Your Killin' Heart

by Peggy O'Neal Peden

  By late afternoon, the tropical storm was stalled.

  Doug called just before I left work.

  “I really hate to say anything that might give you any more excuses to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong, but I had a strange conversation today. I ran into Franklin Polk on the stairs in the courthouse.”

  “I thought he was retired.”

  “Very. I can’t remember ever having seen him in a courtroom.”

  “What was he doing there?”

  “I don’t know. He could have been there to help out some friend who doesn’t trust the young whippersnappers who run his office these days.”

  “Whippersnappers?”

  “Everything’s relative. I had the impression that he was waiting for me. And I didn’t think he even knew me. Called me ‘son,’ patted me on the back. Said he’d heard my ‘lady friend’ had gotten ‘mixed up’ in ‘this Hazel Miller mess.’”

  “Do men have lady friends anymore?”

  “If we do, our lady friends don’t go around trying to make trouble. They bake; they garden; they play golf; they can even work if they want to, but they know their places. They look good and don’t talk much.”

  I couldn’t help myself. “Maybe that’s why men don’t have lady friends anymore,” I offered sweetly.

  “Anyway, he said he’d heard good things about me, heard I had ‘what it takes,’ even heard my name mentioned for state legislature. He said he’d been wanting to get to know me, said he takes an interest in the ‘rising lights of the new generation.’ Said he’d hate to see such a ‘promising career,’ a young man with such ‘potential’ ‘stained’ by such an unnecessary and unproductive ‘situation.’”

  “So am I a lady friend or a situation?”

  “Either way, you’re trouble. And hard to get rid of, like coffee on a white cotton shirt.”

  I managed to avoid a violent response. “Thank you. So what does this mean?”

  “It means something is important enough to get Franklin Polk out of Belle Meade and downtown climbing stairs. It means somebody besides me wants you to leave this alone.”

  “I don’t understand. Exactly what am I doing?”

  “You’re asking questions. You’re stirring the pot. You’re making mountains out of a molehill. You’re airing a lot of people’s dirty laundry. What is it you don’t understand? You’re upsetting somebody. And it’s none of your business.”

  I could tell I was upsetting Doug. I wasn’t sure whether he was more worried about my safety or his career.

  * * *

  On Wednesday night, with the tropical storm named and upgraded to a Category 2 hurricane, a friend who works for The Tennessean, the only daily newspaper in town since the Nashville Banner closed, called me at about midnight.

  “I thought you’d want to know about this,” Mark said without preamble. “Jake Miller’s wife was murdered. It’ll be in tomorrow’s paper.”

  I had been asleep for about an hour, so it took a minute or two for my brain synapses to switch back to awake. There were remnants of a dream. Something involving Sean Connery in a kilt. “She was murdered? Who did it?”

  “They don’t know yet, or at least they’re not saying. But the story is that she was drunk and drugged, and they think somebody got impatient and held a pillow over her face.”

  “Talk about overkill.”

  “Yeah. Official cause of death is asphyxiation.”

  “How can they tell it was murder?” I asked. “Everybody knows she drank a lot. It’s not that uncommon for someone to take something that can be fatal with alcohol in your system.”

  “It seems that she did not have a prescription for one of the sleeping medications in her system, and there wasn’t a bottle for it in her room either. Where did she get it? It’s enough to make them pursue it as homicide. Besides that, one of the medications is especially dangerous with alcohol. Plus something about the color of the lungs tells them the cause of death was actually asphyxiation.”

  Mark was a researcher, a relic of the days when Nashville’s two newspapers competed for news, when The Tennessean was an independent newspaper—a “real paper,” as the old-timers say—that broke important stories regardless of which advertiser might be offended. It’s amazing that Mark’s hung on. So much of what’s in the paper these days is canned, not written locally anymore. Except for local news, you can read the same stories in any paper owned by the same publishing chain. It’s more cost-efficient. There are a lot fewer reporters than there used to be, but Mark is one of those people who knows everyone and can do anything, so I suppose they can’t let him go even though they don’t publish as many investigative pieces anymore.

  “Do you know what the medication was? And what her blood-alcohol level was?” I asked.

  “Nope,” Mark said. “The guy on the police beat told me this as he came in to work. He was in a hurry to write it and get it on the wire. This is big enough that they stopped the presses to change the front page for the city edition. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen that happen. I’ll try to talk to him when he’s through. I could pull his story up on my terminal, but he’s bound to know more than he can put in it—who said what off the record, who raised his eyebrow when, nuance stuff. Want me to call you back tonight or wait until morning? It could be late.”

  “When’s the last time you looked at a clock? It’s already late. Yeah, call me back. I want to know what’s going on.”

  “Okay. Sleep tight.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  Mark called back an hour later. “Good morning.” Way too cheerful.

  “Right. Have a nice day. What do you know?” Grogginess and sleep deprivation overcame courtesy. I hadn’t been able to find Sean again.

  “The official statement from the lead homicide detective is that ‘it’s an ongoing investigation, and the department is pursuing all leads. It appears that Mrs. Miller did not die of natural causes, but I have no further comment at this time.’”

  “Any suspects?” I asked.

  “No comment except that it’s too early in the investigation to discuss that at this point. However, ‘highly placed sources, who refused to be identified’—in other words, the police-beat guy’s cousin who’s on the force—‘said that unusually large quantities of at least two prescription medications, in addition to alcohol, were found in Mrs. Miller’s blood and stomach contents. Police were questioning Mrs. Miller’s household staff and family again.’”

  “Hmmm. Anything else? What about the nuance stuff?”

  “The personal assistant, what’s his name, Lewis, is their odds-on favorite. The housekeeper could have done it easily, but they don’t figure she’d have enough to gain, and she doesn’t strike them as a coconspirator.”

  “What about the daughter? Jackie?” I asked.

  “On the surface, she’d seem to have the most to gain and she is an anesthesiologist, so she’d know what it would take to make sure someone wouldn’t wake up, but they haven’t been able to place her at the scene.”

  “Anybody mention her son, Jay Miller? At least, that’s his stage name,” I said.

  “Not as a suspect. Why?” I had Mark’s attention.

  “He was there that afternoon, maybe not inside the house, but I saw him in the drive, yelling.” I told Mark the story. “He certainly wanted in.”

  “Okay, I’ll pass it along. I suppose if you’ve told the police this, though, they’ve already checked it out.”

  “I don’t think I told the police.”

  “Campbell?”

  “I answered their questions. They didn’t ask me about anything outside the house. They just asked me about where I had been and whom I had seen inside.”

  “Didn’t it occur to you that this might be important?” Sarcasm tinged Mark’s voice.

  “I didn’t know she was murdered until an hour ago. I just knew they found her dead right after I was there. And I didn’t know who the kid was when the police called.”

/>   “Look, this is going to smell no matter how you do it, but I think you should call the police investigator you talked to and tell him what you know. I’ll wait until tomorrow, then tell the guy here. We’ve already gone to press a second time anyway. They wouldn’t stop it again. That’ll give you some time to tell the police before they hear it somewhere else and wonder why you’re holding back.”

  It’s hard to think clearly at one in the morning. “You’re probably right. Listen, Mark, don’t tell your guy until you’ve talked to me, okay? I want to talk to somebody before I call the police.”

  “Who?”

  “Jay Miller.”

  “Campbell, I love you dearly, but you’re an idiot. He could be the murderer.”

  “I don’t think so. I just want to talk to him. I won’t go off alone with him. I’ll do it in a safe place. Promise.”

  “There’s no such thing. Why are you doing this?”

  “I just want to talk to him before the police do. I won’t have a chance after that.” And, I thought, he’ll be much more guarded, even talking to me, once he thinks the police may consider him a suspect.

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “Don’t be patronizing.”

  “It’s not patronizing to want to keep you from getting yourself killed.”

  “I’ll call you.” I hung up before he could finish the sermon.

  I decided one thirty in the morning was too late to start looking for Jay Miller, so I tried to go back to sleep. When I finally did, I kept dreaming of suffocating and pillows over my face.

  * * *

  The next day I checked the phone book. No J. Miller that looked promising. There was an office listing for Jacqueline Miller, MD, but I wasn’t ready to try that route.

  I called Stick. “I don’t know, Campbell,” he said. “No idea. I can check around and see if he’s playing anywhere. I don’t know him well, so I don’t know where he lives or who his friends are. I’ll ask around. Why do you want to find him?”

  I didn’t think Stick would be any more encouraging about my detecting efforts than Mark had been, so I gave him an edited, maybe slightly fictionalized version.

  “I wanted to talk to him about his grandmother and grandfather, I guess because of having been there the day she died, seeing the memorabilia and all. My dad has always been such a fan, you know.” It sounded weak, even to me.

  “You’re going to poke around in this some more, aren’t you?”

  “Poking around sounds awfully, I don’t know, nosy, undignified. I’m just interested.”

  “Yeah, right. I probably shouldn’t, but I’ll ask around and let you know what I find out.”

  “Thanks, Stick. Your friend Randy seemed nice. Talented guy.”

  “Yeah. I think he was impressed by you, at least until you ran out in the middle of his set, during his hit even. That never happens to him. Come hear us Friday night. We’re at the Bluebird again.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  I read the newspaper with a pleasant sense of déjà vu, already knowing what the story would say, and made my next call to Doug. “Have you seen The Tennessean this morning? They’re calling Hazel’s death a murder.”

  “Hi, Campbell. Yeah, I saw it. Is this your one phone call, or haven’t they caught you yet?”

  “That’s good, Doug. You’re making jokes. I like that.”

  “That wasn’t joking. That was sarcasm.”

  “Oops, sorry. My mistake,” I said. “I keep trying to give you credit for a sense of humor.” I really didn’t want to keep annoying Doug. Why did I?

  “Did you call just to insult me?”

  “No, I didn’t call to insult you. Don’t you think it changes things since the police have decided Hazel was murdered?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean we didn’t tell them everything. The boy in the driveway!”

  “Did you answer all their questions?”

  “Ye-ee-ss. Except for the boy…”

  “Did you answer all their questions truthfully?”

  “Ye-ee-ss. You know I did, except…”

  “Did you answer all their questions, as they asked them, truthfully?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’ve done your duty as a law-abiding citizen. Anything else is meddling. Why do you want to get some poor kid in trouble? It seems to me he’s had trouble enough just being born into that family. Leave it alone.”

  I didn’t think my relationship with Doug was improving.

  I hung up the phone and went back to work. The hurricane had turned northeast after all, heading away from San Juan. I moved on to the coach tour of Midwestern art museums I was planning for next April. The brochures were overdue at the printer, and I wasn’t finished yet. The Kansas City hotel and I were having trouble agreeing on a price. One dinner in Chicago had fallen through and would have to be replaced. I was thinking of Pizzeria Uno, a classic in Chicago and my personal favorite, but the clients were likely to be retirement age. Would they want pizza, even really good pizza? Would most of its menu be forbidden to clients on high-blood-pressure medicine and low-sodium diets? Was it patronizing to assume they wouldn’t enjoy pizza? I called to request a menu and group pricing and decided to call my mom later for her opinion.

  While I was on hold, waiting for the restaurant manager, I thumbed through the catalog and newsletter from one of the museums on the tour. It was a smaller museum, but it had some very notable works, thanks to a cattle-baron benefactor, and its location was desirable—St. Louis. Next April, that particular museum, the Smith Logan Art Museum, would be featuring a traveling exhibit of minor (less well known, not bad artists) late-Impressionist French painters. That was ideal. Nonthreatening. Real art, but also pretty. My clients would buy lots of reproduction note cards in the museum gift shop, printed tote bags and umbrellas, and everyone would be happy.

  On the phone, I could hear dishes and flatware rattling and the distant sound of two men arguing. I turned back a page in the catalog. A painting in the exhibit reminded me of one of the paintings Doug and I had taken from Hazel Miller’s house. Of course, I’d only seen it for a few minutes, and one Impressionist floral study can look very much like another. Still, there was an element that was familiar, something I liked about the play of colors and light. Maybe the same artist? The manager finally got on the line, and I was off solving problems and planning for the tour’s unforeseen circumstances.

  I decided Doug’s brother, Kenneth, would be the natural person to ask for advice about the galleries and museums I was considering. We seemed to be best friends these days. I placed copies of brochures from my top choices in an envelope and addressed it to Kenneth at The Mockingbird Gallery. I included a note: What do you think? Are these worth it?

  While I was wondering what to do next, the detective, Sam Davis, called. “I’m sorry to bother you, Miss Hale, but we need you to drop by the station.” He sounded as if he were asking me to drop in for coffee. “Since you were in Mrs. Miller’s bedroom, we need to eliminate your fingerprints. Seems they’re not on file.”

  “No, they wouldn’t be. This is my first time as a murder suspect.”

  He laughed. It was a nice sound. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. Yes, ma’am! Was he serious? Did he really think I could have killed Hazel Miller? “We just need to eliminate the prints of people we know had a reason to be there”—he paused, and I was sure I heard a trace of amusement then—“more or less.”

  “Does it matter when I come?”

  “Anytime today will be fine. We appreciate your help.” His good-cop, your-policeman-is-your-pal routine was getting a little tiresome. “And I’d like to ask you a few more questions about what you saw that day, if you don’t mind.”

  Instead of having a bacon, lettuce, tomato, and avocado sandwich at The Food Company, I drove through Krispy Kreme and spent my lunch hour downtown having my fingerprints recorded.

  Behind a glass barrier, a receptionist in a too-tight police blouse with a nam
e tag that read MARIE raised an eyebrow. “Hep ya?”

  I asked for Detective Davis. As I waited, uniformed officers came and went, talking and laughing, flirting with Marie, the door beside the barrier setting off a buzzer each time it opened. I wondered if they had an office pool on how far that button on her blouse would fly when it burst loose.

  Finally Detective Davis opened the locked door. He was tall, very tall, and looked like he might be attractive if he weren’t so tired. I’d like to see him unstressed; so far, I’d only seen him in the middle of a murder case. “Miss Hale?” He offered his hand. I shook it, a strong and solid handshake, and felt inexplicably embarrassed.

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks for coming in.” He nodded to Marie, and I followed him down a narrow hall. The walls were lined with notices and safety reminders. He entered into a tiny office and he motioned me to a wooden chair.

  “Would you like some coffee, a Coke?”

  “A Coke, thanks.” My mouth was suddenly dry.

  He left and returned with two Cokes in cans. He sat down behind a desk stacked with papers and files, leaned back in his chair, rubbed his eyes, and took a deep breath. He pulled a form on his desk closer and peered at it. “Miss Hale. Campbell. Unusual name.” He looked up, a question in his eyes.

  I figured it was my turn. “I guess.” Had he forgotten that we had already met? That he had sat in my office and disrupted an entire day’s work?

  He nodded and took another deep breath. “So you were in Hazel Miller’s bedroom the afternoon she was killed.”

  I started. Then I stuttered. “Well, I, not, I mean…” I stopped and took my own deep breath. “I guess. I don’t know. Maybe. I was in the house; I walked down a hallway…” I closed my eyes, trying to see it again. “I was in the entrance hall; then I went to the right, through a sitting room, parlor kind of place. Then the dining room. Okay, the hallway went off to the left. Yeah, then the door was at the end of the hall.” I nodded. “I only opened one door, you know. It wasn’t like I was going around opening every door I saw,” I explained, suddenly defensive.