The Feminine Touch

by V. J. Chambers

  “You think he had another bank account somewhere?” said Nash.

  “No, not necessarily. I think maybe the accountant was lying to me and a big chunk of it went to his current wife.”

  “Right,” said Nash. “Simone. What can you tell us about her?”

  “Nothing,” said Pam. “I never met the woman. I saw her in some pictures from the wedding on Facebook, but that’s about it. I think Nathan left her money, and no one told me because they knew I’d go ballistic. Oakley was Nathan’s only child. He deserved that money. I just…” She shook her head.

  “There wasn’t a reading of the will or something?” said Zoe.

  “No,” said Pam. “If there was, we weren’t invited.” She cocked her head at them. “Is this the kind of stuff you want? I don’t know what you’re looking for here.”

  “I’m not sure either,” said Nash. “Why don’t you tell me a little about Nathan himself? What was he like?”

  “Married to his job,” said Pam. “He was attentive when we were dating, and he seemed to take a lot of interest in planning the wedding. He was very interested in the flower arrangements and the centerpieces and all that stuff, and I thought I was a lucky woman, because most of my girlfriends said that men never help with that sort of thing. But, um, after the wedding, it all fell apart.” She suddenly sucked in a shaky breath.

  “You all right?” said Nash.

  She nodded, but her lip was trembling. “He stopped paying attention to me.” Now, her voice was almost on the edge of tears.

  Zoe got up and went to her. “Hey, there, if this is too much for you—”

  But Pam interrupted her with a bitter laugh, seeming to rally. “Hell, it’s a miracle that Oakley was ever conceived, because he and I rarely even slept in the same bed. He would work late, or stay out, and come home at god-knows-when, sleep in the guest room. He’d say that he didn’t want to wake me, and that was why he didn’t come to bed. After a while, I just got used to it.”

  “Listen,” said Zoe. “Maybe we should just take a break?”

  Nash didn’t want to take a break. They were getting good stuff here. “Can you keep going?” he asked Pam.

  She nodded. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be like this about it. It’s only that it’s bringing it all back up now. It was very…” She swallowed.

  “What?” said Nash gently.

  “Well, it was hard on my self-confidence. I thought something was wrong with me, and I kept trying to fix it however I could, but I never could. Finally, I started talking about leaving him, and I wasn’t really serious. I thought it would wake him up, make him fight for me. But… it didn’t. So, I figured he really didn’t give a damn about me, and I did leave.” She squared her shoulders. “Actually, that was the best decision I could have made. I’m much happier without him.”

  “I’m very sorry,” said Zoe. “I’m sorry we upset you.”

  “It’s not you.” Pam waved that away. “It’s Nathan. He’s the one who did it.”

  Nash nodded. “Of course. What about his relationship with Oakley? Was he more attentive towards his son?”

  She shrugged. “Not really, to be honest. I think he liked the idea of having a kid, and he liked to be seen with him. He’d take him to big dinners with clients and stuff like that, but then he’d ignore him the whole night, that’s what Oakley would tell me. I don’t know, when Nathan died, it was kind of a relief. Because now we didn’t have him in our lives. He couldn’t disappoint either of us anymore, you know?”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Quinne Collins cleared her throat over the phone. “Look, you can record me, but I can’t talk for too long, okay?”

  “Okay, that’s fine,” said Nash. “It’s only a few questions, I swear.” He’d tried to get Quinne to allow them to come to her house to interview her, but she hadn’t been interested in that, so he’d managed to talk her into a phone interview. She was Nathan Parker’s first wife.

  Zoe was listening to both of them over headphones. They were both in his hotel room. She was perched on the bed, and he was sitting at a desk against the wall.

  He gave her a questioning look. Were the levels okay?

  Zoe nodded at him.

  “Okay,” Quinne was saying. “What do you want to know? This is about Nathan? Is it about how he died?”

  “It’s about his relationship with his last wife Simone,” said Nash. “Did you ever meet her?”

  “No, I didn’t. What’s it got to do with her?”

  “Well, that’s a long story. Simone married another man under a different name. This guy lived across the country. He’s also dead.”

  “Oh,” said Quinne. “So, you think she killed them both.”

  “It’s a possibility we’re exploring.”

  Quinne paused thoughtfully. “I honestly don’t know anything about her. I never met her, and I don’t think I even saw a picture of her. I knew he was married again, though. He’s had maybe five wives, and I was the first. He and I were married for nearly ten years, so I guess I have the honor of having the longest marriage with him.” She chuckled. “But to be honest, I can see why a woman would get so annoyed with him that she’d want him dead. I grew to loathe that man.”

  “Really?” said Nash. “Why?”

  “He was… neglectful to the point of being abusive,” she said. “He seemed to go through long periods of time in which he practically forgot I existed. Then, when he needed something from me, needed me to go with him to some event, cling to his arm and make him look good, then he’d conveniently remember me. But other than that, we lived separate lives. And I convinced myself that I was okay with that, because he took good care of me otherwise. He was well-off financially.”

  Nash suddenly thought of Charity and Siobhan. Was it a similar situation there?

  “Eventually, you changed your mind, I suppose,” said Nash.

  “I began to realize that he was gay,” said Quinne.

  “What?” said Nash. He hadn’t been expecting that.

  “Yes, it’s true. He was a closet case. I don’t know why he hid it, to be honest. It was stupid. I mean, this is the twenty-first century, and this is California, for Christ’s sake. It’s like the birthplace of gay rights. But, anyway, I think he had quite a few conservative clients he thought wouldn’t have been pleased to know he swung that way, so he felt the need to have a wife to keep up appearances.”

  “What made you think he was gay?” said Nash.

  “Mostly, it was the way he looked at other men,” she said. “He would sort of get this glazed-over look when he saw someone he found attractive. But there were other clues as well. He was a forceful man, you understand. He had a deep, booming voice and a firm handshake. But he had sort of, er, I don’t mean to be offensive, because Lord knows, I know that gay men come in all shapes and colors, but he had certain interests in things that most men aren’t interested in. Things like women’s clothes and makeup. He once went out and bought me a whole bunch of beauty products that I’d never really used before like toner and primer—things that are supposed to go under foundation?”

  “Uh, okay,” said Nash. He had no idea what she was talking about.

  “Well, I said that I thought foundation was supposed to be, you know, the foundation of the makeup, but apparently I was wrong. He knew more about makeup than I did.”

  “Which doesn’t necessarily mean he was gay,” said Nash.

  “No, not necessarily,” she said. “I couldn’t be sure, I don’t suppose.”

  “What about money? I suppose he didn’t leave you any money when he died?”

  “Oh, Lord no, we were financially severed a long time ago. Is this about money?”

  “There seems to be some missing money,” he said.

  “Well, have you talked to Nathan’s accountant? He might know something about that.”

  * * *

  “No, I don’t want to be recorded, and I don’t want to be on any podcast,” said Randall Stewart, Nathan Parker’s accoun
tant.

  “Okay, sure,” said Nash. He had been recording this phone conversation, but he switched it off. “I’m not recording you.”

  “I’m just supposed to take your word for it?”

  “Yes,” said Nash. “I can’t use your voice without your permission. I wouldn’t. But can I just ask you a few questions?”

  “How about you ask the question and then I’ll tell you if I’m going to answer it.”

  “Fair enough,” said Nash. “When Nathan Parker died, did any of his money go to his wife, Simone?”

  “That’s funny that you’d ask me that,” said the accountant.

  “Why’s it funny?”

  “Well, why are you asking?”

  “We’re trying to determine if she profited from his death, that’s all.”

  Randall was quiet for a minute. “This podcast of yours is about unsolved crimes? You’re trying to determine if Nathan was murdered?”

  “Maybe,” said Nash. “We can’t be sure of anything right now. We’re just trying to gather information.”

  “The thing is,” said Randall quietly, “I noticed several large withdrawals of cash in the months after he married Simone, and I’ve often wondered if she was cleaning out his bank account and getting ready to run. I’ve wondered if she killed him as well.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, it’s textbook. Young, pretty woman marries a successful man after a whirlwind courtship, and then he ends up dead. It’s enough to make anyone suspicious.”

  “Not the police, though,” said Nash.

  “They weren’t looking hard enough,” said Randall. “It wasn’t like him to spend so much money in such a short time. I don’t know why he would have withdrawn so much cash. I really don’t.”

  THE PAST

  The following Monday, Nash waited by Siobhan’s locker in the morning. He had wanted to call her, but he didn’t have her phone number. He realized he should have gotten it before the dance. He would have had an excuse then.

  She didn’t get there until right before the last bell. She was wearing her hair down, and it hung limply in her eyes. She looked exhausted and wan, her eyes red around the edges as if she’d been crying.

  He went to her. “Are you okay?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I don’t want to leave things the way we did after the dance.”

  She snorted. “Of course not. I bet you had a big case of blue balls, right? How dare I work you up and not follow through, is that it?”

  “No,” he said. “I ran away from you. I just…” He shifted on his feet. Maybe that was the normal way things went down between guys and girls, but he didn’t think so. He decided to switch tactics. “You look like you’ve been crying,” he said. “Were you crying? Is something wrong?”

  Her lower lip trembled.

  He reached out and touched her shoulder.

  She flinched.

  He moved his hand back. “Sorry.”

  She sniffled. “You know, maybe I just can’t handle this, okay? Maybe this is all too much for me.”

  “What is? Me?”

  “Yeah. You. Perfect, sweet, apologetic Nash. Maybe I can’t stand how fucking good you are.”

  He shook his head, reeling from her words. “Okay, fine. I-I won’t be. I’ll be different.”

  She let out a wild laugh. “Forget it, Classic Rock, just forget it. You should stay the hell away from me. Someone like me is no good for someone like you.”

  His jaw twitched. “You want me to stay away?”

  “I didn’t say that exactly,” she said.

  “Well, if you don’t want me to stay away, then I won’t.”

  “Fine.” She folded her arms over her chest. “I want you to stay away from me.” Her voice was cold. Cutting.

  He felt unsteady on his feet, as if her words had punctured his skin.

  “I mean it, Nash,” she said in a quiet voice. “Get the hell away from me.”

  He glared at her. “Fuck, Siobhan, you’re giving me whiplash.”

  “All the more reason to stay back,” she said. “This isn’t nursery school. Grow up.”

  But he didn’t leave. He stayed there, trying as best as he could to formulate an idea of what he should do or say. He couldn’t come up with anything. He was frozen.

  Finally, she turned her back on him and walked away, leaving him there alone. He didn’t understand Siobhan Thorn. He didn’t understand her at all.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Zoe flopped back on her bed and looked at the ceiling. “So, she’s a black widow.”

  Nash sat down on his bed and peered at the painting on the wall of the hotel room. It was of a field of sunflowers. “It sounds like it, doesn’t it?”

  “But that doesn’t make sense.” Zoe rolled over onto her stomach. She propped herself up on her elbows. “I mean, does it make sense?”

  “Nothing makes sense.” He cocked his head and really looked at the painting. It was ugly.

  “If she was also killing the girls in your high school, why suddenly become a black widow? That’s not how serial killers work, right? They don’t just change their profile?”

  “No, they don’t,” he said. “I mean, angels of death might kill various sorts of people—male, female, young, old—but there’s usually some connection with them, even if it’s just that they’re all at the same hospital. This? This is crazy. How did she even end up on this coast?”

  “Maybe she mostly likes to kill young women, like the girls in your high school and the girls at Blue Lake,” said Zoe. “But she just marries guys and kills them to fund her other activities.”

  “Except she makes a ridiculous amount of money making jewelry.”

  “Right, she did donate the money she got from Martin.”

  “We think that’s where she got the money, anyway.”

  Zoe collapsed onto the bed, her cheek against the pillow. “I give up.”

  “Maybe it is like what I said before,” he said. “Maybe she kills with different partners, but maybe she just discards them after she gets bored or something.”

  Zoe mused. “If this guy was actually gay, maybe he killed men, not women.”

  “You want to go looking for missing men in Hollywood?” said Nash.

  “Maybe,” said Zoe. “I mean, we don’t have anything else to do, right?”

  Nash looked up at the ceiling. “Maybe I could try to get in touch with some people who worked for Parker. People who cleaned the house, that kind of thing. Maybe they would have met her, just like with Bart Martin.”

  “Yeah, that sounds like a good idea,” said Zoe. “Let’s get to work.”

  * * *

  Nash wasn’t sure where to start, so he called Pam Evans back again and asked her what she knew about people who’d cleaned Parker’s house. She said he had a personal assistant who handled all of that kind of stuff. She gave Nash that number.

  The personal assistant didn’t want to give Nash any phone numbers, said she was protecting Parker’s privacy.

  Nash pointed out that Parker didn’t actually have any privacy anymore, considering he was dead.

  The personal assistant thought it over and said okay, fine. She emailed a list to Nash.

  Nash started calling numbers.

  No one spoke English.

  Nash’s own Spanish was pretty primitive. He’d taken French in high school, so he didn’t even have some garbled memory of conversational Spanish to fall back on.

  He got nowhere fast.

  And then, when he was getting to the end of the list, he finally got someone on the phone who answered, “Hello?”

  “Hi,” said Nash. “Is this Scott Morris?”

  “Yeah, that’s me. You need something?”

  “This is going to sound nuts, but I’m calling about someone you used to work for. Nathan Parker?”

  “Oh, whoa. Geez, really? What about Nathan?”

  “I’m doing a podcast, and it’s called Cold Case Files. It’s abo
ut unsolved crimes. I’ve got reason to believe that Mr. Parker may have been killed by his wife Simone. I was wondering if you ever met her.”

  “Uh… yeah, maybe once or twice. But I never talked to her much,” he said. “You know, if we’re talking murderers, I wouldn’t peg her for one. I’d be more likely to peg Nathan.”

  “What?”

  Scott chuckled. “I guess I mean that double entendre too. Truth is, I was Nathan’s pool boy, and I was seriously like a porn movie cliche. He and I had a thing. It went on for years.”

  “What do you mean? You were involved with Mr. Parker romantically?”

  “Not really romantically, just, you know, we had sex. A lot of sex. We had kind of a standing Friday night ‘date,’ if you want to call it that. It got so he didn’t even bother to call me. I’d just show up at his place around midnight. Sometimes, he was married, he had someone upstairs and he had to be quiet, but other times, he was single, and then he’d go crazy. He was into some freaky shit.”

  Nash was unsure he wanted to continue with more information about just how freaky that was. Too much information would make him uncomfortable. He cleared his throat. “You said something about thinking Parker was a murderer?”

  “Yeah, right,” said Scott. “That was freaky. So, I come over for my regular Friday night whatever with him, and he’s nowhere to be found. I search the whole place, I can’t find him. I’m about to leave, and he’s coming in the back door. He’s all covered in blood, and he said that he cut himself, but… it was a lot of blood. He said that he was late because of the cut, and he wasn’t in the mood tonight, and so I should leave. I got the hell out of there. I didn’t come back the next Friday or any other Friday after that. He never asked me to, either. I’d just show up and clean the pool, and if I saw him, he typically wouldn’t even acknowledge me. Then, one day, he turns up drowned. I figured it was, like, I don’t know, karma or something.”