I took another sip of coffee, then pushed the mug away. “You started seeing her again, didn’t you. After she’d married your father.”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “It began a few months ago. Of course, I couldn’t tell anyone about it, least of all my father. He would’ve been devastated—or else gone berserk. Clare told me she was going to leave him, and I assumed we would be together. But then—” Karen’s face set in hard lines. “Later, she told me she wasn’t just leaving him, she was going away and never coming back.”
“That must’ve made you angry.”
“Angry? To finally realize that all she wanted me for was sex? To see at last how she’d used me?”
“You were angry enough to kill her.”
Karen glared at me.
“No,” Nicole said, frightened. “You can’t blame Karen for that.”
“I don’t. I blame you.”
“Me?” Nicole’s fear tightened into nervousness.
“What the hell are you saying?” Karen said loudly.
I kept my eyes on Nicole. “I don’t know why you did it, but you’re the only one who could’ve murdered Clare that day.”
Nicole shook her head no. Karen opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it.
“It was squealing tires,” I said. “That bothered me from day one.”
Nicole continued to shake her head “…squealing?”
“A neighbor heard tires screech in Samuel’s driveway the day of the murder. But when he looked out his window, there was no car in sight. Where was it? I should’ve figured it out immediately. The car had already pulled into Samuel’s garage.”
I removed two garage-door openers from my jacket and set them on the table. “I just took those from the glove compartment in your car, Nicole. One is for your condo, and the other is for your father’s house, right?”
She stared at the little plastic boxes as if they might explode.
“A three-car garage with two cars,” I said. “You were the last child to move out, and you were the most frequent visitor. It makes sense that Samuel would let you keep the third parking space—and the opener. I also found these.” I tossed a pair of driving gloves down beside the openers. “Did you wear them when you killed her? If so, the police lab will probably find traces of Clare’s blood.”
Nicole looked at me and swallowed. Karen stared at her sister, mouth open, brows knit.
“As I said, I don’t know why you killed her, only that you did it. If you were high on ice at the time, you may have a good defense. Oliver Westfall might even be able to keep you out of prison.”
Nicole licked her lips. “I need to ask Wes…”
“Wes is dead. He was blown up last night in an ice lab.” There. The next of kin had been notified.
“Oh, my God,” Karen said.
Nicole stared at me, one cheek twitching, sweat forming on her upper lip. “Wes is gone?” Her eyes danced about the kitchen, as if she were looking for him. Or maybe her ice pipe.
“Gone forever. And your father is rotting in jail because of you. You tried to confess last night, but no one wanted to believe you. At least I didn’t. I was so sure Clare’s murder had to do with Wes and the Dykstras. But it was you, wasn’t it?”
She said nothing.
“Why did you kill her?”
She hesitated. When she spoke, her voice was small, like a child’s. “I thought she was having an affair with Wes.”
“Oh, Nicole,” Karen moaned.
“He’d been staying out late at night,” Nicole added quickly, defending her suspicions. “Leaving me at home alone. All I did was paint. And smoke ice to help me think. I knew he was seeing someone. Clare. I mean, she had come on to him in the past, and right in front of me. And he was spending more and more time away from home. I didn’t know until too late that he was meeting with those drug people. Anyway, I went to my father’s house to tell Clare to stay away from him. I was angry, more angry than I’ve ever been in my life. I guess I’ve always hated her, ever since I had to leave home because she moved in and took over…” Nicole heaved another sigh. “So I went to the house and confronted Clare. And you know what she did? Laughed in my face. She said she’d slept with Wes once and once was enough, because he was a ‘bum fuck,’ just like my father. She wouldn’t stop laughing.”
Nicole stared vacantly at her hands.
“I’m not sure what happened then. I started to leave, I was in the garage, and then I was back in the kitchen with the wrench in my hand. Clare was sitting at the table, her back to me. I think she was still laughing. At me. At all of us. Even Daddy. She’d taken Daddy away from me, and she thought it was funny.”
Nicole looked from Karen to me, seeking understanding. Then she lowered her eyes.
“I don’t remember hitting her,” she said. “The next thing I knew, I was standing over her, with blood everywhere—on Clare, the table, the floor…on me.”
She shuddered. “I wiped off the wrench, put it back in the garage, and drove home. I was in a daze, I didn’t know what to do. Wes was there. He saw all the blood. He knew. He made me take off all my clothes, and he said he’d burn them. He told me to say nothing, that everyone would think that Clare had surprised a burglar. He gave me more ice to smoke to help clear my mind. I guess it worked. Then they arrested Daddy…”
She looked at Karen with pleading eyes. “I would’ve told, Karen, honest. Eventually. I would’ve never let them put Daddy in prison. I love him, more than anyone. You believe me, don’t you?”
Tears were spilling down Nicole’s cheeks. Karen’s, too. She took Nicole’s hand in hers.
“Yes, honey, I believe you.”
CHAPTER 35
NICOLE BUTLER SURRENDERED HERSELF to the police. With Oliver Westfall at her side, of course. He’d already paved the way by discussing the matter with a judge, who also happened to play bridge once a week with Westfall and his wife.
Nicole was released on bail and placed under the care of shrinks. Charges against her were withheld pending a psychiatric evaluation. I doubted that she’d ever go to prison.
Samuel Butler was released from jail, a free man, but with a troubled mind. His younger daughter had murdered his wife. His elder daughter had slept with her. His son-in-law, now dead, had used his company to distribute drugs. And his son and daughter-in-law had stolen from him.
Butler didn’t even flinch, at least on the outside. In fact, the next week he was back at work.
I paid him a visit.
I had to wait for twenty minutes in the outer office with the four busy ladies before Butler had time to see me. He sat like a duke behind his big, scarred desk, waving me into a chair, giving me the notorious Butler scowl. The side door to the companion office was closed, but I could hear someone in there on the phone.
“Is that Kenneth in there?”
“Yes,” he said with the finality of a prison warden.
“Back where he belongs, right? Under your eye and your thumb.”
Butler huffed. “What do you want here, anyway? I’ve got a business to run.”
“It’s about the money Kenneth and Doreen took in the name of Jeremy Stone.”
“What about it?”
“How much was it?”
Butler pursed his thick lips. “Twenty-three thousand eight hundred.”
“Will Kenneth pay it back?”
“Every penny. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“What are you going to do with the money?”
“Put it back in the company, what else?”
“The company doesn’t need it. You didn’t even know it was gone.”
He scowled. “What’re you getting at?”
“There’s a better place for it,” I told him.
He listened to my explanation. I figured it was worth a shot; no use having a bad ending for everyone involved. Finally, and I must admit surprisingly, he agreed. He wrote out a check and handed it to me.
“Good-bye, Mr. Lomax. And do me a f
avor. Don’t ever come back.”
“No problem.”
The house looked the same—a dirty white cracker box with a patched roof, faded fake shutters, and yellow-stained rain gutters. The screen door still sagged open on its broken spring. Low TV sounds drifted from inside.
I knocked.
Mrs. Jeremy Stone answered, wearing a faded blue blouse and green slacks. A plastic spray bottle of water was clutched in her left hand, probably from ironing.
“Yes?” Then she recognized me. “Oh. Are you here about Jeremy again?”
“In a way.” I handed her the check. “Your husband was used for a time by Butler Manufacturing. This is what he earned.”
She stared at the check as if it were money from Mars.
“I—I don’t understand.”
“It’s yours,” I said.
She looked at me dumbly.
“What am I supposed to do with it?”
I had to smile at that. “Take a vacation. Get your screen door fixed. Whatever you want.”
Finally, the confusion—and some of the weariness—left her face. “Is this for real?”
“For real.”
She smiled timidly and shook her head. “Since Jeremy’s been gone, well, this is about the best thing anyone’s ever done for me.”
“Good.”
Her eyes narrowed, but her smile stayed in place. “Is this what you do for a living?”
“Well…”
“You must love your job,” she said.
“It has its moments.”
Turn the page to continuing reading from the Jacob Lomax Mysteries
1
“MY WIFE HAS BEEN getting phone calls from her first husband,” Roger Armis told me.
“Threatening calls?”
“You might say that. He’s been dead for four years.”
Armis sat in the visitor’s chair across the desk from me. He looked like a reasonable man—early fifties, expensively cut gray hair, lightweight summer suit, also gray, with an off-white shirt and a pale blue tie. But looks can be deceiving. I once had a client who could pass for a bank president, and he claimed aliens were beaming radio waves through his toilet. Armis, by the way, was a banker, too. But only a branch manager.
“You did say dead.”
“I know it sounds crazy,” he said.
“Has your wife seen this man?”
“No. He’s phoned Vivian half a dozen times in the past few weeks. But she’s convinced it’s him.”
“Did she recognize his voice?”
Armis nodded. “And he told her… certain things that only the two of them could know.”
“Such as?”
His face flushed slightly. “Intimate things.”
“Sex, you mean.”
He nodded tightly. He was too much of a gentleman to speak of such matters. A lot of guys, though, weren’t.
“Isn’t it possible her first husband discussed the, ah, details of his sex life with his drinking buddies, and that it’s one of these characters who’s been calling, perhaps disguising his voice?”
“That was my first thought,” Armis said. “But Vivian says definitely not. She tested him with specific questions. There’s no doubt in her mind. This man is her first husband.”
“Back from the dead.”
Armis shifted in his seat. “It would seem.”
“I assume your wife is… of sound mind.”
“Yes, of course,” he said with some impatience.
I got out a legal pad and a pen. “All right, let’s back up a little. What’s her first husband’s name?”
“Martin Blyleven.”
“How did he die?”
“In a plane crash. A small plane, just he and the pilot were on board.”
“Where?”
“In Arizona. He was flying from here to Tucson on business.”
“Did your wife identify the body?”
“No. Blyleven and the pilot were burned beyond recognition in the crash. But the police said there was no doubt it was them.”
“What did they match, fingerprints or dental records?”
“I don’t know which. But Martin Blyleven was pronounced officially dead. The FAA, the insurance companies, everyone agreed. There was a funeral, and his remains lie in a grave in Crown Hill Cemetery. And now he’s… come back.”
“But, of course, it can’t be him.”
Armis hesitated. “No, of course not.”
“You don’t seem entirely certain.”
He heaved a sigh. “Logically, this man can’t be Blyleven. On the other hand, I can’t ignore Vivian’s beliefs. She’s a sensible, practical woman, not given to hysteria or wild imagination. And she is one hundred percent convinced that this man is Martin Blyleven.”
“I see. And why exactly is he calling now after being gone for four years?”
“He wants money. Four hundred thousand dollars. We have to have it by next Monday, a week from today.”
“Or else what?”
“If we refuse to pay he’ll come forward, present himself to the authorities, and explain that he was never on that plane and that he’s been suffering from amnesia for all these years.” Armis gave a small shrug. “If it truly is him, Vivian would have to pay back the insurance premium in the amount of—”
“Let me guess. Four hundred thousand.”
“Yes. One way or the other, we’d have to pay.”
“Blackmail, pure and simple.”
“It’s not so simple. He also threatens to demand joint custody of his daughter.”
“Oh?”
“Chelsea was a year and a half old at the time of the plane crash. After Vivian and I were married, I adopted Chelsea, and now she carries my name. As far as I’m concerned, she’s my daughter. But the courts would probably grant Blyleven at least visitation rights. And he hinted to Vivian that an accident could happen while Chelsea was with him.”
“Have you talked to the police about this?”
“No.”
“Then I suggest we call them now and—”
“Absolutely not. If there is the slightest hint of police involvement, he’ll come forward.”
“Let him. He can’t possibly be Blyleven.”
“I… I don’t know who he is. And until I’m certain, I want this handled in the strictest confidence. Now, I told my attorney that I needed a private investigator—without telling him why—and he recommended you. He said you were ‘effective and discreet.’” Armis glanced around my office. “I suppose I can trust his judgment.”
Apparently, he was not impressed with the decor—worn wooden desk and chairs, preowned leather couch, no-frills file cabinets, and Venetian-blind-covered windows that looked down on Broadway. It was after nine A.M., so there was little traffic below. The office was cool and quiet. This afternoon, though, when the July sun swung over to the west side of the street, you could bake bread out on the windowsill. That is, if you didn’t mind a fine layer of pollution on the crust.
“There’s another possible explanation here,” I said. “One that’s difficult to broach.”
“Yes?”
“Your wife and this man could be in on it together.”
His mouth opened, then snapped closed. “That is out of the question.”
“I only offer it as a—”
“It’s quite impossible.” Color had risen to his cheeks. “Vivian would be incapable of doing anything like that, do you understand?”
“Sure.”
His jaws were clenched and his lips were pressed tightly together. I could tell that he’d considered the possibility.
He drew a deep breath and let it out. “Besides,” he said, “she didn’t volunteer this information. In fact, she was trying to put together the blackmail money without my knowledge. When I found out that she’d emptied her personal bank account and was trying to sell her jewelry, I pressed her for an explanation. That’s when she told me.”
I wasn’t ready to discount the possibility of his
wife’s complicity. But I let it go for now.
“How long have you and Vivian been married?”
“Nearly three years. When we met, I’d been divorced for some time—all my children had grown up and my wife wanted to stop being a wife and start being a career woman. Vivian and Chelsea were so sweet that I realized how much I missed having a family, being a father, and so on. We were married shortly after we met. I guess she needed someone, too. And I must tell you, Mr. Lomax, that despite the fifteen-year difference in our ages, we make one another very happy. All three of us.”
I could see that he meant it.
“I’ll be honest with you,” he said. “If I thought this man would leave us alone, I would pay him off.”
“With the insurance money?”
He smiled without humor and shook his head. “We no longer have that money. Soon after we were married, Vivian’s mother was diagnosed with cancer. She’d let her medical insurance lapse, and so Vivian and I paid for everything—two major surgeries, chemotherapy, and radiation treatments. She was bedridden in a private room for two years before she died. Now she’s gone and so is the four hundred thousand. Vivian and I would have to sell off all of our assets and borrow the rest. It would put us deeply in debt, a hardship for all three of us.” He paused. “But it could be done.”
“I’d advise against it. What’s to keep this man from demanding more?”
“Precisely,” he said. “A month from now, or five years from now, he could put us through this again. One way or the other, I want to resolve it now.”
“How?”
“I was hoping you would know.”
“Yes, well, the first thing we should do is verify that Martin Blyleven couldn’t possibly be alive. I’ll start with the insurance company.”
“Pioneer Insurance,” he said.
“After that, we can try to identify the blackmailer. I’ll need your wife’s help for that.”
“No,” he said quickly.
“Excuse me?”
“We, ah, we can’t tell Vivian about this. About your involvement, I mean.”
Blood Relative (The Jacob Lomax Mysteries Book 4) Page 20
