Body of Evidence

by Joan Elliott Pickart

  She glanced at her new partner. “I didn’t mean the house. I just meant the space.”

  The grounds of the Gardner estate were, indeed, spacious. She was a little surprised at how comforting it felt to be able to see more than a tiny patch of sky between towering buildings.

  “What’s the point, besides to impress people that you can afford it?” he asked

  “Peace. Quiet. Privacy. Room to breathe. Air to breathe. Trees. Grass to walk on, lay down in on a sunny day. A garden. A dog.” She looked around once more and grinned. “Or a horse.”

  She thought she saw the corners of his mouth quirk. But he only said, and grudgingly, “Okay, I’ll give you that. But who needs this much room and privacy?”

  “Hey, I grew up near farm country. This is nothing but the back pasture. Besides, what if you want to go out and get the paper in your pajamas?”

  “I don’t.”

  “You don’t ever want to just sneak outside—”

  “I don’t wear pajamas.”

  The image that shot into her mind was overpowering. Trying to recover, she muttered, “T.M.I.”

  He slowed the car as they neared the house. “What?”

  “Too much information,” she translated with a wry grimace.

  “Computer talk?”

  “Started out that way,” she said, not quite sure if he was ribbing her or if he really didn’t know the acronym that had come into general usage.

  He braked the car to a stop, then leaned forward to look at the majestic stone steps that led up to the covered portico. “Suppose they’ll want us to use the servants’ entrance?”

  “Would you?” she asked, curious.

  He shot her a sideways look. “Not a chance. Murder doesn’t take a back seat to anyone.”

  “Amen,” she said softly. And for a long moment their gazes locked. The sense of being caught and held by a pair of amber-gold eyes was unlike anything she’d felt before. She wondered if it had the same effect on a suspect. She guessed it did; it would certainly account in part for his stellar arrest rate.

  He turned his attention back to driving. He inched the car up until it was not exactly in front of the front doors, but no farther. He put it in park and shut the motor off; out of the way was apparently as far as he would accede to wealth and position.

  “I’ll bet you forgot to call ahead for an appointment, too,” she said.

  His head snapped around, and this time the grin broke loose. “Darned if I didn’t.”

  “Oh, well,” she said with a dramatic sigh.

  Still with the grin, he said, “Let’s go.”

  When they walked up the grand steps, Darien felt a sense of camaraderie for the first time since she’d been on this job.

  Chapter 3

  They followed the butler—an honest-to-God butler in full regalia who had quizzed them at the door before finally allowing them entrance to the Gardner domain—into what the man had called the drawing room.

  “What is a drawing room, anyway?” his partner whispered, and Colin had to stifle a chuckle. “Beats me.” He took a quick look around the room. It seemed just as rich, but somehow different from the apartment. The art was of the same caliber, the fittings and furnishings just as elegant, but still it wasn’t the same. And he couldn’t put his finger on the difference.

  “This feels like old money. More class, less flash,” she murmured.

  That was it, he thought. This room felt like it had been here for generations of wealth. Wilson had immediately assessed and summed up the difference, and he felt yet another stab of respect.

  Colin had been expecting a grande dame sort of entrance, and Cecelia Gardner didn’t disappoint him. She might be nearly eighty years old, but she still swept into the room as if she expected crowds, water, or whatever she confronted to part for her. As they likely did, in most cases, Colin thought. There was something about the woman, her haughty demeanor, her cool, assessing gaze, the elegant and obviously expensive designer suit, or the formal up-sweep of silver hair, that told you this was a woman used to being in control, used to getting her own way. A strong woman, who looked much younger than she was.

  But she is still a mother who has just lost a son, Colin reminded himself.

  “I’m sorry to come here under such painful circumstances for you, Mrs. Gardner,” he said when she came to a halt in front of them.

  “I already spoke at length to the other detectives. So what I’d like to know,” she said, her voice crisp, “is why you are here, instead of out looking for the murderer of my son.”

  Colin had heard that countless times before. It didn’t matter if the victim had been rich or poor, they always wanted to know why the police didn’t instantly, magically know who the killer was.

  “Out of respect, ma’am,” he said smoothly. “I knew you would want to personally meet Detective Wilson and myself—I’m Detective Waters—since we’ll be handling the criminal investigation.”

  “I see.”

  That had slowed her down a bit, he thought with no little satisfaction. But as he expected, she recovered quickly; he imagined it took a great deal to rattle the poised, proud Cecelia Gardner.

  “As I told Mayor Jones, I expect quick results. Anything less is unacceptable. I want the person who did this found immediately.”

  “As do we, Mrs. Gardner. So the sooner we can get the formalities out of the way, the sooner we can get back on the real case.”

  “Formalities?”

  “Speaking to the family members.” As she stiffened, he added, “It’s routine, but it has to be done.”

  “Ridiculous, you’re wasting precious time.”

  “No, Mrs. Gardner.” It was the first time his partner had spoken, but her voice was pleasant and even. “We’re making sure no one can later get the killer off because we didn’t go by the book now.”

  Her words seemed to appease Mrs. Gardner. “Very well. Ask your questions,” the older woman said as she ushered them over to the couch and sat down.

  “At the risk of sounding like a cliché, where were you last night?” Colin asked, smiling to indicate he knew how ridiculous the idea that she might be involved really was.

  “I was at the Windy City fund-raiser,” she replied impatiently. “In front of several hundred friends, I might add.”

  “Until what time?”

  “Nearly eleven. I arrived home just before midnight. Any of the staff can tell you.”

  “And you didn’t go out again?”

  “Of course not,” she said impatiently. “I’m nearly eighty years old, young man. I don’t stay out until all hours.”

  “Most people I know who are your age wouldn’t even make it until eleven,” Wilson said, sounding genuinely admiring. Mrs. Gardner looked at her consideringly, then nodded as if in acceptance of the compliment. As if it were her due.

  “Was any of the rest of the family there?” Colin asked.

  “No.”

  She didn’t, Colin noticed, offer any explanations of where her other son and her grandson had been. She might cooperate in answering their questions, but she wasn’t going to volunteer anything.

  “Is there anyone who might have had reason to want your son dead, Mrs. Gardner?”

  The older woman sniffed audibly. “Reason? Some people don’t need a reason. The fact that he was a Gardner engendered envy and malice in some. Anyone in our position is a target of sorts these days.”

  It was the oddest combination of arrogance and stark reality, and Colin couldn’t argue with a word of it. Just being a Gardner was enough to attract the wrong kind of attention from the wrong kind of people. And a malice killing would explain why so much of value had been left behind; if revenge or hatred was the motive, theft would have been secondary.

  “Then is there someone who comes to mind? Someone who stands out? Anyone he argued with, or had a business disagreement with?”

  “Franklin didn’t argue.”

  “Ever?” Colin didn’t know anyone who never a
rgued.

  Cecelia Gardner waved her hand dismissively. “Never seriously. If you’d known him, you’d know that no one would argue with Franklin.”

  Because they wouldn’t dare? Colin wondered. What he’d read about the man indicated he’d been a powerhouse, a high-profile international businessman who was at home around the world. The kind of man few others could stand up to.

  The kind who could, with the right touch of arrogance and contempt, drive someone to murder?

  “What about his son?”

  “Stephen?” Cecelia Gardner became instantly tense, and her demeanor changed to a protective fierceness he had to admire. “My grandson is not to be subjected to your interrogation. He is distraught, of course. And he would be of no help. He spends most of his time at school, or here studying. He’s working on his graduate degree.”

  Interesting, Colin thought, that she was so forthcoming with all that after we had to pry the rest out of her.

  “We’ll need to talk with him anyway, I’m afraid,” he said.

  The icy look nearly became a glare. “I’ll see when we’re available.”

  “Just Stephen,” Colin said firmly.

  “Alone? I don’t think so. His parents are both dead now, so I will stand for them.”

  “No, Mrs. Gardner.” The woman blinked, and Colin wondered just how long it had been since anyone had said no to her. “He’s an adult now. We will speak to him alone, here, or at the station, he can choose.”

  Cecelia Gardner drew herself up and gave him a stare that was nothing less than insulting. “How dare you?”

  “He dares,” Wilson said, unexpectedly speaking for the first time since her comment about the killer getting off, “because your son has been brutally killed, and no one has the right to secrets in a murder investigation. I would think you would want it that way.”

  For a moment Mrs. Gardner shifted her stare to the younger woman. Colin stayed silent, watching, but he cheered inwardly when Darien Wilson stared down the imperious woman without faltering. She might just be tougher than she looked.

  Amazingly, the older woman gave in first. “You’re quite right. I’m protective of my grandson. I always have been. Too much, Franklin used to say.”

  And just why would a kid’s father say that? Colin wondered.

  “I will have Stephen call you as soon as he arrives home.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Gardner.” His voice was as polite as it had been cool before.

  They left shortly thereafter, the only useful bit of information they’d gotten being that Lyle, who also lived in the estate house, was at the Gardner Corporation offices in the business district.

  “Impressions?” he asked his partner when they were back in the car.

  “One main one, with two possible interpretations.” She hesitated, but he nodded at her to continue. “I didn’t see a single trace of any grief, pain or loss. She was more worried about us talking to her grandson than the death of her own son, which in itself makes me wonder about the grandson.”

  “I agree,” Colin said. “What does your impression tell you?”

  “That either she truly doesn’t care, which makes her a very sick sort of mother. Or she’s grieving as any mother would, and just hiding it extremely well, which makes me wonder what else she’s hiding.”

  “Indeed,” Colin agreed. Maybe she does have the instincts for this, after all, he added silently. “And the brother is doing business as usual at the office? Great family love there, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Nobody can tell anyone else how to grieve, but so far I’m not impressed with the Gardner approach.”

  “Nor am I.”

  “So we go see if the brother is shedding any tears?”

  “That we do.”

  Lyle Gardner was not, in fact, shedding any tears. It didn’t surprise Darien to find he was, as Waters had said, doing “business as usual.” The secretary who greeted them outside his office was showing more emotion than either Mrs. Gardner had or Lyle Gardner was now.

  “Maybe the rich are just different,” Darien whispered as she opened the door to the inner sanctum of Gardner Corporation.

  “At least this place isn’t gilt and marble,” Waters retorted under his breath, making her smile. She was much more at ease with him now, much less nervous at having been assigned to him as a partner. She quickly quashed her smile when the secretary turned back to them. She gestured toward the door and indicated they could go in.

  It was true, the glass-and-steel structure that housed the Gardner Corporation clearly demonstrated success, but it was sleek, businesslike and modern rather than ornate and classic. And the office they walked into now had the same feel, that this was a place where efficient—and profitable—business was done.

  The man behind the desk had the same black hair and blue eyes as his dead brother, but there the resemblance ended. Where Franklin had been trim, tan and athletic, Lyle looked as if he spent a bit too much time behind that huge expanse of cherry wood. They knew he handled the family trust fund and oversaw all their general business interests, while Franklin had handled the oil refinery and their international dealings.

  “What have you found out?” he asked as he rose and strode around the desk.

  They really do expect a miracle, Darien thought. Because they’re the Gardners?

  “We’re in the information-gathering stage,” Waters said easily. “We just need to clear up a few things with you.”

  “Me?”

  Why on earth doesn’t the family expect to answer at least a few questions? she wondered. Don’t they watch the news, and know how often in a murder the killer is family?

  “Where were you last night, Mr. Gardner?”

  “Me?” he repeated, his tone incredulous.

  “Yes,” Waters said patiently. “Routine questions, sir. Eliminate the obvious so we can find the hidden.”

  Gardner looked as if he were torn between ordering them out or venting his anger at being suspected at all.

  “I was at home,” he said finally, stiffly. “As I told the other detectives.”

  If that made any difference to Waters, it didn’t show. Again, Darien held back; she didn’t think he’d welcome her intruding until he trusted her. He hadn’t shut her up yet, so she assumed she hadn’t done anything that irritated him, but still she kept quiet; learning, she told herself, was her primary goal right now.

  “You were at home?” Waters asked. “Doing?”

  “Watching television.”

  “Until when?”

  “A little after midnight.”

  “So you spoke to your mother when she arrived home?”

  He seemed to hesitate, but it was so quick Darien couldn’t be sure. “No. I was already in bed, and I didn’t want to bother her. I knew she’d be in a hurry to get to sleep.”

  “Who knew you were home?”

  He frowned. “No one. I was alone.”

  “Staff?”

  “No. I mean, they knew I was home, but I’d dismissed them before I went up to bed.”

  Convenient, Darien thought.

  “So you have no alibi.”

  “I don’t need an alibi,” Gardner said, rather vehemently.

  Waters kept pushing. “You didn’t leave the house?”

  Gardner drew himself up and looked down his nose at Waters, abruptly every inch the haughty Gardner. “I don’t care for your implications, Detective. No, I did not leave the house. And to answer the question underlying all your other questions, no, I did not kill my own brother!”

  “Any idea who did?” Waters asked, with a cool she admired in the face of Gardner’s anger.

  “None.”

  “No one who was angry at him, maybe someone who got the short end of a business deal, something like that?”

  “The Gardners don’t deal like that, Detective.”

  Waters didn’t even react. “The oil business is a delicate thing these days, any problems there?”

  “None.” Gardner’s voice
was becoming icy.

  Waters retracted the point of his pen with a click of the top, and looked at Gardner straight on. “So, nobody had any reason to kill your brother.”

  “None that I’m aware of.”

  So why’s he dead? Darien muttered to herself.

  “Who stood to benefit from his death?” Waters asked.

  Lyle Gardner ran out of patience. “You’re on the wrong track, Detective, and you’re wasting valuable time. Yours and mine. Weren’t things taken from the apartment? Doesn’t that make it clear this was a robbery, and poor Franklin interrupted it?”

  “Perhaps.” Waters tapped the pen against his notepad. “What about your nephew, Mr. Gardner?”

  “Stephen? What about him?”

  “He’ll be quite a wealthy young man now, won’t he?”

  “He already is,” Gardner snapped. “He’s a Gardner.”

  “But now he’ll have his own money, won’t he?”

  “He’s never lacked for whatever money he needed.”

  “But now it’s his,” Waters persisted. Darien wasn’t sure what he was up to, but guessed it had been triggered by Mrs. Gardner’s fierce protectiveness of her grandson.

  “He’s doing graduate work, getting ready to take his place with the corporation. The family takes care of his expenses. He doesn’t need more money now, doesn’t want the worry of it.”

  “I don’t know any twenty-three-year-olds who don’t think they need more money. Of their own.”

  “Look, they may have fought about the money he was going to inherit, but Stephen had nothing to do with this!”

  Waters froze. And the moment the words were out, Lyle flushed.

  Well, well, Darien thought.

  “I wonder,” Colin mused aloud.

  “What?”

  “How long it would take to get to Franklin’s apartment from that fancy college his kid goes to.”

  As they walked toward the elevators, his partner glanced at her watch, as if to see if they had time to make the run themselves. “Maybe we should find out firsthand,” she said. “Before grandma has a chance to talk to him about what to say.”