by Carolyn Hart
I didn’t give him a chance to speak. ‘Michaela Shayne, Shayne and Gillespie Private Investigations, Kansas City. Mrs Timmons has authorized me to speak for her.’
‘Private Investigations?’ His broad face was puzzled.
‘Yes, sir. Perhaps we might step into the library. Mrs Timmons indicated the room is suitable for confidential conversation.’ I walked forward, nodding to the hallway. I led the way, opened the library door, held the panel for him. ‘If you will sit there.’ I pointed at a straight chair near the desk. I closed the door and moved behind the desk, sat in the swivel chair. ‘Turn the chair to face me.’
He remained standing. ‘Who did you say you are?’ He gave me a hard stare.
‘I am a private investigator authorized to speak to you on behalf of Madeleine Timmons. There is an urgent matter to discuss.’
He was wary and somewhat resentful. ‘Why does Madeleine need a private detective?’
My stare was level, ‘If you will be seated, I will explain.’
George turned the chair to face me. When seated, he made the chair look small, less than adequate. He was bigger than I’d realized. We looked at each other across the expanse of the desk. The Kirk library wasn’t the Adelaide police interrogation room, but the positioning was similar, the subject alone on a hard, straight chair facing authoritative questions.
I pulled a legal pad from the attaché case, picked up a pen. ‘I have some particulars here I want to confirm.’ I’d done my homework. ‘George Randall Kirk. Thirty-seven. Native …’ I sped through his bio, ended with his marriage to Evelyn.
He looked both irritated and bewildered. ‘Why do you have stuff about me? What’s going on here? What do you want?’
‘Information, Mr Kirk. Mrs Timmons has been apprised of some ugly rumors.’
Abruptly he was utterly still. ‘Rumors?’
I continued at a rapid clip. ‘Mrs Timmons received an anonymous letter with this message.’ I carefully enunciated each word. ‘Evelyn was poisoned. People know who was in the house that day. The letter was signed A Friend.’
‘Evelyn poisoned?’ George barely managed to push out the words. He stared at me as if I’d sprouted two heads or suddenly brandished a sword. ‘Poisoned? She had a heart attack.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. Dreadful news, I know. But you can understand why I was hired. Mrs Timmons gave me several names and I have secured information about them. Mrs Timmons told me to speak with you first. She wants your help before she contacts the police.’
‘Police.’ Was there a hint of fear included in his stricken stare?
‘This will ultimately be a police investigation. But for the moment, where were you the afternoon Mrs Kirk died?’
‘You’re asking me where I was when Evelyn died?’ There was outrage in his voice.
I held the pen poised over the pad. ‘Sir, everyone in the house that day must answer. I know you want to help.’
‘Help …’ He suddenly looked up at the painting over the mantel. For an instant it was as if we could feel salty spray as a very alive woman exulted in speed and life. His eyes dropped. He took a breath. ‘I think Madeleine’s making a mistake. She should toss that kind of letter. Someone doesn’t like her, wants to cause trouble. But yeah, I guess she had to do something. That day.’ He blew out a spurt of air. ‘I’d been out for lunch. A fellow I got to know at the country club. We were thinking of a chicken place. Fried chicken but like home, not that tasteless stuff you get at chains. I got back here around one.’ His gaze slid toward the windows. ‘I took a walk down to the park.’
As he spoke, I made notes. ‘Did you see anyone you knew?’
‘Actually,’ he spoke slowly, ‘I walked down with a guest. An artist. My wife arranged for her to teach at Goddard. We happened to go down that way at the same time.’
‘What time did you return from your walk?’
‘Around two. I wasn’t paying attention to the time.’
‘Did you and the guest return to the house together?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where did your guest go?’
‘I seem to recall she went to the studio behind the house. I came inside. Ready for a cup of coffee.’ He was casual. ‘I watched some golf in the den.’
‘Did you see Mrs Kirk that afternoon?’
‘No.’
The word hung between us.
‘Had you started packing?’
He stared.
‘Mrs Kirk planned to divorce you. But she died. You inherited a nice amount of money. Not her fortune. That went to her daughter. But this house and money enough for you and the artist to continue to enjoy each other’s company.’
George came to his feet, his face empty of expression, but his eyes were hot and watchful.
I slid the legal pad into the attaché case, stood also. ‘The police will be informed.’ I started for the door.
‘Look,’ His voice was loud, forceful, ‘somebody’s been lying to Madeleine. Evelyn and I were fine. We’d worked everything out.’
How easy for George to claim all was well with him and his wife, but Evelyn was dead and couldn’t contradict him.
George talked fast. ‘I told Evelyn there wasn’t anything going on with Camille, that I’d been stupid. Yeah, Camille’s attractive, but Evelyn misunderstood.’
‘She didn’t misunderstand, Mr Kirk.’ I was at the door. I gripped the knob, turned, said one word sharply, loudly. I watched his face.
I opened the studio door.
Camille Dubois looked up from the drawing table. Light spilled through the tall windows, illuminating her heart-shaped face and the half-finished sketch of an Irish setter bounding after a multicolored ball, golden coat shimmering in the sun.
I closed the door behind me, walked toward her. ‘Michaela Shayne, Shayne and Gillespie Private Investigations, Kansas City.’
As she rose, she said slowly, her face creasing in concern, ‘I do not know what that means, investigations? Something about my papers? They are all in order.’
‘Not your papers, miss.’ I spoke firmly. ‘I am here to speak to you on behalf of Evelyn Kirk’s daughter, Madeleine Timmons.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Clearly she didn’t, but she was indebted to her late hostess and sponsor, so she said politely, ‘How may I help you?’
‘Evelyn Kirk was murdered.’
She reached out, held to the back of the chair for support. ‘Oh no. No. No.’ It was as if she cried for deliverance, for relief. There was no surprise in her face. My pronouncement was her worst fear confirmed. Camille spoke rapidly in English with French phrases, rapidly, desperately. ‘You must be the one. Last night. On the telephone. Please, how do you know these things?’
I understood the connection she made. Last night she stood in the hallway outside the kitchen and heard Gage’s shocking call insisting on murder.
Again, she cried, ‘How do you know these things?’
‘A wife is murdered after she discovers her husband in an affair with a young woman she has befriended—’
‘Not an affair.’ Her voice choked in a sob. ‘There is no truth. I couldn’t help that he wanted me. And my heart breaks. I would love him if I could, but now I’m afraid. I pushed him away after she died. She was strong. Do you know? She played tennis. She was such a tennis player. She shouldn’t have died. Oh, they said there was something with her heart but my maman has the heart that beats this way and that and she still skis and laughs and lives. I didn’t think Evelyn should be dead. I kept thinking I must move but I have so little money and I was offered the place to stay and the young lady, Madeleine, urged me to continue. Still I have been thinking. But I didn’t want to leave George. Now there is this talk of murder. I don’t know what to think. I am so afraid.’
My stare was unyielding. ‘Mrs Kirk ordered you and her husband to leave.’
‘I spoke with her.’ Camille’s speech was rushed, insistent. ‘I told her I would look for a place to go, but she must believe me, I never responded to Ge
orge. Never. She even smiled, said, “Poor baby,” when I told her there was no truth, that I would not love a man who belonged to another. She said, “Poor baby. Even though you love him.” And I cried and she told me to go back to my room, we would speak of it later. But the next day, she died.’
‘She was murdered.’
‘Murder.’ Her voice shook.
‘Murder. The police will be informed. About you.’ I walked to the door. Again, I put my hand on the knob, turned, said one word sharply, loudly. I watched her face.
I returned to the house. I entered by the kitchen door, nodded pleasantly to Bess Hampton. I didn’t ask permission. I walked briskly to the stairs, climbed. In the upstairs hallway, I opened the door to Alice Harrison’s office, stepped inside, closed the door behind me.
Alice turned her chair toward the door, looked inquiring, polite enough but with no interest. The harsh light from the ceiling globe emphasized the dark roots to her blonde hair, the fan of wrinkles by her eyes, the permanent lines that bracketed her lips. She looked like a woman in her fifties who had not enjoyed the journey.
Clothes tell us much about their wearer. A retiring person chooses simple apparel in restrained colors. Outgoing lively people see no reason not to flare bright feathers like a macaw. New wealth can be ostentatious. Old wealth may be incredibly expensive but understated.
Alice’s clothing was casual, it was Saturday, a beige cotton shirt, blue cotton pants, espadrilles. There was an ink stain on one sleeve. If she embezzled, apparently fashion wasn’t the impetus.
‘Michaela Shayne. Shayne and Gillespie Private Investigators. Kansas City.’
She didn’t say a word. Her tight face signaled a woman immediately on the defensive, marshaling arguments, readying a defense. Not the reaction of innocence.
I walked across the uncarpeted floor, heels clicking. ‘The audit is scheduled Monday.’
‘Audit?’ Her hands clenched into tight claws.
‘Evelyn Kirk’s papers indicate you were responsible for irregularities.’ The charge was made in an impersonal level voice, as if a bewigged judge were gaveling a courtroom to attention.
‘What are you doing in Evelyn’s files?’ Her voice was uneven, choked. ‘I swear everything’s absolutely all right. Who said you could look in her papers?’
I repeated my name and title. ‘I am authorized to interview you by Madeleine Timmons.’
‘Madeleine?’ Alice straightened her hands, the fingers stiff in front of her. ‘Why is Madeleine doing this to me?’
‘Irregularities.’ I spoke with finality.
‘This is absurd, insulting. I won’t be hounded about a mistake. That’s all that happened. I made a mistake.’ Bluster. ‘Evelyn understood there was a mistake. I didn’t try to take Evelyn’s money.’
I was matter of fact, almost conversational. ‘You took the church’s money.’
‘That’s all in the past. Evelyn helped me. I was saving a friend. I thought he was my friend. And he was terrified. He said they would hurt him, break his legs. Because of the gambling. He owed so much money. I helped him.’ Tears welled. ‘And he took the money and never came back and he’d told me …’ Told her he loved her? I imagined so.
‘What did Evelyn say when you told her?’
‘She said I was a fool to believe him.’ Alice’s voice was tired.
‘How much did you take from Evelyn?’
‘That was an accident.’
I was not an accountant. In fact, Bobby Mac always urged me simply to record checks and Not To Subtract. I can’t understand why everyone is so picky about balances. As long as you know where you are, well, that should be good enough. I had no idea if one could accidentally siphon off a sizable sum. I rather doubted it.
‘Evelyn didn’t believe you.’
Something shifted in her eyes. She lifted her chin. ‘Oh yes she did. Everything was all right. And,’ was there a taunting gleam in her cool blue eyes, ‘I’m so glad we worked everything out. Since she died.’
I nodded. ‘Of course you understand the audit is scheduled.’
She didn’t look worried. She was good with figures. Perhaps she’d had plenty of time to make irregularities regular. ‘I’ll be glad to help. I’ll be here all day Monday.’
Once again I paused at a door, looked back, said one word sharply, loudly. I watched her face.
Melissa’s untidy room was empty except for the Siamese cat curled in a nest of silk hose. Bright blue eyes gave me a glance, then he turned over, batted a stocking, rolled to his feet. Stockings flew in all directions. He raced across the floor, a flash of gray fur, rose effortlessly to land on a valence. He turned his back to me, suddenly bored.
I disappeared; thought, Melissa’s car.
The black Jeep was parked in front of Room 19 at the Sweet Slumber Motel. The car was empty.
Inside the motel room, Melissa lounged in a red short silk nightie. She held a margarita glass frosted with salt. She relaxed on the divan, two cushions behind her back, legs stretched out, reading a fashion magazine, awaiting her lover.
I was struck by the emptiness in her face. I saw no anticipation. Instead she looked restless, irritable, as if poised to flee. I cautiously turned the knob, eased the door open a fraction, just enough for an easy entrance.
I returned to the sidewalk outside, made sure no one was about, and Appeared, once again in the black suit and heels. I turned the knob, stepped inside the room.
At the sound, she put down the magazine and looked around. She jerked to sit up, swinging her legs to the floor. ‘You have the wrong room.’
‘No mistake.’ I shut the door behind me. ‘Hello, Melissa Kirk.’ I introduced myself. I doubt she heard anything but Private Investigations. She scrambled for her cell phone.
‘You don’t need to warn him. I’m not here from his wife.’
She held the phone, glared, spoke rapidly, ‘Private investigator here,’ clicked off.
‘So sorry he won’t join us. The red nightie wasted.’
‘Get out. I’ll call Security.’
‘That scares me.’ Did I get a whiff of coal smoke? Precept Five. Do not succumb to the temptation to confound those who appear to oppose you. To my surprise and consternation, I was swept by sadness at the impersonal, clean enough but tawdry motel room in late afternoon and a young woman with hot, haunted eyes.
‘I’m sorry.’ And I was. Sorry for the forces that led her here, for a life that appeared to have no direction. ‘You shouldn’t waste your time with a married man.’ In her last conversation with Sybil, Evelyn described a stormy meeting with Melissa over her affair with a good friend’s husband, told Sybil she’d ordered Melissa to pack up and go. ‘If he cared about you, why doesn’t he leave his wife?’
Those tormented eyes stared, shining with tears. Of rage? Of despair? Of defeat?
I made a guess. ‘He’s staying because of the kids. You should have your own life and kids—’
‘Shut up.’ The words were hard as rocks flung against a barricade. Tears flooded down her thin face, a thin young face. ‘She would have been three years old the next week. Three years old. He slammed out of the house after we had a fight. He was mad, almost mad enough not to see anything. He didn’t see her. He screeched in reverse and she was in the drive on her tricycle. A neighborhood girl was watching her and he almost hit her, too.’ Melissa came to her feet, stood, wounded, wretched, wasted.
‘I’m sorry.’ Her pain flooded the room, was a weight I felt.
‘Sorry doesn’t help. Sorry isn’t worth anything. She’s dead. She’ll always be dead. So take your sorry and your camera somewhere else. I don’t give a damn about him or his wife or you or anything. Get out.’ She reached for a blouse, pulled it over her head, grabbed slacks, stepped into them, stuffing the nightie inside the waistband.
I stood at the door. I waited until her gaze swung toward me, said one word sharply, loudly. I watched her face.
SIXTEEN
Robert answered the knoc
k on his door. I did think he could be a bit cheerier when he saw me. To say I have him spooked puts it mildly. His eyes get a wide stare and he lurches backward. And I’d thoughtfully changed into the white blouse and batik skirt I’d worn in the park. Michaela Shayne might truly discombobulate Robert.
For an instant, Gage looked at me with a considering expression and then it was as if she gave a mental shrug, decided – whoever I was – clearly I was helping her mom. Her voice was warm. ‘Bailey Ruth, I’m so glad you’ve come. We have great news.’ She talked a mile a minute as I sat on a chair opposite her. Her face was awfully pink from the day in the park.
‘Calamine lotion will take out the sting.’ Even good sunscreen has its limits for a full day in the sun.
She waved her hand as if brushing away a caterpillar. ‘I’m OK. And listen, we transcribed the recordings. We have names and addresses and cell-phone numbers. They loved us. Proud as peacocks to be The Winners. I sent Robert to Walmart and he bought a half-dozen twenty-dollar gift certificates …’
Robert looked glum. I expected the hundred and twenty he spent was way over his budget. I must remember to ask Iris to reimburse him.
‘… and we found three more people who saw Mom get out of her car and go to the carousel and immediately walk away talking on her cell. And we went to the police station and that big man—’
Robert was meticulous. ‘The police chief.’
‘Actually, he was pretty nice and he took everything from us and set up a file. I asked him how soon Mom would be released.’ The glow diminished. ‘He said she was being held as a material witness and at this point he was concerned for her safety since she had been in contact with the last victim and he thought the murderer acted fast and might start to wonder if Nicole had told Mom anything. He said she was safer in custody until Monday.’
A cell on Saturday night isn’t a happy place to be. Iris was no longer the sole occupant of the jail. Two more cells were occupied. In one a disheveled woman sat on the bed, arms wrapped tightly across her front, staring disconsolately into the corridor. From the other cell came a deep lugubrious voice indistinctly singing ‘The Sloop John B’.
