Double Shot gbcm-12

by Diane Mott Davidson

  Blackridge said, “We’ve got a team canvassing the neighbors, seeing if anyone caught a better look at the two guys who made the mess inside. Also, your son will be here shortly.”

  “Wait. You know Sandee Blue, the stripper? She just called me.” Blackridge’s face became impassive, so I rushed on: “She just told me her jealous boyfriend Bobby had a Ruger, and supposedly lost it.”

  “You and Sandee talk about weapons?” Blackridge asked.

  I flushed. “Not really. I just thought I should pass on what she said.” I gave him the address on Ponderosa Pass while he scribbled.

  “Got it, Mrs. Schulz. This is very interesting. Thanks.” Was that a wee crack in Blackridge’s attitude toward me?

  “What about the strip club Sandee works at?” I asked. I had to be careful, because I didn’t want to press my luck with Blackridge, and I certainly didn’t want to give away Marla’s and my visit to the Rainbow. “Did you ever link that club to anything?”

  “Not yet,” he said. To my astonishment, Blackridge actually smiled at me before sauntering back to his vehicle.

  I rolled the window back up and stared out at the gleaming gravel. Then I nabbed my cell and punched in the Mountain Journal office. It was past five, the sun was sliding toward the western mountains, and it was unlikely anyone would be there. But I was so used to Frances Markasian calling and demanding information that I thought it was time to give her—or her voice mail—a bit of her own medicine. And anyway, I couldn’t bear to sit in this van and worry about Bobby Calhoun and his gun.

  “Markasian,” she answered.

  I smiled in spite of myself. “Ask not what Goldy can do for you,” I said. “Ask what you can do for—”

  “Cut the crap, Goldy. I don’t know what happened to Cecelia Brisbane.”

  “But you’ve got a theory, surely.”

  “Don’t call me Shirley. Hold on a sec.”

  I sighed and looked out the window. The moon, a large, pale disk in the blue haze, was rising in the east. Birds still chirped in the trees, a sure sign we were a long way from the dark of night. I knew I shouldn’t keep looking up at John Richard’s house, but I did anyway. What did I feel? Nothing. Maybe that was denial. I knew guilt was hovering, waiting to pounce, but I wasn’t feeling it at the moment. How many times had I wished him dead? Uncountable. But I was feeling neither guilt nor joy. Really, what I felt was numb. I shook my head in disbelief. He’s gone.

  And what had been going on with him, anyway? I didn’t just mean with whatever crime or cruelty had gotten him whacked. I meant in general. So charming and yet so mean, he had been a conundrum. And now I was on the phone with a reporter—a sometime friend whose nutty intensity had driven me batty more than once—because I just couldn’t understand John Richard, in life or in death. Worse, his murder had severely strained my relationship with my son. Maybe when this crime was solved, I’d be able to feel again. Maybe I’d be able to live again. Maybe.

  “Goldy? You there? Sorry ’bout that. They’ve got a fire up in the preserve.”

  “I know, I heard. How big is it now?”

  “Eleven hundred acres. They think it’ll be contained by morning.” She sighed. “I still don’t know anything about Cecelia. Can you tell me something?”

  “I wish I could. But she turned up dead just a couple of days after I found my dead ex-husband. Can’t you give me some help? Any help? Please?”

  “You think the two deaths are connected?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just that having the two occur so close together is more than weird.”

  “Have you got anything to trade for it?”

  I took a deep breath. Was it worth it? I had to take the risk. “I’ll tell you, but you absolutely, positively cannot come over here now.”

  “Where’s here?”

  “Do we have a deal?”

  “Yeah. Spill.”

  “John Richard’s house was broken into this afternoon. Ransacked. The cops have got me over here now to go through it, see if anything is missing.” I omitted any mention of Arch.

  “Holy cow. When can I come over?”

  “You can’t. Just start bugging the cops in about two hours with your ‘Do you confirm or deny’ questions. If you’re pressed, say a neighbor phoned you. Now tell me what you know.”

  “Okay, Goldy. Thanks for the tip. First of all, Cecelia Brisbane was extremely unhappy—”

  “Do you think she committed suicide?”

  Frances paused. “It’s possible. But I wasn’t picking up on her being depressed after the death of Walter. But lately, I couldn’t say.”

  “Is this in code? What are you talking about?”

  “What I tell you absolutely goes no further than this phone call.” I grunted assent, and she went on: “Walter Brisbane was charming to everyone on the outside and a tyrannical boss, Goldy. I mean, the man was a nut. He yelled at Cecelia and treated her like dirt on the floor. After he committed suicide, she seemed to be okay for a while. Then lately she’d gone into a funk. I couldn’t understand it, because everyone was complimenting her on that photo in the library, her daughter doing her patriotic duty in the armed services, that kind of thing. Cecelia would glow for a while, and then slump.”

  I said, “Do you know this daughter?”

  “Alex? No. She’s a naval officer. Cecelia said Alex’s ship was doing exercises with the Greek navy off Piraeus.” Frances inhaled. “You’re going to tell me anything you learn about Korman, right? And you won’t breathe a word of this until I’ve got it nailed down.”

  “Okay, okay. But I need to know if any of this involved John Richard.”

  “I don’t know who it involves, yet. When I told you I didn’t know what happened to Cecelia, I wasn’t telling you the whole story. What do you think drove Walter to suicide?”

  Brewster Motley’s Mercedes pulled into the cul-de-sac. The sun winked off his windshield. I could just make out his blond head, nodding as he talked into a cell phone. Arch was supposed to be here five minutes ago.

  “I need you to cut to the chase, Frances.”

  She lowered her voice. “I’m not sure about why, out of the blue, Walter packed it in. But my theory is that somebody threatened to expose him. You know that pay-phone call that preceded his death? They never figured out who it was from or what was said. Cecelia has been fine for all these years since he died, and then in May she started getting really, really depressed when she was at her desk. She’d put on a good face when she was in public, then come back here and go into a funk. I mean, as in, she’d learned who killed Kennedy and couldn’t tell anybody and couldn’t put it in the paper.”

  “And?”

  “And I talked to her neighbor, Sherry Boone.”

  “Oh, God, Frances.”

  “Check this out, then. My theory was that old ghosts had suddenly come up in Cecelia’s mind, and she was obsessed with whatever was bothering her.” Frances paused. “In May, Cecelia broke down to Sherry Boone. Cecelia sobbed that her daughter, Alex, had claimed since age ten that her father had been having sex with her. Cecelia cried to Sherry that she hadn’t believed a word of her daughter’s story. But after Alex finished high school, when she left and wouldn’t come back, Mother Cecelia began to wonder.”

  My hand gripping the phone went cold. “So you’re saying Cecelia didn’t know what was going on in her own house while Alex was growing up?”

  Frances’s voice was strained. “Do mothers ever know? Do mothers ever not know? You’re the one with the degree in psychology.”

  I glanced at the clock. Brewster was still on the phone, and no cop was coming to fetch me. “So Cecelia was all happy because people were praising her for a daughter doing her patriotic duty. But this same daughter had been sexually violated by her father. And she was depressed because she was finally facing the truth. So…how and why did Cecelia die?”

  “That’s what I’m looking into now. When Cecelia did columns, she kept notes. Naturally, the cops took her computer and
files. But when the news raced up here that it was Cecelia’s body in the lake, I scooted over to her desk. By the time the sheriff’s department arrived, I’d nabbed her disks. They weren’t password protected, so I printed everything out.”

  “Frances—”

  “How did you think I was going to get material for this story?” she protested. “After Cecelia got interested in something and did background research, she’d write up a bunch of questions that might get answered in a column. Like with your hubby and Courtney—”

  “Ex-hubby.”

  “Yeah, well. Cecelia was poking into that tennis-and-golf tournament at the club, the one that’s taking place today and tomorrow? She wanted to know who had paid for what in the sponsorship, and Korman’s motive for putting up all that dough. Your ex-hubby was notoriously cheap with money, apparently.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know. And his motive for the sponsorship was…?”

  “Dr. John Richard Korman was making his second debut into society,” Frances announced dramatically. “On the tail of Courtney MacEwan. Or at least, on the tail of her tennis dress.” Frances shuffled through some papers. “Here are the other things she was working on. ‘A firing at the fire department.’ ” More shuffling. “ ‘Teachers are starving and it has nothing to do with school cafeterias.’ Here’s something up your alley: ‘Health inspector Roger Mannis—being paid off to create trouble?’ ”

  “Did she have any research on that one?” I asked sharply. Behind me, a black-and-white was pulling up.

  “Nope, sorry, or at least not on the disk I downloaded. Here’s her last note to herself. ‘Hypocrisy? Look more closely at Vikarioses.’ ”

  I drummed my fingers on the dashboard. “Is that about the money John Richard supposedly stole? You know, your theory on the down payment on our house? That he supposedly didn’t repay?”

  “No, no, no. I was wrong on that. Your ex got the money from his father, not the Vikarioses. I’ve got a source at the bank, and she looked up the old check.”

  I exhaled in relief. I knew Frances had been wrong. If John Richard stiffed somebody, he always crowed about it, then claimed he’d been justified. “So who called you with an anonymous tip with the claim about the fifty Gs coming from Ted Vikarios, and him demanding it back?”

  “I don’t know. It was just a woman’s voice on my voice mail. Not only do I not know, it looks as if Cecelia didn’t know anything about it, either.”

  The patrol car behind me flashed its lights. I was desperate to know if Cecelia had left any notes about the supposed rape. But I didn’t want Frances looking into another allegation, especially since the cops were supposedly working on it. Beside the curb, Arch was looking around, his expression wary. “I need to hop,” I told Frances.

  “I want to know what’s missing from Korman’s house!”

  “I promise I’ll tell you later. The cops are here,” I said, and hung up on her screeching protest.

  I stashed the cell in my pocket and jumped out of my van. Arch’s face looked so haggard, it was hard to believe he’d enjoyed his brief time at the water park and at Todd’s. Probably his feelings—or lack of them—were fluctuating like mine. You can’t feel grief all the time.

  “Arch, honey,” I began when I walked up to him, “you don’t have to do this.”

  “Yes, I do.” His words came out weary and resigned. His face set in bitterness, he glanced up at his father’s rental Tudor. “You know the amazing thing? Say Dad hadn’t saved that guard’s life. Then the governor wouldn’t have commuted Dad’s sentence, and he’d still be alive.”

  I pressed my lips together and groaned sympathetically. Of course, I wanted to say, If your father hadn’t been engaged in something underhanded, he’d still be alive. But I didn’t.

  “Mom?” Arch turned earnest eyes back at me. “The detective told me it wasn’t bullets from your gun that killed Dad.”

  “I know.”

  Arch swallowed and adjusted his new wire-rimmed glasses. The splash of freckles across his nose, disappearing fast with adolescence, was suddenly visible in the late afternoon light. “I’m sorry I got mad at you. I know you didn’t mean for your gun to get stolen. Oh, gee, Mom, I just feel so bad, and I didn’t want to make it sound like I blamed you…”

  I pulled him in for a hug. Oddly, I felt cheered. Arch was getting his conscience back; he was apologizing and meaning it. Maybe I hadn’t done such a terrible job these last fifteen years. Then again, maybe he wasn’t feeling hugely affectionate, as he wrenched himself away from my hug. After all, there were people around. I said, “It’s okay.”

  “Mom, listen. I feel terrible.” He looked down, then scraped the toe of his tennis shoe through the dirt deposited in the street from the recent rain. I remembered Tom’s terse statement: Your son has never played golf in his life. Maybe now I was going to hear what he had been doing every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon. “Mom, there’s something—”

  “Come on, folks!” Blackridge called from the bottom of the driveway.

  Arch whirled away and hustled to meet the detective.

  Brewster Motley cantilevered himself out of his Mercedes and approached me with a spring in his step. I’d finally decided who Brewster most reminded me of: Tigger, in the Winnie-the-Pooh stories. Sure, Brewster had a client who was a suspect in a murder case, and sure, we were here at her murdered ex-husband’s house to see who had trashed it. But hey! This is what Brewsters do best!

  “Goldy! What’s happening?” He wore khaki pants and a burgundy golf shirt, and I wondered what recreational activity the house inspection had interrupted. He stopped in front of me and pulled up on his belt—a grosgrain affair covered with little burgundy frogs—and eyed the cops at the front door. “You know what they’re searching for?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “Okay, look.” He leaned toward me, but kept his gaze fixed on the cops. “Don’t say anything unnecessary. Don’t make any extraneous comments. If they ask you anything beyond, ‘Do you see anything missing from this room,’ say, ‘I don’t know.’ ”

  “Fine. You heard about the ballistics test?”

  He grinned. “You bet. But with a positive GSR on you, they may try to link you to that twenty-two.”

  I felt as if I’d been punched. “They would do that?”

  He raised an eyebrow and gave me a grim smile.

  “Listen, Brewster, you don’t need to stay.”

  He ducked his chin, shaking the blond mop in an emphatic negative. “I’m here. I’m going in with you. The cops could try to trap you with questions. This whole thing could be an ambush.”

  “Even using Arch?”

  “You bet.”

  I trudged up the driveway with my criminal lawyer at my side. At the front door, I gave formal permission for Arch to go in with Reilly and Blackridge, and agreed to accompany them. I felt an unaccountable dread, wondering if I really would detect John Richard’s emotions before someone shot him in the heart and then the groin.

  After crime-scene investigators had returned to the department, they’d given Blackridge the keys to the front door. To force their way through the windowed back door, the two vandals had shattered the glass. The kitchen floor was a mess. In addition to everything else, Blackridge added. Still, I was not prepared for what lay within.

  It was as if a hurricane had blown through the house. Everything—and I do mean everything—had been pulled apart. The new leather sectional couch Arch had told me his father had bought had been disemboweled. Its stuffing lay in piles around the room. All of John Richard’s CDs were scattered on top of the wood floor and the disheveled Oriental rug, which had been pulled up and moved halfway into the hall. The sound-system speakers Arch told me John Richard had paid ten thousand dollars for had been ripped open. Woofers, wires, and amplifiers lay strewn about like the guts of a giant robot. The vandals—or whatever they were—had even smashed the giant TV to smithereens. Why would someone who was searching for something do that? I began to
wonder about these robbers’ motives.

  Arch stood, his mouth open, and took it all in. Under the detectives’ gentle probing, he began an oral inventory of what he thought had been in the room. As Reilly scribbled, I stepped carefully into the slate-covered hallway. There, men’s and women’s clothing—Sandee’s, presumably—had been unceremoniously chucked from the bedrooms. Athletic shoes, dress shoes, backless high heels with matching purses, John Richard’s Italian loafers and high-end running shoes—all these lay heaped between the clothes. John Richard’s beloved magazine articles about himself—beautifully matted and framed—had been wrenched from the walls and smashed. Why?

  Blackridge, who had followed me, saw my puzzled look. “Probably looking for a safe of some kind. Ditto with the television. You can buy them hollow, to conceal stuff.”

  “But…why the mess?” I glimpsed John Richard’s favorite Mountain West magazine article from twelve years before: “Korman Named One of Denver’s Top Twenty Doctors.” There was another: “Southwest Hospital Lauded for State-of-the-Art Obstetrics Program.” What patients never knew is that those articles, even the magazines, were commonly paid for by the doctors themselves. They were like advertising supplements, even though John Richard (and others) often clipped off the teensy-weensy printed word advertisement before having them framed and hung in their offices.

  Everything he did was a lie, I thought. Everything. He never cared about other people, only himself. Without warning, I remembered John Richard’s strangely blank face when I hung up the phone and told him my grandfather had died. I’d slumped into one of our old kitchen chairs and started crying. He’d turned away and searched the refrigerator for a beer.

  I gaped at the mess in the hall. Suddenly, I knew what he really was. I’d had all those courses in psychology, but I’d never seen it, not until he was dead. John Richard had been a psychopath. White collar, to be sure, but a psychopath nonetheless. Their main characteristic? They don’t feel.

  I swallowed, trying to remember what I’d learned. Psychopathy resulted from a genetic predisposition, not arising, researchers were now discovering, from environment. The serial rapists and killers had usually had an abusive childhood with all kinds of narcissistic injuries. But what about psychopaths born to loving, supportive environments? Yes, John Richard’s mother had been an alcoholic, but he’d still been his parents’ golden boy. And he’d gone on to use people and toss them, in an endless attempt to feel something. To get a thrill.