I snicker. “Defend himself. That bastard was screwing half the women in this town.”
Susan rolls her eyes. “Right, a town this size, and nobody knew about it. Give me a break.”
I manage an impish grin. “Obviously, you were discreet about it. I’ll give you that much.”
“Well discretion is everything, isn’t it?”
“That’s not an answer,” I charge. I then lean against the wall and proceed to tell Susan about finding Hunter’s love room, as though it were some important archeological discovery.
My wife leaps off the commode and storms past me into the bedroom. I follow her, stopping at our bed, where I find her sitting and gazing into the dresser mirror, her hands raking her hair.
“How could you do this to me? To us?” I ask, my tone defeated.
She stops, watches me through the mirror. “Hank, it’s not a good time for this type of conversation.” She pauses, closes her eyes a moment then says, “I will tell you that I’ve never slept with Hunter or anyone else since we’ve been married. And I don’t care what evidence you have.”
She’s good, my wife. I finally show my hand and let on about the painting.
She rubs her stomach lightly. “What painting?”
“The one of you and Hunter in a compromising position. I don’t have to tell you what position.”
Susan chuckles with amusement. “Come on, Hank. It doesn’t take too much imagination to paint someone.” She turns to me. “Okay, let me see this compromising painting.”
I snort. “I was going to ask you the same thing. Is it just a coincidence that your car engine happened to be warm the night of the murder, soon after that compromising painting went missing? Let me guess. You were out buying a loaf of bread.”
Susan throws up her hands. “I ran out of wine, okay? Go ahead, check Rusty’s, they’ll vouch for me.” She shakes her head. “First, you accuse me of infidelity. What’s next, Hank, murder?”
I don’t answer.
“Oh, for God’s sake, this is crazy! Is that why you didn’t come home last night? You think I killed Hunter?”
I lick my dry mouth. “I can’t stay here right now, Susan. Not until this matter is settled.”
My wife closes her eyes for a moment and starts breathing deeply. “Hank, let’s be rational about this. You were Hunter’s drinking buddy. Don’t you think it would have slipped out that he was having an affair with at least one of the women you’re accusing him of? Give me another name.”
I search the floor, then meet her eyes. “Sheryl Murphy.”
Her jaw drops. “Sheryl? Can’t be.”
I nod. “I have proof.”
“She’s married.”
“So are you!” I point. “Or have you forgotten?”
“You’re disgusting, Hank.”
“Me? I’m not the one screwing around.”
“You’re not well in the head.”
“Maybe, but tell me, Susan, did you kill Hunter because of Sheryl, or did she kill him when she found out about you?”
“Get out of my sight!” she screams. “Of all times.”
I bolt for the door, then stop. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I say turning back to Susan. Her hands tremble in anger.
“Stay away from me until you get your act together.” Susan gasps, tries to hold back her tears.
I approach her tentatively. “What does that mean, ‘of all times’?”
“You bastard. I’m pregnant!”
Seven
After shooting blanks for years, I should be ecstatic that my wife is going to present me with a child. Hell, I ought to be thinking about handing out cigars!
As I’m pushing seventy on Carriage Drive leading to Rocky Beach, the full weight of the situation hits me. Susan is suddenly pregnant and John Hunter is dead.
I ease up on the accelerator and pass the town beach shack, the “Residents Only” sign hanging precariously from it. I stop at the last parking space facing the water.
Long Island Sound is remarkably quiet, not a boat in sight. I get out of the car and scoop up a handful of flat stones, scaling a few into the water.
At the water’s edge, I breathe in some fresh air. Suppose Hunter was responsible for Susan’s pregnancy. Would she have told him? Maybe, but she certainly wouldn’t hold him financially responsible. That’s where I’d come in. John Hunter might have charmed the pants off my wife, but I was going to pay for their indiscretion.
Walking along the beach, I pick up a few more scalers and toss one about. Would Hunter threaten to tell me if Susan refused to an abortion? That might silence her. Or him.
I toss the remaining stones in the water and pass a few sea gulls fighting over trash. We all fight over something. Me, I need to take back my dignity.
Then there’s Sheryl. Hunter’s journal detailed just how rattled he was over her emotional dependence. Sheryl was clearly hooked on him. “She wants to leave her husband,” he wrote. “Not good. I NEED TO FIND A SOLUTION! FAST!”
What if Sheryl found out about Susan’s pregnancy, confronted Hunter, and threatened to expose both of them if he didn’t force Susan to have an abortion? What would an enraged woman in love do? X out a painting of her nemesis and kill the beast?
I stop in front of a boulder jutting out of the water ten feet from shore. I remember the day I swam out to that rock and carved our initials on it. The next day, I invited Susan to the beach for a picnic. Before we sipped champagne and fed each other imported cheese, I handed her my binoculars and aimed her in the direction of the rock. She cried, we laughed, but most of all, we were very much in love. That was sixteen summers ago.
I first met Susan Ward when I stopped by the Eastpoint Diner for a cold drink. It was a sweltering August day and my car air conditioner had stopped running. I would have walked past her if Mrs. Lange hadn’t dropped her cane near Susan’s table. I quickly bent down to retrieve it, and as I slipped the neck over her wrist, my eyes caught Susan’s. In that one frame, she smiled and my heart fluttered.
I have never forgotten the way Susan looked that day, her black, shoulder-length hair slightly frizzy from the humidity. She wore a rose-colored summer dress, and her shoulders were lean and bronze. One of the straps had slipped slightly, revealing her true silky skin. But there was sadness in Susan’s eyes. I wanted to scoop her in my arms and tell her everything would be okay.
Susan admitted that she was vacationing in Eastpoint to get away from the city heat, but by the end of the summer, I knew the real reason for Susan’s sojourn out east. She had gone through an emotional nightmare watching her mother succumb to Lou Gehrig’s disease two months earlier. Her father had passed away a few years before that, and because she was an only child, the only person Susan could turn to was her boyfriend. But in untimely fashion, he let her down, leaving Susan for another woman. Forlorn and alone, Susan needed to break away from life’s madness, if only for a while. She reached the shores of Eastpoint and never looked back.
Susan’s sadness eventually shifted into a loving, enriched life for the both of us. The only thing missing in our lives was a child. We both wanted one, she especially. As it turned out, I was the culprit—low sperm count. At one point, I laughingly suggested we’d find a surrogate if my sperm wouldn’t multiply and sail into her uterus. I hadn’t meant it literally.
Our emotional disappointment continued for a while, until one day we just stopped trying. I was satisfied with just the two of us, but Susan needed more. Perhaps what I couldn’t provide my wife, Hunter could. And no one, not even Hunter, was going to force her to give up that precious cargo.
John Hunter’s casket sits next to a maple tree in the middle of Calverton’s Cemetery. A few city types, probably from Hunter’s New York office, are among the crowd paying their respects.
I’m standing by myself observing the mourners, searching their faces. Not surprisingly, most are women. From Hunter’s paintings alone, at least four of them are present. The missing must have had other p
lans today.
Sheryl holds a handkerchief under her dark sunglasses, catching a steady stream of tears. My wife, standing next to her, remains stoic in her own classical way. She and Sheryl have been best friends for years. Still, it’s strange to see them together under the circumstances.
Susan catches my glance and is about to acknowledge me. Instead, she turns back to the casket. I shake my head. The whole town must know something’s up between us. We’re always standing together at weddings and funerals. Sheryl must sense something. She gazes over and smiles thinly through her tears. I smile back.
I turn my attention to our parish priest, Father O’Brady, who is gesticulating and offering final prayers. Next to him is a woman I have never seen before. She is dressed in black and her expression, though sullen, radiates above her apparent bereavement. She is definitely not from Eastpoint. My eyes hold on her until she glances my way and smiles softly. I nod.
“Pretty big turnout, huh, Hank?”
“Say, Charlie. Looks that way, doesn’t it?” I say, my eyes staring straight ahead at the casket. “Hunter was a popular guy.”
My deputy lets a few minutes pass before telling me about his experience with Hunter’s sister. “She’s a real piece of work, that one. You should have seen the way she acted after you left yesterday.”
I turn my head slightly. “What do you mean?”
“She got pretty worked up about a memento she was looking for and didn’t like the idea of me following her around. She finally demanded that I wait in the kitchen. Said she needed closure.”
“You didn’t—”
“Of course not,” he says shaking his head rapidly. “I told her it was a sensitive matter and still a crime scene. She got real hostile, started raising her voice and swearing.”
I tug on Charlie’s sleeve, pull him aside. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, but I told her I don’t put up with that kind of talk. Don’t care who died in her family.”
I nod. “Did you force her to leave?”
“I was about to, but she calmed down, got control of herself as though nothing had happened.”
“Strange behavior. Did she find anything?”
“No, and she wasn’t too happy about that either. She had a real interest in Hunter’s bedroom, though.”
“His bedroom?” I say, hoping Charlie hadn’t meant the lust room.
“You know, next to the living room. Brass bed, dresser, night stand—”
“I know what a bedroom is!”
“She kept sniffing around his bookcase, staring at the books like she was looking for something in particular. She wanted to pull a few out, but I stopped her. That’s when she got all bent out of shape. You think maybe that’s why she’s not here today, Hank? She’s too upset?”
My eyes dart about. “Christ!”
“What?”
“I gotta go, Charlie.”
“But the service…”
I point my chin toward the woman standing next to Father O’Brady. “Find out who that woman is and make sure she doesn’t leave town until I get back,” I demand.
Charlie glances over at the woman in black. “Sure, Hank,” Charlie says. “But I don’t think she’s going anywhere. That’s Hunter’s ex-wife.”
My drinking buddy was full of surprises. God only knows how many other secrets Hunter kept from me!
There is no sign of life on Hunter’s block, including his driveway where I nose my car in, stopping a few inches from the garage door. I pan the immediate area and suddenly feel derelict for not posting a deputy out front and treating this investigation with professional indifference.
Knowing the front door is locked, I head around the side, taking in the woods where the paint snatcher escaped. I stop short as I approach the back door, realizing someone has already been here. I draw my weapon, turn the knob, and push the door in gently with my gun.
“Police,” I call out.
Not surprisingly, no one answers, so I step tentatively over the broken glass and work my way past the dark living room, which hasn’t been touched, to the master bedroom. Evidently, the intruder wasn’t particularly fond of Hunter’s classics, because the contents of his wall-to-wall bookcase are now strewn about. And there doesn’t appear to be anyone around I can discuss the matter with.
Not bothering to check the other rooms on this floor, I take the stairs two at a time and enter Hunter’s lower art studio on the second floor. Not good. The hatch is open, the ladder extending downward. I take a quick look around, then climb slowly, the dark hole widening with each step. I flip the light switch several times without luck, then step into the room, feeling around and wishing I had changed the batteries in my now-dead flashlight. It’s too dark to continue, so I turn to reverse my steps. That’s when I hear the sound of wind whirling from behind me that stops with a thump to my head.
My brain registers a voice in the distance. “Up here,” I grunt, touching my head and swearing to myself. “Up here,” I cry out, then I crawl over to the opening and look down. Charlie’s gun is aimed at my head, along with a beam from his flashlight.
He stops. “Hank, are you okay?”
I blink hard. “Think so,” I force out.
“What the heck happened? And what’s up there?”
I have no intention of answering the second question, so I give him a brief answer to the first.
Charlie climbs a few more steps, then shines his light past me and enters Hunter’s cave. “Damn, what kind of place is this?”
I get to my feet and shrug. “Beats me, it was dark. My flashlight ran out of batteries.”
We exchange looks then he says, “It was her, wasn’t it?”
“Hunter’s sister? I don’t know. Like I said, it was dark. She— Whoever it was hit me from behind.”
Charlie slips his revolver back in the holster. “I told you she was nuts. Think she took anything?”
“Only part of my scalp, I hope.”
“Hunter’s bedroom is a mess.”
“I know. I saw it.”
I follow Charlie toward Hunter’s sex bed, hoping his curiosity ends there. Instead, his light bounces off a few walls and stops at the studio door. “What’s in there?” he says, almost to himself.
“Maybe we oughta come back when we have more light,” I advise.
But Charlie continues anyway, opens the door carefully, and then he shines his light inside. “What the fuck?”
Charlie doesn’t usually swear.
“What?”
“Friggin’ paintings of people friggin’. And…and this!” he says, snatching a painting off the floor. “Looks like Hunter and Jackie Hopkins.”
That’s one.
“There’s more. Shit, that rich woman from the island.”
I’m about to offer a name, but stop. “Who?”
“Can’t remember her name. The one married to that New York banker.”
“That would be Olivia Patterson.” I was getting good at this.
“Her. Damn, Hunter is—”
“Be careful. That stuff is evidence, and your fingerprints are all over it.”
Charlie drops the loving couple on the floor and wipes his hands on his pants. “Sorry.” He steps past me and aims his flashlight at the bed. “What the heck was Hunter doing up here?”
“Apparently not meditating,” I suggest.
“Think it might have anything to do with his murder?”
That’s my deputy, always thinking. “It’s possible.” I press hard on my temples. “I gotta get something for my head,” I say, and I struggle back to the hole.
When I reach my patrol car, I grab a few Tylenol from the glove compartment, pop them in my mouth, struggling to swallow, and then get on the car radio.
“You sound a little out of it, Hank,” Kate says. “What’s going on?”
I give her the abridged version.
“Sweet Jesus, are you okay?”
“I will be after the painkillers kick in. Anyone with you?” I ask.
“Just Wayne.”
“I need him to bring out a couple of pairs of latex gloves. ASAP.”
“Don’t tell me you found another body!”
“No, and don’t go spreading that around, either. It’s something else.”
“You’re not going to elaborate?”
“Paintings,” I offer.
“What the heck kind of evidence is that?”
I ignore the question. “I need to speak to Hunter’s ex-wife. She was at the funeral.”
“She’s staying at the Royalty Inn.”
The woman has class. There’s a reason it’s called the Royalty Inn.
“She told Charlie she’d probably stick around as long as you needed her. And Wayne thinks she’s hot.”
“This time I agree with him. She’s…sexy.”
Kate tells me she hasn’t heard me use that word in a long time.
“Maybe not in front of you.” I laugh.
“Funny,” Kate chimes.
I check my watch. “I want you to find out if Norman picked up any passengers going to or from Hunter’s house within the past couple of hours. Or anywhere near his house.”
“Looking for someone in particular?”
“I’m thinking maybe Hunter’s sister. I don’t remember her having a car yesterday.”
“Her description, boss.”
“White, early twenties, red hair.”
“Sexy?”
“Crazy.”
“I’m on it.”
“Thanks, sexy.”
“Don’t patronize me.” She laughs and hangs up.
By the time I return to Hunter’s sex shop, the attic light is on. “I see you found a light bulb, Charlie.”
“It was there all along. Whoever got in here earlier unscrewed it just enough so it wouldn’t go on.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Figures.”
Charlie is examining the paintings as though he were an art dealer. “This doesn’t look too good, does it, Hank?”
I shake my head. “’Fraid not, Charlie.”
Charlie remains silent a few moments, looking around nervously as though we might be expecting a reporter to show up and ask questions. “So whaddaya think, Hank?”
The Art of Murder (A Hank Reed Mystery, Book 1) Page 5
