pepperoni slices of unknown vintage was stacked precariously on the counter. Melinda didn’t seem to notice any of it.
“Sister Smith, we need to ask you some delicate questions. Is the kitchen private?” Abbie’s voice was soft, almost gentle. Even if she knew that an affair with a younger woman was one of the oldest motives for murder in the book, she couldn’t help but feel some sympathy for this woman whose life had disintegrated in the space of less than a week.
The widow’s tired eyes registered some surprise, but not enough to alter her apparent exhaustion. “No, I guess not. You can hear everything here. We can go into the dining room and close the doors.”
Melinda shuffled across the family room adjoining the kitchen and opened French doors into a dark dining room. She walked around an enormous mahogany table to the other end of the room and shut another set of French doors that led directly to the entry hall. A sideboard and colossal china cabinet matching the table loomed on either side of the room. The walls were a deep red. Unlike what Abbie had seen on the walk to the kitchen, this room was spotless. Aside from a garish silk flower arrangement in the center of the dining table, there was nothing cluttering the horizontal surfaces here. Melinda slumped into one of the heavy leather dining chairs. Abbie took the seat across from her and Clarke sat down next to Abbie.
“Melinda, do you know a young woman named Jessica Grant?” Abbie asked.
“Yeah.” Melinda exhaled and looked visibly relieved. “We’ve known Jess since she was a baby. Very sweet girl.”
“Do you know if your husband knew Jessica?”
“Of course he did. Our families have been friends for years. Steve and I watched her grow up. She was almost like a daughter,” Melinda said.
The widow looked at Abbie, then at Clarke. He averted his gaze and stared down at the table. He still looked a little nauseated.
Abbie had gone over a number of ways to soften the question she was about to ask. Nothing she had come up with sounded good to her, so she just came out with it. “Did you know your husband and Jessica spent last spring in Costa Rica together, where Jessica was known as ‘Mrs. Smith’?”
The color drained from Melinda’s face. If someone had asked Abbie to describe the widow’s complexion at that moment, she would have said pale green.
“Excuse me,” Melinda mumbled and staggered from her chair. The widow opened the French doors and dashed to what must have been the powder room. Abbie heard a door close and then the sound of retching. A few minutes later, she heard a toilet flush followed by the sound of running water. When Melinda returned to the dining room, her hair was damp and the remnants of yesterday’s makeup had been washed off her face, revealing a splotchy complexion.
Melinda sat back down in her chair. She looked Abbie directly in the eye and whispered almost inaudibly, “No, I didn’t know that.”
“These are going to be tough questions,” Abbie said. “I’m sorry, but we need to ask them. Did you know Jessica was away last spring?”
“Sure. She told all of us she was going to spend the spring in Belize or something doing some kind of internship or church service thing.”
“Did you ever notice any evidence of romance between your husband and Jessica?” Abbie asked.
“No,” Melinda answered. “Steve was friendly, sure. As a member of the bishopric, he occasionally had to speak to the local singles ward where Jessica went to church, but Steve, but Steve, he wouldn’t…” Melinda couldn’t finish whatever thought was in her head.
“Had your husband ever been unfaithful before?”
“No … well, I guess I don’t know.” Melinda looked defeated.
Abbie knew it might be too much for a woman to digest both her husband’s death and his infidelity at the same time. The air in the room felt thick and heavy. Melinda shut down. She stared at some point in front of her, her eyes glazed. Either Abbie was witnessing a stellar performance or Melinda Smith really hadn’t suspected her husband of cheating. At this point, there wasn’t much more to ask.
Abbie said quietly, “We’ll let ourselves out.”
Melinda didn’t move. She didn’t say anything. Clarke shut the door silently behind them, leaving the shell-shocked widow sitting in her dark dining room with its blood-red walls.
TWENTY-FOUR
Abbie and Clarke decided to split up the work for the rest of the day. With Clarke’s facility for Spanish, he could do research on Costa Rica Abbie couldn’t. Abbie needed some time alone to think. This case was taking its toll. Abbie felt the pressure of time. It was already Saturday, five days since they’d found Smith’s body, and they were nowhere. Clarke wanted to go to church in the morning, so they’d agreed to meet up in the early afternoon on Sunday.
What were her dad’s words … ‘personal shortcomings’ that had nothing to do with the Church? Was Port worried about Smith’s shady business techniques or his adultery? Did Port know about both? Did Bowen know? Or was there something else entirely that Abbie and Clarke hadn’t discovered yet? Was Jessica the only one who had caught Smith’s eye? Abbie’s mind was in rapid-fire mode. There were too many questions and not nearly enough answers.
Helga Boalt had told them Smith had leered at her friends. The Bishop had listed four young women. And, now, of course, there was another reason to look at Melinda Smith, even if the widow had seemed genuinely shocked by the news. Jessica also had a reason. She’d wanted to be married in the temple and start a family. At twenty-two, she was feeling the discomfort of not being married in a community where many of her friends were probably working on their first or second children. Would a spurned young lover who expected marriage be angry enough to kill? There also was an entire army of fathers and brothers who might have reason to be protective of either the cheated-on wife or the seduced young lover. Her dad’s warning from Port—was that what it was?—added another strange dimension to this case.
A night in bed had done nothing to slow down the whirling thoughts in Abbie’s head; she needed to go for a run. There was nothing like the rhythm of running to calm her overactive mind. She changed into her work out clothes, tied the laces on her shoes, and headed for the door. Given how poorly she’d slept, she was surprised by how energetic she felt once she started moving. Fifteen minutes into the run, her head began to clear.
&n
bsp; She wondered what time church started at Smith’s ward, Ben Lomond 7th. She could watch the people Smith had shared much of his life with in a routine setting. When she reached the halfway point of her run, she checked her phone to see church start times. Ben Lomond 7th started with Sacrament Meeting at nine. She scrolled through her playlist to a song with a fast beat and made it home in good time.
Abbie carefully looked over her closet for a dress that would be appropriate for church. To the right side were the high heels: Louboutins, Pradas, Aquazzuras, and at least a dozen others. To the left were evening dresses, mementos of a life she no longer lived. There were pretty chiffons in jewel tones, an off-the-shoulder Herve Leger, a crystal-encrusted Carmen Marc Valvo sheath. In front of her were what she’d once called day dresses, along with blouses, blazers, skirts, and trousers. Everything was hung according to category from lightest to darkest in color. Abbie knew she had a slight obsessive-compulsive thing going on when it came to organization, but she protested when anyone said she was a neat freak because she always had at least one closet that was a complete disaster. She liked her life to be tidy, but when given the choice between cleaning and skiing, she’d always choose the latter.
With the exception of what she’d worn to Smith’s funeral, Abbie hadn’t worn most of the clothing hanging in her closet since she’d moved back to Utah. She hadn’t been able to leave these clothes in New York because they reminded her so much of her life with Phillip. Now, these fashionable pieces just looked silly to her. The time when she’d believed this abundance of expensive clothing and accessories reflected something about who she was seemed like a distant memory. Now all these exquisite evening bags, shoes, and beautifully tailored clothes just looked like a lot of unnecessary stuff. She had the overwhelming urge to throw the lot of it into garbage bags right then and donate it all to Deseret Industries, but that would have to wait. She looked at her phone. She didn’t have much time if she was going to get to Sacrament Meeting.
The clothes she lived in now were all a variation of a single uniform, slim trousers and fitted shirts worn with flats, but LDS women didn’t wear trousers to church. Abbie searched her day dresses. She found an understated Michael Kors sheath dress with bracelet sleeves and a boat neck top that hit just above the knee. It was tailored and, while lovely, perfectly forgettable. She then scanned the top shelf, where her handbag collection was arranged. Each bag was in its own dust cover with a picture of it pinned to the outside. She chose a navy Chanel that lacked the interlocking Cs to coordinate with the modest dress she’d picked. She hoped nobody would recognize either the dress or the bag, because she didn’t want to stand out any more than she knew she did just by virtue of her physique and auburn hair.
Abbie combed her hair into a low ponytail and put on small drop pearl earrings. The only other jewelry she wore was her plain gold wedding band on her left ring finger. She stepped back and looked at herself in the mirror. Yes, she looked ready for church.
Abbie picked up her old matching set of the Bible and Book of Mormon with her name embossed in italic gold letters on the fronts. She didn’t know why she had saved them, but she had. She was glad to have them now, because they would give her something to do with her hands. They’d also give her cover at church if she wanted to pretend to be reading the scriptures.
Abbie walked through the glass door at the back of the church with a few minutes to spare. This was the church where she’d met Bishop Norton in his office after Smith had been killed. Then the hallways had been silent; now those same halls were full of gaggles of noisy kids. Abbie doubted “gaggle” was actually the collective noun for groups of young children and teenagers, but if it wasn’t, it should have been. Behind the children dragged tired-looking mothers trying to keep them quiet. The teenage girls were attempting to look cool in modest tops and skirts hovering just below their knees. Most of their efforts had clearly been spent on either straightening or curling their long hair and then rimming their eyes with liner. Many wore obviously fake lashes. The teenage boys’ nod to rebellion was to wear their ties askew and leave wrinkled button-down shirts untucked.
Abbie entered the chapel and slid into the last bench. She watched a few men with overly coiffed hair make their way to the front of the chapel. They sat on the elevated section facing the benches where the congregation sat. A sour-looking woman who looked older than Methuselah started playing “I Know That My Redeemer Lives” as people in the congregation shuffled to their seats. Just before it was time for Sacrament Meeting to start, a harried family of seven scooted into the bench in front of her. The man was in his late forties with thinning hair and a prosperous belly. He promptly started to doze. His wife, whose makeup had been applied with a generous hand, gave her toddler Froot Loops in a small plastic container as soon as they were settled. The elementary-school-age kids elbowed each other with enough vigor to probably cause some pain. Whenever one of them said “ouch,” the others would mock-reverently whisper “shush.” The mother, who was occupied with keeping the toddler quiet, could do nothing but glare at them. At the other end of the bench, two teenage daughters sat silent and sullen.
“Good morning,” Bishop Norton said. “It’s such a joy for me to look out and see all of your friendly faces. We all know that our time on this earth will be marked by trials and tribulations, but as members of the Church, we also know that if we follow God’s plan, we have nothing to fear. He has shown us the way. Please take comfort in that even as you may be going through your own personal struggles. Today we can count the many blessings we receive when we follow our Heavenly Father’s plan.” The Bishop then turned to a gray-haired man sitting on the dais. “Brother Gallagher, would you please give the invocation?”
Abbie folded her arms, bowed her head, then discreetly looked around the room. She saw the Smith family. Melinda was with her children and two men who looked as if they could be her brothers. The Smith kids were squirming some, but no more than most of the other kids their age.
On the other side of the chapel, Abbie saw Jessica Grant. She was wearing a dress with spaghetti straps. The dress showed off Jessica’s well-toned arms and signaled the fact that she wasn’t married, because if she had been wearing garments she couldn’t have worn those thin straps against nothing but her sun-kissed skin. Married women could only wear a dress with spaghetti straps if they wore a modest T-shirt covering their cap-sleeved garments underneath.
Abbie wondered why Jessica was here. She’d thought she went to the singles ward with Clarke. It was apparent she was sitting with a large family. Abbie couldn’t see the faces, but she could tell that most of the family shared the same thick honey-blonde hair Jessica had.
Bishop Norton stood again after everyone murmured “amen.” He introduced a younger man who had just returned from his mission. He talked about how wonderful it was to see how the gospel transformed people’s lives. He concluded with the common refrain, “I bear my testimony that I know this Church is true, and that our Prophet is the true Prophet of God.”
After another speaker and a few hymns, it was finally time for the closing prayer. Abbie heartily joined the other members in saying amen, but probably not for the same reason as everyone else.
Abbie watched as people moved to their next meeting. She opened her Book of Mormon, hoping that reading would give her some time to watch people without being noticed. With a stroke of luck, a large group of tall boys walked past her just as Jessica Grant stood up. Jessica was standing with Sariah Morris. They both had the same blonde hair, the same soap opera good looks. Then Abbie realized the obvious: Sariah and Jessica were sisters. It wasn’t an uncommon age difference in families with five or six kids.
Sacrament Meeting, it turned out, was about as much church as Abbie could stomach. What had seemed like a good idea on her run didn’t seem like such a great idea now. There really wasn’t that much reason to stay. Instead of sitting for another two hours—Relief Society and Sunday school—Abbie started navigating her way through
the busy halls to make her escape at the back exit of the church.
“Sister Taylor! What a surprise to see you here.” Abbie recognized the voice immediately. It was Chief Henderson. “I didn’t know you were a member of this ward.”
“Hi, Chief. No, uh, I’m not a member of this ward, but I thought I just might drop by today to get a sense of where, uh,…” Abbie decided midsentence that it might not be a bad thing if Henderson thought she was there as a prodigal daughter seeking redemption instead of as a detective trying to get a new perspective on her case.
“We’re not members of this ward either—we’re in the Pleasant View 11th—but my wife’s niece is teaching her first Relief Society lesson today. She wanted to be here for support.” Henderson turned and tapped on the arm of a woman engaged in an animated conversation with another older woman.
Before Abbie could figure out a polite getaway, she was facing Henderson’s wife with her well-hairsprayed hair. She was wearing a calf-length floral dress and sensible white shoes.
“This is Abbie Taylor,” Henderson said. “You know, the detective I told you about.”
The woman smiled as if she had only heard wonderful things about Abbie, which, Abbie knew, could not possibly be the case.
“Hello, it’s so nice to finally meet you. We’ve admired your father’s writing for years. My brother took a class with him at the Y years ago. Inspiring is what he called it. He stills talks about it to this day. Are you going to Relief Society? My niece is teaching this morning.”
“Yes,” Abbie smiled, enthusiastically, she hoped. “Do you know which room it’s in?” There was no sense in fighting the inevitable. Abbie could sit through an hour of Relief Society.
Blessed be the Wicked Page 16