“You’re perfect.”
“I can’t see my feet.”
“Can I at least grab you some cold cuts?”
She shook her head. “You go ahead.”
I joined Becky in line. “I couldn’t help noticing how riveted you were by the new line of loan products,” she said.
“Give me a break. I didn’t sleep well last night.”
“Oh?” She cocked a slightly overplucked eyebrow at me. “Do tell.”
“Sorry. There’s nothing to tell.” I dragged my thoughts away from Bernie lest my goofy smile give me away. “What’s the deal with Wellburn? Besides the obvious?”
“Oh, honey, we’re talking the most eligible bachelor on the North Coast until he got engaged last winter. Grown women wept.”
“You said he was back on the market. Did they break it off?”
“In a manner of speaking. She died. Gastric stuff. Bleeding ulcer, something like that.”
“How awful.”
“You’d think. I gather he’s still pretty broken up. But there’s no shortage of ladies stepping up to provide comfort.” She examined a fingernail critically. “Dang it. Broken. And I just had my nails done.”
Inexplicably, my memory gave me a little prod. Where had I—
“Watch it,” Becky said, as I bumped up against the buffet table. It was fairly well picked over, but I managed to score some sliced ham and some yellow cheese that didn’t look as if it had started life out in an individual plastic wrapper. I stacked all my treasures on a slice of wholesome-looking dark bread, then slathered a bunch of mayonnaise on top. There were cookies on a tray, but the sight of them gave me an odd sense of revulsion, so I grabbed two Diet Cokes from a bed of ice instead and trotted back to Gail.
“Here you go,” I said, plunking the soda down in front of her.
“You’re too kind.” She was spooning up something yellowish and chunky from a Tupperware bowl.
“What’s for lunch?” It looked like the business side of a baby diaper.
“Curried split peas. Fiber, iron, antioxidants up the yin yang. Twelve grams of protein. I’m on the fast track to good health.” She looked pointedly at my sandwich. “You might think about adding a few sprouts to that.”
“Everyone nags me about my diet.”
“Because you live off saturated fat and simple sugars. I don’t understand why you’re not two hundred pounds.”
“I have a lot of stress. Stress stokes the ole metabolism.”
“I’m sure that’s it,” she said sourly, scooping up another mouthful of glop. I tore into my sandwich.
A shadow loomed over us. I looked up and saw a heavyset brunette with a plateful of cookies. She had an oily complexion and a mean little mouth. “Hello, Gail.”
“Denise. Nice to see you.” Gail put unnecessary effort into scraping the last of her peas from the bowl. That was too subtle for Denise, who edged closer until her thighs were practically touching the backs of our chairs. Her dress was a knit creation of “slimming” vertically-oriented black and white stripes; on her, it looked like an unfurled beach umbrella. She smiled, displaying grayish teeth with a chunk of cookie between the incisors.
“I was so sorry to hear of your troubles over at Home Sweet Home,” she said.
“Sam Turner, Denise Beck.” Gail’s voice lacked enthusiasm.
“Coastal Real Estate.” Denise nodded in my direction, then ignored me. “I don’t mean to imply that Coastal is a hotbed of gossip—”
“What else is there to do over there?” Gail said. “You don’t sell houses.”
A tinge of purplish color touched Denise’s cheeks. “Listen, you might not want to burn any bridges, if you get my drift. Because who knows? Maybe you’ll be begging Gordon for a job. Sooner than you think.”
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You will. But I don’t talk out of turn.”
“Maybe Gordon doesn’t confide in you,” I said innocently.
“Au contraire,” she snapped. Crumbs flew everywhere. “He trusts me implicitly. Enough to let it drop your boss has been under investigation for weeks. Weeks! Gordon has been in close communication with the Bureau of Real Estate, and—” She stopped.
“And?”
“And it’s not for me to say. You two have a nice day.” She marched off, her spine rigid with righteousness and her black-and-white caboose waddling like a duck’s.
“Friend of yours?” I said to Gail.
“Not by a long shot. We worked together at RealtyKing for a few months. She used to poke around the other agents’ desks and try to steal their leads. When the place got too hot for her, she moved on to Coastal.”
“I’m getting a bad feeling about this.”
“Denise is all bluff.” But Gail looked worried.
As we rose to leave, I spotted Russell Wellburn in the center of a cluster of women.
“Be right back,” I said.
Wellburn was smiling and nodding robotically, and as I approached he managed to free himself from his bevy of admirers. I hurried to catch him as he headed toward the men’s room. “Excuse me, er, Russell.”
He turned. “Oh. Hello. Sam, isn’t it?”
He flashed me an automatic half smile that still made the blood rush through my veins. “I’m flattered you know my name.”
“You’re wearing a nametag. And it’s not often someone takes such a keen interest in one of my presentations.”
I had the grace to blush. Before I could apologize, he said, “I’ve known Everett for a lot of years. How’s life at Home Sweet Home?”
“Never a dull moment,” I said, truthfully enough. Now that we were face to face, I could see his eyes were such a deep blue as to be almost violet, but bright, too, like a clear night sky in which a few stars twinkled. Sam Turner, poet. But the whites were crisscrossed with broken blood vessels, and sorrow pulled at the corners of his mouth. He reeked of grief as though he’d splashed it on his neck like cologne. I didn’t know him well—at all, really—and no one would mistake me for a giver of comfort, but I had to say something. “How are, um, things with you? I just heard about your fiancée. That really sucks.”
For a horrifying moment, his eyes glistened and I thought he would weep. Then he grasped my hand. “Thank you for that. The last few weeks have been so difficult. Everyone’s been kind, but no one seems to want to talk about my—about Ruth. She was truly special.”
“She must have been,” I murmured, looking for a discreet way to extricate my hand. His fingers were hot, like breadsticks just pulled from the oven.
“She was so courageous. I knew she struggled with health issues, though she never complained. But I never expected—it was so sudden. I suppose I’m still in shock.”
“How did you meet?” I said. I’d worked two fingers loose, but the others were held as if in a vise.
“Through my practice. She was able to acquire several properties under very favorable terms during the recent market downturn. After she converted them to rentals, her sister, who lives—lived—with her, managed them.” His eyes misted over. “I was content to be a bachelor until I laid eyes on Ruth. I was never so honored as the day she accepted my Great-aunt Aurora’s ring. It was as though I’d found the missing piece of my life. Like I’d come home.”
“Speaking of homes,” I said desperately, “I met another client of yours over the weekend. Wanda Davis. She may get in touch regarding one of Everett’s listings.”
“Davis?” He seemed momentarily confused, his eyes blurred with tears. “Oh, yes. Of course. She—”
“Russell, there you are.” Denise Beck was suddenly at my side, her stale breath on my face, her body so close that her left breast very nearly sat in the crook of my arm. She shot me a look of pure venom, then smiled up at Russell. “I was so fascinated by what you said about the market impact of short-term amortization. No one’s explained it so clearly before.” She shifted her weight until I was forced to take a step back. Sudd
enly my hand was my own again.
“I guess I’ll be going,” I said. “A pleasure to meet you both.” As I turned to leave, my foot, by sheer accident, ground Denise’s big toe into the carpet. She sucked in her breath, her smile losing a few watts. I gave a little finger wave and retraced my steps to where Gail was waiting.
“What was that all about?” she said.
“Just making friends. Let’s get out of here.”
Chapter 15
It was when we were back on the 101 and I was staring out the window, watching black cows with white faces flash by, that two of the thought balloons drifting over my head came together. Pop!
“Oh, jeez,” I said.
“What?” Gail was distracted by an RV merging ponderously from the campground east of the highway. She flashed a glance over her shoulder and changed lanes.
“Becky broke a nail.”
“My God. She must be devastated.”
“Seriously, listen to me. That finger I found had a short nail. And it looked like it had been bitten.”
She shrugged. “People do that. Nervous habit. Kids especially. I remember when Celia—”
“The other fingers didn’t.”
Gail hit her signal and moved into the right lane. “Didn’t what?”
“You know. The—the body. Those fingernails were unbitten. Kind of long, too.”
“So what’s your point?”
I took a deep breath. “I don’t think it was Marian’s finger.”
Gail looked at me so incredulously that the minivan swerved and the tires bounced into the breakdown lane. “You’re crazy.”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“It makes no sense whatsoever. A stray finger. A body with only nine. They have to go together.”
“Maybe that’s what we’re supposed to think.”
She rolled her eyes. “Are you actually suggesting the finger came from some other body?”
“It’s possible, isn’t it?”
“Anything’s possible. I just don’t see…” She fell silent.
The scenery flashed by, rich farmland to the east, Salmon Bay to the west. The tide was rolling in, and coffee-colored waves lapped against the rock levee.
“Where would you get a finger, anyway?” I said at last.
“Anatomy labs,” Gail suggested. “Funeral homes. Or hospitals. They have a big bin where they keep all the discarded parts. You know, spleens and stuff.”
“Suppose someone couldn’t afford to have a lot of questions asked about that finger. Like who it belongs to. Providing a body would be a neat stroke.”
“A little extreme, don’t you think?”
“Hard to say. There must be more to the story we haven’t figured out.”
We were on the outskirts of Arlinda now, rolling past a modest business park just south of the off-ramp. My eyes fell on a drab building set apart from the others. A long black hearse was pulled around the side. For some reason, I thought of the array of business cards I’d found in a drawer at the open house.
“There’s probably nothing in it,” I said.
Gail signaled her turn. “I’m sure the police are considering every possibility.”
“Exactly. We should stick to selling real estate.”
“Sounds like a good plan.” But there was a gleam in her eye that made me wonder.
—
Back at the office, I dropped the seminar materials into a drawer and went down the hall to Everett’s office. The door was closed, so I tapped on it. When no one answered, I tried the knob. Locked.
“Sam, I can’t log on to the multiple-listing service,” Gail called.
I trotted back to where she was seated at our desk. “Let me try.”
I tapped in my username and password. Invalid. I tried again and got the same message.
“Maybe Everett skimped on his association dues,” Gail said.
I thought it might be something worse than that. “I’ll call them.”
I got the association secretary on the phone, and explained our problem.
“I’m going to have you talk to Lenora,” she said.
I waited on hold until the office manager picked up. She didn’t waste time with small talk.
“Your broker’s license was suspended as of noon today,” she said. “Because he’s your supervisor, all associates under his purview are also suspended.”
“That’s not possible. Based on what? Isn’t there some sort of due process or something?”
“The investigation has been ongoing. The state bureau issued a special dispensation giving the board president authority to act, due to the grave nature of the accusations. Now that charges have been filed—”
“What?”
“Everett Sweet was arrested this morning in connection with the death of his ex-wife,” she said. “They’re charging him with first-degree murder.”
Chapter 16
I left Gail sitting at the desk, stunned, and went out the back. My van was parked on a side street, and I unlocked the sliding door and climbed into the passenger area. Then I called Bernie.
“You know I can’t talk to you about this,” he said.
“He’s my boss. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“You’ve known him since when? March?”
“February. But I’m a pretty good judge of character.” Most of the time. “And if I’m not back to work soon I won’t be able to pay my mortgage.”
“Come on. It’s Decker’s investigation. I reviewed his file. It’s more than strong enough to take to the district attorney.”
“That doesn’t mean Everett’s guilty. This whole thing feels—off. He was crazy about Marian.”
“They were divorced.”
“Yes, but—” I stopped. It wasn’t up to me to tell the police they’d rekindled their relationship. And Bernie was the police.
“But what?”
“But I’m sure you must have other suspects.”
“Who do you have in mind?”
“I don’t know. Her husband, for starters. She dumped him, right? Bet he was pissed.”
“They were legally separated. Cole Woods took off Friday for a long weekend and didn’t get back until Sunday night. Three people swear he was on Lake Mendocino fishing and drinking beer.”
“Three of his best buddies, you mean. They’re covering for him. Or maybe he killed her after he got back.”
“Coroner places the time of death at Saturday night, early Sunday morning at the latest.”
“Okay.” I stopped and thought. “Maybe her partner, whatshisname, Atherton, wanted her out of the firm for some reason. Investing is a cutthroat business.”
“I thought that was real estate.”
“That’s how I know. Living by commission brings out the worst in people, believe me. And don’t forget about her stepson, Neville. Though I’m not sure why he’d kill her.”
“He does inherit, according to her will.”
“There! What more do you need?”
“But, as far as we can tell, she didn’t have any assets. Not on paper, anyway. Any more suspects for me? You’re on a roll.”
“Tons. A disgruntled client. Maybe she ruined someone. Or Mr. Williams. What about him?”
“Besides the fact that he’s dead?”
“But he wasn’t dead Saturday night. And he was pretty steamed about those overhanging branches.”
“Are you implying he killed his neighbor for a little more sunlight?”
“Seasonal affective disorder is a real thing. Especially on the North Coast.”
“We’ll take that under advisement,” he said gravely.
“There’s something else, too.” I took a deep breath, then told him my theory.
“So let me get this straight,” he said. “Here we have a finger with no body. Then along comes a body with no finger. And you’re suggesting they don’t belong together.”
“Call it woman’s intuition. There must be tests you can run.”
“The preliminary lab work shows the blood type is a match. Of course, that just narrows it down to a few million people. We won’t get DNA results back for at least three weeks.”
“By then Max and I will be out on the street.”
“I’m sure it won’t come to that. You can always move in with me.”
“That’s not funny.”
“It wasn’t intended to be.”
I needed to change the subject, and fast. “What about fingerprints? Can you do something with those?”
“We’ve run some prints. But here’s a little-known fact: while all the prints on a person’s hand might share certain characteristics, they’re not identical. So it’s impossible to say conclusively whether it’s a match.”
“How about inconclusively?”
He sighed. “We need facts, not speculation. Or woman’s intuition.”
I let it go. “Everett’s office is locked. Did you do that?”
“Not me personally. Decker’s probably there now with a search warrant.”
Oh, God, this was a frickin’ nightmare. “I’m going to head home.”
“Sam.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry about all this.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
—
I felt a strange reluctance to return to Fickle Court. My safe haven seemed somehow less safe with Stacy living just a crutch-length away. Instead, I swung by the deli and picked up one of their oversized chocolate chip cookies, even though the sight of it made my insides curl. Mind over matter, I told myself. Get right back on the carbohydrate pony. I couldn’t let one bad experience deprive me of one of my major food groups.
I threw the waxed paper sack on the passenger seat and drove to the Arlinda Waste Treatment Plant and Wildlife Preserve. The preserve, a hundred and thirty acres of former industrial land, had been converted by city planners into a nonchemical sewage-treatment facility and bird sanctuary twenty years earlier. Six miles of hiking trails wound through murky ponds and the skeleton of an old sawmill, making the place a popular destination for dog walkers and joggers. There was a boat launch and a scattering of picnic tables by the parking lot.
I grabbed my bag and settled myself at an empty table with a view out across the bay. Mercifully, the wind was from the west, carrying away the dank perfume of the processing yard where Arlinda’s business was decanted into liquids and solids. Two tables over, a father and son were feeding the birds, tossing pieces of bread from a plastic bag onto the rocky path near the water’s edge. Gulls massed in a vortex of fluttering wings, wheeling and screeching, dropping down to stab at the feast. A lone crow bided his time, then waded into the fray and gulped down a morsel of bread before half a dozen gulls chased him off.
A Killer Location Page 10
