by Alex P. Berg
I smiled. It wasn’t a joke, really. Just an amusing observation about a statue that shouldn’t have been in the first room a home’s guests were introduced to, but it lessened the tension in my muscles. It seemed Dean wasn’t as stiff and formal as he’d appeared from my outsider vantage, and that was helping put me at ease more than any amount of his back-patting or praise could.
Chapter Seven
Dean had inspected every piece of artwork in the parlor twice and started on his third pass when finally we heard the patter of approaching feet. I’d been sitting so long on one of the velvet-upholstered couches that I feared I might’ve worn a permanent groove into it, but I was able to get to my feet and claim ignorance of the flattened cushion before JT Vernon strolled around the corner.
Surprisingly, the political posters plastered around his circus hadn’t oversold the man. He looked the same as on paper, with a thick head of brown curls, eyebrows as furry as shrews, and a nose that migrating birds could perch upon. Just as in the posters, his mustache had been meticulously curled and waxed, his suit pleated and pressed, and if the brilliant smile he greeted us with was any indication, the man had never lacked for good dentists.
Vernon reached out and began pumping Dean’s hand as he spoke. “My most sincere apologies, Detective. When Mossbottom came to fetch me, I was in the middle of a phone call with my campaign manager, Phillipous. Gods, that conversation stretched on and on. I told him I had guests as soon as I was able to get a word in edgewise, but did he listen? Pshaw. The man’s good at his job. I wouldn’t trade him for anyone, but he’s infamously loquacious. Probably why he insists I pay him by the hour, right?”
Vernon’s laugh shook the room as he released Dean’s hand and grasped mine, which he sought out and snagged without my having offered it. “And my apologies to you too, Officer. If I’d known I had a lady in waiting, I would’ve been more curt with Phillipous. Goodness knows he deserves it sometimes.”
Instead of shaking my hand vigorously as he had Dean’s, he pulled my hand to his mouth and gave it a gentle kiss. I don’t know if it was the wetness of his lips or the slight tickle of his mustache, but a shiver ran through me as he kissed it. Thankfully, his grip wasn’t so tight that I couldn’t slip my hand back out, which I did, hiding it behind my back and wiping it against my pants as I gave the man a perfunctory smile.
“But where are my manners,” continued Vernon, his eyes twinkling as his gaze lingered on me. “I’m John Thomas Vernon, but everyone calls me JT. Can I offer either of you a beverage? I’m sure Mossbottom would’ve done it himself if he’d known how long I would be on the phone. Mossbottom?” Vernon clapped and turned to his butler, who’d followed Vernon and stood by the parlor entrance. “How about a pair of your delectable tropical fruit cocktails? Or a trio, actually. I could go for one, myself.”
Dean put up a hand. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Vernon. We’re simply here to ask a few questions.”
Vernon didn’t seem fazed by the rebuff. He nodded, now adopting a look of concern. “Of course. Mossbottom said this had something to do with my wife, Stella?”
“Correct,” said Dean. “Do you happen to know her whereabouts?”
“Ah…” Vernon swallowed a mouthful of air, and his eyes drifted in thought. “Well, no to be quite honest. I assume she’s out. Mossbottom, is her Pearl Motors Clavelle in the garage?”
The gnome dipped his head. “I believe not, sir.”
“Do you know when she left?” asked Dean.
“I have to admit I’m not sure,” said Vernon. “At some point this morning, I suppose. You know womenfolk. Always having their hair and nails done.” The man gave me another twinkling smile, which turned my stomach. Something about him rubbed me the wrong way.
“You suppose…” repeated Dean. “When was the last time you saw your wife?”
Vernon straightened a bit. “That I can answer. Last evening, about an hour after supper. Let’s say… eight-thirty. I passed her on my way to my study. She seemed to be heading… well, I’m not sure. Maybe to the second floor living room to listen to a radio serial.”
One of my eyebrows crept up. Dean had told me to assert myself when I felt it was appropriate, so I did. “You didn’t see your wife later in the evening? Perhaps when you went to bed?”
Vernon didn’t sputter and act indignant, but his face drooped. He rubbed his hands together in an idle fashion. “We have… separate bedchambers.”
I glanced at Dean. He responded with a slight shake of his head and a stern gaze, as if to say, “It’s not our place to ask.” And it wasn’t, unless it pertained to the case. A lot of people lived in loveless marriages, the wealthy perhaps to a greater degree than most.
Vernon cleared his throat. He seemed to have lost some of his bluster. “If you don’t mind my asking, Detective, what’s this about? Is my wife in trouble?”
Dean waved toward one of the sofas. “You might want to have a seat, Mr. Vernon.”
“A seat? Why?” Vernon’s handwringing intensified, and a nervous edge entered his voice. “What’s going on?”
Dean tensed, the tension clear in his shoulders and jaw. I didn’t have any experience telling people their loved ones were dead, but I had to imagine it was the hardest part of the job. Even now, despite the off-putting vibe Vernon gave me, I couldn’t help but empathize with the man.
“This morning, human remains were found in the aviary at your circus,” said Dean. “They’ve been cremated. We don’t yet know how old the remains are, but there are certain pieces of evidence that suggest they’re fresh.”
Vernon’s thick eyebrows furrowed. “And, what? You think they’re my wife’s?”
Dean nodded to me. “Show him the diamond.”
Moss had given the handkerchief-wrapped gemstone to me before we left, perhaps figuring a woman would take better care of it than a man. I dug it out of my front pocket, unwrapped it, and held it out. “We recovered this from the remains, Mr. Vernon. We think it might’ve come from a wedding or engagement ring. Do you recognize the stone?”
Vernon’s eyebrows knitted even further, so much so that I feared they might spontaneously braid themselves. “I can’t say I do, but I’ve never paid much attention to jewelry. I buy it for my wife because she likes it, not because I do.”
“But she wore a diamond ring?” said Dean. “Made of twenty-four karat gold?”
“Her engagement ring, yes,” said Vernon. “And I believe so. It’s been so long since I purchased it.”
“Do you know how many carats the stone was?”
Vernon stared at the stone. His hand-wringing continued, and the corners of his eyes were creased with worry. “You can’t think this is my wife’s, can you? I mean, she popped out this morning.” He turned to his butler. “She did leave this morning, didn’t she, Mossbottom?”
The gnome dipped his head. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m not certain. The last time I saw her was last evening, same as yourself. She must’ve left before I woke.”
“Oh, boy.” Vernon started to pace, rubbing his chin as he did so. “I, uh… I just don’t understand. This isn’t possible. Why…? Why would…?”
Like the seasoned professional he was, Dean took charge of the situation. He placed a firm hand on JT’s shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. “Let’s take this one step at a time, Mr. Vernon. All we can say at the moment is your wife is missing. Let’s not to jump to conclusions.”
Vernon breathed heavily, his eyes unfocused. “Right. She’s missing, that’s all.”
“With that said, we need to find her,” said Dean. “You said the two of you had separate bedrooms. Perhaps we could take a look inside hers? There might be clues there as to her whereabouts.”
Vernon continued to stare into the distance for a second before snapping himself out of it. He gave his head a small shake and composed himself. “Of course. I’ll show you the way. Please, follow me.”
Chapter Eight
Vernon flicked the light switch as
we walked into the bedroom, but there was enough light streaming through the windows that the glow of the overhead lamps didn’t make much of a difference. Right off the bat, it was obvious Stella didn’t share the same ostentatious flair as her husband. With a tulle-draped canopy bed, a couple nightstands, an antique vanity, and several dressers and wardrobes, Stella’s room looked perfectly normal. No stuffed lions growled from corners, nor did nude portraits of her riding wild animals grace the walls. The room was only notable for two reasons: its size—it could’ve swallowed my entire apartment—and its disorderliness.
There were clothes everywhere: rumpled in piles on the floor, strewn across the bed, over chairs, on the edge of the vanity. One dress was draped across an ottoman, the sleeve folded over the collar in a posture of defeat, as if Stella’s ghost had fainted on the spot. Clothes weren’t the only source of disorder, though. Bags from department stores slumped against the walls, books lay in piles upon the tops of dressers, and even the trashcans were more full than not, though thankfully not with anything that could decompose based on the vaguely potpourri-like smell in the room.
Dean didn’t balk as he entered the space, sweeping his gaze over the piles of clothes and assorted clutter.
Vernon wrung his hands some more as he took a position by a dresser. “I apologize for the mess. Stella suffers the bad habit of never tidying after herself. I didn’t realize her room had gotten this bad. Mossbottom, you should’ve sent the maids up a week ago.”
Mossbottom, who stood just inside the door, gave his master a bit of an odd look. “Ah… Of course, sir. I’ll be sure they know.”
I think Dean caught the look, too. He crossed to a side table that held a phone and an empty notepad. He picked the phone up and held it to his ear for a moment before replacing it. “Can you tell me about your wife’s daily routine, Mr. Vernon?”
“Well, I’m not sure she has a routine, per se,” said the man. “She likes to shop, as you can tell by the clutter. Also spends a good amount of time on her health and appearance. Hair, skincare treatments, and spa sessions, based on the bills that arrive. She also does a fair amount of reading, but I can’t say she has a specific schedule.”
Dean picked up a pencil and rubbed the lead across the surface of the notepad, perhaps trying to uncover what had been written on the previous page. He pushed pencil and pad aside when the latter failed to cooperate. “Does she have any haunts? Places she visits without notice?”
“Other than certain stores and a salon or two, I don’t think so,” said Vernon. “Mossbottom could put a list together for you, but he could as easily call and see if she’s there himself.”
Dean crossed to the vanity and opened the drawer. He rifled through the items within. “Might anyone have seen her when she left this morning or late last night?”
Vernon’s brow furrowed. “The maids come twice weekly, as well as the gardeners, but none of them were here this morning, were they Mossbottom?”
Vernon looked to his butler, but the gnome shook his head. “I’m afraid not, sir.”
Dean spoke over his shoulder as he perused an open jewelry box. “Feel free to jump in, Phair.”
I didn’t know if Dean meant I should partake in the questioning or the searching of the room, but I felt sheepish either way. He’d just talked me up in the parlor, tried to give me a gentle push of encouragement, and here I was standing next to the door, not doing a damned thing. Part of the problem was that Dean was so mesmerizing. He swept around the room effortlessly, asking questions while he picked up on minutia I never would’ve noticed, peering past the physical and into the past with his steel blue gaze and cutting quite the striking figure while doing it. Being in his presence made me feel like I was a bumbling idiot. I’d never much lacked for confidence, even if most of it was unwarranted, but then again my previous jobs waitressing and selling cosmetics hadn’t required a particularly rare skillset. Still, Moss didn’t make me feel the same way. I felt like I could contribute in her presence without looking like a fool, so what was it about Dean that made me clam up? His reputation, or something else?
I swallowed back my trepidation, hoping Vernon hadn’t noticed. As I tried to figure out what to ask, I scuttled to a nearby side table and picked up the framed photograph that resided there, one featuring a petite woman with fair shoulder-length hair standing on a beach. She wore a pair of high-waisted shorts with a matching top that showed off a few inches of her midriff, but she wasn’t smiling.
“Is this your wife?” I asked, lifting the photo for emphasis.
Vernon nodded. “That’s right. I believe that was taken when Stella and I went vacationing on the Beurre Coast.”
“Can I ask how old she is?”
“She’ll be turning thirty-seven this winter,” said Vernon.
I thought it a little strange Stella would have a picture of herself in her room rather than one of her and her husband, but then again, the two didn’t share a bedroom. I slid the photograph back into place as I tried to kick my brain into gear. “Has your wife made any new acquaintances recently? Any friends she’s started spending a lot of time with?”
“Not to my knowledge,” said Vernon. “In fact, I’d almost say it was the opposite. Of late she’s become a bit more… reclusive isn’t the right word. Antisocial, perhaps.”
That perked my interest. “Any thoughts as to why that might be?”
Vernon sighed. “My best guess? She’s not fond of my campaign. You know that I’m running for office?”
I nodded. “We saw the posters. She not keen on your electioneering?”
Vernon hesitated. “I think it’s getting to be a bit much for her. The attention, the expectations. My focus being elsewhere. It’s been difficult for her, in more ways than one.”
I caught a slight twitch in Vernon’s lips as he said that last part. I wasn’t the best at body language, but Mossbottom seemed uneasy, too. “How so?”
Vernon frowned, and he tightened up. “I don’t see how my wife’s opinions on my campaign have anything to do with this incident at the circus. We’re trying to determine if she’s missing, not whether she’s given me the cold shoulder of late, aren’t we?”
I glanced to Dean for assistance, but he wasn’t even looking my way, having moved to one of the wardrobes.
I soldiered on. “Speaking of the circus, would your wife have any reason to be there?”
Vernon shrugged, still looking miffed. “She visits it frequently enough, especially since I started campaigning. I think she sees it as a pleasant distraction. Somewhere she can go to get out of my hair and not be bothered by my managers or the newspapers.”
Dean ducked into the attached bath. Either he was losing interest in my line of questioning or he thought I was doing well enough that he didn’t need to lead me by the bridle. Something told me it wasn’t the latter.
I tried not to get distracted. “Does your wife manage any of the circus acts or have any organizational role there?”
Vernon waved me off. “She’d never even been to a circus before I met her. I assure you her presence there is purely a leisure activity.”
I heard a clink from the bathroom. What the heck was Dean up to? “You said she’d become antisocial of late. Did she have any friends at the circus? Perhaps that’s why she was there more often.”
Vernon’s jaw tightened, and his cheeks darkened. “Are you insinuating my wife was having an affair? Is that what this is about? Some roundabout police investigation into my personal matters?”
The man’s anger pushed me back a step, the sudden outburst reinforcing the bad vibes I’d gotten off him. I held my ground, though. “Not at all, sir. We’re just trying to locate your wife and identify the remains found in the aviary. Perhaps instead of worrying about her whereabouts, we could try to eliminate her as a potential victim. If you could point us to the jeweler who sold you her engagement ring, maybe her dentist—”
Vernon scowled. “Her dentist?”
I didn’t know
how to put it gently, so I didn’t try. “In cases where remains are beyond recognition, dental x-rays can identify victims.”
Vernon swallowed air. Based on the confused look on his face, I could tell the rational part of his brain was having a hard time accepting his wife might truly be dead.
As he gaped, I heard heavy footsteps. Dean emerged from the bath, stomping across the bedroom. His demeanor had completely shifted, his cool, analytical look replaced with ill-hidden rage.
He barely slowed as he reached us. “Mr. Vernon? I think we have all we need. Phair? Let’s go.”
Dean swept past me into the hall, his furious gale ruffling my collar. I glanced after him, wondering what the heck just happened.
Hurricane Dean had apparently sobered Vernon, as well. His eyebrow shot up. “Is everything all right?”
“Of course,” I said with more confidence than I felt. “Thanks for your time. And please call the Fifth Street precinct with those names I asked for. It could really help our investigation.”
“Sure thing,” said Vernon, but I barely paid attention to him. I was already hustling down the hall, trying to catch up with Detective Dean.
Chapter Nine
Dean had pushed through the front doors and almost reached the Viper by the time I got within hailing range. “Dean! Dean, wait up!”
Detective Dean spun as he reached the cruiser, his face contorted with rage. He glared daggers from his ice blue eyes, but not at me. He stared through the molded art deco walls of the home to the meat within. “He knew, Phair. He knew, and he did nothing!”
I slowed as I reached him, my heartbeat elevated from the chase. “Who did nothing? What are you talking about?”
Dean ripped something from his pocket. A brown paper envelope, barely bigger than a pack of cards. He whipped it at me without taking his eyes off the house. “I found this at the bottom of the wastebasket in Stella’s bathroom. Vernon must’ve missed it.”
