by Elaine Viets
Meanwhile, I was photographing and bagging the contents of the wastebasket: two used tissues smeared with pink lipstick, a piece of paper with a telephone number jotted down, a grocery list (eggs, chocolate, bread and coffee), an empty bottle of Visine eye drops, the empty box for Visine Original Redness Formula, and a Walgreens bag with a receipt inside. I kept hoping I’d find something, anything, that could prove Ruby Davis didn’t die of natural causes.
‘Wait!’ Ellen said. ‘What’s that Visine doing in there? Mother didn’t use it.’
‘Why not?’ I said.
‘She wore soft contact lenses,’ Ellen said. ‘Visine has a preservative that discolored them.’
I opened the Walgreens bag and found a credit card receipt for Visine, two chocolate bars and a can of mixed nuts.
‘Does your sister use Visine?’ I asked.
‘No,’ Ellen said. ‘She wears soft contacts, too.’
‘Jace,’ I said, ‘may I see you in the kitchen?’
We walked into the small, bright kitchen that had recently been repainted blue. The blue-flowered curtains looked new. ‘Do you know that Visine is poisonous if swallowed?’ I asked.
‘I thought it gave you the runs,’ he said.
‘No, that’s an urban legend, spread by a movie called “Wedding Crashers.” Visine contains tetrahydrozoline. Drinking it can cause breathing problems, high blood pressure, headaches, seizures and coma.’
‘How did you know that?’ he asked.
‘One of my first cases was a little girl who drank her mother’s Visine. It killed the child. I’ll never forget that. Mrs Davis was small and underweight. If one of her daughters gave her Visine …’
Jace finished my sentence: ‘In that bitter cup of tea. Let’s ask Nitpicker to print the receipt, the Visine bottle, the box it came in and the teacup,’ he said. ‘I can trace that transaction and the store’s CCTV should show who made the purchase.’
Nitpicker printed all the items. Both daughters had good reason to want Mrs Davis dead. Their mother was slipping into dementia, but her body was relatively healthy. The sisters were going to have to sell Ellen’s inheritance to put their mother in a memory care unit, which would quickly eat up that money.
Then there was Shirley, the pretty brunette, stuck caring for a woman who took up all her time.
Finally, Nitpicker announced, ‘The prints on the Visine bottle, the box and the receipt definitely belong to Shirley Davis. The decedent’s prints are not on any of those articles. There is one other set of prints on the receipt, but they are not the decedent’s. The teacup has the decedent’s and Ms Davis’s prints on it.’
Here was the proof. The detail that had been nagging at me. Chamomile tea wasn’t bitter. It was too bland to be bitter. That’s why this scene was off – way off. Ruby Davis didn’t die of a stroke. She was murdered. Ellen had supplied the clue to send her finger-sawing sister to prison.
‘Well, looks like I get to take Mrs Davis’s greedy daughter down to the station for a talk,’ Jace said.
His smile left me chilled, even on this warm spring day.
EIGHTEEN
I needed to shake off this bad death investigation. I had to wipe away the appalling sight of Ruby Davis’s skinned and butchered finger, as well as my dealings with her greedy daughter, Shirley.
The best way to clear away those festering feelings was to ride my favorite horse on the Du Pres estate. I’d earned the right to ride American Hero after I’d rescued him from a stable fire.
After the fire, the Du Pres stables had been restored to their original magnificence. They were more luxurious than most of the homes in the Forest, including mine. The stables had originally been built for the family’s carriage horses in 1905. Those were long gone, but like a lot of super-rich people, old Reggie Du Pres kept OTTBs – Off the Track Thoroughbreds – as pets and riding horses.
Bud, the man in charge of the stables, was lean, leathery, and somewhere in his sixties. His official title was stable hand, but Bud knew how everything worked on the Du Pres estate. He liked to say, ‘Owning a thoroughbred is sort of like dating Elizabeth Taylor in her later years: still beautiful, with a great past.’
Bud also liked to say, ‘Rich people are like potatoes. The best part is underground. All they care about are their ancestors.’ Of course, he saved that radical thought for me, not for old man Du Pres.
I could see the stables from my upstairs bedroom window. After I finished Mrs Davis’s death investigation and signed the paperwork for the body removal, I drove home and filed my report. I tossed my DI suit in the laundry. I wanted to wash away any trace of the Davis family. Then I changed into skinny jeans, an old chambray shirt and riding boots, brought out the bags of carrots and peppermint candy I kept for the horses, and walked toward the stables.
As I got closer, I could smell the spring grass and flowers, with an overlay of horse manure. I didn’t mind – it was a clean, honest smell.
My first stop was at Eecie’s stall. I had to honor the queen of the stable. Her official name was East Coast Express. She was a big bay – that’s a brown horse – with a tiny white star on her forehead. Eecie had a pet, a pygmy goat named Little Bit, who hung out in her stall.
Eecie snorted when she heard me, and I fed her peppermints, until Little Bit stood on his hind legs and poked his head over the stall door. I pulled out a carrot for the goat, but Eecie nudged him out of the way.
‘Eecie,’ I scolded. ‘Let Little Bit have a carrot.’
Only after Eecie had chomped five carrots was the goat permitted to have one. I patted Eecie’s velvety nose and went to the next stall.
American Hero’s stall was mahogany with stained glass windows, and a brass nameplate on the stall door. Hero was indeed heroic with his shiny dark hide and white blaze. He nickered when I approached his stall. I leaned over the top of the door and hugged his neck. Hero stuck out his huge tongue and I gravely shook it. A horse’s tongue feels thick, warm and wet.
Some people think I’m joking when I tell them I shake a horse’s tongue. But it’s true. You can do it, with the right horse. With Hero and me, it’s our favorite greeting. I used to be afraid to touch the powerful thoroughbred, especially when I saw those big yellow teeth. But thanks to Bud, I learned to trust the horse. Hero’s always gentle and careful with me.
I gave Hero carrots and peppermints, and was patting his white blaze when Bud walked in with his soda can spittoon. Smoking is forbidden in the stables, so Bud chews tobacco. I try to ignore this disgusting habit.
‘Here to see your pal in the middle of the day?’ Bud asked. ‘Must have had another bad death investigation.’
Not much got past Bud. I could tell him anything about my investigations because I knew he’d never blab. The only thing Bud ever talked about was horses.
‘The worst case of greed I’ve ever seen, Bud. A woman tried to cut off her dead mother’s finger to get her diamond ring.’
Bud shook his head. ‘And people wonder why I spend all day with animals. You want me to saddle up Hero?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
With that, my work cell rang. I excused myself and went outside to take the call. By the time I answered it, the caller was gone, but he’d left a message. ‘Angela, it’s me. Chris. Sorry to use your work phone, but I don’t have your personal cell number. Would you like to go out to dinner with me? A real dinner, in a restaurant? Please let me know.’
Would I? Did I? I didn’t know, but I’d worked out many dilemmas while riding Hero. By the time I returned, he was saddled. Bud gave me a boost onto the big horse and we were off.
The spring sun shone on Hero’s rippling muscles and shiny coat. He broke into a canter, and we were running across the pasture, the wind in my face, blowing away my bad mood.
Hero could sense my mood better than many humans. Now, when I had to decide what to do about Chris, I slowed him to a walk, and he ambled along, letting me think.
I wanted to have dinner with Chris – I r
eally did. But I felt like I was cheating on my husband, Donegan. Yes, I know Donegan was dead – and every time I thought those words, I felt like I’d been stabbed in the heart. But Donegan wasn’t dead to me. When I had dinner with Chris at my house, I couldn’t help comparing him to my late husband – and Donegan won every time.
He was constantly with me. I could see him in our house: sitting in his favorite chair or walking in the garden. He seemed to linger in the kitchen shadows when Chris made our dinner. At night, I could feel him make love to me, the way we did when we were new to each other. And then I would wake up, lonelier than before.
Had I idealized the man I’d married until he was no longer human? In my dreams he never snored loud enough to wake me up. Or destroyed a clean bathroom with one shower. He never ate sandwiches without a plate and trailed crumbs all over the house.
But I loved Donegan – even the imperfect parts. Well, most of them. And ghosts don’t leave crumbs in the living room and wet towels on the bathroom floor.
Maybe another dinner with Chris would help me see what he was really like – his good points and bad ones. There was no reason to feel guilty. I had meals with Jace all the time. Except Jace wasn’t interested in me as a lover. He was happily married.
It was time to find out Chris’s imperfections. I was sure he had them. At forty-one, I wasn’t too old for love. Perfect memories were cold comfort on the long nights.
My work cell rang. This time, it was Jace. I reined in Hero and answered it, hoping I didn’t have another death investigation today. Hero stood patiently while I took the call, eating the pasture grass.
‘Angela, I need your help,’ Jace said. ‘You remember Rosanna McKim, Briggs’s housekeeper. Did you know her?’
‘Sort of. I went to school with her older sister, Diana McKim. Rosanna is about eleven years younger than me.’ A memory of a teenage Rosanna flashed in my mind: she was a curly-haired blonde with blue eyes and a big smile. One of those people who’s so enthusiastic that being around her can be tiring.
‘What about their mother?’
‘Lisa McKim. I know her to say hi to. I see her at the supermarket sometimes. She likes to talk about her girls. Diana is a sales rep for a big whiskey company in New York. And Rosanna works – I mean, worked – for Briggs.’
‘Have you talked to her mother recently?’ Jace said.
‘Come to think of it, no,’ I said.
‘I have a problem, and I need your help. Lisa McKim reported her daughter missing three weeks ago, shortly after she was fired. Rosanna was upset about being fired, but told her mother she would look for a job after she went on vacation. She wanted time to think about her future. She was sorry to lose the job, but she didn’t like Briggs – he was rude and what she called “grabby.” Rosanna told her mother she tried to never be alone with Briggs. She was taking her severance pay and going on a Caribbean cruise that sailed out of Port Everglades in Fort Lauderdale. She promised to call her mother when she arrived. She never did.
‘Mrs McKim waited two days, and then filed a missing persons report with the Chouteau Forest PD.’
‘Who handles our missing persons?’ I asked. ‘We’re too small to have a missing persons bureau.’
‘Right. Her call was sent to the crimes against persons detective on duty, Ray Greiman.’
‘Uh-oh,’ I said.
‘Right,’ said Jace.
‘I tried to track down Rosanna to talk to her about Briggs,’ he said, ‘but no luck. A check with the airlines showed Rosanna did not fly out of St. Louis on the expected date, and her name was not on the cruise ship’s manifest. She’d paid for the plane ticket and the cruise, but never showed. The bank said she’d cashed her severance check and her paycheck. She had about five thousand dollars in her checking account, untouched.
‘I called Mrs McKim and asked to talk to her about her daughter and she got angry at me. She said, “If my daughter’s such a slut, why do you want to find her now?” Then she started crying.’
‘My guess is Greiman said something to her,’ I said.
‘That’s what I think. Look, I know you’re not supposed to investigate cases, but could you go with me when I talk to Mrs McKim?’
I paused for a moment, and rubbed Hero’s gleaming neck. If Greiman filed a complaint about me interfering in his investigation, I could lose my job. But there were other DI jobs, and I didn’t have any children. I was single. I was free. I could take the risk. I had a Hero with me.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ll do it. What time?’
‘What about four o’clock this afternoon?’
‘Done!’ I said. ‘I know where she lives. I’ll see you there.’
He hung up. And while I was still feeling brave, I called Chris and left a message. ‘Thanks for calling. I’d love dinner tomorrow night at Gringo Daze, my favorite Mexican restaurant. And here’s my personal cell number.
‘Let’s go back home, Hero,’ I told my horse. ‘You’ve worked your magic again.’
NINETEEN
Lisa McKim, the missing housekeeper’s mother, lived in a white 1960s split-level with black shutters. Lisa met Jace and me with a warm smile at her front door. She ushered us through a mirrored hall into a formal living room with a beige damask couch, pastel upholstered chairs, and a silver tea service on a serving cart. The furniture was polished to a high gloss, and the couch looked brand new. I suspected the room was rarely used.
Lisa was in her early fifties, but looked at least ten years younger. She was a trim woman with dark, curly hair. I could see where Rosanna got her energy and enthusiasm. Lisa wore dark skinny jeans and a pink blouse.
Jace and I sat on the pale, pristine couch. ‘Would you like coffee?’ Lisa asked. ‘It’s ready. All I have to do is pour.’
‘That sounds good,’ Jace said. Lisa rolled the cart over to us and fixed three black coffees with a sugar cookie on each saucer. She took the pink chair next to the couch and we got down to business.
‘I want to apologize for what I said yesterday, Detective,’ Lisa said, looking at her well-manicured hands. ‘I was rude to you, and you didn’t deserve it. But that other detective – that Ray Greiman – insulted Rosanna! He acted like my daughter was … is … has …’ Lisa stopped, unable to find the right words. She kept wringing her hands and finally burst out with, ‘… has loose morals!’
‘What did he say, Mrs McKim? What did you tell him? We need to hear the whole story.’
‘When I called the police station to report Rosanna missing—’
Jace interrupted. ‘Excuse me, I’d like to hear your story from the beginning, please. First, did your daughter let two hundred pounds of raw meat rot in Briggs’s new Range Rover?’
‘Absolutely not!’ Lisa was indignant. ‘My daughter is extremely organized and very competent. Yes, Briggs said he was going to have a party on a Saturday, right before she disappeared. He told her to order the meat the Thursday before the party, and she went to the store in person to place the order.’
‘Which store?’ Jace asked.
‘The Forest Specialty Meat and Fish Mart,’ Lisa said. ‘Nothing but the best for Mr Bellerive. He doesn’t eat supermarket meat. Briggs told my daughter he was going downtown – downtown Chouteau Forest, that is – for lunch, and he’d pick up the order Friday afternoon, the day before the barbecue. Saturday was Rosanna’s day off – he’d hired staff for the event – and she spent the day with me.’
‘Wait,’ Jace said. ‘Did he tell your daughter he was picking up the meat, or did he give her a written order?’
‘He texted her. She sent me a copy of it after he fired her. She was terribly upset by his accusations. His false accusations. Here.’
Lisa brought out her cell phone, and called up an email from Rosanna. It said, Mom, here’s a screenshot of the text from that lying creep:
R, no need for you to go downtown. I’ll pick up the meat after I have lunch in the Forest. The liquor, wine and beer will be delivered today about 4 p.m. As s
oon as they arrive and you’ve checked them in, you can go. Start your weekend early. BB
I took a sip of coffee. It was rich and strong. Just what I needed.
‘Now you’ve seen his text,’ Lisa said. ‘The drinks were delivered at four-fifteen, according to my daughter. She inventoried them and put everything away, then checked the other party supplies. Once she finished, she texted Briggs at five-o-two. I have that one, too. See?’
She opened another email with a screenshot.
Mr B, the wine and beer arrived a little after 4. The wine and liquor are stored in the pantry and the beer and soda are in the Sub-Zero. I’ve checked the other party supplies and called the caterer and confirmed our order. Their number is on the notepad by the fridge. The caterer will start setting up at 3 p.m. tomorrow. Everything is ready for your party. I’m leaving now, but you have my number. If you have any problems, please call me. R
‘Did Mr Bellerive call your daughter that weekend?’ Jace asked.
‘No, and Rosanna spent the weekend with me. She had her cell phone on the whole time. We had a girls’ weekend. We went out for a nice dinner at Solange on Friday night. They have the best prime rib. Saturday, we had a spa day and Saturday night we had wine and pizza, and watched chick movies. We giggled like girls. Sunday morning we went to church – St Philomena’s – and then out to brunch at the Forest Inn. We had such a good time. Now that my daughter’s older, she’s more like a friend.’ Lisa sounded wistful and her eyes were red. I thought she was holding back tears.
‘What is your daughter’s relationship with her employer?’ Jace asked.
‘It’s not good. In fact, my daughter was quietly looking for another job, one outside the Forest.’
‘What was the problem?’ Jace asked.
‘He was sexually harassing her,’ Lisa said. ‘She was documenting as much as she could – she kept a diary. As soon as she had a new job, she was going to consult a lawyer.’
‘Where is this diary?’