by Judith Rolfs
Sarah pushed away her plate with its half-eaten eggplant parmigiana. “I was hoping together we’d come up with something.”
The waitress brought the bill, and Karen reached for her purse.
Sarah stretched out her hand and clamped it atop the bill. “I insist on treating. I invited you.”
Karen smiled. “Thanks, how kind of you. Dinner’s on me next time.”
“I hope we never have another discussion like this.” Sarah grimaced.
“One never knows what the future holds. We must always be prepared to help those who need us, come what may.”
Sarah sighed. “I’ve discovered one thing—dealing with murder is not my forte.”
FORTY-SIX
Art agent Carla Madsen stood alone in her kitchen speaking aloud into the mirror hanging above her long stretch of butcher-block counter. She’d placed the mirror strategically to catch the sun’s rays streaming in from the window on the opposite wall. Only there’d been no sun today or for the past five days of March, rain squelching even a glint. An artist must live in light, Carla reminded herself. She could do without sun more easily, perhaps, if her entire life wasn’t dark.
“Mona Lisa.” She spit out the words. The name was supposed to remind her that beauty and importance were more than physical. The strategy wasn’t working tonight. She felt ugly within and without, even though she supposed her business acquaintances found her attractive. She dressed well in a classic style. She had a jaw broad for a woman, but long, wavy hair around the sides of her face softened it. Her self-esteem tank never rose above half. She even walked bent over as if climbing a hill against the wind.
Carla had developed one abiding principle during her twenty-four years in the art world. Stay away from notoriety. Promote artists. Do not draw personal attention to yourself. Why risk having her past indiscretions come up? No one in Cortland City needed to know about her criminal record of forgery and minor thievery. Minor in her estimation, but the law didn’t share her opinion. Her client in Sioux Falls hadn’t liked having his new acquisition replaced with a fraudulent substitution. He was a friend of her mother’s. That was the only reason Carla didn’t end up in jail. The memory of her exposure was painful. She’d forever be police shy, yet just two months ago she’d succumbed to stealing again. “Why did you do it?” she asked the mirror.
Carla rationalized that her temptations occurred because many of her customers were gullible and greedy. But Blaine had been different, a kind woman with a tragic history and impoverished. Nevertheless, when Carla found an excellent reproduction of the painting she was selling for Blaine, she didn’t hesitate to make the switch. How easy to offer to clean and touch up Blaine’s original at no charge prior to locating a buyer. Of course, she had no intention of seriously finding one now. But she hadn’t counted on this sickening guilt.
Carla’s conscience spoke—no, yelled—at her. Blaine had enough misfortune. But you had to add to it. The voice was especially loud today. She couldn’t stand it much longer! It came from deep in her soul. Blaine’s death had created panic in her. Now the painting probably would come on the market, and she’d be asked questions.
Silence—that’s what she wanted, what she practiced. A woman with secrets stayed safe, which was why Carla had never mentioned that other woman. Had she been Blaine’s murderer? If so, she’d probably murdered Kendra too.
Carla had had her suspicions about Kendra’s death but never told a soul what she thought. She couldn’t risk drawing attention to herself. Besides, her suspicion didn’t make sense when she followed the mental trail to its logical solution. The woman she suspected was respectable. Yet Carla had seen her walking with Kendra as Carla drove through Ballybunion shortly before the presumed time of Kendra’s death.
She’d read the newspaper accounts of Kendra’s fall reporting Kendra hadn’t been seen alive since she left her tour group. That wasn’t true. Carla had seen her and so had this other woman. Why had this person never come forward to say she’d been with Kendra that afternoon?
At the time, Carla decided this woman must have a good reason. Perhaps she was having an affair in Ireland and wanted to hide her identity. Carla understood about secrets. She didn’t want to cause trouble for anyone. Why alienate potential future art customers on such flimsy grounds?
But how could she stay silent now? Whoever had killed Kendra might be the same woman who murdered Jillian, if her death was, in fact, not suicide. Hadn’t both had contact with the woman Carla had seen in Ballybunion? But why would she kill these poor women?
The day after Blaine died, Carla almost went forward. She’d been at one of the meetings of Single and Divorced Women with her. Maybe Jillian had been in the same group at some time. Carla berated herself. She poured a glass of Lambrusca to help her think and twenty minutes later, another and another until her head became a train wreck.
For that matter and worse yet, she’d been having blackout spells. Had she actually killed Blaine during one of them to avoid risking exposure? Surely Blaine would eventually know her picture was a forgery. Was it possible to murder someone and then forget about it? The shakes began again, starting with her hands, and moved quickly through her entire body.
For her mom’s sake, Carla couldn’t risk exposure again. The elder Mrs. Madsen lived in a residential care center. She’d given up her independence but still had her pride, and Carla wouldn’t take that from her in these last years. She’d promised her mom she’d never do anything dishonest again. Having a daughter who resorted to thievery would crush her.
Carla had a better solution. Accidents happen. She opened the kitchen cabinet above the sink. Vials of vitamins and miscellaneous pills were set in a soldierly row.
She stared a long time at the tiny plastic bottle of sleeping pills then picked up the bottle and turned it over in her hands.
* * *
“I’d be emotionally dead if I had to sit at a desk fifty hours a week,” Chief Bolan told his wife when he left for work. He couldn’t talk her out of worrying about him, although he’d certainly tried hard enough. If only she’d release her fears that he’d be killed or disabled.
He reminded himself as he drove how much he liked the unpredictability and flexibility of law enforcement. No desk job for him, thank you.
This morning Martha had been more nervous than usual because he was investigating a murder. He’d been meaning to get the two of them involved in a local church. In case anything happened to him, he wanted Martha connected to caring people. At least he’d had that as a kid when his dad died. Why did he keep putting it off?
Bolan pounded the steering wheel. “These murders are giving you bad thoughts. Snap out of it.”
Today’s first appointment was a no-brainer decision. Number one and two on Chief Chris Bolan’s suspect list were Blaine’s ex-husband, Larry, and Larry’s new wife, Althea. Police school 101— check out the divorced spouse. His deputy had already done a preliminary interview, but the Chief wanted to size the guy up for himself. The Chief headed his squad car straight for Larry Cartier’s business in the industrial park. Every clue pointed his way, including the BMW.
He reviewed the directions he’d jotted down and stopped at the third building on the right where a painted black and white sign read, “Cartier Manufacturing.”
Chief Bolan parked and stepped out, and then let out a moan. That newspaperwoman, Whitney Barnes, was strolling down the sidewalk toward him.
“Hi, Chief,” she called cheerily.
“What are you doing here?” He made no effort to disguise his annoyance.
“I promised my friend Ellie I’d follow this investigation like a bloodhound. If I accompany you, I won’t have to interview you later.” The lift on the end of her words made it sound as if she was doing him a favor.
The Chief hesitated. For a reporter to observe any part of an investigation in a big town would never be allowed, but this was Cortland City. Whitney Barnes had provided undeniable help turning up info on the BMW
. His good-for-little deputy should have tracked down and interviewed Louise Malone right away. The Chief owed Whitney. All the same, he didn’t like it.
“As long as you respect my authority, don’t write a word without my permission, and keep your mouth shut during my questioning.”
“You’ve got it, Chief.” Whitney followed him to the door.
“I’ve got a murder to solve and don’t want you messing with it.”
FORTY-SEVEN
“Whaddya want?” Larry Cartier’s receptionist meandered out of a cubicle, stopping to flick off the copy machine on her way to the counter. The rhinestone glued on the side of the girl’s nose wasn’t Whitney’s idea of fashion, nor was the tattoo on the girl’s forearm of a goddess wearing a turban with five writhing snakes. To each his own. The young gal enunciated well, considering she never stopped chewing a mouthful of pink gum.
She looked about seventeen, but Whitney never trusted her judgment about age.
The building, actually a glorified metal pole structure, housed office cubicles defined by a half wall stretching behind the long counter in the front. Apparently, a large warehouse area cut across the back.
Chief Bolan seemed to ignore the girl’s discourtesy. “What’s your name, miss?”
“Sally.”
“Sally, I need to see your boss, Mr. Cartier.” Chief Bolan slowed his speech.
If Sally noticed the Chief’s badge and uniform, it made no impression. “Larry’ll be back any minute. He shoulda been here half an hour ago. I gotta leave for the post office. He does this to me all the time.”
Whitney winced. Obviously this girl had little training in employer-employee or employee-customer relations.
“We’ll wait.” Chief Bolan turned his back.
Whitney wondered what Larry’s choice of a receptionist revealed about Larry Cartier’s business sense.
The chief consulted his clipboard and yanked out a cellular phone attached to his belt. “I need to make some calls.” He ambled off to a secluded corner.
Whitney was tempted to eavesdrop. Journalists can develop such nasty tendencies. She chided herself and restrained. Wandering over to a waiting area in the corner with vinyl chairs, she sat down and opened her notebook. She flipped through the pages and reviewed her notes on Ellie’s mom’s questionable suicide, Jillian and Blaine’s deaths, and her mom’s “accident.” She turned to a fresh sheet of paper and made four columns. What were the similarities? She kept one eye on the door, watching for Larry Cartier.
A four-by-four truck came to a stop in front of the building, backed up, and then sped away. Whitney didn’t have to strain to read the business name on its side.
Sally must have spotted it too. An annoyed look crossed her face, a sign of life at least. She picked up the black phone on the counter and punched in a number. Whitney knew it was Larry in the truck when she overheard Sally say, “Someone is waiting to see you. What are you doing driving on by?”
Chief Bolan was still bent over his clipboard. Sally glanced his way and whispered into the phone.
The Chief strolled over to Whitney and plopped into a seat next to her. She chose to ignore Larry for the moment. Why not use the wait time to address something else distressing her about the deaths of Cortland City women.
“Chief, I’ve been pondering a personal issue.” Whitney told him about her mom’s supposed accident or suicide in Ireland, ending with, “Same kind of confusion as in these current deaths in Cortland City. Do you see a connection?”
“It’s a stretch. Probably never know at this point.” He turned and stared at her. “I’m truly sad for your loss. Now I understand why you write on this topic.”
Whitney focused on looking for a piece of gum in her purse. She disliked words of sympathy. Kind, but powerless, they reminded her of the futility of talking about her loss. Only the Lord gave her genuine comfort.
* * *
Larry Cartier pulled into his parking space and shut off the engine. His gaze locked momentarily on the police car. Then his eyes darted toward the plate glass window of his business where a blue uniform came into focus. He fumbled with his keys, restarted his truck, and backed out. A police visit was something he hadn’t counted on. He had a very good reason for not wanting to talk. He had to think this through first. Darn, he never could think well under pressure.
Larry guided the steering wheel with his knee and squeezed the ringing phone in his right hand. Had he answered from force of habit or nervousness? Either way, he was an idiot. What difference did it make? He growled at Sally. “Back in less than ten.”
Driving around the block again, he went over events the night of Blaine’s death. Should he tell the truth? That would make both he and his wife suspects.
What was the truth, anyway? That Althea had been out the evening Blaine was killed. He had no idea where she’d been when Blaine was murdered. Shopping, she claimed. Althea had never before gone shopping and returned without buying something. He didn’t have the courage to ask where she’d gone or why she was so late. Or should he play it safe, lie, and risk being found out? Larry rubbed his temple where a migraine was starting.
Cruising around the block again gave him a few more minutes to think. Finally, he braked outside his office, swaggered in, and contrived a fake smile.
The police chief and some woman in a suit sat in the reception area. Who was she?
Larry tried to stay cool. “Hiya, Chief, what are you doing here? Selling tickets to the Policemen’s Ball?”
“Not today, I...”
Larry interrupted with more nervous chatter. “Now I know your department can’t use Cartier cardboard boxes as big as I make. And who’s this?” He forced a friendly grin at Whitney as sweat beaded on his forehead.
Chief Bolan introduced the journalist. “I need to ask you a few questions.” The Chief looked pointedly at Sally. “In private.”
“Sure. Come back to my office.” His voice cracked.
Whitney jumped up and followed uninvited.
Larry led the way down the hall. Chief Chris Bolan’s breath on his neck made him squirm. The Chief took the chair closest to his desk. Whitney grabbed a seat by the window. Larry was suddenly aware of his dirty enameled office walls and cluttered metal desk. No organizer’s touch had been here recently. His new wife’s picture in a pewter frame rose from behind a stack of envelopes, in full color, showing her heavily made-up face and big pout underneath a bubble of blonde hair. A feathery scarf draped her two bare shoulders. Glamour Shot photo, she’d told Larry when he complained about the bill. Althea could spend it, no doubt about that. She was an actress who performed occasionally in local mystery dinner theaters for minimal pay but otherwise enjoyed the luxury of being his trophy wife.
Larry remained standing but braced his hands on his desk as if the barrier could protect him.
The Chief wasted no time getting to the point. “I intend to find out who killed your ex-wife.”
Larry felt his Adam’s apple move up and down. He blurted out, “Should I have a lawyer here?”
The chief shrugged. “Do you need one? It’s up to you.”
Larry considered before he answered. “Naw, I didn’t do anything.”
“You’ve heard the details?”
“Yeah, I read it in the paper. Terrible. I hope you get the guy.”
“What makes you think it’s a guy?”
“Well, I dunno. I just assumed.”
“Actually, it might have been a woman.” The chief stared directly into Larry’s eyes.
Was the Chief trying to fluster him? Larry dropped onto the seat behind his desk.
“Your ex-wife was in mourning and not dating. It’s not likely she would have invited a man into her home in the evening.”
“She did a lot of dumb stuff.”
“Don’t even go there.” Whitney’s sharp reply interrupted. The Chief glared at her.
“I understand you and your new wife were home the day the former Ms. Cartier was murdered?”
“Yeah, I had some kind of bug.” Larry rubbed the back of his left hand in a non-stop circular motion. His gaze met Whitney’s and he stopped. Perhaps he’d become accustomed to lying when he and Althea were hiding their affair from Blaine, and now it came easily. “Althea and I were home all afternoon, and in the evening we watched football together.” He twisted his fingers together but didn’t even blink.
The Chief scratched some notes on his legal pad. “Can anyone else verify this?” He didn’t sound convinced.
“Just her.”
“Fine. I’d like to speak with your wife. When’s the best time to reach her?”
“She took the train to downtown Chicago and is spending the day. I’ll have her call you when she gets home.”
“I’ll contact her.”
“About eight.”
“By the way, what kind of car does she drive?”
“A grey BMW.”
“And you?” Chief Bolan’s voice was crisp and stern.
“Mostly I drive the company truck.”
“And when you don’t?”
“I use our car.”
Chief Bolan jotted down the make and year then turned to Whitney. “We’re through here. Let’s go.”
* * *
Larry watched them stroll out together. He sat stunned in his chair. Inwardly he groaned as his mind replayed the day Blaine died.
He’d been home all day sick and watched the football game alone until seven. He fell asleep in front of the TV. When he awoke after eleven, Althea still wasn’t home from her afternoon and evening shopping. He remembered clicking off the Tonight Show, plenty mad. Stores weren’t open past ten. Where was his wife? She’d better not be running around on him. He wouldn’t put it past her.
Althea had finally returned around 11:30 without any shopping bags. Furious, Larry had asked her what she bought. She claimed she went instead for coffee at the bookstore and passed the time reading until it closed at eleven. His wife had the nerve to act annoyed he’d asked. Pretty weird for her to visit a bookstore when he’d never known her to be interested in books before.