by Elaine Viets
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said. A useless comment and cold comfort.
‘I know you are,’ she said. ‘You’re a good friend.’
‘I’m talking to Jessica’s crew,’ I said. ‘Hoping to find out something.’
‘Can you do that?’ she said. ‘Since the police have decided they have the right person?’
‘I’m not supposed to,’ I said. ‘But I know they have the wrong person.’
I caught a glimpse of myself in a salon mirror. My dark hair was straggly. ‘Would Carlos have time for a quick wash and blow dry?’ I asked.
‘I’m sure he’d be honored,’ Raquel said. ‘I’ll go ask him right now.’
Two minutes later, I had my head tilted back in a wash basin while Carlos shampooed me. He was quick and efficient. I left Killer Cuts an hour and a half later, looking a lot better than when I arrived.
At home, I changed into a little black dress, and added some of my favorite gold jewelry. The chunky necklace and earrings were gifts from Donegan. When I put them on, I felt like I had him with me. His presence comforted me. I slid into black heels, something I rarely wore. I told myself I was enduring the pain for Mario. A quick glance in my bedroom mirror told me I looked good – sleek and long-legged. I had no idea whether that would cut any ice with Stu. I figured he’d be more interested in admiring my wallet, and that was anemic.
I headed to Solange’s early and scored a quiet table in the bar.
The new widower showed up right at six o’clock, dressed in his version of West Coast cool: black Hugo Boss suit, black shirt, white tie and small sunglasses. Sunglasses! In a bar at night. I wondered why he needed to hide his eyes.
Stu greeted me as if I were an old friend and kissed me lightly on the cheek. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw old Mrs Rubelle watching this scene with avid eyes. The news would spread through the Forest like a California wildfire. By next week, the local gossips would have me married to Stu.
Stu sat down, and the server took our order – Chardonnay for me, single malt for Stu – and left us a bowl of salted cashews. Our drinks arrived quickly. Stu took off his glasses and his brown eyes were untroubled.
‘How have you been?’ I asked, my voice soft with sympathy.
‘As well as can be expected,’ he said. ‘Jessica’s death was a terrible shock.’
He seemed to need a sympathetic ear. ‘I’m sure it was. And so sudden.’
‘At least the police have the killer,’ he said. ‘I feel guilty that I hired the little son of a bitch to do her hair.’
I crunched a cashew to avoid answering. Finally, I said, ‘Do you think Jessica’s illness contributed to her death?’
‘No. But I think she might still be alive if she’d listened to us,’ he said. ‘We all begged her to stay in the hospital one more day. I waited until Tawnee and Will were both out of the room and asked her to stay another day. For my sake. She said she hated the hospital. I said I’d get a suite at the Ritz in St Louis and she could recover there in comfort. We’d have a doctor in attendance if she needed one. Hell, I even wanted to fly in her doctor from California. But she wouldn’t listen. She was determined to go home.’
There was a long pause, while we both thought the same thing: how Jessica was now going home.
I took a slug of Chardonnay for courage and asked my first rude question of the evening: ‘Did Jessica have the money for that kind of care – a suite at the Ritz and flying in a specialist from California?’
Stu sat up straight, his body rigid with anger. ‘Jessica was a highly successful businesswoman,’ he said.
‘I’m sure she was,’ I said. ‘But I heard stories that the Lux was papered, and half the audience had free tickets.’
‘Ridiculous! I keep the books. And her Captivate line sells. Saks and Nordstrom both carry it.’
He finished most of his single malt and signaled the server for another. She brought it quickly. He threw it back and ordered another while I nursed my wine. When his third scotch arrived, I could see the rigid anger starting to leave him, almost like rigor mortis leaving a body.
‘When did you and Jessica marry?’ I asked.
‘When the show was in Las Vegas in December,’ he said. ‘That’s where we first met six years ago.’
And where she ruined what was left of your career, I thought.
‘We married at one of those little wedding chapels. No press. No photos. We kept it quiet because people wouldn’t understand the age difference.’
‘Another double standard,’ I said. ‘It’s OK for Picasso to marry someone forty years younger, but not for a woman celebrity.’
‘Exactly,’ Stu said and smiled at me. ‘Although in our case it’s only thirty-eight years. We were going to honeymoon in Hawaii after this show ended, then we’d meet with her public relations people and brainstorm on the best way to announce our marriage. In the meantime, we kept our marriage secret. I’m sure Tawnee and Will were shocked when I told that detective Jessica and I were married.’
‘Tawnee said she didn’t have a clue,’ I said. ‘And I thought I heard Jessica firing all of you the night of the party at Reggie Du Pres’s house.’
‘Oh, Jessica always did that,’ Stu said, as if it were an endearing little quirk. ‘It was her way of blowing off steam. Once she was back home and relaxed a bit, she’d be herself again. Tawnee knew that. I did, too.’
‘Did Will?’ I asked.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Will was happy to have a gig as her make-up artist. He was good, I’ll say that for him. He loved the publicity. He lived for those times when Jessica called us all on-stage and acknowledged us. He saw each on-stage appearance as an ad for his new make-up line and a way to impress potential backers.’
‘Will was under the impression that Jessica would have bankrolled his make-up line,’ I said.
‘I doubt it.’ Stu’s laugh was harsh. ‘Though Jessica might have insisted he put her name on it. But she wouldn’t jump into any deal in a hurry. I told Will when he was hired to play it smart and work for her for at least two years. Then he could say that he was Jessica’s make-up artist. He said he’d be able to get his own backing by then.’
‘How is Jessica going home?’ I said, ‘Do you need the name of a good funeral home to embalm her?’
‘No, as soon as the ME releases her body, she’ll be cremated. I’ll spread her ashes in Maui, where we planned to go for our honeymoon.’
‘That’s so sad,’ I said.
‘That’s life,’ he said. He tossed down the last of his scotch and signaled for the check. He threw down some bills and walked out without saying goodbye.
I shivered in the overheated room.
TWENTY-THREE
Katie called me at ten the next morning on my personal cell phone. I fumbled for my phone, then heard her say, ‘I’ve got your information. Come on by my office.’
‘Did you find Becky’s autopsy report?’ I said.
‘That’s right,’ she said. Her voice sounded singsong and syrupy. ‘I’ll be in my office until noon.’
OK, she couldn’t talk. I figured that much out. I was on call until six that night. I abandoned my coffee cup in the sink and quickly dressed in my DI outfit – black pantsuit, white blouse and lace-up shoes – and headed for the ME’s office at SOS Hospital. On the way, I stopped by the chocolate shop and picked up some fat strawberries covered in dark chocolate as a thank you. Katie was a healthy eater, and I liked chocolate. This was my compromise.
I expected to be greeted with smiles as soon as she saw the box, but Katie met me with fire in her eyes. She dragged me into her office and shut the door. Her voice was a hissing whisper.
‘Are you trying to get me fired?’ she said. ‘Evarts walked in here when I was calling you. I tried to be subtle, but no, Ms Sledgehammer. You have to yell into the phone, “Did you find Becky’s autopsy report?”’
‘Oh, God,’ I said. ‘He didn’t hear me, did he?’
‘If he did, I managed to
convince him that your call was about Jessica Gray.’
‘Well, it was,’ I said. ‘Sort of.’
‘Explain.’ Katie sat behind her desk, and I perched on the edge of it. ‘And take a seat,’ she said.
‘If I sit in your chair and someone opens the door, they’ll hit my knees,’ I said.
I stayed on her desk, the chocolates in my lap. ‘I was supposed to meet Becky the day she died. I talked to her on the phone in the lobby of the police station the day before. Greiman was in one of his moods and made me put the call on speaker, so he heard it. So did Jessica’s crew, along with Mario, who would shortly be arrested.
‘Becky hinted that she had information about Jessica’s murder. She gave me a clue. It was a poem. She was teasing me. She said: Since you’ve been so dear, I’ll make it clear. It’s not the red – it’s the blue. Breakfast is on you.
‘She said she was staying at the Hoffstedder Hotel, a rundown SRO, and she’d meet me for breakfast at ten the next morning. Except she didn’t. I went to the hotel and discovered her body. She’d been strangled.’
‘That’s what her autopsy says.’ Katie handed me a printout. I scanned the familiar form and read the details. Becky’s name was Rebecca Henderson Barens, and she was divorced. There was no sign of sexual activity. She’d worn a pink pantsuit and she’d been strangled with her flowered scarf. The U-shaped hyoid bone in her neck was broken. Becky had clawed at her neck to stop the strangulation, but it didn’t save her. The only DNA under her fingernails was her own.
‘The cops think she knew her killer and admitted him to her room,’ Katie said.
‘Or her,’ I said. ‘Becky was streetwise and she’d already been raped once. She’d be careful who she let into her room. I’m convinced the killer was one of Jessica’s crew. Mario is off the hook for her murder. He was in jail at the time.’
I carefully read the list of the clothes on Becky’s body: one pair pink wool pants, one pink wool jacket with three buttons, one pink flowered blouse, all with Ellen Tracy labels. The flowered scarf was by Calvin Klein. The black heels were Aerosoles. A Victoria’s Secret white lace bra and matching panties. All way too expensive for a homeless woman, even if she bought them at a resale shop.
I read the list four times. I knew something was missing on it. It niggled at my brain. What was it?
‘I’m going to track down Suzy,’ I said. ‘She was another homeless woman at Jessica’s wretched street fashion show.’
‘I heard about that,’ Katie said. Her face showed her disgust. ‘What was that poor woman wearing when Jessica exhibited her?’
‘Becky wore everything she owned: a shaggy gray coat with one button. Jessica made her strip on-stage. Under the coat was a man’s plaid flannel shirt, a gray hoodie, a blue work shirt, a dingy white T-shirt, a blue blouse with the sleeves torn off and four pairs of pants. All of it was filthy and stained.
‘Jessica made Becky strip to her ugly bra and granny panties, but Becky refused to take off any more clothes. The audience – a bunch of distinguished gray-hairs – acted like drunken frat boys, laughing and shouting “Take it off! Take it off!” and “More! More!” Jessica was stirring them up.’
‘That freak Jessica made fun of Becky?’ Katie was angry. ‘She’s got her nerve. Did the audience know about the star’s ass pads, fake boobs, and wig? Not to mention the facelifts and enough make-up to paint the side of a barn!’
‘Jessica was good at illusion,’ I said. ‘Much better than her magician husband, Stu. The audience adored her. Besides, if Jessica didn’t age, then the gray-hairs in those plush seats could kid themselves that they hadn’t gotten any older, either. They wanted her to look young.
‘Jessica told Reggie that she was sending the “models” from the show to his party. He was expecting real babes and instead he got two bag ladies. Reggie called Jessica and raised hell. She said her street models would attend the party or she wouldn’t go.’
‘A real power play,’ Katie said. ‘I would have paid to see Reggie’s face when those two staggered out of that limo.’
‘Me, too. Jessica had a cruel streak, but Reggie was crafty. Reggie persuaded the one homeless woman, Suzy, to take a shower, eat, and rest in his pool house. Becky was defiant. She stayed at the party and I had dinner with her.’
‘Good for you,’ Katie said. ‘Where does this Suzy live?’
‘Nowhere. But she hangs out around the Lux. I’m going looking for her this afternoon. I hope Becky told her something in the limo.’
Katie repeated the jingle: ‘It’s not the red – it’s the blue. The only thing red I remember was the turtleneck that Jessica wore. The ER cut it off.’
‘I saw that. In fact, I saw all her clothes,’ I said. ‘She didn’t have anything blue. Everything else was black, except for her white fake fur coat. I doubt it was something she wore.’
‘Do you think Becky was pulling your leg?’ Katie asked.
‘No, she was grateful that I’d talked to her at the party,’ I said. ‘She told me about herself. She wanted to turn her life around. I gave her a lead on a group that helped homeless women and she promised to go there. She didn’t blow the hundred dollars that Jessica gave her on booze. She spent it on a room at the Hoffstedder Hotel. She got those good clothes from somewhere – she wore an expensive pantsuit, blouse, scarf and shoes.’
‘Do you think the homeless group gave them to her?’
‘Maybe, but they looked too new,’ I said. ‘They were either from a high-end resale shop, or she stole them at the hospital, or she blackmailed someone for more money. And I’m thinking blackmail. I found two hundred dollars in crisp bills stashed between her mattress and box springs.’
‘Funny, they’re not on the list of her possessions,’ Katie said.
‘Do you think they were overlooked when her room was searched?’ I asked.
‘I doubt it. The city detectives are thorough.’
‘Do you think the cops stole them?’ I knew crime scene thefts happened, especially in the old days.
‘Unlikely,’ Katie said. ‘Did you lunch with Jessica’s crew, like I suggested?’
‘I did. Tawnee stiffed me for seventy-two dollars at Solange and told me nothing. She called Mario a wetback and said he killed Jessica. I had drinks with Stu. He’s as cold as Jessica. That pretty exterior hides an iceberg for a heart. Those two deserved each other. The only one left is Will, the make-up artist. I think Mario had a fling with him and Will sold him out to Greiman to save his own skin. I’ll try to get him before they all leave town.’
‘Did you ask them about Becky’s clue?’
‘No, I forgot.’
‘See, that’s why you shouldn’t be investigating this,’ Katie said. ‘You’re not trained for it.’
‘I’ll ask them again,’ I said. ‘And I can ask Will when I catch up with him.’
‘Better hurry,’ Katie said. ‘They leave here as soon as Jessica’s cremated. She surrounded herself with a freakin’ snake pit. I’ll be glad when that bunch leaves town.’
I wanted to forestall another lecture. She couldn’t talk with her mouth full. I handed her the box of chocolate delights. ‘Have a strawberry.’
‘Thanks,’ she said. She opened the box and took a fat berry in a thick dark coat. It was gone in three bites. ‘Have one,’ she said.
My work cell phone chimed before I could reach for one. I recognized Detective Jace Budewitz’s voice immediately.
‘Hi, Angela,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a case. A woman killed her husband on Ashby Road.’
‘That’s in Toonerville,’ I said.
‘If you say so. Looks like a nice neighborhood with lots of post-war ranch houses.’
Jace wasn’t from here. Now I was ashamed of using the Forest’s sneery nickname for the working side of town.
‘What happened?’ I asked.
‘Mrs Tara Murphy’s husband, Tom, came home drunk and she walloped him upside the head with a cast-iron skillet. Blood and grease all over the kit
chen. Then she sat down and called nine-one-one. End of mystery.’
‘Is she still there?’
‘For now. You need to get here in a hurry.’
‘On my way,’ I said. I gathered my purse and said goodbye to Katie.
I didn’t get to track down Suzy or Will.
Didn’t get to eat a strawberry, either.
TWENTY-FOUR
Tara and Tom Murphy lived in a two-bedroom white ranch house with dark green trim and neatly clipped hedges. Two pots of ornamental purple cabbages flanked the door. By the time I arrived there were so many cop cars and official vehicles near the house I had to park two blocks away. I pulled my long, dark hair back into a ponytail.
The day was warm for February, about forty degrees, and curious neighbors had drifted out on their porches to watch the show.
I greeted Rick Samuels, the Chouteau County uniform who was posted at the house’s front door, and he reminded me to put on shoe covers. I rolled my DI case inside.
Tara Murphy was in the cramped living room, swallowed by a massive beige recliner. She looked to be in her late fifties, and they’d been hard years. Tara’s face and thin lips were slashed with wrinkles. She was built like a teenage boy, and just as skinny. Her sparse gray hair was tightly permed, and her hands were yellow with nicotine stains. She was wrapped in a brown plaid throw and trembling so hard her teeth chattered.
Shock?
She stubbed out her cigarette in a hubcap-size ashtray on a table next to the recliner. The ashtray was ringed by six empty beer bottles.
Jace Budewitz nodded at me, and said, ‘Excuse me, Mrs Murphy. I’ll be right back.’
We walked down the narrow hall to the master bedroom. ‘The victim, Thomas Murphy, is on the kitchen floor,’ Jace said. ‘The paramedics pronounced him dead at 10:37 a.m. I’m still questioning his wife. He was about as tall as she is, but definitely outweighed her. She says he was drunk and trying to beat her, and she hit him with a cast-iron frying pan to save her life.’
‘Typical domestic abuse case,’ I said. ‘Except Mrs Murphy looks pretty small. Could she whack her husband hard enough to kill him?’