The Damage Done

by P J Parrish

  Violet’s father had continued the family’s civil rights crusade by writing columns in the local paper railing against the prejudice directed at the Mexican immigrants flooding into the state to work in the auto plants.

  Emily had found a photograph from the Vandalia newspaper of James Tripp with Violet taken on the steps of a handsome white clapboard church. The caption read: “The Rev. Tripp aided by his daughter Violet, 15, has opened his church to the needy families of the brown man.”

  Louis stared hard at the young Violet in the photo. She was as tall as her father, standing ramrod straight with a confident smile on her face. Violet’s vein of Christian charity ran long and deep—back to slaves, through the Mexican influx, and up to the refugee resettlement program Fresh Start.

  What had happened to her? How had Violet gone from an activist in her church to a passive housewife?

  He returned to the file. In 1962, Reverend Tripp died from cancer. Violet, then just sixteen, was legally homeless because the church owned the parsonage house she and her father had lived in. Two months later, when Jonas Prince was installed as the new minister of the Vandalia Community Church of God, he took Violet in, letting her stay in the parsonage home. Violet married Anthony a few years later, just before Jonas moved the family to Grand Rapids.

  Emily had scribbled a note in the margin: Re Trust Fund. Refer to Tooki report on Prince financial background.

  Louis turned to Tooki’s report and flipped through the pages until he found Emily’s red-inked bracketing of two paragraphs.

  Violet’s father had left her a trust fund of $50,000. It had come mostly from the sale of some acreage near the Vandalia church to an agricultural organization back in 1960. The fund, deposited in the G.W. Jones Exchange Bank in Cassopolis, grew to $75,000 and was untouched—until November, 1979 when one withdrawal was made for $25,000 in cash.

  There were eight more cash withdrawals over the years, each for $6,000. The last withdrawal was about three and half years ago in December of 1987.

  Here, Emily had written something in the margin: Violet signed her trust fund over to Anthony one year after they married.

  Louis sat back in the booth. The withdrawals could have been for any reason. But given Violet’s submissive obedience to Anthony, it was possible she didn’t know about it. Was Anthony paying someone off? Had he gotten involved with a woman back in 1979, someone who tried to blackmail him? And did Tuyen also threaten to go public, or worse, did she tell Jonas? Did Jonas threaten to disown Anthony and Anthony murdered him? Did an enraged Anthony then murder Tuyen the same night?

  He finished off his coffee and glanced at his watch. Just past eight-thirty. It was time to go see Violet.

  Louis parked the Explorer behind some trees just outside the Tammarron North entrance. Anthony’s black Lincoln rolled past at a quarter to nine. Louis waited until he was out of sight then drove to the house.

  When he rang the doorbell, it was a long time before Violet opened the door. She was dressed in a blue robe, her hair uncombed and her face bare. She blinked rapidly, like it was difficult for her to focus on his face.

  “Officer . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Kincaid. Louis Kincaid. I’m sorry to bother you so early. May I come in?”

  She looked past him, down the long, empty driveway, then nodded and held the door open. The house was cold inside, and there were no lights on anywhere.

  Violet closed the door and ran a hand through her hair. “My medication leaves me a little fuzzy sometimes.” She looked around the foyer and toward the far hallway. “Did you want to see my husband? I think he’s already left.”

  “No, I’d like to talk to you,” Louis said.

  “Oh . . . well then,” Violet said softly. She pulled the belt of her robe tighter. “Would you like some coffee?”

  Louis’s bladder was floating from the Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, but he had to establish empathy with Violet. “I could use a cup,” he said.

  “So could I,” she whispered as she started away down a hallway, her bare feet not making a sound on the white tile.

  The white, French country-style kitchen was large and brightly lit, with a breakfast bar and a dining nook overlooking the sloping backyard. Violet took two mugs from the cupboard and poured coffee from a machine on the counter. She turned back to the nook then stopped. Louis noticed she seemed to be staring at the table. There was a plate with the remains of toast and eggs, an empty juice glass, and a half-filled coffee mug. A newspaper lay open near the plate.

  Violet set the mugs down, frowning. “I’m sorry. Things are such a mess. Let me clear—”

  “Don’t bother with that right now,” Louis said. “We can just sit here at the bar.”

  He took off his jacket and draped it over the stool, sitting down before Violet could protest. She hesitated, still looking at the dirty dishes on the table, then came over to sit next to Louis, bringing him sugar and cream. Louis stirred in his sugar, trying to gauge if she was clear-headed enough to talk. If he moved too fast, she’d probably shut down and throw him out.

  “How are you holding up, Mrs. Prince?” he asked.

  “Okay,” she said softly. “I’m very tired. I called the police yesterday. They told me they don’t know when they can release his . . .” She let out a sigh. “I have to arrange for the funeral. When can I do that?”

  “It should be soon. Maybe another day.”

  She fell quiet, drinking her coffee. Louis did the same and set his mug down. “You make very good coffee,” he said with a smile.

  She blinked. “Oh, Anthony makes it.” Her gaze went again to the dirty dishes on the table. She was frowning, like she was having trouble thinking.

  “Mrs. Prince,” he began, “I have to ask you something important, something about your father-in-law’s murder.” He waited until her eyes refocused on him. “Did you call the police tip line?”

  “What?”

  “Did you call the police and leave a message about your father-in-law’s murder?”

  She was frozen, the mug inches from her lips. Her face had gone blank. But there was a small tell—a slight shaking of her hand holding the mug.

  “The last time I came to visit, you told me that God gives you the words when you can’t find your own.” Louis had the verse memorized. “’Put not your trust in princes, nor in the son of man, in whom there is no help.’”

  Still she didn’t move.

  “You also called Walter Bushman’s radio station and left the same message, didn’t you?”

  She was staring at him, but it was like she was looking straight through him and searching for something else. Louis knew she wasn’t going to answer. She would never admit it. But she hadn’t denied it either.

  “I know you lost your own father when you were a girl. I know you were close to Jonas. I know you loved him,” Louis said. He had waited to use Jonas’ first name, waited until this moment to make it personal.

  She set the mug down and shut her eyes tight.

  “It’s okay to have suspicions, Violet,” Louis said. “What does the verse mean?”

  “David was trying to tell us that we should not put our faith in the men of Earth and forget the Great One above,” she said. “Because the men of Earth will disappoint us.”

  “Who disappointed you, Violet?”

  She opened her eyes, those eyes as deep as a summer dusk sky and as sad as a dying iris.

  “I’m his wife,” she whispered.

  She was leaving him no choice. He had to push her.

  “Your father left you a trust fund,” Louis said.

  She frowned in confusion but nodded.

  “Anthony has been taking money out of it for more than ten years. Did you know that?”

  Her expression told him she didn’t.

  “There’s very little left,” Louis said.

  Her eyes brimmed, and she withdrew slightly, like she suddenly didn’t want Louis near her. He was losing her. He had to do it.

&
nbsp; “There’s something else, Violet,” he said. “Anthony was seeing another woman.”

  She let out a strange mewing sound and looked away, swiveling on the stool, turning her body away from Louis so he couldn’t see her face.

  A minute ticked by, then she pushed off the stool, went to the sink and turned on the faucet. She splashed water on her face, dried it with a towel, then turned to face Louis.

  “I knew,” she said softly.

  The wife always knows.

  “He hasn’t touched me in years,” she said. Her cheeks reddened but she was able to keep her eyes on Louis’s. “I just had to know where he went on Wednesday nights and I don’t drive so I couldn’t follow him. So, one Wednesday night about a month ago, I didn’t take my pill and I stayed awake. He didn’t come home until nearly four in the morning.”

  She paused, but Louis said nothing, sensing there was more.

  “And when he got home,” she said, “he spent more than an hour in the shower before he came to bed. That’s not normal, is it?”

  Louis knew she didn’t really expect an answer and he didn’t offer one. Violet was still standing by the sink, holding the towel, facing the window.

  “Is she someone from our church?” Violet asked.

  Louis hesitated. “No, she was a prostitute. Your husband was keeping her in one of the Fresh Start apartments.”

  She began to twist the towel between her hands. Louis wanted her to turn around so he could read her face because he wasn’t sure how far he could go, how much this fragile woman could stand.

  He knew she would find out the rest soon enough and maybe it would be better coming from him. If she fainted, had a breakdown or something, he could deal with it more easily, here in her own home.

  “There’s one more thing I have to tell you,” he said. “We believe your husband killed her.” He paused. “The same night he killed Jonas.”

  She kept twisting the towel, so hard and tight, the veins in her hands were standing out.

  “Violet,” he said calmly. “I need to know what you know. What made you call the tip line? What happened that made you suspicious?”

  The twisting stopped. Violet set the towel on the counter and turned. “I have to go to the bathroom,” she said. Her voice was flat, her expression stony.

  “Wait,” he said. “I can’t let you go alone, I—”

  “It’s where I hid it,” she said.

  “Hid what?”

  Violet left the kitchen and Louis followed her down a hallway leading toward the back of the house. They passed through a large bedroom with an unmade bed, and into the adjoining bath. Violet switched on the light, flooding the spotless white marble room.

  He watched her as she opened a drawer of a built-in vanity and began taking things out, setting them on the counter. Finally, she stopped, stepped toward Louis, and held out her hand.

  In her palm was a silver chain with a single key. Louis knew immediately what it was—the key to Jonas’s dressing room at the church. The same key the killer used to lock the dressing room door after he strangled Jonas. And the same key the killer used to let himself back in so he could move the body to the altar in the middle of the night.

  Louis spotted a Kleenex dispenser and pulled out a tissue. He spread the tissue in his own palm. “Drop it in here, Violet,” he said.

  She set it in the Kleenex and Louis folded it over and slipped it in his pocket.

  “Where did you find this?” he asked.

  “In the pocket of Anthony’s pants,” she said.

  “When?”

  “The morning after Jonas was killed. It was after Anthony left for work. I was gathering up his clothes for the cleaners, emptying his pockets like I always do, and that’s when I found it.”

  Violet let out a deep breath that made her thin shoulders shiver. “I know it is the key to Jonas’s dressing room,” she said. “He told me once that it’s the only one.”

  “Then you know what that means,” Louis said.

  She nodded, her eyes brimming.

  In the bathroom’s harsh light, Violet looked suddenly older. Wearier. A phone began to ring. Violet looked toward the bedroom.

  “You should answer that,” Louis said.

  “I can’t. It might be another reporter,” she said, shaking her head.

  Louis heard the beeping of his pager on his belt and the number on the display told him the ringing phone was probably for him. He hurried to the bedroom and grabbed the receiver from the nightstand phone.

  “Kincaid.”

  “This is Camille, Louis. We just got a call from the trooper sitting surveillance at the cathedral parking lot. Anthony Prince hasn’t shown up yet. The trooper wants to know if he should give him more time.”

  Louis glanced at his watch. It was nine-twenty-five. The man was never late. He was gone and he had a half-hour’s head start. What had spooked him?

  “Put out an ABP for his black Lincoln Town car,” Louis said.

  “Follow or apprehend?” Camille asked.

  “Arrest him,” Louis said. “Tell the captain I have the key to the dressing room and alert the team. I think he’s on the run.”

  He hung up and turned. Violet was staring at him, her lower lip quivering.

  “I need your help, Violet,” Louis said. “I need you to look around and tell me if anything is missing? Clothes? A suitcase?”

  She glanced around the bedroom, dazed and eventually moved toward a walk-in closet. “His suitcases are still here,” she said.” She hesitated. “Except for that Vuitton thing.”

  “What thing?”

  “It’s a leather duffel bag, like a gym bag, but Anthony never exercised. It’s not here.”

  “Do you have a safe?”

  She shook her head. “Is Anthony—”

  “Do you keep any cash in the house?”

  “About four hundred dollars. It’s my household money Anthony gives me. I keep it in the kitchen.”

  “I need you to check to see if it’s there, please.”

  He followed her back to the kitchen. Violet opened a drawer and pulled out an envelope.

  “It’s empty,” she said. “The money’s not here.”

  Louis grabbed his jacket off the barstool and put it on. He was eager to get back to the Beacon Light Cathedral where the team would be assembling. But he still needed to know what had spooked Anthony.

  “Violet,” he said.

  She was still staring at the empty envelope.

  “Violet, did you notice anything strange about Anthony this morning?”

  Her eyes drifted to the dirty dishes on the table. “He didn’t put his dishes in the dishwasher,” she said flatly.

  Louis had assumed it was her breakfast. “He ate alone?”

  She nodded. “I wake up too late, so he always makes his own breakfast—two poached eggs, toast, orange juice, and coffee—and he always reads the newspaper before he goes to the church. And he always cleans up after himself.”

  He went to the table and looked down at the newspaper spread open by the plate. It was that morning’s Grand Rapids Press, open to page six. At the top of the page was the police sketch of the man Weems had seen outside Jonas’s cottage Wednesday morning.

  Was this what had done it? Was this man the reason Anthony had panicked?

  He pointed to the sketch in the newspaper. “Violet, do you recognize this man?”

  She came forward, stared down at it then shook her head. She moved away slowly, picked up the juice glass and put it in the sink.

  “Violet, stop, please,” Louis said. “Don’t touch anything.”

  “But I just want to clean—”

  “No, you can’t. We’re going to have to search your house, take some pictures.”

  He could see something shift in her expression, like she was running everything through her brain, processing everything that had happened in the last week, the last month, the last years, when her husband had come home late, when her husband had taken her money
, when her husband hadn’t touched her.

  “Is there anyone I can call for you?” Louis asked. “Is there somewhere you can go?”

  She was slumped against the kitchen sink. Her blue robe had fallen open, revealing an edge of a lace nightgown, but she didn’t seem to notice or care. She shook her head slowly.

  “Sisu,” she whispered.

  For a second, he didn’t realize what she had said. But then he recognized the word. It was the same one the Reverend Grascoeur had said in the bar in Saginaw.

  Violet looked up at him. “I’m sorry. You don’t know what that means, do you.”

  “Determination,” Louis said.

  “It’s more than that,” she said softly. “It’s an old Finnish word Jonas used all the time. It means . . . different things, good and bad. Bad sisu is ruthless and vengeful. But good sisu . . . it means having courage. But not just any kind. The courage to do the unthinkable.”

  Had he imagined it, that hint of anger in her voice? No, it was there in her eyes, too—those amazing eyes that now burned with the color of a gas flame.

  The pager buzzed on his belt again and he saw it was Camille. He had to get to the Explorer and call Steele.

  “I have to go,” Louis said.

  Violet pulled the lapels of her robe together and led Louis out of the kitchen. They were in the living room, almost to the foyer, when she stopped suddenly. She was staring at something off in the corner.

  “Violet? What is it?” Louis asked.

  She pointed to the old organ. “It’s open,” she said.

  Louis couldn’t figure out what she was talking about but then he saw it—a small padlock hanging open on the organ’s bench. He went to the bench and opened the top. It was empty.

  “What did he keep in here?” he asked.

  She had come up behind him and was staring at the bench. “He told me it was Jonas’s old gun. I saw it once. Anthony told me he locked it up because he was worried about my sleepwalking.”