Natsuko was off the hook this time, as there were other issues to deal with.
"I couldn't believe it when I read in the paper that the Carter Delaney was your ex," she exclaimed. "I know you had the same last name and all, but—"
But you just can't imagine the wealthy and charming Carter actually being married to me, I thought, slightly amused. Giving her the benefit of my gaze, I muttered: "It was a long time ago. Before he became the Carter Delaney—"
We both took a moment to collect our thoughts before Natsuko asked: "Was he your first love?"
"Yes," I told her.
"And were you his?"
"I think so," I said while thinking that Carter had always hinted at that without coming right out and saying it. Later, it made no difference one way or the other. Especially when he decided that he had enough loving to go around.
"Did he want you back?" Natsuko asked, moving to the other side of me so that she could see my eyes, having apparently recovered from the shock of my marriage to Carter.
I made it easier for her by looking directly at her. "No! He was married to someone else."
Natsuko must have missed that in the paper, judging by her reaction. Never mind the fact that their marriage had hit a few bumps in the road of late.
"I'll bet he never got over you," she said mischievously.
If that were true, Carter sure chose a rotten way to make his point, I thought. I preferred to believe—suicide or not—the circumstances went well beyond his feelings for me.
I told Natsuko: "We both knew going our separate ways when we did was the best thing at the time. I doubt anything had changed since then."
Not for me it hadn't.
"One thing has changed," Natsuko said solemnly. "Your ex is dead—"
I left the kitchen on that depressing note. Natsuko followed, saying: "When the police came for my fingerprints and told me what happened, I realized I had just missed him—"
I regarded her with a raised brow. "What makes you say that?"
"I remember passing his car when I left," she said. "He almost hit me. I wondered why he was in such a hurry to—" She stopped on a dime.
"How do you know it was Carter?" I asked bluntly, knowing I was grasping at straws here.
Natsuko looked at me as if it were obvious. "He was driving a silver Cadillac DeVille like he owned the road or something. The police described his car to me."
"I see." After sucking in a deep breath, I told her unenthusiastically: "I think it's time we got to work in here."
For the next three hours, we cleaned up everything the police had left in disarray, and then some. But there was no cleansing away the memory of Carter in the bathtub. Whether the house could ever truly be the same again remained to be seen.
Natsuko had disappeared to who knows where when the doorbell rang. Since I felt relatively safe answering the door in broad daylight, in spite of being unarmed, I didn't bother to check to see who it was before opening it.
Standing before me was Carter's widow...
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Observing her up close, face to face, Darlene Delaney was thinner than I realized, but definitely not gaunt. There were no outward signs of drug abuse. In fact, she appeared remarkably healthy, with a clear and enviable complexion, while sporting her new haircut. She was dressed rather ostentatiously in a paprika skirt suit with a matching hat, an off-white French cuff blouse, and high heels. The shoes made us about the same height as I stood there in flats. At the moment—wearing my cleaning jeans and a baggy old tee shirt—I felt somewhat diminished in stature.
"You don't look like a private investigator—" Darlene said as we stood on opposite sides of the entryway.
It sounded more like an accusation than an observation.
I sneered, thinking sarcastically: Well, you don't look like a woman in mourning. Or, for that matter, an adulteress and drug abuser. Obviously, looks can be deceiving. Or maybe not. "PI's come in all shapes and sizes," I told her.
She touched the brim of her hat. "I guess."
I studied Carter's widow, curious as to the nature of her visit, which she revealed before I could beat her to the punch.
"I could never do that sort of thing," Darlene told me. "Carter wouldn't have allowed it, even if I'd wanted to. It wouldn't fit his idea of the 'good little wife'...at least not the second time around—"
The man hadn't been dead for forty-eight hours and his widow was wasting no time drawing unflattering comparisons between us.
"I guess people change," I said resentfully, not sure whom the resentment should be directed toward. Truth be told, I was the one who had changed more than Carter. Yet he clearly seemed to be in the middle of some major turmoil in his life—before it ended.
Natsuko chose this well-timed moment to resurface. "I have an exam in the morning I need to prepare for," she advised me, practically squeezing between us to get out the door. She eyed me with a good-luck-you'll-probably-need-it look, and said: "I'll see you next week, Skye—"
"Mahalo for coming to help," I told her.
She smiled. "No problem. I can always use the extra money." Then Natsuko added: "If you need someone to talk to..."
"I have your number," I finished for her, smiling appreciatively.
As soon as she left, Darlene said unevenly: "If this is a bad time..."
I gave my uninvited guest a sarcastic look. "I wonder what gives you that impression."
Her mouth became a straight line. "Look, I really didn't want to come here to—"
"Then why did you?" I felt I was entitled to ask.
Our eyes met. "It seemed like it was time for us to meet," she uttered, licking the gloss on her lips, "under the circumstances. I'm guessing if I hadn't come to see you, it was only a matter of time before you showed up at my door."
The lady was slick, I thought, and obviously brighter than I'd made her out to be. Made me wonder just what she was up to. Did she come to gloat over stealing Carter, several years too late? Or to solicit sympathy from someone who could relate to her loss?
I gave her the benefit of the doubt and decided to play along for now. "You're right, we were going to have to cross paths sooner or later," I said coolly. "Now is probably as good a time as any."
She took that as her invitation to come in and it was.
In the foyer, Darlene flashed me what looked like a practiced smile and put out a perfectly manicured hand. "Carter has told me so much about you," she gushed, "I feel as though we've already met."
We had, in a roundabout way, but I wasn't ready to show my hand just yet.
"So do I," I hummed.
I shook her hand. It felt moist, and I wondered if it was from the heat or nervousness beneath her cool exterior. It occurred to me that drug addicts were prone to perspiring while in need of a fix.
We stood there staring at each other in silence for a few moments of where-do-we-go-from-here before I broke the ice. "Can I get you something to drink?" I asked her. "I've got beer, wine, papaya juice, coffee, tea..."
She shrugged. "I'll have what you're having."
Two glasses of papaya juice coming up, I thought. I went into the kitchen, half-expecting her to follow. She did not. At the last moment, I had a change of heart and poured some red wine into two goblets.
I found Darlene in the living room, which was the last room Natsuko and I had worked on. It was presentable, but there was still the distinct smell of death in the air, as Carter's corpse had passed through here on its way to the morgue. We would both have to deal with it in our own way.
Darlene seemed fascinated by my ceiling fan, as though it were spewing out air crookedly or something.
"Your wine," I said, startling her.
She took the glass and sat on the sofa. I joined her.
She met my eyes and asked bluntly: "Why did Carter choose to kill himself in your tub? I mean, couldn't he have chosen a more dignified way to commit suicide?"
I wondered why she was so sure he had taken his
own life. Granted, the tide seemed to be leaning in that direction, but it was almost as if Darlene knew more than she had apparently let on to the police.
I sipped my wine. "The exact cause of Carter's death is still under investigation."
She gave me a doubtful gaze. "Something tells me you don't believe he killed himself."
"It doesn't really matter what I believe," I told her warily. "What makes you think he killed himself, other than what you've read? Was Carter suicidal?"
Darlene hesitated. "He was a little depressed, but I didn't think it would come to this."
"It has come to this!" I argued. "Carter was your husband. Why the hell don't you tell me why he's dead now, Darlene?"
She sighed and looked away from me. "Sure, I'll tell you—" After drinking some wine, she turned back to face me. "If you really want to know, I think Carter killed himself in your house to punish and humiliate me."
I nearly choked as though I had a chicken bone lodged in my throat. "You've got to be kidding. Why in the hell would Carter come into my house and drown himself because he wanted to punish and humiliate you? Excuse me, but you didn't find him. I hardly think—"
Darlene didn't flinch. "If you knew Carter the way I did, you'd understand why. He's never been happy with me or his daughter, who he never wanted brought into this world. I was never good enough for him, no matter what I did or tried to do. He wanted to make me pay for taking him away from his precious Skye, who could do no wrong—"
I was shocked by her assertions. The Carter I was married to never held me in such high esteem. He certainly found enough faults to go elsewhere for his sexual needs...and his desire to father a child.
I viewed his widow's words with a healthy dose of skepticism.
"With Carter, everything had to be dramatic," Darlene continued bitterly. "And what better way to kill himself than somewhere where you would be sure to find him, knowing that I would have to live with it for the rest of my life." She sighed. "That no good bastard!"
In that moment, I couldn't help but sympathize with her to some degree, having been on the receiving end of Carter's deep betrayal. Was Carter really so unhappy with his life that he would end it at a time when he was searching for answers?
Answers that I could have provided for him had he kept our appointment.
Could the man I had once loved actually have been so spiteful as to commit such a violent act in order to hurt his wife and daughter? Did that make me—the one who literally mopped up his remains—any less a victim?
Whatever else was going on with Darlene, I couldn't help but think that she too must have loved Carter in some way, shape, or form, in spite of her transgressions.
"I'm sorry about Carter," I told her sincerely. "At this point, I don't know why he died at my house, but the last thing either of us needs is to blame ourselves or each other."
Now was not the time to play on my suspicions, not to mention facts, surrounding her.
"You're right, of course," Darlene said, and offered me a tearful smile. "You, if anyone, should know what I'm going through—" I wasn't sure if I needed to read between the lines. She put the glass to her lips, sipped, and then said: "I guess I'd better be going. I still have to make the funeral arrangements. And I haven't found the courage yet to tell my daughter that her dad is dead..."
I didn't envy Darlene in that sense. Carter had truly loved his daughter. Now the girl was fatherless, and would probably suffer as a result.
I couldn't really offer the widow any advice, since I had never walked in her shoes. However, I did say a silent prayer for Darlene in the hope that her own actions wouldn't result in more grief for her daughter.
I watched through the blinds as Darlene Delaney screeched away in her red BMW and couldn't help but wonder how much of her ordeal was self-inflicted. Another side of me wondered if in some strange way I was just as culpable.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
He watched from the cluster of palm trees as the housekeeper left the residence, got in a car, and drove off quickly, as if she had somewhere more important to be. She never even bothered to look in his direction. Not that she would have seen him behind the cover the trees provided around Skye Delaney's property. That was just the way he wanted it. There was no reason to draw suspicion at this point.
He was much more interested in the meeting taking place inside between Darlene Delaney and Skye Delaney. He imagined that Carter would love this. His ex and his widow sharing bedroom stories and other dirt on the former prosecutor, businessman, and royal screw up. If either woman only knew the half of it.
He could almost hear them pointing their damned fingers at each other threateningly. "Carter killed himself because of you," he said mimicking Darlene. Then he responded as Skye: "The hell he did. He killed himself because he couldn't bear knowing that his wife was a damned whore and a drug addict."
A brawl could ensue. He'd put his money squarely behind Skye, who was definitely fitter and just plain tougher when push came to shove.
Yes, Skye Delaney was definitely his type of woman. He was glad he had finally gotten to meet her—kind of. The problem was she didn't know it as such. And he planned to keep it that way until it was time for them to meet formally.
Darlene came out the front door. He couldn't tell if she was pissed or satisfied that she'd covered her ass. She got into that red car that Carter had given her, started it, and, just like the housekeeper, zoomed off to a destination unknown. That didn't mean he couldn't hazard a guess as to where she was headed. He'd bet it was to see that asshole lawyer she thought was her secret lover boy.
Secrets are made to be exposed, he thought.
He pondered that for a moment of glee, and then noted it was Skye's turn to emerge from the house. He quickly ducked behind a tree. It wouldn't be smart if she caught him snooping around. There might be questions.
Then more questions.
And he wasn't about to do any talking. Not yet anyway.
He waited out of sight until he heard her car drive off. For a moment, he considered entering the premises while the lady and her dog were away. Then he decided not to press his luck.
Not like Carter Delaney had pressed his luck. Until he ran out of it...
He made his way through more palm trees on the dead-end street until he arrived at the next street where his car awaited.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Murder was the Medical Examiner's official conclusion as the cause of Carter Delaney's death. Ridge stood there with his mouth agape in the examining room where Carter's remains lay on a table in front of us. In spite of being repulsed by the idea that the discolored corpse in front of me was once my husband, I felt somewhat relieved that he hadn't taken the easy way out by committing suicide. He had been the victim of foul play, but it was still a hard pill to swallow.
Dr. R. Mitsuo Isagawa was the Chief Medical Examiner for the City and County of Honolulu. The rather frail, black-haired man in his early fifties had personally conducted the autopsy. Because the decedent happened to be a former lawyer for the Department of the Prosecuting Attorney and one of the city's most prominent businessmen, there could be no question as to how he died or who determined such cause.
Mitsuo had probably seen just about every type of death there was. He gave me a fatherly look with irregular furrows lining his brow. As a cop, I had spent more than my share of time listening with difficulty to the results of autopsies he had performed. This time would undoubtedly be the hardest.
"Are you sure you want to hear this, Skye?" Mitsuo asked in a gravelly voice, glancing at the body, "And see Carter like this—?"
I cleared my throat and said with determination: "I'm a big girl, Mitsuo. I have to know how Carter died, no matter how hard it is to listen to."
The three of us exchanged looks before Ridge eased his fingers between mine, and Mitsuo said: "Carter died from neck compression..."
"So he didn't drown then?" Ridge asked.
"No," Mitsuo said flatly. "He was alre
ady dead before his head hit the water—" He looked me in the eye and continued: "Carter's neck was crushed while he was in a horizontal position—likely on a hardwood floor, judging by the scratches and dust particles found on his body. I'd say someone who was very strong used either a knee backed by their full weight on his neck, or maybe even their bare hands..."
Mitsuo tilted Carter's limp head from side to side as if to illustrate his point. "Whoever did this probably knew exactly what they were doing, if the plan was to inflict a great deal of pain, commit murder, then try to make it look like suicide by putting his head under water." Mitsuo squinted. "But, by then, the lethal damage had already been done."
"You okay?" Ridge whispered to me worriedly as Mitsuo pulled a sheet over Carter's body.
I nodded even though I felt a little lightheaded. I reached deep within to keep myself from passing out, not wanting to let this get to me in a way I couldn't control. Satisfied that I had shaken it off, I asked Mitsuo: "So you're saying that Carter was definitely killed by a man?"
Mitsuo regarded me and Ridge with one eyebrow cocked. "I don't recall saying that. The only definite thing about murder is that someone is dead." He sighed. "Yes, the killer was most likely a man, though an enraged or strong woman probably could have done the same thing, especially if she used something like a barbell or some kind of heavy object to assist her."
Ridge rubbed his chin and asked skeptically: "Could a woman have also carried Delaney up the stairs after possibly killing him on the main floor and then put him in the Jacuzzi?"
Mitsuo pondered the question. So did I. After a few minutes, he said: "That's one you'll have to figure out, Detective Larsen." He paused, planted his gaze on my face, and said: "Of course, no one ever said the killer acted alone..."
One of Carter's arms suddenly dropped from the table. I gasped as the lifeless, pale limb dangled. Was it a post-mortem reflex? I wondered. Or was it a cry of help from the other side?
Murder in Honolulu: A Skye Delaney Mystery Page 7
