But she didn’t.
What she smelled was lily of the valley. She thought it might be from the talc on the latex, from handling the toiletries beneath Jenny’s sink. But it wasn’t. It was the bear. She leaned into the racks of Finn’s clothes and realized the scent was on them, too.
“What’d you find?” Hank asked, coming up behind her. “You’ve been in there forever.”
She put the bear back on the shelf. “It’s all Finn’s things. She kept everything from the time he was a baby. The albums are full of his photos. The whole lot reeks of Crabtree & Evelyn, like she couldn’t leave his things alone.” Jo felt sad just talking about it.
Hank peered into the closet, and she could see his mind clicking behind the squint. “I can’t help but wonder if she couldn’t go on living without him. Maybe it was too much.”
“She was obsessed with him, yes,” Jo said, only agreeing with Hank in part. “He was her only child, and she lost him. She was still hurting. That doesn’t make her suicidal.”
“Are you sure about that?”
She brushed past him, exiting the closet. She went straight to the desk, not wanting to argue. The only thing that was going to solve the question of how Jenny died was evidence, not emotions.
“The date book’s there,” Hank said from behind her. “It shows the appointments Dielman mentioned.”
Jo picked up the leather-bound book and thumbed through the months until she came upon the current week, spotting circled dates, including one marked Ernie—Vet; another, Patil—Labs; and the Friday after Thanksgiving. She’d drawn a heart around that date, had written one word inside the square: Finn.
The anniversary of his death.
Jo frowned.
There were scribbled notes in the margins. Some looked like grocery and to-do lists, which seemed far removed from diary entries. She flipped back several weeks, stopping at a spot where Jenny had jotted down a phone number and followed it with large, loopy question marks.
She asked Hank if she could borrow his cell, and he handed it over. She punched in the number, let it ring and ring endlessly, until she hung up and gave the phone back to her partner.
“Anything?” he asked.
“Nope.”
She’d do a reverse-directory check on it later.
Nothing else popped out at her. This definitely wasn’t the diary of a mad housewife as much as the calendar of a very private woman. There were no lunches with friends that Jo could find, no date nights with her husband. What a lonely life to have lived.
Hank pressed an evidence bag on her, one he’d plucked from his inside coat pocket. She dutifully filled out the chain-of-custody tag with her badge number, item, location, and condition before she picked up the date book and slipped it in, sealing the adhesive flap. Then she wrote up a receipt for Dielman and left it on the blotter. “Anything else?”
“I found an empty glasses case in the top drawer.”
Jo spotted the black oblong box set to the side of the blotter. “Did Jenny wear glasses?” she asked to his shrug.
“Does it matter?”
“I don’t know what matters,” she told him. She felt like, where Jenny’s life was concerned, she had only photos with parts cropped away. She was still trying to put the whole picture together.
Hank led the way out of the room, and Jo switched off the ceiling light.
She went through the hall closet, finding several women’s coats—a tan raincoat and windbreakers, but not the black wool. There was Patrick Dielman’s plaid-lined Burberry that he’d worn when he’d come to the station on Tuesday morning. She recalled him dropping a leather glove from his pocket during their initial conversation.
On impulse, she reached into the pockets and withdrew one.
Would the leather grain match the impressions left inside Jenny’s car? It would make sense, wouldn’t it, for a husband to occasionally drive his wife’s vehicle? Except that Jenny’s old Nissan seemed a poor cousin to Dielman’s BMW. She doubted Patrick Dielman would have wanted to drive his wife’s car just for fun.
She placed the glove in an evidence bag and kept looking.
They worked their way through the dining and living rooms, examining chair and sofa cushions, getting on hands and knees to peer beneath furniture, opening drawers and rifling through magazines, until there was nowhere else to search.
She peeled off the latex gloves and shoved them in her pocket, hanging on to the pair of evidence bags. She could hear Dielman’s voice on the telephone in the kitchen, speaking in a ragged cadence, and she figured he’d gotten hold of Jenny’s sister and was giving her the bad news. He kept talking, turning his back to them as they entered.
Jo glanced toward an opened door beyond the kitchen. She could see a washing machine and dryer. She hooked a thumb in that direction, and Hank nodded as she detoured into the utility room.
There was nothing in the cabinets above the machines but detergents, cleansers, and glass vases that came with FTD flower deliveries. Jo raised the washing machine lid and peeked inside. She checked the dryer as well, but both were empty.
A litter box sat in the corner, but it looked clean. Either Patrick Dielman was as fastidious about the cat box as keeping dust bunnies from under his bed, or he let the cat out to do his business.
“Jo?” Hank called, and she went back into the kitchen. Dielman was off the phone, but he still ignored them. He faced the sink, his palms braced on the edge of the countertop as he stared out the window.
Hank cleared his throat. “You have a minute, sir?”
He didn’t move. “Did you get what you needed?” he asked quietly.
“We took her appointment book and a glove from your coat pocket,” Jo said, indicating the evidence bags in hand.
“My glove?” Dielman asked, turning around. “Why?”
Jo kept her voice cool. “It’s for comparison, nothing more.”
His jaw clenched, but he didn’t argue. “Did you find a suicide note?”
“No,” she said, but she did have a question. “Did your wife wear glasses?”
“Why does that matter?”
“We found an empty case in her desk.”
Dielman shook his head. “They weren’t hers.”
“Could the case belong to Finn?” Jo asked, because that would make sense. The room was practically a shrine to Jenny’s son.
He grimaced. “As you must have noticed, she kept a lot of Finn’s belongings. I tried to get her to donate them to charity, but she wouldn’t do it. She couldn’t let go of him. No matter what I said or did, she wouldn’t let him go.”
No, she couldn’t.
Jo felt an ache deep down, and it had nothing to do with her strained muscles.
“Maybe it comforted her,” she suggested, “like she still had a part of him.”
“Maybe,” he murmured.
He turned around again, and Jo stared at the back of his head, at a spot on his crown where his hair had thinned.
“Mr. Dielman, was Jenny afraid of anything in particular?” she asked. “Was there something that happened that made you think she needed a weapon?”
“I worked in the city, so she was alone a lot, Detective. I couldn’t be with her day and night to protect her. If you haven’t noticed, the world’s a pretty scary place.”
Yeah, Jo had noticed.
“Thanks for your time, sir,” Hank said from beside her. “I think we’ll head next door to Ms. Barton’s. You did tell us she was home?”
“She’s expecting you.”
“Appreciate it,” Hank drawled.
“Wait, Detective Larsen, this is for you.” Dielman picked up something from the counter and twisted, flipping it at Jo.
A plastic rectangle landed at her feet. She bent to retrieve it.
“My parking card,” he said brusquely. “I know you called my secretary this morning, checking up on me. Why don’t you have the parking service run it for you? Then you’ll know I’ve been telling the truth. I didn�
��t hurt my wife.”
Jo pocketed the card. She met his eyes. “I’ll do that.”
“We’ll be off then, sir,” Hank said, touching Jo’s arm. “If you think of anything . . .”
“There is something.” Dielman faced Hank. “I have to make plans . . . for the funeral. Do you know when they’ll be done . . . when they’ll release her?”
Her body, Jo thought, which was in the morgue, awaiting postmortem.
“Her autopsy’s scheduled for later today,” she said. “So it’s possible they’ll release her as early as tomorrow.”
Dielman ran a hand over his hair, nodding. “Tomorrow? Okay. Do I need to call someone? How do I do this?”
“Whatever funeral parlor you choose can contact the morgue, sir,” Hank told him. “They’ll take it from there.”
“I have to bury her by her son. It’s what she wanted.”
Jo didn’t disagree.
Hank tapped her arm again. “Let’s go.”
Dielman didn’t bother to walk them out, but they knew their way. They stepped out into patchy sunlight, and Hank went over to the Ford just long enough to lock the evidence bags in the trunk. Then they headed to Lisa Barton’s.
I’m so tired these days. I hardly sleep. When the phone rings, I jump. I never know when the calls will come, but they’re always when I’m home alone.
I answer, “Hello?” Then the voice, soft and breathless as a child’s, will say, “Mommy, are you there?”
Only today, I was ready.
Today, instead of making me weep, it made me angry.
When it was over, when the soft voice was gone, I pressed *69.
I waited for someone to pick up. Instead, it rang and rang and rang. I nearly gave up, but finally I heard a tentative, “Hello?”
I asked what number I’d called, and a befuddled man rattled it off. I wrote it down but didn’t recognize it. “Who are you?” I asked. “Why are you doing this?”
“Lady, I don’t know what in the Sam Hill you’re yappin’ about. This here’s a pay phone in the Presbyterian Hospital lobby. I didn’t call you, and I sure as hell don’t know who did.”
Presbyterian Hospital?
The hospital where Finn died?
The same hospital where K has his surgery practice?
Is he trying to torture me?
Who else would do such a thing?
I’ve racked my brains but only came up with this: no one.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Lisa Barton was waiting for them at her front door and threw it wide as they approached.
“Come on in, y’all. I’ve got some coffee brewing.” She gestured for them to hurry. “Lord, but it’s colder than a witch’s tits out there.”
Tugging on a hip-length tan cardigan, she herded them into the warmth of the foyer and shut the door.
Though Jo had briefly been inside the house the night before, she was struck by the way the interior mirrored the Dielmans’. All the rooms were the same, just flipped. Such uninspired architecture was commonplace in North Texas. Builders slapped up entire neighborhoods where each home looked like a clone, or at least a near-clone, of the one beside it.
“How I hate this weather,” Lisa moaned, pulling her cardigan tighter around her. “It’s so bitter. Sinks into your bones, doesn’t it? Good thing it doesn’t last, or I’d pack up and move.”
Maybe to spite her, the November wind had scattered brown leaves onto the tiled floor. Jo stepped on one, eliciting a brittle crackle.
“I hate every shade of gray,” Lisa went on, looking gloomy.
She’d pinned up her blonde curls, which emphasized her downturned mouth and the unrest in her eyes. Like the temperature outside, her expression showed no warmth. She looked wrung out and on edge.
“Thanks for agreeing to see us again, ma’am,” Hank said and smoothed the windblown hair across his crown.
“Any word on my brick thrower?” she asked. “I’ve got a piece of cardboard in the window till it’s fixed, which I hope will be this afternoon. I feel so vulnerable.”
“Nothing yet, no,” Jo told her, looking straight at her.
Lisa turned away. “I should’ve figured as much. In real life, the wheels of justice turn slowly. Nothing like on TV, huh?” She glanced at her wristwatch. “Can we make this quick? Patrick needs help with the, um, arrangements.”
“We’ll do our best,” Hank said. “Can we sit?”
“Pardon my bad manners,” Lisa drawled. “Follow me.”
She led them into the step-down living room, where deep-red walls, jewel-toned upholstery, and bright-spattered canvases of modern art assured Jo that the floor plan of this house was the only thing it had in common with its next-door neighbor.
“Nice digs,” Hank murmured as he settled on a sofa with rolled arms.
Jo took a seat on a cane-back chair, the glass coffee table between them. She adjusted her coat beneath her, squirming until the holster didn’t bite into her hip.
“You can take off your coats, if you’d like,” Lisa said, observing Jo’s machinations.
“I’m good.” Jo decided leaving it on was a lot easier than trying to remove it with her sore left shoulder. Besides, she had a chill she couldn’t shake.
Hank removed his overcoat, folding it in half and depositing it over the sofa’s camelback. He tugged at his tweed blazer, adjusting it so he could unbutton it yet keep his holstered weapon covered as he sat.
Jo knew what he was doing. Despite the number of Texans who carried, some folks didn’t like guns in their homes, and the sight of one upset them. Lisa Barton didn’t seem any too relaxed around them to start with, so maybe that was a good idea.
“Would you like cookies with your coffee?” the woman asked, rubbing her hands together. “I’ve got some of those peanut butter ones left over from the last Girl Scout crusade. Little girl up the street sold me a boatload.”
“Not a fan of the Scouts?” Jo said.
“It’s that green uniform,” she said. “Gives me nightmares. I never much liked having to dress like everybody else.” She glanced at Jo. “You ever a cookie pusher?”
“No, ma’am.”
The woman cocked her head, like she was sizing Jo up. “Yeah, you don’t seem the type. I’ll get the coffee then.”
She walked away, the hard soles of her boots clicking on the floor.
“Gal’s got taste,” Hank said, glancing around them.
Jo figured that anyplace not littered with Legos probably qualified as tasteful to him.
But he was right. Lisa Barton might wear beige and drive a beige car, but her home’s interior was bursting with color and texture. Woven rugs covered polished Pergo tiles. A clay pot with a shiny, green patina overflowed with tall stalks of dried wheat. Low-rimmed bowls with a bright red glaze had been set out on the end tables. Jo vaguely smelled ash, but the bowls looked clean. Cut-glass vases filled with Asian lilies had been artfully arranged on various tables.
She reached over to touch a yellow petal, wondering if they were real. Her fingertip came away stained. Nope, definitely not silk.
Hank ran a hand across the gold upholstery that covered the sofa. Then he craned his neck to view the enormous canvas that hung on the wall behind him. Bright slashes of blue, red, and gold crisscrossed the piece, which was signed by the artist.
He let out a whistle. “What do you imagine a thing like this costs?”
Jo squinted. “Way more than our ride.”
“A pack of gum’s worth more than the Ford.”
She smiled, though her amusement faded fast as Lisa Barton reappeared, clutching a silver tray cluttered with coffee mugs, creamer, and sugar.
“Sorry I took so long,” she said as she set it down on the table with a rattle. “It’s just hard to focus, as you can imagine.” She passed a steaming mug to Hank and then one to Jo before sitting down in the second cane-back chair. She slipped her hands between her knees, shaking her head. “I still can’t believe that Jenny’s dead.”
/>
Jo cradled the hot mug and tried to take a sip, but the brew was scalding and too bitter besides. She put it down, noting her partner did likewise. “So how long have you known the Dielmans? They moved here a year and a half ago, right?”
Lisa nodded. “I bought my house about six months before they bought theirs. I was sort of their Welcome Wagon,” she said. “I went over as soon as the moving van pulled up. I gave ’em a list of phone numbers for repairmen, that kind of thing.”
“How neighborly,” Hank remarked.
Lisa Barton smiled tightly. “We hit it off right away.”
“Did you hit it off with Jenny, or just with her husband?” Jo asked, since the woman had admitted she and Jenny hadn’t exactly been bosom buddies.
“Patrick and I have a lot in common.” She crossed her arms and settled back. “He’s in the medical field, and so am I. He manages a group practice, and I manage a small medical supply company in the city. We got to chatting straightaway about dealing with physicians, Medicare, HMOs, contracts, that kind of thing.” She shrugged. “I think Pat liked having someone who understood what he did.”
“Jenny didn’t understand him?”
Lisa shrugged. “I think she had other things on her mind besides Pat’s work.”
“So it wasn’t a good marriage?” Jo asked.
Lisa uncrossed her arms and tugged at the cuffs of her cardigan. “Like I told you already, Jenny was different. I could tell from the start that she was brokenhearted. I don’t think I ever saw her laugh.” She threw up her hands. “Honestly, I don’t know what Pat saw in her except he has this nurturing streak. He thought he could fix her, you know, make her whole again. Well, it didn’t work so well, did it?”
Jo didn’t detect much sympathy, just matter-of-factness.
“Tell me about your relationship with Patrick Dielman,” she said, because it was clear there was something there despite Dielman’s denial. No wonder Jenny had been suspicious of an affair.
“Me and Patrick?” Lisa sighed. “Look, Pat came by when he needed a shoulder. I poured the coffee and listened.” She shrugged. “Really, that’s all there was to it. The guy was in agony. He loved his wife, but she took him for granted. She always had that boy on her mind.”
Walk Into Silence Page 14
