Ruby left the phone on the counter and moved to the wall damage. An elbow, a wrist—she wondered which part of Susan’s petite frame had left the noticeable dent. An elbow, she decided, as she reenacted Susan’s fall.
What did Susan feel?
Fear, she decided. It would have risen in Susan’s throat and pumped her heart almost to bursting. Pushing herself up with her right hand, Ruby clutched her left as she ran, following Susan’s path through the living room and out the front door, where she stopped and stood. Ruby noted the short sprint to Deanna Connelly’s. It was after midnight then, as now. The moon softly lit the path. Clumsy with terror, Susan had made it to her neighbor’s steps. She’d placed her faith in Deanna. If only she made it to the neighbor’s, Jerald wouldn’t hurt her.
But Deanna’s front step was not home base; Susan wasn’t safe.
He’d followed her—calm while she was terrified. Enjoying himself, Ruby figured. Enjoying his effect on her. She reentered the house—not a home. Susan’s cage, in ways she hadn’t even known. He’d watched her moves even when he was away. Tracked her like prey.
Ruby walked upstairs to the second floor. She scanned a guest bedroom, decorated in sage and neutrals. Immaculate. Rarely used, she figured, and not by any visitors of Susan.
The next room held office furniture. After finding no memo cubes, no electronics, she wondered if it was ever used, or if, like the rest of the house, it was kept for appearances.
After moving on to the master bedroom, Ruby stepped into the walk-in closet and noted the tidiness. Susan’s doing, Ruby figured. She photographed the empty slot among Susan’s heels. Jerald’s shoes sat in tidy rows in multiples—not a single pair in a particular brand and style, but an array of colors in each. Someone liked his appearance very much, Ruby assessed. She photographed the set of loafers missing a triplet, and flipped through brands—Boss, Armani, Ferrero. He spared no expense for himself.
His wife’s wardrobe was a different story. Ruby recognized Koreanna and Peony from low-end fashion outlets. Toward the back she found nicer clothes, worn with age. Your life wasn’t always like this, Ruby thought. You once wore beautiful dresses and danced. You thought you’d married a prince. How long did the honeymoon last? Was it over before it even began?
She left the closet and took in the sleek décor—silver and black with splashes of red. He’d marked his turf. Ruby suspected that Susan had to please him wherever she was in his domain, including the master’s bedroom. His needs and desires were paramount; hers meant nothing, and were too insignificant for him to notice.
Ruby knelt beside the bed and located a violet box. Inside, delicate remains rested on tissue paper. Though broken, Susan had tucked it away.
She took care of what was hers.
You’re one of us now, Ruby thought. We’re going to take care of you.
Ruby repacked the remnants, closed the house, and stood on the driveway for one last look at the residence. She hoped, when this was over, Susan would have a home.
Chapter 12
Ruby set a violet box on the counter.“Is this one-of-a-kind, Alfred, or could you work your magic and obtain another?”
He put on his spectacles and inspection gloves before examining a shard.“A wonderful creation made by human hands, meticulously painted and well-preserved until it met its unfortunate fate. What kind of mind allows violence against such beauty?”
“Isn’t that the million-dollar question?”
“What do you mean, my dear?”
“The man who shattered this piece did the same to a beautiful woman. He twisted loyalty and love to ensnare her. On the outside, she’s still beautiful. I suspect, though, that inside she looks quite similar to this.”
He set down his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose.“Yes, for all of society’s advancements, we have not eradicated violence within homes, nor stamped out crime from the streets.”
“I know what to do for this woman’s case. But I don’t know how to put her back together.”
“That you want to do so will make a difference. Perhaps you aren’t the only one that can help your client. Many believe in your work, Ruby. You need only ask.”
“I’m glad you think so, because I need your keen ability to track down anything. Her husband targeted this piece for what it represented—that connection to her past, her loved ones. He worked on severing those connections, on isolating her. And now she’s sitting in a jail cell facing a life sentence on Mardova—the ultimate isolation. Interesting, isn’t it?”
“Where is her husband?”
“They tell me that he’s on a slab in the morgue, and she put him there.”
“Ah, yes, Jerald Combes. Quite unfortunate. It made the morning news. He was one of my best clients. I saw him yesterday morning, unexpectedly.”
Ruby jerked up her head.“Mind if I record this?”
“Of course not, my dear.”
“PSC, record on. Interview of Alfred Whitehorn. Alfred, you stated that Jerald Combes was in your shop yesterday—Friday, the ninth of May. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“What time?”
“I’d finished my morning routine. A tad past nine, I’d say.”
“What brought him in?”
“He was here to pick up a piece of jewelry for a friend. Business acquaintance, more like.”
“Who’s his buddy-slash-business contact?”
“Anthony Priestley.”
“Did he say why Priestley wasn’t picking up his own jewelry?”
“No, he said he was‘doing him a large.’I remember the language because it was most unlike Jerald.”
“Anything beside his jargon strike you as odd?”
“He seemed flustered. Jerald has made many purchases, and yet he started off before signing for the item.”
“What has he purchased?”
“Kitchen-related antiques and collectibles.”
Ruby tapped her PSC and held it up.“Here’s a photo of the cleaning supplies found at his residence.”
Alfred adjusted his spectacles.“Yes, I procured these pieces for Jerald. He was a very loyal client.”
“You’re his sole supplier?”
“His antiques-and-collectibles acquirer. You make me sound like a common peddler.”He sniffed and whisked a white handkerchief from his pocket to clean his spectacles.
“I’m sorry, Alfred. I have the utmost respect for you and your business. There’s no acquirer-client privilege. Mind if I see his file?”
“Certainly.”
“Did he say why he bought these items?”
“They were for his wife’s collection. I suppose she kept them as conversation pieces, and to remind herself of the wonders of the modern kitchen.”
“No, Alfred. She used them. Jerry bought them for her to make sure she didn’t take any shortcuts in serving him.”
“That’s preposterous. I had no idea he did anything of the sort.”
Ruby laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder.“I’m sure you didn’t, Alfred. Jerry had many people fooled.”
“I do not consider myself a fool. One moment, please.”Alfred disappeared in back, and returned a few minutes later with a bound black book. He set it in front of Ruby.“It contains anything one would ever want to know about homemaking antiques and collectibles. And I will transfer a copy of Jerald’s file to you.”
“May I have Anthony Priestley’s as well?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Thanks, Alfred. Did Jerry sell anything to you?”
“Only once, perhaps six months ago. He had antique farm equipment.”
“Did you think it was unusual for a chemist to have farm equipment?”
“Yes. I inquired, and he said it was on land he had inherited.”
“Did you notice anything unusual about his appearance yesterday?”
“He had on a yellow-gold garnet ring—right hand, ring finger.”
“Did Jerald not wear jewelry?”
“He did
—always in good taste, and new. But I recognized this particular piece from elsewhere. It had a distinguished design—a golden lion overlaid the stone. Anthony wears one that I dare say is identical. I would have to study them to confirm.”
“Anything else?”
“He was in a frightful hurry—no time for coffee, no interest in perusing the latest shipment. Jerald had requested first pick. I imagined his wife had quite the collection. I never dreamt—”
Ruby anticipated his train of thought.“Don’t beat yourself up, Alfred. All we can do is help Susan.”
“That poor woman. It’s intolerable what he’s done to her. If he were still with us, I’d have a mind to tell that wanker to sod off.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Did he buy anything else recently?”
“Yes, he purchased a large table, also wooden, custom-built by a very well-known craftsman for a mortician in Connecticut at the turn of the last century. A bit ghastly, but an undeniably rich history to the piece. I like to think those prepared on it for their final resting place received the proper respects.”
“That’s gruesome, and not a cleaning supply. Strike you as odd?”
“Yes, but sometimes clients deviate from their usual collections.”
“Did he say he’d moved into morgue paraphernalia?”
“No, but he was rather vague on his reason for the purchase. I figured he’d find a place for it in his lab.”
“His state-of-the-art lab at Tycon Industries? No way would Tycon allow something bathed in blood over a century old into their facilities. Sanitary wood is an oxymoron.”
“No, not Tycon. His personal lab.”
“Tell me more about Jerald’s personal lab.”
“It was the reason for unloading the farm equipment—to make room for his private lab, where he could do the experiments that would take his industry by storm. Come to think of it, he’s usually verbose about his experiments. Yesterday he was very close-lipped about them.”
“Let’s walk this through. He comes in to pick up jewelry. The jewelry is for whom?”
“For Elizabeth Priestley—Anthony’s mother.”
“Any other details? Anything unusual about how he moved, what he said, how he said it?”
“He nearly had a casualty on his way out—a hat rack from the gilded age. I pretended not to notice, but you know me, my dear.”
“Little escapes your attention.”
“He called me Freddy.”
“Freddy? You don’t strike me as a Freddy.”
“I’m typically not, but Anthony calls me Freddy. I presumed it was a slip. Maybe Anthony told him to see Freddy, and it stuck. Interesting, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I’m finding it all fascinating.”Ruby leaned across the counter and gave Alfred a sound kiss on his whiskered cheek.“Thank you, thank you, and thank you.”Ruby scooped up the book and her PSC.
“Anything else?”
“Not unless you have e-skills you’ve been modestly hiding.”
“Why?”
“I never thought I’d say this, but I miss Flick. I need to run a trace on electronics.”
“You needn’t look any further. My best client, and a dear friend, has substantial e-skills. You could say he’s the best in the business.”
Ruby checked the time.“Any chance he’s up at six-twenty on a Saturday?”
“Certainly. That boy is up and active at five like clockwork. He’s coming in this morning for a spot of tea. We settled on seven. I have nothing pressing. Should I see if he’s interested in joining your investigation? What you’re unraveling captures the imagination. He’s the inventive sort.”
“Yes, please. If he’s onboard, send him right over.”Ruby sighed.“Flick’s sweet tooth put mine to shame. It’s funny what you miss.”
“I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised with my recommendation.”
“I bet I will. You have impeccable taste, Alfred. Do you mind doing a follow-up interview with Kottke later today?”
“Not at all. Do let him know that if I give him helpful information, he needn’t kiss me.”
Ruby laughed.“I can’t promise he’ll be able to resist that handsome face. Add the British accent and you’re irresistible.”
“Go on now. The game is afoot.”
“The Adventure of the Abby Grange.”
“Very good. Do tell me when you figure out what it all means.”
“I have a theory. Unlikely as it seems, it has pushed all others aside and is now the sole contender. For now, I’ll leave you in suspense.”
“Coffee to go?”
“Yes, please. You’re so good to me, Alfred. Or should I say Freddy?”
“Not if you’d like me to deliver a technology specialist.”He poured her coffee from a shining silver pot.
She sipped the strong brew and sighed.“Thanks, Alfred.”
“There’s a tray of crumpets on your way out along with the raspberry jam you’ve taken a liking to. I suggest you take pity on your mistreated stomach.”
Ruby went to the tray. She set down her coffee while she slathered a biscuit and took a greedy bite. Humming in satisfaction, she raised her cup toward Alfred before juggling her book, coffee and biscuit, and bustling out the door.
Alfred shook his head in amusement.
✧
“Well, well, if it isn’t my eager intern tagging me bright and early on a Saturday,”Ruby said.
“I’m up and ready to go,”Jasmine said.“Any work for me?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. I had an interview this morning.”
“And you didn’t tag me to join you?”
“Sorry, Jazz. It was unplanned. If you want in, I can swing by. I’m heading back to the office now.”
“Of course I want in. I called you at six on a Saturday, didn’t I?”
“Half past, but still impressive. This work sucks you in, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, when will you be here?”
“In five.”
“Christ, I have to finish my face.”
“You realize I’m picking you up to investigate a murder, right?”
“I need lip color if I’m going to have a chance with Justin.”
“I already told you, you don’t have a chance. Go nude, and he wouldn’t notice.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“Channel your persistence elsewhere, Jazz. Two minutes.”Ruby signed off, and pulled in front of Jasmine’s building to wait.
When Jasmine slipped into the passenger seat, she wasted no time.“Tell me about the guy who’s getting transferred. You know, the guy Marian mentioned yesterday. Is he a client?”
“Hell no, he’s not a client. I see you’ve found another outlet for your persistence. Remember our chat about what we look for in our clients?”
“Yes.”
“He’s a prime example of the opposite.”
“Tell me about him.”
“First, let me tell you about a young girl—Tara Baxter, seventeen years old.”
“Was she a client?”
“No, I met her at Kaye High. You’ll learn soon enough I do a yearly talk there, and have every year since I was a student. It’s evolved over the years. I assemble the girls, and talk about dating red flags—how to spot a keeper, a stalker, a loser, an abuser.”
“‘Real Romance,’you mean.”
“Yeah, Amy coined it.”
“I’ve heard about it from my work with at-risk teens. It stuck with them enough to tell me about it. I didn’t know you’re part of it.”
“For thirteen years. Four years ago, Tara approached me after my talk. I was in my third year of law school, like you.”
“And you were working at Kaye County.”
“Yes. I’d had a lot of girls come up and tell me their stories. That I’d shared mine made them feel comfortable sharing theirs. I’ll save my story for another day.”
Jasmine nodded.
“The previous day, Tara was late to school. She got in her car and drov
e a mile or so before her tire blew. A few minutes later, her ex-boyfriend showed up and offered to give her a ride. She said no and called her dad. When her dad pulled up, her ex had backed her against her car. He shook her by the shoulders and screamed at her. Her dad grabbed him and threw him off. The auto shop confirmed the tire had been slashed. Classic abuser tactic—create an emergency situation, and then offer to fix it to be the hero.”
“What happened after that?”
“She told her friends that he had slashed her tire. Impossible, they said. He loved her so much.”
“What happened to her?”
“He escalated—showed up wherever she went, hacked her social media and sent nasty messages about her to her friends and family.”
“What did she do?”
“Everything right. She secured a harassment restraining order against him. The prosecutor’s office charged him with stalking. She was ready and willing to testify.”
“Let me guess, he violated the HRO.”
Ruby nodded.“One night, she came home after studying with her chemistry partner—a boy. When she pulled into her driveway, he was waiting in the shadows. He had her pinned on the ground before she knew he was there. She was his, he told her. If he couldn’t have her, nobody would. He’d fucking kill her.”
“Terroristic threat.”
“Yes. He started to cry, and told her nobody could love her as much as he did. He begged her not to make him do it, as he squeezed her throat.”
“Domestic strangulation is a felony in Minnesota.”
“Yes, and with good reason. A battered women’s organization studied femicides by intimate partners, and each included strangulation in the escalation to murder.”
“Did she survive?”
“Yes. Once again, she did everything right. She hit her panic button. By the time the cops arrived, she’d lost consciousness. They charged felony domestic assault—strangulation. He bailed out, promised to change, to stay away from her. Even judges want to believe in redemption, especially in the young. Eric Longhorn was eighteen years old, and on a mission.”
The Veiled Cage (Lady Lawyer Series Romantic Suspense Novels Book 1) Page 12
