“About the paintings? Probably Hunter’s imagination.”
“I mean, do we have to…show them?”
“I don’t know. Probably.”
“And the women. You gonna interrogate them?”
I shrug. “What choice do I have?”
He makes a sweeping motion. “But Hank, they’re our neighbors!”
“What am I supposed to do, Charlie?”
He nods anxiously.
I touch his shoulder lightly. “I’ll be as discreet as possible.”
He nods, but I can see from his expression he’s not reassured.
“Anyone home?”
Charlie and I exchange glances. “Up here, Wayne.”
Wayne makes his way up the ladder and joins us in the studio.
“You bring the gloves?” I ask.
Wayne’s eyes are zoned in on the paintings like radar. “What the hell?”
“I’ll discuss it later. Did you bring the gloves?”
Wayne slides them out of his back pocket and extends his arm.
“I want you guys to start carting this stuff out to my car. I’m gonna have another look around.”
They nod in unison and slip on the gloves.
I clap my hands. “Let’s go.”
As I watch my deputies nervously lift the paintings off the floor, their silence and glum expressions tell me that the proverbial shit is about to hit the fan.
Eight
The Royalty Inn is a small but elegant lodge located just outside town near the Grand Inlet. Each guest is treated to a private terrace overlooking the breathtaking Little Peconic Bay. In the summer, lilacs and the sweet fragrance of jasmine line the walkway leading to the grounds along the length of the property. The place has a reputation for pampering New York’s royalty, including ex-mayors and city councilmen, and has been in the Williams family for over fifty years.
I approach the front desk and tip my hat to Janet Williams, the daughter-in-law. She offers me a pleasant smile, which widens an already rotund face. Her eyes are brown or black. I can never get close enough to tell.
“Morning, Hank.”
“Say, Janet. When did you start working behind the desk?”
“I’m filling in for Mom. She and Dad took off for a few days.”
The “Mom and Dad” belong to her husband, Douglas Williams. Janet’s the bookkeeper. A good one, I’m told.
“I’m here to see Mrs. Hunter. At least I think she goes by that name.”
Janet motions me closer and whispers, “Is this about her ex?”
“Good detective work.” I wink but decide not to go into the particulars. Janet has a big mouth, both figuratively and literally.
“She’s registered under Margaret Hunter, room one-oh-five,” Janet informs me. “I saw her step out to the patio a few minutes ago.”
“Thanks.” I turn to leave, when Janet asks, “Is it true what they say about Hunter?”
She could have heard anything so I ask, “Like what?”
“Don’t be coy, Hank. You know. The paintings?”
Like I said, news travels fast in this town. “How did you find out?”
She winks. “I’m a good detective, remember?”
I have to schedule a meeting with my staff concerning their lack of discretion. “We found a few paintings.”
“Am I in any of them?” she asks encouragingly.
Janet could have taken up the entire canvas. “Sorry, you were spared.” We were all spared!
“Darn.”
I smile. “I think I’ll join Ms. Hunter.”
“She’s very nice, Hank.”
Unlike Hunter’s sister, I hope.
The ex–Mrs. Hunter is sitting comfortably in a lawn chair near the pool, her white slender neck easing back, swan-like. Her delicate-looking face is basking in the sun, lips pursed. She is clearly enjoying the mild autumn day as I watch her with interest.
“I’ve been waiting for you, Sheriff,” she says, sensing her surroundings. Margaret Hunter opens her eyes, shifts in her chair slightly, and greets me with a breezy smile.
“I’m not a sheriff,” I say, approaching her. “I’m the police chief. And please call me Hank.”
She extends her hand and shakes mine with exuberance. “Sorry, Hank. I just assumed any top-ranking police officer outside a big city is a sheriff.”
“Counties have sheriffs,” I inform her. “We’re just a small town.”
“And beautiful,” she emphasizes, spreading her arms. “You don’t find these views in Manhattan.”
Margaret Hunter is in her late thirties, with almond-shaped eyes, porcelain-like skin, and a silver-blue clip in her shoulder-length black hair.
She senses my stare and says, “Is there something wrong?”
I blink. “Sorry. I just can’t imagine Hunter leaving such a beautiful woman.”
Her smile fades. “What makes you sure he left me?”
I place my hands up defensively. “Sorry, that’s not what I meant.”
Margaret Hunter forces a smile. “The truth is, I left him.”
I pull up a white wooden Adirondack chair across from her, shielding the sun from her face.
“Does that surprise you?” she probes.
I remain silent. Nothing surprises me about Hunter anymore, especially when it comes to women.
“Did you know John personally?”
I nod. “We were friends, yes.”
With a wistful smile, she asks, “Did he ever mention me?”
I regard her rather odd question, then say, “Actually, Hunter told me he was a confirmed bachelor.”
She gazes beyond me toward the bay. “That would be John.” Her eyes drift back to me. “Since you are investigating his murder, I might as well tell you that John cheated on me. That’s why I left him.”
Of course he did. I nod sympathetically.
“I guess I didn’t pay enough attention to his needs,” she answers, her tone cynical.
I wait for more dirt, but when she doesn’t offer any, I ask, “His sexual needs?”
Her eyes sweep the lawn. “Let’s just say that John was oversexed.” She stops, meets my eyes and covers her mouth, then giggles like a schoolgirl. “Oh, God, I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”
“It’s okay,” I encourage. “It might help in the investigation.”
Margaret Hunter softens her gaze on mine. “It’s just that I haven’t been able to talk about it very much since I left John.” Her hand floats toward me and rests on mine. I resist the urge to move it. It feels warm, safe.
“I’ll try to make this as quick and painless as possible so you can get back home,” I say, managing a smile.
Margaret leans back in her chair, her hand sliding off mine. “I’m here as long as you need me, Hank.”
I nod. “Thanks. May I call you Margaret?”
“No.” She watches my expression, then produces an alluring smile. “My friends call me Maggie. Please call me that.”
I return the smile. “Okay, Maggie.”
Her face turns serious. “One of your deputies told me how it happened. How John was killed.”
I nod. “I never thought anything like that could happen here.”
Maggie leans forward and in a low voice asks, “Who would do such a thing?”
“I really don’t know, but I promise you we’ll find out.”
She shakes her head repeatedly. “Do you have any suspects?”
I avoid her eyes. “At first we thought it was a suicide, so this recent development hasn’t produced much yet.” I pause. “But we’re encouraged.”
She nods. “Of course. Look, if there is anything I can do.” She stops, laughs softly. “Sorry, typical cliché.”
I smile warmly. “No, really, I appreciate the thought.” I let a few moments pass, then mention the open prescription vial of tranquilizers at the scene. “Do you know if John took sleeping pills?”
Maggie shifts in her seat. “Never when we were married.”
<
br /> “Not even after he suffered from job burnout?”
Maggie shoots me a puzzled look. “John told you that? That he got burnt out?”
I nod. “He said it was the reason he left his practice.”
Maggie chuckles cynically. “John was a good liar. The truth is, he lost his license.” She pauses. “But I guess he wanted to keep that a secret.”
Now it was my turn to express confusion. “How?”
“The reason I left him.” She stops, gives me an opportunity to come to my own conclusion.
“He was sleeping with a patient?”
Maggie lowers her eyes and nods.
Damn. That Hunter couldn’t keep his pants on.
“Apparently, John was under the impression that his patient could handle a little fun. In truth, she became obsessed with him and threatened to go to the authorities if he didn’t leave me.” She lets a few moments pass. “Of course, he wasn’t about to do that. So I stood by him and played the loyal wife, listened to his lies, went through his review and appeal. When it was over, he lost his practice and me in that order.”
Her hurt eyes rested on mine. “But during that whole period, Hank, he never used tranquilizers.”
I take in this revelation, then ask, “Couldn’t the patient have lied? I mean, it was his word against hers.” I can’t believe I’m defending the bastard.
“It was until I watched them on video. That was her revenge.” Maggie stops, catches her breath as though the incident had just occurred. “I guess John never expected her to tape them at her place and send the video to me gift-wrapped.” She pauses, collects more air. “Sorry. Outside of my shrink, I haven’t been able to discuss this with anyone.” She closes her eyes a moment, then says, “Actually, I find talking about it rather liberating.”
I smile. “I’ll do what I can to keep it confidential.”
Maggie nods, places her hand on mine again. “You’re easy to talk to, Hank. Have you ever thought of changing your profession? You’d make a great psychologist.”
“Thanks, but I like what I’m doing.”
“Are you married?” she asks casually.
I let Maggie’s question sink in. Here I am, sitting with Hunter’s ex-wife and wondering about mine, whom I’m certain slept with Hunter and is probably carrying his child.
She pats my hand. “Come on, Hank, I thought it was an easy question.”
“We’re having problems,” I confess, pulling my hand away slowly.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have pried.”
I produce a thin smile. “That’s okay.”
Maggie’s reassuring smile tells me to trust her, but I need to stay focused. I ask her if she and Hunter stayed in touch after the divorce.
Her eyes become wistful. “Once, about a year later. By then, John had already started his advice column. I called and wished him luck. He invited me to dinner, and I accepted. That was the last time I saw him.” Maggie closes her eyes a moment. “He did call me out of the blue soon after he settled in Eastpoint. I guess that was about two years ago. He sounded edgy, unsettled. I was a little surprised that he had moved out of New York. He said he needed to get away from his past. From her.”
I lean closer to Maggie. “It hadn’t ended?”
She shakes her head gravely. “For John it had, but she wouldn’t let go. She continued calling him, leaving messages on his machine. She must have sent him reams of love letters. After that, she began stalking him.” Maggie stops. “I guess he messed around with the wrong woman.”
I remove my hat, gently rub my bruised pate, then return the hat to my head. “Do you know if the woman ever found out where Hunter moved to?”
Maggie thought a moment. “At the time of the call, she hadn’t. John said she tried unsuccessfully to track him down through his employer, City News, but outside of his boss and a few close friends, nobody knew his whereabouts. And John gave them strict orders to keep it that way.”
“Scary,” I say.
“He even went so far as to threaten her with the police after she trashed his apartment.”
I shoot her a disapproving look. “He let her in?”
“God, no! The doorman did after she persuaded him that she was Mrs. Hunter and had forgotten her key.” She stops, her expression changes to sympathy. “The poor guy was new. And gullible. He wound up losing his job. Anyway, I guess after that John became rattled and moved out.”
I tilt my head slightly. “Why here?”
Maggie shrugs. “I don’t really know. But John was familiar with Eastpoint. I remember him telling me he’d been out this way a long time ago on vacation. That was before we were married. He said the people were nice. And that it was quiet.” She stops, dread registering in her face. “You don’t suppose…?”
My same sentiments. “It’s possible, but that incident happened over two years ago. I would have known if he was threatened recently. Like I said, we were friends.”
“I suppose,” she says, not reassured.
I remove a pad and pen from my shirt pocket. “I’d like to talk to this woman. Do you know if Hunter kept a file on her?”
Maggie thinks a moment. “He did keep a file on all his patients. At one point, they were stored in some warehouse in Queens.” She stops. “I believe deep down inside, John was hoping the problem would blow over and he’d eventually get his license reinstated.”
Trying to contain my excitement, I ask, “Do you think I can get my hands on those files?”
“I don’t know the name of the place.” She shrugs. “But it might be in his checkbook or files.”
I smile.
“What?”
“Ever think of becoming a detective?”
She laughs breezily. “If I were that good, I would have found out about Carol Warner sooner.”
By the time Maggie and I arrive at Hunter’s place, the county investigators had completed a sweep of the area for the second time, including returning Hunter’s books to their shelves. Maggie surveys the room, probably trying to make sense of what Hunter’s life was like out here, so I leave her to her thoughts.
I recall that Hunter had a small, dark brown desk in his bedroom. That’s where I am, kneeling on the floor, rummaging through a manila folder that reads “To Be Paid.” I’m thumbing through a pile of bills, but my thoughts are on Maggie.
“Thanks for letting me see the place, Hank.”
I recoil, suddenly feeling guilty.
“Sorry, you must have been in deep thought.”
If she only knew.
“Don’t you just hate it when people do that? Interrupt your thoughts? Hope it wasn’t too exciting.”
I smile to myself.
Maggie is standing at the doorway and gives the room a quick once over. “Looks like John led a pretty simple life out here.”
She should only know about the king-size bed above us.
“Anyway, you’re busy. I’ll be outside,” she says and disappears. A few minutes later the screen door slams. I continue searching and eventually come across a bill from City Storage Company, buried under Hunter’s unpaid bills. I take out my cell phone and punch in the number. When the party on the other end picks up, I identify myself, explain the situation, and ask the guy for his help. After a slight pause, I get a polite but firm, “I can only do it if you provide a death certificate and power of attorney or a subpoena.” I tell him that shouldn’t be a problem.
“Stop by around eight tonight and ask for George. Hold on a second.”
When the guy returns, he informs me that Hunter’s November bill is due soon. I’m about to tell him not to hold his breath, but instead I say, “I’ll see what I can do.”
I stand up and stretch my legs, then walk over to the window and gaze out at Maggie, who is sitting on a rope swing, which is hanging from a long elm tree branch. She looks like a carefree schoolgirl, her legs pumping in the air, her hair flying about. She’s wearing a tight pair of blue jeans and a loose powder-blue sweatshirt. Maggie catches me star
ing and waves. I wave back, the warehouse bill fluttering in the air.
“I found the warehouse,” I call out.
She places a hand to her ear and continues swinging.
I open the window. “The warehouse is in Long Island City.”
She stops, runs over to me, slightly out of breath. “Great. Do you mind if I join you?”
I hesitate.
“I might be able to help. Besides, you’ll be doing me a favor.”
My eyes light up. “I will?”
“In a big way. Not that I mind taking the railroad, but it took over two hours to get here.” She shrugs and smiles. “What can I say? I’m one of those New Yorkers who don’t drive.”
“Won’t you be cutting your stay kind of short?” I say, trying not to be disappointed.
“Unfortunately, yes, but I should be getting back.” She smiles thoughtfully, wipes her lips with her tongue. “I’m a little thirsty.”
I motion to the rear door. “C’mon inside.”
I shut the window and meet Maggie in the kitchen. Outside of some green-looking food, the refrigerator is empty. “Sorry, all we have is water.”
“Water’s fine.” She’s about to reach for a glass. “Should I be touching this?”
“It’s okay,” I assure her. “Everything has already been checked and collected.”
Maggie pours herself a glass. “Want some?”
“No, thanks,” I say, then watch her take a long gulp.
“Nothing beats city water, but this isn’t too bad,” she jokes, wiping her mouth.
I let a few moments pass, then ask, “Maggie, do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm Hunter? Outside of maybe Carol Warner?”
She thinks a moment. “Not really. But you have to understand that John was a celebrity. There are a lot of nutcases out there. Some psychopathic deviant might have taken issue with one of his columns. John’s advice could be brutal at times.”
I nod in agreement. “I’m going to contact the City News, find out if there were any threats made against him lately.”
Maggie says, “Outside of the News people, I don’t know of anyone you could ask. He had no family.”
The Art of Murder (A Hank Reed Mystery, Book 1) Page 6
