Chile Death

by Susan Wittig Albert

  "How about your car?” I picked up my briefcase. "This won’t take long.”

  Roxanne’s car was a white Lexus GS300, fully loaded. The insurance business must be more profitable than I thought. We got in, leaving the doors open to let the breeze through, and I remarked, "This is a veiy nice car.”

  "It belonged to my husband,” she said. “Which I guess makes , it mine now.” She laughed harshly. "Or the bank’s.”

  "When is his funeral?”

  She leaned forward to check her lipstick in the mirror, was not completely satisfied with what she saw, and began fishing in her purse. "There isn’t going to be one. Not here, anyway. His parents are taking the body to East Texas. They’re making those arrangements.” Once she got launched into a sentence, her voice was breathy and nasal,

  Marilyn Monroe with a Texas accent. She found her lipstick and set to work. "What’s alt this about?”

  A large tractor-trailer rig thundered by on Silver Springs Road in front of us. When it was gone and we could hear again, I said, "I was standing beside your husband when you spoke to him on Saturday, just before the judging. There was a man with me, a former homicide detective. A friend of Jerry Jeff s.”

  Recollection began to dawn. “A guy in a wheelchair, right? Kind of good-looking? An ex-cop, huh?” She studied me more closely. “Funny, I don’t remember seeing you."

  I wasn’t surprised. "You spoke to your husband about a certain problem you were having with the divorce settlement,” I said. "He suggested that you talk with Charlie Lipman to resolve it.”

  She frowned at her reflection, and I could see her searching hurriedly through the data banks for the tape of Saturday's conversation. She wanted to tell me to get out of the car and leave her alone. But she was trying to remember what and how much she had said, and she’d probably keep talking to me until she found out how much I knew.

  "Okay, so you were there,” she said in a challenging voice. "So what’s that got to do with the price of cotton?” She dropped her lipstick into her bag.

  I met her eyes and held them. "As I said, the man in the wheelchair, Alike McQuaid, is a farmer homicide detective. After you left, your husband asked for Air. McQuaid’s help. He’d been threatened. He said he was afraid.”

  "Afraid? Well, I certainly hope so. Afraid of losing the whole shebang—the property, the business, that tarty lit- tie girlfriend of his. And of going to jail, too. I told him — ”

  "I know what you told him. Mrs. Cody,” I said quietly. "When you had gone, your husband told Air. AlcQuaid he felt threatened, and an hour later he was dead.” I paused. "Have you been notified yet of the results of the autopsy?”

  Her eyes slid away. "Jerry Jeff died of a heart attack. That’s what the police chief said after it happened, and the medic. He said so too.”

  "You know your husband’s medical histoiy, Mrs. Cody. I think you know it wasn’t a heart attack."

  She looked at me. A muscle was twitching under one eye. She opened her mouth as if she were going to deny my charge, thought better of it, and closed it again. Her eyes had darkened.

  "According to Police Chief Harris,” I said, "the autopsy report shows that your husband died of anaphylactic shock, the result of eating peanuts. The chili samples are being tested to determine which of them contained the nuts.”

  "Tested?” Under her makeup, her face had gone pale and her brightly varnished nails were digging into her palms. "You’re making it sound like the police suspect...” She stopped.

  “I am sure the police will tell you what they suspect. When they come to talk to you.”

  "To me? But I — ” She blinked rapidly, her lashes leaving traces of mascara under her eyes. "Why should they come to me? I can’t tell them anything, not a thing. I didn’t cook up any of that chili. I wasn’t involved in — ”

  "In cases like this,” I said, "it is standard procedure for the authorities to begin their investigation with the person who stands to benefit the most from a death.” I paused. "I assume that you are your husband’s chief benefieiaiy, not only to his share of the business, but to any personal properly and life insurance?"

  She caught her lower lip between her teeth. Her chin quivered. She was beginning to understand her position more clearly.

  I leaned forward, sympathetic. "Look, Mrs. Cody, I know this is veiy hard. But if you have any information, however insignificant it might seem to you, it might be to your advantage to share it. If the police view you as their chief suspect—" I let the sentence hang in midair.

  She gripped the steering wheel with both hands and leaned forward to rest her forehead on it, while she debated with herself. Finally, not looking up at me, she said, "I didn’t take it seriously, you know. He was always coming up with big stories about this and that, dramatizing things to make himself look important.” Her voice was muffled. “With JJ, it was hard to know what to believe.”

  "Didn’t take what seriously?”

  She raised her head. Her lipstick was smeared where she had bit her lip. “What he told Charlie Lipman on the phone. About those notes, I mean.”

  Once started, she seemed anxious to tell the story. One day a couple of months ago, she’d picked up her office phone and heard Jerry Jeff on the line, talking to Charlie Lipman about his tax situation. She said she didn’t actually intend to eavesdrop on her soon-to-be-ex’s phone conversations, but the words "income tax” got her attention. She had suspected for more than a year that JJ was siphoning off some of the business income—she didn’t know how much—and that he had a stash of private funds cached away somewhere. This idea bothered her for a couple of reasons. One, because it was money that she wouldn’t get if it came to a divorce; and two, because her name was on Form 1040, right beside her husband’s. If Jerry Jeff was playing dodgeball with the IRS, she could be in it as deep as he was. So she listened, but all she caught was J J’s almost hysterical report to Charlie that somebody was writing letters to him, threatening to blow the whistle if he didn’t do .. . something. She didn’t know what. As I listened, I decided that she was probably telling the truth—at this moment, anyway. Of course, she had to know that her story would be checked with Charlie Lipman.

  "Who? Who was threatening him?”

  She shook her head. "He didn’t say, at least, not while I was listening. But I had the impression that the letters came from somebody he knew pretty well.”

  "If you were guessing, Mrs. Cody, who do you think it might have been? And is it possible that the person who wrote the letters might have killed him?”

  For some reason, the questions seemed to make her feel easier, and she thought about them for a moment. “JJ wasn’t exactly Mr. Clean, you know. There were always people who were upset with him, clients, mosdy. I could probably dig up some names, if that would help.” She hesitated. "But the name that comes first to mind is Craig Burkhart. He and JJ were joint-venture partners in a strip center. They were pretty good friends, too, until JJ backed out of the deal. Craig claimed he was cheated. He still carries a grudge, big time.”

  "Did you know that your husband’s name has been linked with Lulu Burkhart?” I asked.

  "His name has been linked with a lot of women over the years. The latest is Felicia Travis.” She gave a sarcastic chuckle. "I’ll bet Felicia is disapppointed that her lover boy has checked out. No round-the-world honeymoon cruise for her."

  "How about your husband’s partner?” I asked.

  She seemed to stiffen. "Pokey? What about him?” "Does he have any reason to want Jerry Jeff dead?” “Of course not,” she snapped. She stopped, becoming waiy. "I mean, I can’t think of anything. They always got along real well. You can forget about Pokey.”

  I left it alone. "The threats—Jerry Jeff didn’t describe them as death threats?”

  "It didn’t sound that way.” Away from the subject of Pokey Clendennen, she felt better. She tapped a curved red nail on the steering wheel,, considering. "It sounded more like blackmail, actually. Like, if you don’t do what I
want, I’ll rat on you.” She tapped some more. "That was when I really got scared, you know? I got to thinking, what if this person actually has evidence? What if JJ doesn’t do what he’s told, and this guy—whoever he is— decides to go to the IRS? I can’t prove I didn’t know what he was doing. After all, I’m the office manager, right? Except that I didn’t have that much to do with the bookkeeping. Jerry Jeff mostly took care of that. But he might lie to the IRS, just to get me in trouble.”

  I nodded. "I’m not a tax lawyer, but those sound to me like legitimate worries." She didn’t realize it, but it also sounded like a very legitimate reason to want him dead.

  “Exactly. So I got busy and dug around and I found out where he put it.” Feeling much more confident, she glanced in the mirror, saw what she had done to her mouth, and reached for her purse. "It didn’t take all that much work, actually. I guess Jerry Jeff never thought I’d go looking for it. He never did give me much credit for having brains.”

  I looked at her in surprise. "You found it?”

  Her small, breathy voice was much calmer now, and there was a more determined note to it. "Well, I don’t mean to say that I actually found the money itself, and of course I have no idea how much is there. But 1 know where he put it. I can get to it any time.”

  This interesting declaration raised several new questions, chief among them her reason for telling me. “I see,” I said. "So now that you know, what are you going to do?”

  She took a tissue and wiped away the lipstick smear. "Here’s the way I look at it, Ms. Bayles. If anybody’s got the right to blow the whistle to the IRS, it’s me, right? If I go to them and tell them where it is and how much it is and where he got it, I’ll be in the clear, won’t I?" She drew color on her mouth, blotted it, and disposed of the lipstick again. Her face fixed, she turned to confront me. “Won’t I?” she demanded.

  "Probably,” I said.

  She gave a short nod. "Well, that’s what I'm going to do," she said, almost as if she were thinking out loud. “I’m going straight to the IRS and throw myself on their mercy.” Her lips curled at the corners and her voice became even more breathy and childlike, as if she were rehearsing. "I'll be this sweet, brainless thing who doesn’t have a clue. I’ve just found out that my big, bad hubby was cheating on our income tax. I’m scared to death and just want to get everything straightened out as quick as possible, so here’s the money I’ve found. Take it all, and do whatever is necessary.” She looked up, and her voice sharpened. "In fact, I don't even think I’ll get a lawyer. It’ll look more natural if I do it myself.”

  Roxanne was right. She could handle the IRS just fine. In fact, if she played her cards right, she might end up owing only the interest on the unpaid taxes. And I’d noticed something else, too.

  There was a lot more to this woman than I had suspected.

  Charlie Lipman’s office is in a Victorian cottage painted gray with green and maroon trim, in a newly gentrified section of professional offices just down the street from Thyme and Seasons. He specializes in divorces, wills, property—domestic matters, mostly. He and MeQuaid sometimes play poker together, and we’ve occasionally gotten together with him for beer and nachos at Bean’s.

  Charlie must have seen me pull into the lot from his office window, because I was just getting out of the car when he came heavily down the steps, already puffing a little in the heat. He was wearing baggy suit pants and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and his suit jacket was slung over his shoulder. Charlie isn’t as attractive as he used to be. He’s too heavy for his own' good, the pouches under his eyes are saggy, and his cheeks are mottled. This morning, he was wearing a small Band-Aid on his right cheek, and his usual dour look. But he smiles sometimes, and when he does, you suspect that he’s basically a nice guy who’s gotten stuck in a life that has somehow disappointed him.

  "Momin’, China.” He eyed my suit and gray pumps as he got into the car. "You're spiffed up. You been out doin’ bidness already this mornin’?” Charlie is bidialectal. He talks Texas when he’s fishing, hunting, drinking coffee, or transacting business with Pecan Springers. Otherwise, he has the dialect-free speech of a CNN anchorman and the vocabulary of a Harvard law professor.

  “I’ll tell you about it when we get where we’re going,” I said, and pulled out of the lot.

  We got to McQuaid’s room just a few minutes after he’d returned from his first therapy session of the morning. . He was lying on his bed, wearing dark blue sweatpants and a white T-shirt. His pale blue eyes lit up when he saw me and he grinned, but his hair was damp with sweat, his face was gray, and he was breathing heavily.

  We had passed Jug in the hall, on his way to the rec room for the weekly domino tournament, so the three of us had the room to ourselves. "Hey,” Charlie said, pulling up a chair. "You're looking good. When you goin’ home?”

  "I look like shit,” McQuaid said. "That damn therapist is a sadist. But I told her this morning to have no mercy— put me on those machines and make me work till I drop. I’m in training for the big day.” He paused. "China tell you about us getting married?”

  There it was, big as life—Charlie’s grin. Tt nearly split his face. "Is that right?" he said incredulously. He looked from McQuaid to me and back. "Well, congratulations, you two. Swear to God, I thought you’d never make it.”

  "She wouldn’t say yes,” McQuaid said, at the same time I said, "He kept putting me off.” We both laughed, and I squeezed his hand. "Soyou’re heading home, huh?” I said to McQuaid. "I guess that means I’d better turn out my toy boys and get somebody to haul away all those empties."

  Charlie loosened his tie. “So. What’s the subject of conversation this morning? Ol’ Jerry Jeff Cody’s sad demise, I reckon?”

  "That’s right," McQuaid said. "We’ve got some questions for you.”

  “One thing you got to remember,” Charlie said. “Cody may be dead, but I'm his executor and I’m still, representing his interests. So I've got a question for you. Yesterday’s ewspaper said he died of a heart attack. According to Hark HiMer at the Diner this morning, it was an allergy attack—peanuts, was what he said. Anybody know for sure which it is?” '

  I told him about the autopsy report, which settled the cause of death, and about Bubba Harris’s invitation to share any hard facts we uncovered. McQuaid reported that Jerry Jeff had mentioned a threat, which had prompted him to ask that the cups be analyzed.

  Charlie let out a long, sour sigh. “I knew it was gonna be a bad day when I cut' myself shavin’ this morning. You thinkin’ foul play?”

  “There’s no real evidence,” McQuaid said. “But something’s going on here and I’d like to know what it is. For the sake of argument, let’s say that somebody slipped peanuts into one of those chili cups with the intention of killing him. Who might it have been?”

  “Well, the classic motives are money and sex,” Charlie said slowly. "Which brings at least two people to mind. If this was murder, which I’m not yet prepared to concede.”

  "Money and sex,” McQuaid said thoughtfully. “That would be the wife and the business partner?"

  "Right the first time,” Charlie said. He lifted one heavy leg and crossed it over his thigh, and I saw that he was wearing mismatched socks, one navy, one brown. "Roxanne gets Cody's estate, which includes a hefty pot of life insurance as well as a bunch of ranch land. And the way I been hearin’ it round town for the last few months, Pokey gets Roxanne.”

  “Will there be any estate,” I asked, “when the feds get through with it?”

  Charlie raised both eyebrows. "My stars. You do get around.”

  "Roxanne mentioned it," McQuaid said. "She hit Jerry Jeff with the revelation on Saturday, just before he died."

  “And she told me a little more about it this morning,” I said. “She says she overheard her husband talking to you about his income tax situation and realized that he’d been skimming—something she’d suspected for some time. She did some quick research on her own and figur
ed out where the loot is stashed. Now that Cody is dead, she plans to personally inform the feds and turn the money over to them.”

  “I’ll be damned," Charlie said. "I told Cody that wife of his had brains.” He scratched his cheek. "In fact, listenin’ to you, I’m askin’ myself just how much she knew before she overheard that conversation. Pokey’s ignorance I can buy. When it comes to finances, that boy is about as sharp as a rusly hoe. But I did wonder how Jerry Jeff could’ve siphoned money out of the business without catchin’ Roxanne’s eye."

  "What was your impression of her, China?” McQuaid asked.

  "From her reaction, I’d say she already knew how he died, but for reasons of her own was hoping that people would think it was a heart attack. She was frightened by the idea that she might be questioned by the police."

  "Maybe because she has designs on that money,” McQuaid said.

  "Maybe," I said. "It even occurred to me to wonder whether she might be planning a private trip to visit that stash—before she calls in the feds.”

  Charlie looked morose. "Well, hell. I reckon I’ll have to beat her to it.”

  “You know where, and how much?" McQuaid asked.

  "I know where it ivcu,” Charlie said pointedly. "And, yes, I made Jerry Jeff tell me how much he’d salted away, and I documented my knowledge. I sure as shootin’ wasn’t going to the feds without knowing where the body was buried and how much it stank. So to speak,’’ he added.

  McQuaid eyed him curiously. "How much are we talking about?”

  Charlie shook his head slowly, not answering.

  "Okay, then,” McQuaid said, "how about those blackmail letters? Did you ever see them, Charlie?”

  "Nope. The only time he ever mentioned them to me was in that phone conversation, and then it was only as background to the main feature, which was the tax problem.”

  “Roxanne told me that the writer seemed to be somebody he knew,” I said. "Was that the impression you got?”

  "Yeah. There were apparently two letters, and he got them over a period of a couple of weeks. The writer threatened to go to the IRS unless Cody did what he was told.”