Scrapbook of Murder

by Lois Winston

  He grimaced, then reached across the table to take hold of my hands. “I don’t want you to think I’m making light of what happened to Carmen and Elena, but perhaps we should consider other possibilities.”

  Definitely not the opening I expected. “Meaning?”

  He paused while the waitress returned with our coffees, then inhaled a deep breath before he continued. “Suppose Elena’s memory of what happened at the party isn’t quite accurate.”

  “What memory? She doesn’t remember anything that happened to her and Carmen. She was drugged.”

  “I’m sure she believes that.”

  I stared at Zack, watching dumbfounded as he poured cream into his coffee, then gave it a stir. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting? That the rape never occurred? How is that possible? Carmen wound up pregnant.”

  “I don’t doubt that. However, the circumstances surrounding the pregnancy might not be exactly as Elena described them.”

  “Zack, you weren’t at the coffee shop when she confessed to Lupe and me. The woman silently carried that disturbing secret around with her for fifty years. Those memories are real. I’m sure of it.”

  “I’m not suggesting Elena lied to you and Lupe. She may believe every word of what she told you.”

  “Then what are you saying?”

  “Just that sometimes our brains protect us from that which we’d rather not remember by planting false memories to replace actual ones.”

  “So she made up the story about a rape? What could possibly be worse than what she told us?”

  “Guilt of some sort?”

  “Over what?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s only a theory.”

  “But why would Elena make up such a horrible story?”

  He took a sip of coffee. “Maybe it has nothing to do with guilt and everything to do with Elena’s need to play the victim. Look what you recently uncovered about Betty Bentworth.”

  While investigating Betty Bentworth’s untimely demise, I’d learned she’d suffered from Munchhausen by Proxy. Prior to moving into the house across the street from me, she’d spent decades in prison for poisoning her children. Luckily, she hadn’t succeeded in killing them.

  Maybe Zack was on to something, especially given Elena’s reluctance to talk further about that night and the other people involved. If so, all four men might be totally innocent, and the hit-and-run was just a tragic accident with no connection to Carmen’s past.

  The waitress returned with our orders—a club sandwich for Zack, a Cobb salad for me. After she refilled our coffee cups and departed Zack continued playing Devil’s Advocate. “And consider this—what if there was no party?”

  “Elena claimed after she and Carmen left the house, she called the police to report underage drinking.”

  “But you only have her word. You don’t know if the police received a call that night. Even if they did, one of the neighbors might have placed the call. Elena may have learned of the party and the boys being hauled off to the station after the fact when she went to school the following Monday.”

  I thought back to the letter we found, the letter that set so many recent events in motion. “Carmen’s letter to Lupe talked of her own guilt and a mistake she’d made, not a horrible crime committed against her.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But rape victims often believe they’re at fault, even nowadays.” I’d watched enough episodes of Law & Order: SVU over the years to know that much. “Carmen’s pregnancy occurred half a century ago. Her guilt may have come from blaming herself for leading on one of those boys.”

  “Or guilt over sleeping with her boyfriend.”

  That had been my initial thought until Elena wove her tale of rape. Having died, Carmen was in no position to refute Elena’s story.

  “We also should consider Elena’s mental state,” said Zack. “What do you know about her?”

  “Next to nothing.”

  “She may have a history of fabricating stories.”

  If she did, I had no way of finding out, not with Lupe in a coma. Certainly, none of her relatives would share such sensitive information with me. Besides, if Lupe knew Elena was a pathological liar, she would have questioned everything Elena told us.

  This certainly put a new spin on events. I’d have to wait to see if we discovered any relevant information during the remaining three interviews.

  FIFTEEN

  Peter Donatello had scheduled a fifteen-minute interview with me. “That’s all his schedule will allow,” his secretary had informed me. “He’s booked solid.”

  Under the circumstances, I wondered why he’d agreed to see me at all. I suspected free publicity in a national magazine tipped the scales in my favor. After all, you never know when some housewife who grabs a copy of American Woman while standing in line at the supermarket might need a white-collar criminal defense attorney.

  The offices of the Donatello Law Group took up the entire fifth floor of one of the office buildings in the Carnegie Center, a massive office park complex on Rt. 1 in Princeton. Over the years the firm had represented many a state assemblyman or senator caught accepting a bribe or dallying in other questionable behavior that compromised both their office and the public’s trust. Given the state of New Jersey state politics, the Donatello Law Group never lacked for clients.

  After giving our names to the receptionist, Zack and I took seats in a waiting area to the right of the reception desk. If I didn’t know better, I’d think we had entered an exclusive men’s club. Dark hand-rubbed mahogany wainscoting covered the lower half of the walls with the upper half papered in a navy, gold, and burgundy plaid. A thick Persian carpet in matching shades filled most of the solid wood flooring that designated the waiting area. Burgundy-colored leather wingback chairs, separated by leather-topped cherry end tables, each holding a brass lamp, lined the two adjacent walls. At any moment I expected a butler to appear with a tray holding snifters of hundred-year-old brandy and a box of Cuban cigars.

  Twenty minutes after our scheduled appointment time a curvaceous twenty-something wearing a cleavage-exposing black knit dress arrived to escort us to Peter Donatello’s office. Following several steps behind her, I caught a glimpse of the trademark red soles of her Christian Louboutin ebony suede stilettos as they clicked along the polished wood floors. If secretaries now made salaries that enabled them to purchase thousand-dollar designer shoes, I seriously needed to consider a career move. “Mr. Barnes and Mrs. Pollack,” she said after opening the office door. She stepped back to allow us to enter, closing the door behind us.

  Peter Donatello rose from behind a massive antique carved desk that I suspect cost more than my house. As we made our way across a luxurious jewel-toned Bokhara rug, Zack held back, allowing me to precede him by a few steps as we approached the other side of the desk.

  The former high school wide receiver wore a pinstriped charcoal suit, which screamed bespoke from the perfect way it fit his body. He glanced back at Zack, frowned slightly, then extended his hand toward me. “Mrs. Pollack.”

  He wore an enormous onyx-framed, square-cut diamond and gold pinkie ring that twinkled in the light from overhead recessed cams. Matching diamonds of equal size glittered from his starched white shirt cuffs. I reached across the desk to meet him halfway and received a bone-crushing handshake that caused me to bite back a wince. He held my gaze for a moment before releasing my hand. Classic testosterone move, I thought. Male domination rearing its chauvinistic head.

  Donatello then offered his hand to Zack. “You look familiar,” he said. “Have we met?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “I never forget a face.”

  “Nor I, and I’m certain I would have remembered yours.”

  Oh goody. Two alpha males vying for top dog position. “Perhaps you both attended the same charity event at some point,” I said. “The Met Gala, maybe?”

  Donatello’s eyebrows rose. “You’ve been to the Met Gala?�
��

  “Most years,” said Zack. “Have you?”

  Donatello ignored the question, his lips forming into a tight line, his silence suggesting he’d never received an invitation to the prestigious event. Instead he nodded to the two chairs in front of his desk. “Please, have a seat. How may I be of service?”

  “Won’t Mrs. Donatello be joining us?” I asked.

  His expression grew puzzled. “Why on earth would you want my wife here?”

  I explained the thrust of my article. His puzzlement quickly segued into annoyance. “I thought you were here for a legal consultation.”

  Now I was puzzled. I studied the man seated across from me, a man whose wealth emanated from the top of his perfectly styled full head of thick silver hair to the gold Rolex on his wrist to his expertly manicured fingertips. “I explained my reason for wanting the interview to your secretary. She said you’d be delighted to take part.”

  He huffed out his displeasure. “My longtime secretary retired recently. The new girl obviously didn’t inform me of the nature of this appointment. If she had, I wouldn’t have agreed to it.”

  “I see.”

  He rose from his chair. “This is a well-respected firm, Mrs. Pollack. I’m not some cheap ambulance chaser who advertises on cable networks. Why on earth would I jeopardize my firm’s standing by granting a frivolous interview to some insipid women’s magazine? You’ve wasted your time.”

  He didn’t even bother to apologize for the misunderstanding. Instead he pressed a button on a console on his desk. When his secretary responded, he said, “Brittany, please escort Mr. Barnes and Mrs. Pollack out. Then get back in here right away.”

  “Yes, Peter.”

  Peter? Rather informal for a recent hire.

  A moment later Brittany appeared at the door. Zack and I took our leave of Peter Donatello’s office, following Brittany’s sashaying booty and clicking designer footwear back to the reception area.

  “Arrogant, smug misogynist,” I muttered under my breath as we waited for the elevator. “I can’t believe he and Coach Renquist were ever friends, let alone that they still spend time together. Those two are polar opposites.”

  Zack chuckled. “He really got to you, didn’t he?”

  “Did it show?”

  Zack replied by laughing again.

  “You think he’s getting it on with Brittany?”

  “I seriously doubt he hired her for her secretarial skills,” said Zack.

  “Well, as far as I’m concerned, if there was a rape, he’s now at the top of my suspects list. And I wouldn’t put it past a man like that to have friends in low places who are willing to do his bidding for the right amount of money.”

  “Lots of men are scumbags,” said Zack. “Few are rapists and murderers.”

  “Granted, but all rapists and murderers fall firmly into scumbag territory.”

  ~*~

  Since I had scheduled the remaining two interviews for the following day, Zack and I returned home. He had a date with his Madagascar Pochards—or at least their photographic images—and I needed to finish work on Lupe’s album.

  With the day half-over and the weather growing worse, I saw no point in heading to the office. Instead, I decided to spend the remainder of the day working from home. At least that was the plan until Zack turned onto our street, and we spied a Westfield patrol car idling at the curb in front of my house.

  In front of the patrol car sat Harriet Kleinhample’s rusty circa 1960’s orange Volkswagen minibus, its wheels straddling the curb. As was often the case with the way Harriet parked, the Volkswagen’s front bumper rested against the trunk of my oak tree. I feared one of these days the tree would decide it had had enough of the abusive relationship and would fight back, crushing the minibus under its massive trunk.

  “What now?” I cursed under my breath as Zack pulled into the driveway. Officers Harley and Fogarty stood at my front door. Fogarty, the taller and younger of the two by a head and a decade, pounded his fist against the door while his pudgy partner Harley shouted a demand to open the door.

  The pounding and shouting ceased when the two cops noticed our approach. “Boy, are we glad to see you, Mrs. Pollack,” said Harley.

  “What’s going on?” asked Zack.

  “Another hit-and-run downtown,” said Fogarty.

  SIXTEEN

  It took a moment for Fogarty’s words to sink in. Another hit-and-run? What the heck was going on in Westfield lately? “Was anyone hurt?”

  “Luckily, not this time,” said Harley. “One vehicle struck another.”

  I hold a Bachelor’s Degree in art, not criminal justice, so I don’t claim to know all the ins and outs of investigative procedure. However, I failed to see how this latest incident connected in any way, shape, or form to the previous one that had killed one woman, seriously injured another, and left Lupe in a coma. “Why are you here?” I asked Harley and Fogarty.

  “The traffic cam captured an old orange VW minibus speeding through the red light,” said Fogarty. “It clipped the front end of the car that had the right-of-way and kept going.” He nodded toward Harriet’s rusty orange relic. “The license plate wasn’t visible in the video, but you don’t see many of those old VW minibuses still on the road.”

  “Except for the one that’s often parked in front of your house,” said Harley. “The minibus has front-end damage consistent with the accident, but your mother-in-law refuses to open the door.”

  “Does that surprise you?” I asked.

  “Hardly.” He scowled at the door. On the other side we could hear a cacophony of communist magpies.

  Due to my mother-in-law’s anarchistic disregard for the law, Harley, Fogarty, and I had more than a passing acquaintance. Lucille’s behavior often resulted in her receiving overnight accommodations at the Westfield hoosegow. The town’s entire force understood the cross I bore.

  Sometimes I think they locked her up for a minor offense just to provide me with a few hours’ respite. However, they’d never admit to that, lest word got out and other town residents demanded equal treatment under the law. Turns out I’m not the only Westfield resident burdened with a cantankerous in-law.

  Harley and Fogarty had also come to my rescue on more than one occasion, including a series of break-ins last winter. As a result, no matter how little money I had, I didn’t begrudge a single tax dollar that went toward Westfield’s finest.

  I withdrew my house key from my purse and unlocked the door. When it swung open, we found Lucille standing on the other side, feet spread, one arm planted on a hip, the other gripping her cane, a tight-lipped scowl firmly in place. A gaggle of gray-haired Daughters of the October Revolution stood behind her.

  “Get out!” shouted Lucille. “You have no right to enter this house.”

  I stepped in front of the officers. “I invited them in.”

  She glared at me. “I should have known you’d have something to do with this.”

  “In case you’ve forgotten, you’re a guest in my home, not the other way around.”

  “You’d never get away with this if my son were still alive.”

  A constant Lucille refrain, second verse same as the first. “I’m a law-abiding citizen helping the police solve a crime.”

  “It wasn’t her fault,” said Lucille.

  “What wasn’t her fault?” asked Harley. “Running the red light, hitting another vehicle, or leaving the scene of an accident?”

  “All of it,” said my mother-in-law.

  “She can tell it to the judge,” said Fogarty. “Step aside.”

  Lucille refused to budge.

  Harley turned to me. “Which one owns the vehicle?”

  I pointed to Harriet Kleinhample, dwarfed behind my mother-in-law’s massive body. Harriet could pass as Estelle Getty’s doppelganger, but unlike the star of the old Golden Girls sitcom, Harriet possessed a mean streak second only to my mother-in-law.

  “You’re not taking her,” said Lucille. She rais
ed her cane menacingly close to Fogarty’s head. With her other hand she shoved him with all her might, but she was no match for the amateur bodybuilder. He neither flinched nor budged—until in a swift blur he whipped out his handcuffs and slapped them on her.

  A moment later both Lucille and Harriet, cuffed by Harley, were marched out to the patrol car. The other women followed, screaming about police brutality. Fogarty stopped and turned to face them. “Would you ladies like to join your friends in lock-up tonight?”

  That shut them up. After Lucille and Harriet were placed in the back seat of the squad car, Harley nodded toward the minibus and said, “We’ll send a tow truck to impound the vehicle.”

  “You can’t do that!” said one of the women.

  “How will we get home?” asked another.

  Harley shrugged. “Not our problem, ladies.”

  “Call an Uber,” said Fogarty. Then taking mental count of their number, added, “Better make that several Ubers.”

  He slid behind the steering wheel of the patrol car. As Harley settled into the passenger seat, Fogarty stuck his head out the window and asked, “You posting her bail this evening, Mrs. Pollack?”

  I glanced into the back seat where my mother-in-law sat seething and muttering. When she noticed me looking at her, she speared me with an evil eye that needed no interpretation. I shook my head. Lucille didn’t suffer from dementia or diminished mental capacity of any sort that might excuse her behavior. She was just a nasty old commie who didn’t care about anyone other than herself, her dog, and her fellow Sisters of the October Revolution. I turned back to Fogarty. “I’m done. She’s on her own.”

  “I warned her,” I told Zack as the squad car pulled away from the curb and drove down the street. We’d been down this road too many times before. Every time I posted Lucille’s bail, I worried that she’d skip town, and I’d wind up even more in debt. The last time she’d gotten herself arrested, I’d issued an ultimatum. If she couldn’t post her own bail this evening, she could sit in a cell until she came before the judge on assault charges.