In addition to being a surgeon, Aileen hadn’t given birth to Carson until she was forty-three years old. There were several pictures and videos of Aileen Stark. She was at least six foot two, blonde and blue-eyed, slender and regal. Aileen had been a celebrity in her own right. As a female doctor and mother, she would have been a darling of the media. I clicked on a blurred video of an interview with a local news affiliate. Aileen Stark was dressed in a blue suit jacket and a crisp white shirt. One long, shapely leg was crossed over the other, and a flat navy-blue dress shoe dangled in the air. Her tone was smooth and even as she answered the interviewer’s questions.
“What was it like to be one of two women in the University of Michigan’s medical school the year you entered?” The host was a dark-haired man with slight crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. He leaned in after asking the question, his eyebrows rising as he waited for an answer.
Aileen Stark sat with her back rigid and her face stern. She waited, sighing before answering.
“It was exhausting. Constantly working to prove that I was as good as other students was absolutely exhausting, but it wasn’t just at school. It carried over to my family, where all my brothers and sisters were getting married, working in the auto plants, or becoming stay-at-home moms. I was in school, single, and childless. I was viewed as a failure of a woman.”
“While all the while you were a trailblazer. Interesting. So, what is it like now that you have married and had your son? Is practicing medicine still as worthwhile as it was before you were a mother and wife?”
Aileen Stark threw her head back and let out a robust but controlled laugh. “It’s never separate, but the roles are never meshed together, either. The three entities—mother, doctor, and wife—coexist. I love each role and don’t think that one diminishes the others. Women can, and should, pursue their career goals. The husband and children will happen if they are supposed to, but no woman should make that her sole purpose in life.”
I stopped the video, feeling admiration and intrigue. I wanted to meet this trailblazer.
Next, I read an article in a business magazine that provided a brief summary of the Starks’ love affair. Married in 1968, Brian and Aileen first met in 1960 at the University of Michigan, but their paths did not cross again for eight years. The article described how Brian and his friends had secretly laughed at Aileen’s ambitious career choice, but when he fractured his hand and went to the emergency room, he was treated by a resident named Aileen MacDonaldson. The article quoted Brian Stark as saying, “I knew I had to marry her. A girl like that is rare.” By that time, Brian was vice president of Stark Construction and one of the most eligible bachelors in Michigan. Their marriage, three months after the emergency room visit, had been the talk of the town.
Due to Aileen’s age and dedication to her career, children were not expected, but six years into the marriage, Carson arrived. The article went on to detail Carson’s accolades and discuss his immigrant ancestor and the rise of the Oliver Stark empire. Oliver Stark had come to the United States from England in the late 1700s. Initially, the family had lived in New York, but Carson’s great-grandfather moved to Michigan in the mid 1800s and invested in steel and steam engines. By the late 1800s, the Stark name was associated with success and wealth.
Carson Stark had continued in his parents’ footsteps by being a standout athlete and scholar in high school. He’d earned a scholarship to Yale, had finished medical school six years prior, and was a surgeon at the Detroit Medical Center. By all accounts, Carson seemed to be the perfect upstanding, predictable success story. The guy had money, good looks, and power. Liza was a beautiful woman, but it hardly sounded like they moved in the same circles. How had they found one another? A man like Carson could have had any woman. Why did he pick Liza Abernathy?
I considered that he might just be an altruistic, warm-hearted guy, but from what I’d seen so far, that wasn’t the case. It wasn’t that Carson was cold or pompous, but he didn’t exude warmth either. He seemed utilitarian and sterile—qualities that are excellent for a surgeon, but not necessarily great for a marriage. I opened a Word document and typed Carson + Liza? After that, I went back to researching the Stark family.
By the twentieth century, the Stark family fortune had multiplied thanks to a shift into the construction business. Carson’s grandfather had gotten in on Detroit’s Gilded Age, a time when housing and skyscrapers were being built at a rapid rate. Back when architecture and style mattered, the Starks helped bring classic, but affordable bungalows, Victorian mansions, and Italian revival estates to life. World-renowned architects came to Detroit and partnered with the Starks to sculpt immaculate churches and sprawling estates. Over time, as the tastes and the pocketbooks of Detroiters began to change, the Stark family began building simpler homes. Stark Construction built numerous low-income housing developments around Metro Detroit, including in Brightmoor. By the time Carson came along, the fortune was secure and robust. I’d heard of Stark Construction, but hadn’t made the connection until now.
Most of the coverage I’d read of Liza’s murder focused on the shock of a Northville socialite being found dead in Detroit, but several reports included snippets about Aileen Stark, and how she was a pioneer for women in the field of medicine. She was one of the few women to successfully complete medical school in the 1960s. The combination of the Starks’ wealth and Carson’s mother’s groundbreaking achievements, made the Starks a power couple—movers and shakers in Metro Detroit. I was dealing with a powerhouse in Carson Stark. A quick internet search told me that Aileen and Brian Stark still ran Stark Construction out of an office in Plymouth. Curiosity moved me to hop in the car and head to their office.
Chapter Five
Rush hour was beginning to snarl the traffic, but a jigsaw route of back roads delivered me to the Starks’ office in twenty-five minutes. The office was a small, well-kept Victorian house. I parked in the adjacent lot, squeezing the Taurus between a shiny, vintage black Monte Carlo, and a dated Chevy Lumina, and bundled up before stepping into the chilly air. A series of bells announced my arrival and a buzz beckoned me into the cozy lobby. A petite woman, with a name tag that read “Latoya” and skin the color of caramel corn, greeted me with a smile.
“Hello. Welcome to Stark Real Estate and Construction. How may I help you?”
I answered her with a big smile and an outstretched hand. Her tiny fingers, limp and weak, fell into my palm.
“I need to speak with Mr. and Mrs. Stark.”
“Okay. Are you a renter or a homeowner?”
“I’m a homeowner.”
I wasn’t lying. I was a homeowner. I just hadn’t bought my property from the Starks.
“Excellent. Give me the address and I will get you in right away.”
I gave the receptionist my address, hoping that Mrs. Stark didn’t know all of the addresses of her properties by heart. I sat in an elegant bronze chair featuring a lion’s head at the end of each arm, waiting to be thrown out of the office. The receptionist strolled down the short hall, stayed away for about five minutes, and came back to the desk.
“Mr. Stark is busy, but Mrs. Stark has agreed to see you.”
Aileen Stark was standing when I entered the room. She clasped my hand in a tight handshake, towering over me like a scion. Her thin, blonde hair had a few streaks of gray here and there, but she looked no older than fifty-five. Her body was taut and toned, and she walked the way she had sat in the old interview I’d watched on video: tall, proud, and strong. Her hair was cropped quite close to her skull, with just enough length left for pleasant curls to weave their way around the sides of her head. She had the slightly masculine air that was so common among women who had worked in male-dominated fields.
“Mrs. Wilcox. I’ve been expecting you.”
Nothing mentioned about the deception I’d used with the receptionist.
“Thank you for meeting with me.”
“It is a pleasure to meet another pioneer. I’ve
heard great things about you from Carson.”
“It is a pleasure and honor to meet you as well, Dr. Stark.”
“You’ve researched me.”
“Just a simple collection of data…but no less impressive, Dr. Stark.”
A tight-lipped smile spread across her thin lips.
“You are here about Liza. How can I help?”
“As you know, Carson has asked me to look into her murder. It appears that Liza did not have many friends, so I’m talking with family members to get a feel for who she was.”
“Hmm—I see. A type of, shall we say, psychological autopsy?”
“Something along those lines. The DPD has been kind enough to share a little information with me, and I couldn’t find any information on interviews with you or your husband.”
“That’s correct. I couldn’t stomach talking with petty cops. The comments they made on the news and the way they handled the investigation was appalling. When they insisted on meeting with us, we refused on principle.”
“You thought that the police didn’t do a good job investigating the case?”
“Mrs. Wilcox, I have much more faith in a determined young woman who seeks the truth than a bunch of young, untrained, and uneducated men.”
I thought about the amount of intelligence and college degrees held by the guys on the force. Assuming that the officers were untrained and educated was a rather arrogant assumption.
“Did the officers offend you?”
“No…They just asked elementary questions. I suspect your questions will be much more advanced. You’ve already intrigued me with the psychological autopsy.”
Police have a different scope and sequence than private detectives. I wouldn’t be asking Mrs. Stark any of the basic questions because the detectives from DPD had already done that. I was thankful to them because their “elementary” line of questioning was going to work in my favor. The key to keeping Aileen Stark talking was to remain interesting to her. By avoiding mundane questions, that would be easy.
“What was your opinion of Liza?”
“I don’t know that I had an opinion of her. I loved her because my son loved her. He was happy and that’s all that matters to me.”
“Okay. Did you and Liza ever have daughter-in-law/mother-in-law dates?”
Aileen Stark laughed and threw her head back.
“Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, you don’t know a thing about our family, do you?”
“No, ma’am, I do not. Would you mind telling me what I need to know?”
“Yes, I think we should start there. There are no dates. Not even Brian and I have dates. We have appointments and business to take care of, and we do our best to see Carson and his family on the holidays. Our love is not based on time spent together. The cliché is true—absence makes the heart grow fonder.”
“Okay. Makes sense. When was the last time you saw Liza before she died?”
“It had been at least a month, maybe more. Brian and I want to stay healthy, so we keep busy. If we’re not at the office, we’re out with friends or attending a charity event. Carson and Liza were also very busy, so we mostly reserved the holidays for family get-togethers.”
“What do you think happened to Liza?”
Aileen Stark sighed.
“No theories?”
“I’m not a private detective, Mrs. Wilcox. I don’t like to speculate.”
“I understand, but for the sake of Carson, would you care to wager a guess?”
“An affair gone bad.”
“So, you think that particular gossip around the case is accurate?”
“Sometimes common gossip is common because it’s true.”
“I agree, but sometimes when something happens to a person we’re close to, we have our own theories.”
“So true. If I had been closer to Liza, I probably would have an assumption or two about what happened to her.”
Not shy about the fact that she didn’t care for Liza.
“Is that your Monte out there,” I asked, attempting to lighten the mood.
“It is.”
“Looks great.”
“We’re into cars. I only drive it on special occasions.”
“Nice. What’s the special occasion?”
“We have a fundraising event in Novi tonight. Don’t worry, I won’t be wearing this. My gown will be dropped off before I leave…and before you ask, the fundraiser is for single mothers in Detroit.”
“Sounds like a worthy cause.”
“Mrs. Wilcox—I am smart, but I also was lucky. I didn’t believe the things I was told about womanhood; it made all the difference. So, I give back to those who have fallen prey to the idea that a woman needs a man, or children to be worthwhile. It’s still a prevalent theory in our society, so I don’t hold it against anyone. Since you’re here, I have to assume that you feel the same way.”
It was true. I did pity women who thought that they weren’t worthy simply because they weren’t married or because they didn’t have children. Life was more complex than that.
“With that in mind, Mrs. Stark, I still see the value of being married and a mother, and that is also why I am here. There are two children and a husband who will never have their wife and mother back. The woman just happens to be your daughter-in-law. Is there anything else you can tell me to help find out who took her life?”
Aileen Stark waited for a moment; her forehead creased while she considered the question.
“I wish I had something more, something that could help, but I don’t. I’m sorry to have wasted your time, Mrs. Wilcox.”
Fair enough. It seemed that I had gotten all the information I was going to get from Aileen Stark.
“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Stark. If Mr. Stark has a break in his schedule, I’d like to speak with him as well.”
She nodded her head in a manner that told me it was highly unlikely that Mr. Stark would ever be available to talk with me. We shook hands again and I saw myself out.
***
I had an idea of what might have made Carson’s family standoffish, but I had no idea what to expect from the Abernathys. The loss of a child was undoubtedly painful, but during my time as a cop, families of victims were often overzealous and determined to give officers every piece of information, even if it seemed completely irrelevant. The fact that they had been uncooperative was strange. It was time to get to know the victim’s people. The preliminary information I’d gathered told me that Liza was from a different world than Carson.
After jotting down a few notes, I called Peter Abernathy a second time to set up a meeting. He was less than enthusiastic, but agreed to meet at 4:00 p.m. the next day. After talking with Peter Abernathy, I was able to get a hold of Madelyn Price, and we set up a meeting for the following morning. By the time I was finished with my cyber-sleuthing and appointment setting, it was 5:30 p.m. I decided to close my laptop, relax for the rest of the evening, and start fresh in the morning.
***
I woke early the next morning, brewed my coffee, and got a run in before 6:00 a.m. Winter was warring with spring, fighting to keep the chill in the air. The breeze was crisp, cool, and refreshing, but the soft rays of early sunlight brought the temperature up to ideal running weather. After my run, I showered, slipped on a gray pantsuit and boots, and pulled my hair into a bun. Madelyn Price had agreed to meet with me at ten o’clock that morning, and Peter Abernathy was scheduled for 4:00 p.m. I reviewed the preliminary information on Madelyn while eating a bowl of oatmeal with fresh apple slices and cinnamon.
Madelyn Price was the last person to hear from Liza, which made her an obvious person of interest, but the fact that she was still a supportive friend for Carson made her a somewhat unlikely suspect. Madelyn and Liza had been scheduled to meet for coffee on the day of the murder, and even though Liza had never made it, they had exchanged texts. It’s possible that could have been orchestrated if Madelyn was the killer, but that was a leap in logic at this point.
The phone
conversation with Madelyn Price had been strange. She’d spoken in a slow, subtle tone, devoid of the emotion I’d expected to hear from one of Liza’s good friends. Her address put her on the outskirts of Ann Arbor, close to the border of Dexter. I took Ann Arbor Trail to a secluded dirt road that I would’ve missed if not for the pale blue mailbox that read “Price.” The bare branches of winter-stripped trees enveloped the narrow, bumpy road. A quaint red-brick converted farmhouse was tucked away behind a thicket of trees at the end of the dirt road. I pulled up beside a row of cars that sat adjacent to the house around 10:00 a.m.
A chilly wind smacked me in the face as I stepped out of the car. I grabbed my briefcase and moved swiftly onto the wide country porch, past the hanging swing bench, and to the front door. A sign that said, “Come in! We’re Open!” dangled above the window. A small bell rang as I entered.
Madelyn Price owned a yoga studio that she ran out of the lower floor of her house. Soft lighting surrounded an empty reception desk, and the quiet, calm murmurs of a yoga session crept into the hallway. I proceeded down a dim, narrow staircase into the foyer, took a seat in a wide hallway that served as a lobby, and watched the end of a class through the squeaky-clean glass doors. Madelyn and her students folded into the Downward-Facing Dog before getting into a seated position for cool-down. A collective murmur of “Namaste” came from the room as the class ended. I studied Madelyn’s pleasant face as she spoke in a soft tone that bounced gently off the glass doors. After a few relaxation breaths, Madelyn dismissed the class and a crowd of women of various backgrounds and ages gathered around their teacher. She smiled and conversed briefly with the students, flashing a warm, but well-practiced smile. Ann Arbor is full of male yogis—I wondered if Madelyn Price conducted classes for men as well. Within minutes, the room was clear and Madelyn was standing in front of me with a tight smirk on her face.
Who She Was Page 6
