“Would you like me to hire a lawyer?” I asked. That would cost a bundle, but we had to break the logjam. “I’m Eric Darcy, by the way.”
“Billie Tibbets.” She wavered. “I guess you’re an objective observer. I’ll talk to the cop if you’re there, okay?”
“Keith?” I asked.
From his disgruntled expression, I gathered he was weighing the disadvantages of having me listen in vs. waiting for and contending with a lawyer. “All right. How about the game room upstairs?”
“Works for me,” I said. Billie gave a short nod.
Inside, I accompanied the technician to the conservatory. On the threshold, as midday light flooded the disarray, my peripheral vision swept over a crumpled shape. For a jolting second, I thought I saw Malerie’s body crumpled on the floor.
Keep breathing, Eric. One of Lydia’s multicolored capes had tumbled from the clothes rack.
Keith’s hand rested on my shoulder. “It must be hard to see this.”
“It’s as if someone died here.” Immediately, I regretted the comment. “I’m sorry. This burglary is minor compared to what happened to Mrs. Abernathy.”
“It’s natural to feel violated,” he said. “Is that the filing cabinet you meant?”
I showed him where Malerie’s file should have been, and we left the tech to his task. Morris had vanished into the kitchen, from which drifted the mouth-watering scents I’d caught earlier.
Her spine rigid, Billie followed Keith up the curving stairs and into the game room, which had doubled as my father’s library. At Dad’s request, the dark woods and high shelves displaying books and memorabilia had remained largely unaltered during Lydia’s redecoration. That hadn’t precluded the addition of a large TV screen, a videogame system and a parquet table suitable for board games and jigsaw puzzles. Plush armchairs flanked the faux leather sofa.
Billie chose the seat nearest the door, which Keith shut quietly before producing a recorder and notepad. He didn’t mention her rights. As Tory had once explained, a Miranda warning is only required when the interviewee’s taken into custody.
Into the recorder, Keith introduced himself, stated the time, date and place, and identified those present. A subtle change straightened his shoulders and steadied his voice. In his dozen years on the force, I realized, I’d never seen him at work until now.
After checking his notes, he said, “Miss Tibbets, did you speak to Mrs. Abernathy last night?”
Her chin lifted. “How could I? Like I told you, when no one answered the door, I went to the gate and saw her floating in the pool. I called for help.”
“Who did you call first, Mr. Golden or 911?”
“911.”
Keith jotted a note. “You didn’t arrive earlier? Possibly there was a mix-up with her meal and she sent you to fetch a different one?”
He was, I presumed, trying to establish whether it was Billie the neighbor had heard quarreling with Malerie.
“No.” She heaved a breath. “Did you check with the previous customer to confirm when I left her house?”
“She couldn’t recall exactly,” Keith said. “You never spoke to Mrs. Abernathy at all?”
“We neither whispered, yakked, gabbed, communicated, conversed nor palavered.”
He paused, pen in midair. “Excuse me?”
“I have a degree in English literature,” she said.
That startled him into blurting, “You don’t look it.” For a second, he became a more familiar, less solemn Keith.
“How is an English major supposed to look? Like I’m headed for a Renaissance fair?” Despite the defiant manner, her voice trembled. Was that the result of stumbling across a dead body, or did it indicate guilt?
I wished I could read Billie’s mind. Or Keith’s.
He produced a polite smile. “No offense intended, Miss Tibbets.”
She didn’t reply.
Keith shifted on his chair. “Was Mrs. Abernathy a difficult customer?”
“We got along,” Billie said.
“Were you acquainted with her outside of work?”
“Yes, obviously,” she returned. “I was a bridesmaid at my brother’s wedding. To her daughter. The one whose murder you haven’t solved.”
He ignored the taunt. “After Dee Marie’s death, did Mrs. Abernathy blame your brother?”
“You asked me that last night.”
“Just seeing if you have anything to add,” he said.
“She was wary of him.” Billie fidgeted. “In the past, she used to consult him about legal stuff, and she stopped doing that.”
“What was her reaction when you first showed up with her meals?”
“She wasn’t thrilled about my hair color and my new tats,” Billie admitted. “But she told Morris I was a nice girl. Okay? You done interrogating me?”
He fiddled with his pen. Often, people feel compelled to rush into a silence and may spill more than they intended. As the seconds ticked by, my stomach complained, but I kept my mouth shut. Billie kept hers shut, too.
Finally, Keith said, “That’s it for now. Thank you.”
I wondered what he’d learned. Maybe it’s like shaking a fruit tree that you’ve already harvested, just to see what else falls out.
When I reached the kitchen, Morris was running the food processor. “Done? Good. It’s lucky we came inside or I’d have burned lunch,” he said. “And that’s practically a crime in itself.”
From the assortment of dirty dishes and pots, I gathered this was a complicated recipe. I admire cooks who spend hours preparing repasts for others. As a teenager living with my father after Mom died, I’d learned to fix spaghetti, canned soup and packaged macaroni and cheese. As an adult, I could follow a simple recipe but quickly lost patience with long lists of ingredients and procedures. If I put that much effort into an operation, I’d like to at least save somebody’s life.
Usually, we ate at the counter or the small kitchen table, but today Morris had set a cheese and relish tray, a basket of bread and small bowls of condiments in the breakfast nook, which overlooks the garden. Billie retrieved crisp julienned sweet potatoes, and my father-in-law served a bowl of eggplant-tomato mixture.
Keith strolled in. “Tech’s on his way out,” my friend announced.
“You get all the elimination prints you need?” I asked. Police have to identify prints belonging to people who live or work at a crime site to isolate those that don’t belong there.
“We should be good. Tory arranged for your old housekeeper to stop by the San Francisco P.D. to be printed.” As Keith grabbed a paper plate, he gazed around with a puzzled expression.
“Missing something?” I inquired.
“Tory?” His tone was almost casual.
“Not sure where she’s gone,” I said. None of us volunteered that she was working on the case.
Keith layered the eggplant mixture on rye, using three slices interspersed with lettuce, cheese and tomatoes. “My compliments to the chef.” He raised his concoction, the type my mother would have called a Dagwood sandwich.
Morris smiled in acknowledgement. Billie stared at her plate.
“Honestly, Miss Tibbets, I don’t bite,” Keith informed her, right before he took a chomp.
Behind him, Tory snorted. Busy eating, I hadn’t noticed when she slipped in, and Keith was facing away from her. I could tell the instant he registered her presence, because the lines of his face softened and his pupils dilated. It’s what’s termed a micro-expression, a fleeting glimpse of truth beneath the defenses.
He wanted Tory back. If he played his cards right, he might still have a chance with her, I thought with a flicker of hope. Much as I liked my sister-in-law, I’d rather she left. The rustlings in the night and the whiff of scents with which toiletry manufacturers douse their products served as unwelcome reminders of my wife’s absence.
“Where’ve you been?” Keith asked.
“Investigating a case for a client.” Tory pulled out a chair. Billie,
who’d consumed only a few olives, seized on the interruption to flee to the clean-up area.
“Which case?” Keith queried.
Tory sighed. “Mrs. Abernathy’s.” Anticipating trouble, she added, “A second set of eyes never hurts, right?”
“You were a good detective,” he conceded.
“Still am.”
“Granted,” he said. “And your client is?”
“Rather not say.”
Keith shrugged. “I saw you on the sidewalk talking to Doreen.”
Tory finished assembling her sandwich. “Okay, you got me.”
They ate side by side, in sync yet out of sorts. Before splitting up three months ago, they’d lived together for half a year, after an acquaintance that dated back to high school. A bond remained, but it had weakened.
My thoughts turned to the case. “Do you think the same person murdered Mrs. Abernathy and Dee Marie?” Both of them squelched me with a none-of-your-business look. “Hey,” I protested to Tory, “I realize Keith can’t talk, but you could speculate.”
“I’d rather deal with facts.”
“Right you are,” Keith said, and took another bite of his thick sandwich. Eggplant squirted onto his shirt. “Hell.”
Tory dipped a wad of paper napkins into his water glass and handed it to him.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Ducking his head to cover a smile at his daughter’s show of domesticity, Morris went to the sink. I heard him thanking Billie, who hugged him before heading off.
Keith finished mopping his shirt, with spotty results. After the front door clicked, he addressed Tory again. “Did Rafe Tibbets speak with you?”
“He declined. Doesn’t trust either of us, I guess.”
“Interview the daughters?”
“Doreen,” she confirmed. “I can’t repeat what my client said, but she promised it was the same stuff she told you.”
How frustrating. “Doreen did give permission to include me,” I pointed out, hoping for a glimmer.
After a pause, Tory said, “Before her death, Dee Marie had been trying to straighten out her mother’s papers, which disappeared along with her laptop. Stolen by her killer, presumably.”
“So the husband claims,” Keith put in.
Was there a connection to my missing file? “What kind of papers?” I asked.
“Business letters, financials and so on,” Tory said. “Apparently Mrs. Abernathy was slapdash with her records. Dee Marie quarreled with her mother, but Doreen wasn’t sure if it was because of the carelessness or something she stumbled across.”
“Any idea what that might have been?” Keith asked.
“Afraid not, but I’ll raise it with Danielle,” Tory promised. “I’m meeting with her and her husband Monday night.”
“Keep me advised?”
“Sure.”
Around a mouthful of sandwich, Keith mumbled, “What else’d you do today?”
“Canvassed the neighborhood for witnesses you missed.”
“Find any?”
Her curly hair bounced as she shook her head. “I got bupkes.”
“Did it hurt?”
She chuckled. “That’s Yiddish. It means nothing.”
“If it means nothing, why use it?” When he flashed a grin, she poked his arm.
I half expected them to get into a playful tussling match. Then Tory drew back, her expression darkening as if she’d just remembered who else he’d been tussling with.
He’d been an idiot, if you asked me. No one did.
Having finished the sandwich, Keith rose and brushed off crumbs. “You’re making the right moves, as I’d expect. Of course, you’re at a disadvantage, being in the private sector. Hope you don’t find it too discouraging.”
“Yeah, poor me.” Tory drew herself up to her full height, only a couple of inches shorter than his. “Oh, I did learn they’ve scheduled a memorial gathering tomorrow afternoon for family and close friends.”
“Is Rafe Tibbets invited?”
“Presumably,” she said.
“I’d better be there.”
Her eyes rounded in mock sympathy. “I’m afraid you’re not invited. Feel free to call Doreen but she insisted you won’t be allowed inside. She’s upset that you haven’t solved her sister’s murder.”
Keith’s jaw twitched. DNA samples, omnipresent cameras and computer records provide police with an incredible array of evidence, but they can’t compel witnesses to open up to them.
“How about me?” I asked.
Tory smiled. “Doreen expressly invited you, Eric.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said.
In a long ago English class, we were assigned to list adjectives describing a friend. Despite a ban on insults, some leeway was allowed. The words I put down for Keith included determined, energetic and bullheaded. I picked that over stubborn because of the way he lowers his head like a bull about to charge, which he was doing now.
He’d grown older, though, and occasionally wiser. “You’ll let me know what you dig up?”
“Naturally,” Tory said. “We have the same goal.”
Did they, personally as well as professionally? I scooped up platters and headed for the kitchen, leaving them space.
After a murmured exchange, I heard Keith assure her he would do his best not to act like a knucklehead. “As you mentioned, an extra set of eyes comes in handy.”
“So does spot remover,” she responded lightly. “There’s a spray bottle on the shelf with your laundry detergent.”
“Thanks.”
Their exchange might not qualify as a reconciliation. But to me, it marked a welcome ceasefire.
Chapter Seven
Tory and I drove to Sunday’s gathering in Lydia’s old car. Since my initial offer to pay the difference on a trade-in, I hadn’t complained about her keeping it, but it was hard to concentrate when stray scents and the sound of the gearshift jerked me into the past. A happier past that faded into darkness around the edges, like an old-fashioned portrait vignette.
Doreen Abernathy and Heather Blythe lived near Safe Harbor Community College. En route, Tory filled me in on her efforts of the previous afternoon. She’d re-interviewed the neighbor and attempted to follow other leads, but was no closer to discovering who’d been arguing with Malerie or why anyone had wanted her and Dee Marie dead.
“The standard advice is to follow the money,” she told me. “I’d like to get my hands on Mrs. Abernathy’s financials, plus a copy of her will. So far, no luck.”
“Did she actually change it?” I asked.
“According to Doreen, Heather hasn’t shared the details of what she and Mrs. Abernathy discussed, citing attorney-client privilege.” Tory kept her attention on the road. “I’m not sure how that applies once the client is dead. If there’s a new will, she’d be obligated to provide copies to the heirs, especially whoever is designated as executor.”
I sympathized with a person’s right to privacy even in death. However, a part of me wished the universe maintained a repository of all knowledge, for the peace of mind of those who survive. “Anything further about why she invited her daughters over the night she died?”
“Only that she had a big announcement.” Tory tapped the steering wheel as we waited at a red light. “Families harbor secrets, don’t they?”
“They do.” That reminded me of Jeremiah’s gossip. “I’m reluctant to repeat rumors…”
“Repeat away.”
I relayed the speculation that Malerie and her husband had had an extramarital affair. “That could have scored a few enemies.”
“The wife’s dead and they had no children,” Tory responded. “Who’s left to bear a grudge?”
“It’s an interesting rumor.”
“Which it would be beyond insensitive to bring up at a memorial.”
I had to agree.
We parked a block away and walked to the condo development. The Spanish-style units sported tile
roofs and stucco walls, with squatty palm trees and azalea bushes lining the pathways. Tory navigated, since she’d previously interviewed Doreen and her roommate here.
The bell summoned a woman in her late fifties. Dark-blond hair hung loose around her shoulders, setting off pleasant, regular features. My assumption that this was Heather vanished when she introduced herself.
“I’m Sandy Faye Miller.” The woman ushered us inside. “I start work for you tomorrow, Dr Darcy.”
Aha, the housekeeper Morris had engaged. “You cleaned for Malerie,” I recalled.
“Yes, I did.” To our right, a sunken living room featured pale woods and geometric paintings, the type Lydia used to say interior designers stocked by the truckload. To the left, a hallway led to what I presumed was the bedroom wing. “Doreen requested that I assist today. Of course, I’m happy to do it. Mal was a friend as well as a client.”
“Have the police talked to you?” Tory asked.
If the question startled Sandy, she didn’t show it. “Yes, a detective Sparks. I’m afraid I couldn’t tell him much. I was working at another client’s house on Friday.”
Voices and the clink of glassware drew us straight ahead to a glass-roofed atrium. Sunshine filtered through the skylight, bathing ferns and guests in a mellow glow.
A cloth-covered table held trays of hors d’oeuvres, a coffee pot, pitchers of drinks and a couple of wine bottles. About a dozen people stood speaking in tones as somber as their outfits, which ranged from suits to jeans. In Southern California, if your underwear doesn’t show, your attire can pass for dressy.
A short woman in a tailored pantsuit cut away from Doreen’s side. Despite perilously high heels and the pile of ash-blond hair atop her head, she couldn’t have cleared more than five-feet-two. Her manner was far from diminutive, however, as she seized my hand. “I’m Heather Blythe.”
“Eric Darcy.” I complimented her home and expressed my condolences.
“Thank you. It’s been rough.”
“Don’t waste your sympathy on her.” At the refreshment table, Danielle’s husband, Fred, was refilling his wine glass. “Glad you’re here, Doc. We know you really cared about Malerie.”
“Like I didn’t?” Heather responded irritably.
The Case of the Questionable Quadruplet Page 6
