Bright Eyes

by Catherine Anderson

  Moments later, Zeke was on the phone with his brother-in-law, Ryan Kendrick, asking if he knew of a good attorney. Ryan gave him the names of two, both of whom he highly recommended.

  When Natalie reached the police station, she fully expected to be ushered into a gray room furnished with only a table and chairs. That was how it happened in the movies. Instead, a nice older detective named Monroe invited her into his office where she was comfortably seated. His desk was gray metal, but that was as close to her expectations as it came.

  “Can I get you anything? Coffee? A breakfast pastry?”

  Natalie was too upset to swallow anything solid. “Coffee, please. Black.”

  The pudgy detective brought her a steaming Styrofoam cup. Then he sat at his desk and rocked back on his chair, his gray head cocked slightly to one side as he studied her. She felt like a bug he was about to pluck legless.

  “What happened to Robert?” she asked shakily. “The officers who brought me here weren’t forthcoming with much information, only that he was found in the garage.”

  Detective Monroe nodded.

  Natalie waited. When he said nothing more, she cried, “How did he die? Did he fall, have a coronary, what?”

  “He was asphyxiated.”

  For a moment, Natalie couldn’t think what that meant. Then it sank home with sickening clarity. “Asphyxiated?” she repeated stupidly. “How on earth did that happen?”

  “He was found in his vehicle. The engine had been left running. The exhaust fumes killed him.”

  A picture popped into Natalie’s mind of Robert slumped over the steering wheel with his face all pasty. Her head went dizzy. Her stomach lurched. She set the coffee on the corner of the detective’s desk. “Sick. I’m going to be sick,” was all she managed to say.

  He sprang to his feet and shoved a wastebasket under her nose just as she vomited. “Oh, God,” she rasped out, groping frantically with a hand. “Something—for—my—mouth.”

  He gave her some tissues. Shaking violently and gulping down her gorge, Natalie moaned and tried to apologize. The detective patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. The can’s lined. Easy cleanup.”

  Natalie was still so embarrassed she wanted to crawl in a hole and hide. “I’m sorry, so sorry. Such a shock. Robert dead. I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.”

  The detective resumed his seat. “Keep the basket close. Sometimes it hits people this way.”

  Natalie nodded and tried to stop her hand from shaking so she could wipe her mouth. The taste on her tongue was so awful that her stomach rolled again. She sat for a moment with her head hanging over the trash receptacle, too weak to even consider finding a bathroom where she could be sick in private.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again. “Just—give me a second.” A few minutes passed before she was recovered enough to talk. “I was sound asleep when the police came,” she explained. And dreaming the most fabulous dreams. “The next thing I knew, they were telling me Robert was dead. It’s a nightmare. My son, Chad, is devastated.”

  “I’m sorry the news has upset you and your family. Given the fact that you and Mr. Patterson were divorced, we assumed—” He rustled some papers and sighed. “I guess no one stopped to think that you might take it this hard.”

  Natalie sank back on the chair. She wanted Zeke. Needed him so badly that she ached. “Robert is, was the father of my children,” she said. “My son didn’t file for a divorce. I did.”

  “Point taken.”

  “Chad was in the room when I was informed of his death. The officers just—blurted it out in front of him. Of course I’m upset. Wouldn’t you be?”

  Detective Monroe ran a hand over his balding head. “Were you still in love with your husband, Mrs. Patterson?”

  “Ex-husband,” she corrected, “and, no, I wasn’t in love with him. I hated his guts.” Natalie no sooner spoke than she wanted to call back the words. If the police had reason to believe Robert was murdered, statements like that might get her arrested. “That isn’t to say I ever wished something like this on him.” Natalie pictured her blond ex-husband slumped over the wheel of his Corvette again and clamped a hand to her waist. “He was only forty-three,” she said thinly. Then an even more awful thought struck her. “Oh, God. His mother. Does she even know yet?”

  “Grace Patterson has been notified, yes.”

  Tears filled Natalie’s eyes. That sounded so cold and impersonal. “Notified?”

  “Shortly after the body was discovered, two officers went by her home to ask her a few questions.”

  Natalie envisioned Grace going through the same experience she had just gone through. “Questions? She’s his mother, for heaven’s sake. Robert was her only child, all she had left of her family. What’s wrong with you people?”

  Seeming not to hear her question, Monroe stroked his chin. “To your knowledge, did your ex-husband have any enemies, Mrs. Patterson?”

  Natalie’s pulse started to race. Me, she almost blurted out. Wariness turned her skin icy. She stared stupidly at the detective. “Can I take that to mean you think he was murdered?” When the detective didn’t reply, Natalie asked, “How do you know he didn’t do it himself? That’s a common way to commit suicide, isn’t it?”

  “Interesting that you should point that out. I believe that whoever killed your ex-husband went to a great deal of trouble to make it look like a suicide.”

  Oops. Natalie thought of Gramps and decided she might do well to follow his advice and keep her lips zipped.

  As though he guessed her thoughts, Monroe smiled sourly. “I’ll ask the questions, if you don’t mind. You just do your best to answer them.”

  The air in the room suddenly seemed too thin. Natalie grabbed for breath, but her lungs wouldn’t inflate properly. “Am I a suspect?”

  The detective regarded her solemnly. “If my suspicions are proved correct, and there was indeed foul play, everyone who knew your ex-husband is presently a suspect.” He arched a brow, his expression inquisitive. “Do you have reason to think Mr. Patterson might have killed himself? Was he depressed, having financial problems, jilted by a lover?”

  “No, not that I’m aware of,” Natalie replied. “Robert wasn’t the type to get depressed.” He was too shallow. “And if he’d been in financial trouble, his mother would have bailed him out. She’s very wealthy.”

  “Back to my original question, then. Did he have enemies?”

  “Of course he had enemies. Doesn’t everyone?”

  “Anyone who might have wanted him dead?”

  “No.” Natalie rubbed her aching forehead. “Possibly, I suppose. I haven’t lived with him for over a year, Detective Monroe.”

  “Just answer the question to the best of your knowledge.”

  “Robert was very—ambitious.” Greedy described it better, but Natalie was growing more guarded by the moment. “Sometimes he pulled fast ones in his business dealings. That didn’t earn him many friends. He was also—” She ran a hand into her hair. “How can I say this? Inconstant in his personal relationships?”

  “Inconstant. With women, you mean?”

  Natalie nodded. “Lots of girlfriends. He was very polished and charming. Every woman he ever dated thought she was his one and only until someone new caught his eye. He didn’t stay long in any one relationship, and he thought nothing of two-timing. Needless to say, the women involved were often bitterly angry when he dropped them.”

  “Is that why you divorced him, because he was stepping out on you?”

  “That was part of it, a large part of it. In addition to that, he was a rotten father. I finally had enough and filed for divorce.”

  “Did you hate the man enough to kill him?”

  Natalie tried to curl her hands over the arms of the chair but was shaking so badly her fingers wouldn’t work. “I’ve never hated anyone enough to do murder, Detective Monroe. Divorcing the man suited my purposes well enough. He was out of my life. Why would I kill him?”
/>
  “No beefs?”

  “Of course there were beefs.”

  “About?”

  “He neglected our children—no phone calls, no visitations. He refused to pay child support. I was angry with him much of the time. That doesn’t mean I wanted him dead.”

  The detective jotted something in a notebook. “Do you know the names of any of the women your husband dated?”

  Natalie felt as if an ice pick were being shoved through her sinuses and pressed a fingertip to her temple. “Bonnie Decker was his last girlfriend, but Robert’s mother recently told me that he dropped her and was with someone new. A girl named Cheryl, I think.”

  “A girl? How old are these women?”

  “Early twenties, I’d guess. I saw Bonnie only from a distance one time, but she looked young. Robert’s friends are—were—always young.”

  The detective jotted more notes. Then he looked up at her, his eyes as sharp as knife blades. “When did you last see Robert Patterson?”

  “Months ago. He and I didn’t get along. That goes without saying, I suppose, or we wouldn’t be divorced. Right?”

  The detective nodded. “Where were you yesterday evening between five and eight?”

  Burglarizing Robert’s house and stealing my wineglasses back. A bubble of hysterical laughter tickled the back of her throat. She’d gone all over the ground floor of Robert’s home, opening cupboards and china cabinets, looking for her goblets. Had Robert been in the garage, even then, dying of asphyxiation? Oh, God. Oh, God. That explained why his stereo had been left on.

  The trembling of her body turned to violent shudders she couldn’t control. She remembered hearing a door latch click as she was about to leave the house. Had the killer been in there with her?

  “Mrs. Patterson, it’s not a difficult question. Where were you between five and eight last night?”

  She returned the detective’s piercing regard for several endless seconds. “I’m sorry. Before I say any more, I’d like an attorney present.”

  Monroe sniffed and tossed his pen down on the desk. The gesture conveyed his impatience. He rested his folded arms on the desk blotter, which had notes written all over it. “Here’s the scoop, Mrs. Patterson. We believe your ex-husband was drugged and carried out to the garage by his killer.” He glanced pointedly at her body. “I don’t think you have the muscle for that.” His mouth quirked. “Or the stomach for it, as far as that goes.”

  Natalie’s lips felt numb. “Drugged, you say? What makes you think that?”

  “Preliminary findings from the coroner. Along with high levels of alcohol in the bloodstream, there’s evidence that Mr. Patterson had been given a strong sedative prior to death. The contents of his stomach back that up. We found no prescription bottles for sedatives or sleeping pills in the house to indicate that he might have taken the drug voluntarily.”

  Natalie’s head felt light. “Robert wasn’t a pill popper.”

  The detective watched her closely as he said, “Another strange thing. The alcohol Mr. Patterson consumed shortly before his death was wine. A rather expensive brand, judging by the bottle in the trash and a partially empty one we found in the library. Only there were no glasses sitting out. We believe the killer must have cleaned up afterward and put the goblets away.”

  He scratched his head. “Odd, that, don’t you think? Patterson was no lightweight. I automatically lean toward thinking a man killed him. It would have been difficult for a woman to carry someone that large out to the garage and put him inside the car. On the other hand . . .” His voice trailed off. He picked up his pen and tapped it on the blotter. “A man would be more inclined to just wipe off the goblets to remove his fingerprints. A woman would be more likely to wash the glasses, dry them, and put them away.”

  The goblets hadn’t been washed and put away. She had them on her dresser in a paper sack.

  The detective pushed up from his chair, came around the desk, and grasped her elbow to help her stand. “Speaking of which, we’ll need a set of your prints before you go. It’ll take only a few minutes.”

  Her legs grew so weak with terror that she feared they might buckle.

  Flashing a bright smile, she said, “Fingerprints? Sure. No problem.”

  Zeke went to pick Natalie up. When she emerged from the police station, she hesitated on the walkway, her face so white that her eyes looked like large dark smudges. Zeke climbed out of his truck, circled the front bumper, and called her name. Her gaze jerked to him. Then she moved forward robotically. He met her on the sidewalk.

  “How’d it go?”

  Instead of answering, she looped her arms around his waist and flattened her face against his chest. “Hold me,” she said, her voice so muffled he strained to catch the words. “Just hold me.”

  Zeke complied, his gaze sweeping the station windows as he rested his cheek on her hair. “You okay?”

  “No. I’m in big, big trouble.”

  Zeke guided her to the truck, got her deposited inside, and hurried around to climb under the steering wheel. “Sweetheart,” he said in a reasoning voice, “no one in his right mind is going to believe you killed Robert.”

  She sent him a terrified look. “Oh, yes. You just don’t know.”

  “Okay, so tell me.”

  Zeke started the engine, shifted the truck into first, and pulled out into traffic, fully intending to drive her home. He hadn’t quite reached the highway entrance when she finished telling her disjointed story about going to see Robert yesterday evening and searching his house to find her grandma Devereaux’s wine goblets.

  “Holy shit, Natalie. Your prints will be all over the place.”

  She nodded and mewled. “Even worse, I stole the evidence.”

  “Jesus.”

  Zeke pulled a U-turn, not caring if he got a traffic ticket.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the attorney’s office. You need legal counsel.”

  “But I need to be with my kids.”

  “To ensure that you are for the next twenty years, you need an attorney now.”

  The next thing Natalie knew, she was sitting on the interrogation side of another desk, a mahogany one this time, being grilled by an attorney who could have passed for Gramps in a fancy suit and spectacles. To Sterling Johnson’s credit, he never once said, “You did what?” He was obviously a criminal lawyer. Nothing Natalie said seemed to shock him.

  When Natalie finally finished talking, Johnson interlaced his hands and gave her a piercing look. Zeke tightened his hold on her hand, trying to comfort her, she felt sure, but right then, not much could.

  “They’re going to find your fingerprints all over the house,” the attorney said.

  Zeke had paid him a five-hundred-dollar retainer to have him tell her that?

  “Here’s my advice,” Johnson went on. “I think we should call Detective Monroe, go back to the police station, and make a clean breast of it. You technically did nothing criminal. Aside from stealing the crystal, of course, and even that is understandable, since it was yours in the first place. This is a classic case of being in the right place at the worst possible time. It happens. I think Monroe will appreciate your honesty, and your coming forward with the information may direct his attention toward someone else.”

  Natalie wasn’t so sure. Sterling Johnson had never sat across from a suspicious detective and been asked if he’d hated his wife enough to kill her.

  “I think he’s right, sweetheart,” Zeke said softly, squeezing her hand again. “Let’s go see Monroe. You have a plausible reason for going to see Robert yesterday. Everything you did after ringing the doorbell makes perfect sense to me.” He paused. “Well, sort of.”

  Natalie shot him a fearful look.

  He tugged on his ear, his expression sheepish. “You have to admit, it was pretty dumb to go in uninvited.” He held up a hand. “Understandable, though. And once inside, I can see why you took the goblets. If it all makes sense to me, it probably will to Mo
nroe.”

  The trash can in Detective Monroe’s office had been emptied since Natalie’s last visit. That was the only improvement. The detective sat with his elbows propped on his desk blotter, his chin resting on his folded hands while he listened to Sterling Johnson give an account of Natalie’s story. Every once in a while, Monroe’s eyebrows wiggled, and he looked at Natalie wonderingly, making her feel like a nutcase who shouldn’t be allowed loose on the streets.

  When Johnson had finished talking, Detective Monroe sighed and passed a hand over his eyes. “I’m very glad you came in. We just matched your prints to about fifty sets our crime team lifted from the house.”

  Natalie’s stomach dropped to somewhere around her ankles. “Yes, well, I had to look for a while to find my grandma’s crystal.”

  “You heard nothing as you were going through the rooms?” He leafed through some papers, studied something for a moment, and said, “The kitchen is right off the garage. Are you saying that you stood at the sink, rinsed the two wine goblets, wrapped the entire set in kitchen towels, and never heard the sound of a car engine?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know how a Corvette engine rumbles at idle?”

  “No.”

  “Do you honestly expect me to believe you walked into a house during a murder in progress, searched every room on the ground floor, and saw nothing suspicious?”

  Natalie gulped. “I, um—have you ever heard the saying that the truth is stranger than fiction?”

  Monroe swore under his breath and rocked back on his caster chair. He leafed through his notes again. “No paperwork was on the desk.”

  Natalie sat more erect. “I’m sure there were papers on Robert’s desk.”

  “Did you look closely at them?”

  “No. Why would I? It wasn’t my intention to snoop.”

  “But you went through all his cupboards and hutches.”

  “That was after I saw Grandma Devereaux’s goblets and realized Robert had lied about having them.” Natalie took a shaky breath. “There was one odd thing that happened.”

  “What?” Monroe asked, his eyes glinting with interest.