“She recognized them—”
“Or they recognized her—”
“Could you—”
“I’m on it.”
* * *
A dark blue Chrysler 300 picked me up as I turned off Highway 96 onto West Pleasant Lake Road and followed at a respectful distance as I maneuvered through the North Oaks Golf Club to the lane that lead to Mrs. Barrington’s palatial estate. It closed the distance, coming to within a car’s length of my rear bumper when I drove up the long, meandering driveway, and I half expected to hear sirens and see flashing lights. When they didn’t come, I figured it was because the driver didn’t wish to disturb the neighborhood over a guy whose sole crime was driving an eight-year-old Toyota Camry in the land of milk and honey.
I parked it at the top of the driveway. I demonstrated my disdain for the tail by completely ignoring him as I walked to Mrs. Barrington’s massive front door and rang the bell. The African American maid appeared moments later.
“Hello, Ophira,” I said.
“It’s you.”
I threw a thumb over my shoulder in the general direction of the Chrysler.
“Friend of yours?” I asked.
“No friend of mine. He’s a CSO—community service officer. Likes to roam the streets looking for trouble. He used to follow me all the time when I first started working here.”
“That’s because you’re such a dangerous-looking young lady.”
“I’m sure that was it.”
Ophira opened the door wide, and I stepped past her. She blew a kiss at the officer before closing the door.
“Mrs. Barrington said you’d be around this morning. She said to put you in the library.”
“Nice.”
Ophira looked at me like I was nuts.
“How’s Devon?” I asked.
“Much better.”
I was two strides past her when I noticed she had stopped walking. I turned to meet her gaze.
“What did you say to her?” Ophira asked.
“I told her that none of what was going on was her responsibility.”
“There had to be more to it than that.”
“I also told her to have a good cry.”
She stared at me as if she thought I was putting her on.
“May I ask you a couple of questions?” I said.
“Not about her.”
“About Devon’s brother.”
“What ’bout him?”
“And his girlfriend.”
“What ’bout him?”
“Were they together the night she was killed?”
“If you want to call it that.”
“What would you call it?”
“Her running out of the house and him chasing, saying, ‘Let me explain, let me explain’—that ain’t together. That’s coming apart.”
“What were they fighting about?”
“I can’t say.”
“You can’t say because you don’t know or can’t say because something is keeping you from speaking out?”
Ophira jabbed a finger toward an open door.
“In there,” she said. “Don’t touch anything.”
I stepped inside the library. A grandfather’s clock beat a steady rhythm. Beyond that, I heard no sound. I browsed the shelves. There didn’t seem to be any strategy to how the books were displayed, fiction mixed with nonfiction, some novels in French and some in Italian, and I wondered how the owners found anything. Or did they even bother to look? It could be, I told myself, the books were bought strictly for display.
“Good morning, Taylor.”
The greeting caused me to pivot away from the shelves toward the door. Eleanor Barrington swept into the room the way you’d expect a 1940s movie star to enter—think Katharine Hepburn in The Philadelphia Story. She was wearing a summer dress with a revealing neckline and a full skirt that flowed like waves at sea.
“Good morning,” I said.
She walked straight up to me and hugged my shoulders as if we were besties too long apart.
“It’s good to be free,” she said.
“You did well with the media last night. I was very impressed.”
“That’s kind of you to say.”
“You behaved as if you actually did care what happened to Emily.”
“David Helin prepared me for the questions I would be asked, and we rehearsed how to answer them.”
“I guessed.”
“So…” Mrs. Barrington stepped into the center of the room. “What do you think?”
“About what?”
“My ensemble, silly.”
She spun in a circle, the smile never leaving her face.
“Very nice,” I said.
“I wanted to look like a woman. After spending all that time in jail with those … people—it was important to me that I look like a woman. Do you think I look like a woman, Taylor?”
“That sounds like a trick question.”
“And you don’t miss a trick, do you?”
Mrs. Barrington laughed, although I had no idea what she thought was so funny. She moved to a cabinet and opened the doors, revealing a cache of alcohol.
“Is it too early for you to drink?” she asked.
“It’s too early for anyone to drink.”
Mrs. Barrington filled a squat glass with thirty-year-old Macallan, drank some, replaced what she drank from the bottle, and took another sip.
“Fuck, I needed that,” she said. “Three days in jail.”
“The Ramsey County Detention Center isn’t exactly Devil’s Island, and you’re not Dreyfus released after five years of false imprisonment.”
“My, but you do speak your mind, don’t you? I used to like that about you. Now I don’t.”
“Ahh.”
“I don’t like you poking around my life. You questioned my son yesterday. My daughter, too. That makes me angry. Very angry.”
“Actually, Devon wanted to talk to me and I let her. I concede your point, though. It won’t happen again.”
“It better not. I told Helin it fucking better not.”
“Is there anything else?”
“Mr. Taylor, you wanted to speak to me, remember?”
“Yes. I have a few questions.”
“You can ask me anything you like. Me. Not my children.”
“U.S. Sand—”
“Assholes.” Mrs. Barrington took another sip of her Scotch. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything?”
“Why are they assholes?”
“They want to turn western Wisconsin into one massive silica sand mine. They’ve been buying property around Arona for some time now. Last year they made an offer on half of the land I own along the Trempealeau River. I turned them down, partly because I don’t approve of their shitty methods. They preach environmental responsibility, claim to be eco-friendly. If you go to where they’ve been, you’ll see that it isn’t true. Mostly, though, it was because the property has provided my family, my husband’s family, a refuge for many decades, and it’s just too dear to give up.”
“Your son met with representatives of U.S. Sand the day before Emily Denys was killed.”
“That’s true.”
“Emily became very upset when she learned of the meeting.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
“Why was there a meeting at all if you had already turned them down?”
“U.S. Sand didn’t go away just because I told them to. They’ve continued to acquire property, continued to expand their operations in Arona. During the thirteen months since we last spoke, they’ve obtained nearly a thousand acres. Mines are being developed all over the place. It’s not going to stop, either. The demand for silica sand for use in fracking is insatiable. An estimated ten thousand tons is needed for a single well. That’s thirty to forty million metric tons a year, Taylor. It’s going to get worse, too. You can be sure there will be more mines and more and more. In both Wisconsin and Minnesota.
“If that’s not enough, w
ater usage is intensive. The average mine requires as much as a half-million gallons each working day, and most of the mines work seven days a week. To get it, they’re draining the watershed; they’re taking it from the river. They are, in essence, creating what amounts to a man-made drought. And don’t get me started about runoff.
“The point is—my property has an estimated market value of about three-quarters of a million dollars today, and it’s dropping because of the effect sand mining is having on the community—the dust, the noise, the unending convoy of trucks. U. S. Sand is offering one-point-five million. Of course I’m going to listen.”
“Did Emily know this?”
“If she did, I didn’t tell her.”
“Did your son?”
“I have no idea what they found to talk about. Taylor, there’s nothing criminal about any of this. There’s no conspiracy, nothing to hide, nothing to kill anyone over. It’s strictly business. A multibillion-dollar business as it turns out.”
“Okay.”
“Is that it?”
“For now.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me? I know you want to.”
“I’m sure we’ll chat more as the case proceeds.”
“Go ahead and ask. I won’t be upset.”
“Your son is prepared to testify against you.”
“He’ll change his mind.”
“He’s already made allegations that can be used in court.”
Mrs. Barrington finished her Scotch, went to the cabinet, and refilled her glass. She drank half of it and pressed the glass against her forehead.
“Ask me,” she said.
“I’m not your lawyer.”
“You want to know.”
“It won’t make any difference to how I do my job.”
“It’s true. Everything my son said is true.”
“Okay.”
“Okay? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Who else knows about you and Joel?”
“No one.”
“Devon?”
“No one.”
“Emily?”
“No. One.”
“The night she died, she was upset about something.”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, okay. Admit it, Taylor—you hate me.”
“Honestly, Eleanor”—it was the first time I used her given name—“I don’t hate you. I don’t hate anyone anymore. I used to. The list of people I hated was long and not particularly well organized. Yet over the years … Probably it’s a product of seeing so many good people doing so many awful things for reasons that seem valid at the time. You can’t hate that many people without becoming hateful yourself. It just drains you, too, the hate. Now—I’m like most people. I make it up as I go along. Mostly, I guess, it’s a matter of what I can live with, and more and more I find that I can live with just about anything.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to hate myself.”
“Feel free.”
Mrs. Barrington fixed her eyes on me. For a moment, I thought she was going to speak. Instead, she took another long pull of the expensive Scotch and turned her back.
I said good-bye and left the room.
CHAPTER TEN
Helin had parked his car next to mine in the driveway, a Lexus GS. No one followed him, I noticed. He was walking toward the Barringtons’ front door as I left the house. We met halfway.
“Do you want to know what I have so far or would you rather wait until I can put it in writing?” I asked.
“What I want, Taylor—no more conversations with anyone in the Barrington family unless I’m present.”
“So I’ve been informed.”
“I had a long discussion with Mrs. Barrington last night and … Listen, it’s not you. You’re the best investigator I’ve ever worked with, believe that. It’s all on them. What a mess.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I’ve had more likable clients than this one, that’s for sure. Remember Judith Marie Strobel? What a joy she was.”
“Too bad she poisoned her husband.”
“What can you do? Sometimes the people we like really are criminals. This woman, though. She is so … so…”
“Screwed up?”
“We need to keep her out of a courtroom. The minute she steps into a courtroom … Find out about the girl, Taylor. Please. Hope she ripped off a Mexican drug cartel, because right now that’s the only chance Mrs. Barrington’s got.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“You know, after Eleanor admitted that what her son said was true, I came this close to walking away.”
“Freddie and I were tempted to do the same thing.”
“Why didn’t you?” Helin asked.
“Why didn’t you?”
“Professional pride, I suppose. Besides, despite everything, I still don’t believe she’s guilty.”
“At least not of the crime of murder.”
* * *
I pulled out of Mrs. Barrington’s driveway. The Chrysler 300 was waiting for me. I spoke to its reflection in my rearview mirror as I negotiated the residential streets.
“C’mon, man. Don’t you have anything better to do?”
I kept driving. He kept following. I had a thought. I pulled off the street where Pleasant Lake Road intersected Highway 96 and parked the Camry next to what used to be North Oak’s security gate. The 300 pulled up behind me. I left the Camry and walked toward the driver. He seemed anxious, so I showed him my empty hands. He powered down the driver’s side window, and I felt a blast of cold air. It was seventy-three degrees in early June in Minnesota, and he had his air conditioner on. What a putz.
“Officer,” I said, “I’m going to reach for my credentials.”
He watched intently as I slid my right hand under my sports jacket and retrieved my wallet from an inside pocket. I showed him a photostat of my license.
“I’m a licensed private investigator,” I told him in case he couldn’t read. “I work for Mrs. Barrington.”
He nodded like he knew it all along.
“May I have a moment?” I asked.
I backed away. He thought about it for a few beats before opening the door and sliding out of the Chrysler. He was a head taller than I was and dressed in full uniform. He pressed his fists against his hips and scowled at me.
“Well?” he said.
I admit I liked him better when he was sitting down.
“You’re a community service officer,” I said. “You work the mean streets of North Oaks.”
I didn’t mean to sound sarcastic, which turned out to be okay because apparently he didn’t notice.
“I keep an eye on things,” the officer said.
“You picked me up almost immediately when I crossed the city line.”
“What of it?”
“Do you keep track of all the cars that come and go?”
“I try to pay attention.”
“You know which vehicles belong to the residents and which are driven by interlopers.” I liked the sound of the word so much I repeated it. “Interlopers.”
“I know who’s who.”
“Four days ago, in the evening, did you happen to see a black, two-door BMW 640i coupe leave the city?”
The question wasn’t as outrageous as it sounded. There were only three places an outsider could gain access to North Oaks, one off Highway 96 and the others off the less-traveled Hodgson and Centerville Roads.
The officer grinned at me.
“I saw nothing,” he said.
“More to the point, did you happen to see a black, two-door BMW 640i coupe return to the city sometime after ten P.M.?”
“It didn’t happen.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” he said.
“It didn’t sneak past you—going out, coming in?”
“Not on my watch.”
He was being a good soldier, I decided, looking out for the we
lfare of his employers.
“You’re willing to swear to that?” I asked.
“I am.”
“In a court of law with a jury, prosecutor, and judge hanging on your every word?”
He thought about it and slowly shook his head.
That’s what I was afraid of.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The suite leased by the representatives of U.S. Sand was located in an office tower within sight of the Minnesota state capitol building. Except for a couple of dentists and an accounting firm, it mostly housed lobbyists representing everyone and everything from artists, farmers, auto dealers, beer wholesalers, and timber producers to cable providers, energy firms, insurance companies, healthcare organizations, and bowling proprietors, including something called the Minnesota Podiatry Association. The fact the building faced the back door of the capitol didn’t surprise me a bit.
The suite was located on the third floor. I knocked and tried the door. It opened onto three rooms, two offices with windows facing the street and an interior reception area with no natural light. A young woman sat behind the desk. ESTHER TIBBITS was printed on a nameplate in front of her. Both her hair and her eyes were the color of Hershey Kisses; her breasts strained the buttons of her shirt. I tried hard to ignore them—the buttons, I mean.
“May I help you?” she asked.
I flashed my ID because it impresses some people and said, “I’d like to speak to Misters Kaufman and Palo.”
“May I ask what this is pertaining to?”
I pulled my smartphone from my pocket and called up one of the pics Devon Barrington had sent me.
“Did you accompany Kaufman and Palo to a meeting held in the offices of Mrs. Barrington a few days ago?”
Esther hesitated before answering. “Yes.”
I showed her Emily Denys’s pic.
“Do you remember seeing this young woman?”
We were interrupted before she could reply.
“What’s going on here?”
A man was standing in the doorway of the first office. He was nearly as wide as he was tall; the expensive suit he wore was cut to conceal his girth, but there’s only so much even the most gifted tailor can do.
“Richard—Mr. Kaufman—this is Mr. Taylor,” Esther said. “He’s a private investigator.”
“What do you want?” he asked.
“I’m investigating a murder,” I said.
“Murder?” Esther said. “The girl in the pic, was she the one who was killed?”
Darkness, Sing Me a Song--A Holland Taylor Mystery Page 7
