Tom climbed from the van. I watched his commanding swagger as he accompanied the cop up the driveway. Three police cars now ringed the dead end. I turned to my son, who had pulled around the edge of the quilt to cover his face.
“Arch, honey,” I said gently, “what can I do for you? Do you want me to call Todd? See if he can come over here? The cops are going to want to talk to me…because I found your dad. They’ll probably talk to you, too. Then I’ll have to go down to the department. When I do, would you like to go over to the Druckmans’? Or do you want to stay with me?” I paused. “I’m willing to have you with me every minute.”
Arch hesitated, then poked his head out of the quilt. He was scowling, trying to keep a lid on his feelings. “I don’t know. All right, I’ll be with Todd.” He raised his eyes to mine. “What about you, Mom?”
“I’ll be fine,” I said, with more calm than I felt.
I called the Druckmans’ house and told the machine that we’d had a family emergency. If Eileen could come to the Stoneberry cul-de-sac to wait for Arch, we would deeply appreciate it. I closed the cell phone, thinking I should call St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, where John Richard was a sometime parishioner. But I couldn’t face it. I stared out the windshield, unable to think. The sun’s glare on the dust burned my eyes.
Cops swarmed all around us. Once again, Arch’s breath began to come out as soblike gasps. I hugged him. Shoulders heaving, he accepted the embrace.
Tom startled us by opening the back door. He slid in again, his face grim. Still, he reached over and patted Arch on the back.
“Hey, buddy. I’m sorry. We’re going to take care of you.”
Arch cleared his throat once, twice. Then the three of us were silent. What if the cops insisted Arch go to the department with me? I couldn’t contemplate it.
When Eileen Druckman’s black BMW wagon roared up, I thanked God. Eileen leaped out of the car and trotted toward the van. She wore a gray sweatsuit. Her dark hair was wet, as if she’d just gotten out of the shower. Bless her for answering my desperate call so quickly.
I jumped out when Eileen was intercepted by a cop. He seemed to accept her explanation for why she was here, and let her go. As I walked over to meet her, I noted that what had to be my heightened adrenaline from finding John Richard had diminished the physical pain from that morning’s assault. Once again, I shook my head at the irony.
“John Richard’s been shot,” I murmured. “He’s dead.”
Eileen’s slim, pretty face twitched. “Good Lord.”
With Tom helping him, Arch slowly descended from the van. He still had the black-and-gold quilt pulled tightly around his head and shoulders. On this breezy, dusty June afternoon, he needed the protection. Before my son was allowed to leave, though, the same policeman intercepted him.
“We need him to give a statement, ma’am,” the cop informed me.
My shoulders slumped. “Can’t it possibly wait?”
He shook his head, but his tone softened. “The detectives aren’t here yet. Tell you what, I’ll take a preliminary report. You need to be here, though.”
I nodded. Of course. I knew a parent had to be present when a minor was questioned. But I sure didn’t look forward to it.
We walked to his car, which smelled of tuna sandwiches and old vinyl. In a halting voice, Arch told the patrolman everything he’d seen, from the old man in the blue sedan (he’d been up knocking on the door when the guy asked for his money), to there being no answer at his father’s house. When we got to the part about how I’d told him to wait while I went to the garage, the patrolman flicked me a look. Still numb, I pressed my lips together and shrugged. When Arch broke down and started crying, the cop told him he could leave.
Eileen walked over and held Arch. “Todd’s waiting for you. Oh, you dear boy, I’m so sorry.”
“Arch!” Tom called after him. “I’ll come over to the Druckmans’ house as soon as I finish here with your mom. All right?”
Arch looked back and nodded, his face a pale sliver inside the dark quilt.
When Eileen’s wagon had belched smoke and taken off down Stoneberry, Tom muttered to me that he’d return in a few minutes. He strode back up the driveway. I couldn’t think of what I was supposed to do. The policeman said I needed to wait for the detectives, so I climbed back into the van’s driver’s seat. There were now six Furman County Sheriff’s Department cars parked at various angles in the cul-de-sac.
It was going to be a long afternoon.
Cops came and went. One unrolled yellow crime-scene tape around John Richard’s rental property. The coroner arrived.
I had no idea how much time had passed. Finally, finally, Tom came walking back down the driveway. When he climbed into the passenger seat, his ordinarily rosy face was drained of color.
I said, “Now what’s—”
He held up his hand. Then he reached forward and opened my glove compartment. My glove compartment that I usually kept locked.
It was empty. I stared at the vacant space, not comprehending.
“Dammit!” Tom whacked the compartment closed. This unusually violent act unnerved me. My ears began to ring.
“Tom. Don’t tell me they found my gun in the garage.”
He shook his head. “You know they’re not going to let me be part of this investigation. But…I happened to see the thirty-eight beside the driveway, like someone had tossed it there. I just didn’t want to believe it.”
“I did not shoot him. I swear.”
He reached out for my hands and held them. “I know.” He paused. “After you accidentally fired at the mice this morning, you didn’t lock your thirty-eight back in your glove compartment, did you?”
I thought back, now wholly confused. I must have locked the compartment. I’d unlocked it when I’d shown my gun to the officer investigating the attack. He’d left when Julian and Liz arrived. Then we’d been in such a hurry to get new food, my body had hurt so much from being hit, and I’d been so worried about Roger Mannis showing up…no, I remembered replacing the gun, but not relocking the compartment. But aside from that cop, Marla, and Tom, who knew I kept a gun in the van? And Marla would never have done this. She was working at the bake sale, and she would have joked that that was much more important than shooting the Jerk.
Tom reached for my cell phone and pressed the buttons for Marla’s cell. She must have answered right away, because Tom began talking almost immediately.
“Trouble here, Marla. We need you to find a criminal attorney for Goldy and have him meet her down at the department ASAP.” Tom paused. “What do you mean, why? Of course she didn’t do it. But things aren’t going too well. We’ll tell you more later.” Then he pressed End. I could just imagine Marla hurling her cell phone against whatever wall was convenient. She hated people hanging up on her.
Tom handed me my phone. “Put this in your pocket. We’re going to have to talk quickly because—”
“Oh, Lord, Tom, I’m going to be sick.”
“Listen to me. Look at me.”
I focused on those green eyes, usually liquid with love. Now they were stern, commanding. My stomach tightened even more. “Say as little as possible, understand? Don’t worry that it makes you look guilty.” He touched my cheek, as if to soften his words. “Do not talk about being attacked this morning. Do not tell them the gun went off in your hand. Do not even tell them you have a gun. Give as brief a statement as possible. Then when you get down to the department, demand to confer with your lawyer.” His eyes turned gentle. “You have to trust me on this.”
“I trust you on everything,” I said weakly.
Two detectives were sauntering down the driveway. I knew they were detectives because they wore dark suits and sober ties. One held a clipboard. The other signaled to Tom that they wanted to talk to me. Panic rose in my throat, as it had so many nights when John Richard had been raging, hollering, and throwing things. The memory of that fear immobilized me.
I wanted to bolt.
My mind, so blank a while ago, was now whirling. This morning I’d been beaten up and sabotaged. Of course I’d suspected the Jerk. I’d taken my thirty-eight into the Roundhouse and been so startled by rodents, I’d accidentally fired at the floor. And now I had gunshot residue on my hands. John Richard had been shot with my gun, stolen from my glove compartment that I’d stupidly forgotten to lock. He’d been killed sometime in the three hours between when I’d last seen him at the Roundhouse and four o’clock. And when I’d last seen him at the Roundhouse, sixty-plus people had witnessed the two of us locked in a shouting match.
“Mrs. Korman? I mean, Mrs. Schulz?” said the first detective, a young, red-haired fellow with a name tag that said “Reilly.” His clipboard, I noticed, was filled with bright white paper. Behind him was someone else I didn’t recognize, a taller, older man with black hair, a ruddy complexion, and “Blackridge” on his name tag. “Could you get out of your vehicle and talk to us for a few minutes?”
I obeyed him. Tom had put his career on the line by checking my glove compartment, to see if the weapon they’d found was mine. My dear husband. How different he was from the one who now lay dead up in the garage.
Everything will be all right, I told myself. But it sure didn’t feel that way.
6
Will you give us permission to search your vehicle?”
Reilly asked in the same formal tone.
“Yes, yes, of course,” I said automatically. And then I had a horrible thought: What if the killer who’d taken my gun had planted something in my car? The detectives had already nodded at two crime-scene guys; one of them clambered into the car. Tom looked at me and gave a thumbs-up. I wanted to feel confident, but I didn’t.
I took a deep breath and followed the detectives halfway around the cul-de-sac, until we arrived at a department car.
“When did you get here, Mrs. Schulz?” Reilly asked, his blue eyes flat.
“Just before four. Maybe five, ten of.”
He scribbled. “And why were you here?”
“John Richard Korman, the man who was…shot, is, was my ex-husband. This morning, well, actually, this afternoon, he…” Suddenly I couldn’t stand it. Literally. “I need to sit down.”
They opened the doors of the department car, and the three of us slid in. Blackridge sat in the driver’s seat. Reilly, beside me in the back, told me to keep on with my story.
“He, John Richard, said he had a late tee time for playing golf with Arch. Arch is our fifteen-year-old son who just left.” Neither detective spoke. Reilly motioned for me to go on. “John Richard said for me to bring Arch over at four, which I did.”
When Reilly wrote, his short, pale, freckled fingers moved very fast. Blackridge’s face, meanwhile, was impassive. When a groan escaped me, the detectives exchanged a glance.
“When you got here,” Blackridge asked, “was anyone else here?”
“Yes, someone was.” I described the down-at-the-heels fellow with the skeletal face. Blackridge wanted to know about the man’s car, and seemed surprised that I’d written down the license number. Reilly retrieved the piece of paper I offered from my pocket and took more notes.
“What made you do that?” Blackridge again. “Take down this man’s license number, I mean.”
“He called me ‘Mrs. Korman.’ I guess he assumed I was John Richard’s wife because Arch was up at the door yelling, ‘Dad! Dad! Open the door!’ Anyway, the man wanted to know if I had his money.”
“ ‘His money,’ ” Blackridge repeated. “What money?”
“Well,” I said, “obviously, money the Jer—uh, John Richard owed him!” As Arch would say, Duh. Through all this, Reilly wrote.
“Then what did you do?” Blackridge demanded.
“Nothing. The guy seemed to get nervous. He left. Then I went up to the door with Arch. We both banged on it and rang the bell.”
“You banged on the door?” Blackridge’s dark brown eyes pierced me. “Why?”
I sighed. “Because I was sure John Richard was in there.” I ordered myself to get the anger out of my voice before saying any more. In a calmer tone, I went on: “You have to understand. John Richard had been very insistent that I bring Arch over promptly at four. I was convinced he was hiding out from this fellow, one of his creditors, who wanted his money. But I figured that since the guy had driven off, John Richard just wasn’t aware that the coast was clear. So when he still didn’t answer the door, I said to Arch, ‘Let’s try one more time.’ ” I stopped talking, trying to recall what had happened next. What had happened exactly.
“Then what?” Blackridge prompted me after a few moments.
“I walked around to the garage.”
“Where was your son?”
“I told him to wait at the front door.”
“You said, ‘Let’s try one more time.’ Why didn’t you have your son go with you?”
“I don’t know.” Why did the truth have to look so bad? Just wait here, honey, while I go pretend to discover Dad, dead. Heat rose to my cheeks. I added, “I told my son I was just checking to see if the Audi was there.”
The detectives traded another look.
Blackridge said, “Go on.”
“The garage door was half open, which was bizarre, or at least unusual for John Richard.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because John Richard loved that car, that new Audi. He was manic about his stuff. He’d never risk someone being able to break in through the garage.” Blackridge nodded for me to continue. “I ducked down. I could see that the Audi was still there. So I scooted under the garage door—”
“Why not call Arch over at that point?” Blackridge wanted to know. “You’d been at the front door together, trying to summon his father.”
I let out a deep breath. “I don’t know.” This seemed to be my refrain for the day. “Anyway,” I went on quickly, eager for this to be over, since I knew I was going to have to repeat the whole thing down at the department. “I went in, walked across the garage, and then…” I paused, remembering the horrid sight of John Richard’s twisted body. “Then I saw him. In his car. I saw he’d been shot and that he was dead. So I called Tom and got his voice mail. I left a message about what I’d seen, and I asked him to come up here. Then I called you all.”
“Did you touch anything in the garage? Move anything? Take anything?”
“No, no, no, of course not.”
Reilly tapped the clipboard with his pen. “We’ll be analyzing the tape of your call to 911,” he put in.
“Go ahead,” I retorted, feeling fury flare. So what if I’d hung up on the 911 operator? I’d been worried about Arch, still out front. I hadn’t wanted him to make an appearance in the garage and see his father, so grotesque in death.
Blackridge lifted a warning eyebrow at Reilly. “And next, Mrs. Schulz?” he asked gently.
I bit the inside of my cheek. In a homicide case, the cops traced all the calls you made, so omitting the call to Marla was a bad idea. “I called my best friend, Marla Korman. She’s John Richard’s other ex-wife. I got her voice mail, too.” I took a deep breath.
“And why did you call the other ex-wife of the man you’d just found dead?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t think. Because she’s my friend, I suppose. I left her a message saying John Richard was dead. Then I went to tell my son there had been a terrible accident. That his father was dead. I knew he’d need me. Then the two of us waited for you all to show up.”
Blackridge had hooked his meaty arm over the front seat so he could turn and look at me. “Do you have any idea who could have done this, Mrs. Schulz? Did Dr. Korman have enemies? Say, particular people who didn’t like him?”
I thought of Courtney MacEwan’s cold eyes and hardened visage this morning. He owes me. But she was only one of many women—present company included—whom John Richard had made love to passionately for a while before moving on to someone else.
“He had ex-girlfrien
ds,” I said lamely. “Lots of them. Fifty-some.”
“Fifty-some? Can you give us names of the most recent ones?”
I felt horrid pointing the finger at Courtney, but I was being truthful here, right? “I’m pretty sure the most recent ex-girlfriend is named Courtney MacEwan.”
“Spell her name, please.” Reilly’s thin voice startled me. Feeling like a total heel, I spelled Courtney’s name.
“Anyone else?” Blackridge asked.
“His current girlfriend is named Sandee Blue. I think she works at the country-club golf shop.”
“Anyone else?”
“Wait. He had an argument at the funeral lunch with a man named Ted Vikarios. I don’t know where Ted lives or even if the argument is significant.” I spelled Ted’s name for them. Did I know any other possible enemies of John Richard? they asked. I said, “Apart from the man wanting his money, I don’t know who John Richard’s current acquaintances are. Were.” I did not add my usual comment, I try to stay as far away from him as possible.
“Okay, Mrs. Schulz,” Blackridge said. Finally. “You know the drill here. You’re the primary witness, and we need to take you down to the department to make a taped statement.” Reilly flipped over the pages of notes he’d taken and tucked the clipboard beside him. Blackridge turned the key in the ignition, and we started out for the Furman County Sheriff’s Department. There, I knew, everything would be different.
My new criminal lawyer would be waiting. This would make me look even more guilty, but tough tacks. And the taped interrogation would not be, as they say, a piece of cake.
Brewster Motley had wide shoulders, a mop of long, sun-bleached blond curls, and a tanned, boyish face complete with impish grin. He looked like a surfer who’d accidentally gotten tucked into an expensive gray Italian suit and dark gray leather loafers. Unfortunately, I’d had to deal with a few criminal lawyers. When you’re telling them what actually happened, they smirk at you. And then when the two of you are with the cops, your lawyer commands you to shut up, even when you have a perfectly good explanation for how things went so wrong. In any event, I took to happy-go-lucky-looking Brewster Motley. He’d believe I was innocent, wouldn’t he?
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