"I've finally seen the police reports," I told her. "There's some bad news. They found traces of your skin under Kristee's fingernails. And they've got Polaroids of those scratches on your hands, taken when they booked you. The district attorney's going to say those are defensive wounds, that Kristee scratched you while you were strangling her. And they've also got something about a gash on her left index finger. What do you know about that?"
Ardith held out her hands to show me the now-faint scratch marks. "I told you we had a fight in the motel room. Kristee went wild, scratching and kicking me. The cut on her finger, I don't know about. She threw a glass at me and it broke, but I picked up the broken glass, not her. I didn't see any cuts on her hands when she was at the motel."
"Fair enough," I said, taking notes. "Now what's this about your being in Rich's the Friday before Kristee was killed? Why didn't you mention that? Or the fact that you'd worked for department stores out west?"
She shrugged. "I didn't think it was important. Sure, I applied for a job at Rich's that day. I also put in applications at Macy's and Sears. Do the cops have that in their report? I worked in retail sales years ago when I was in college, and later in graduate school. I was running out of money. You didn't expect me to get a job at a diversion center here, did you?
"Besides," she added, "I'll bet the Beemishes knew their way around Rich's. And Kristee was found with Mrs. Beemish's furs. Maybe she killed Kristee and took the body up there."
"No," I said. "It won't work. The Beemishes were in Hilton Head that weekend. They weren't at Rich's applying for a job that Friday. You were. You'd know how merchandise moves in and out of a department store. And it's important that I know you were in the store because the cops will think you were setting up a way to get the body in the fur vault."
"But I wasn't," she said stubbornly.
"I know that," I told her, "but the cops don't. I'm going to take a closer look at the Beemishes' whereabouts that weekend. And I've got a good idea who that business associate was, the one Kristee talked about. Did she ever mention the name Eddie Shaloub? He's one of the city councilmen in Kensington Park, the town where Beemish is building his new project. I don't think it will be too hard to prove he went to Hilton Head for the weekend with the two of them."
"No," she said quickly. "Beemish was the only person she mentioned by name."
I snapped the notebook shut. "That's it, then. Except for one more thing. I saw your son this morning."
Her face didn't change expression.
"Don't you want to know how he was?"
She shook her head violently. "I promised Mr. Driggers I wouldn't call him or try to see him. I won't go back on my word."
"You don't want to see him?" I said, unable to hide my anger. "You've got a beautiful seventeen-year-old son who you haven't seen in years, and you couldn't care less. You sold him to those people, and now you're letting them pay you off again to stay away from him."
She held the paper bag tightly in her hands, turning it over and over. She stuck her chin out defiantly. "It's none of your business," she said heatedly. "You don't know anything about me or that kid."
I got up to leave then. "You're right," I told her. "I don't. See you Monday."
Maybe as soon as I saw the extent of my injuries that morning, I'd made up my mind to pay a visit to the people who'd paid for them.
Midafternoon, now, and the sky was beginning to cloud over. It seemed like a good time to find Lilah Rose at home, in between tennis and shopping and kiddie birthday parties.
The iron gates at the entrance to the Beemish estate were open and two men in white painter's clothes worked desultorily, touching up the trim. I zipped past and up the drive. Since I was no longer employed by the Beemishes, I parked by the front door, alongside a cute red Miata convertible, a big Volvo wagon with two baby seats in the back, and a brand-new Range-Rover. I rang the doorbell and was greeted by the same Jamaican maid who'd answered the door on my last visit. Today her nails were painted silver.
She looked at me with alarm. It must have been my bruised face, because I'd changed into a skirt and blouse for my meeting with Wendell Driggers.
"I hope I'm not too late for the committee meeting,"
I told her breathlessly, pushing past her and into the entryway.
I was mad and moving fast down the hall, but I did notice with some malice that the place looked—well, cruddy. There were fresh handprints on the walls, and I spied a discarded peanut butter and jelly sandwich remnant under a marble-topped table in the hallway. As I strode past the living room I saw toys and books scattered everywhere.
Tinkling laughter came from the direction of the study, so I kept going. I poked my head in the doorway. Lilah Rose and three other women sat on the sofas, heads together in deep discussion. "For party favors we'll get Tiffany's to donate some of those darling silver caviar spoons," a petite brunette was saying.
I cleared my throat and the women looked up at me with pleasant if blank expressions. All but Lilah Rose, who looked like she'd spotted a dog turd in the pitcher of mimosas she was pouring.
She put the pitcher down and stood up. "What do you want?"
I put on my best party manners and scooched over beside the two women on the nearer sofa.
"Why, Lilah Rose," I exclaimed. "Is that any way to greet an old sorority sister?"
The committee members looked at me with newfound interest. "We were Tri Delts together at Georgia," I said cheerily. "Of course, that was way before Lilah Rose married new money. Nowadays she only puts out for clothes or jewelry or furs. But in college, Lilah was quite the party girl. She gave it away like matchbooks. Lilah, honey," I drawled, "tell the girls here about how you single-handedly gang-banged the entire KA house on Robert E. Lee's birthday."
I thought I heard one of the women, a tall frosted blonde, suppress a titter. Lilah Rose's face was contorted in a most unladylike way.
"Get out," she hissed. "I'll have you arrested for trespassing. I'll have your business license revoked. I'll call the police."
"You do that, honey," I drawled. "But first I want to show y'all some of my souvenirs."
As I started to unbutton my blouse, the other women stirred themselves into action.
"Lilah," said the brunette, hastily air-kissing her hostess near her cheek. "I've got to run. The kids will be home from ballet practice." She literally ran for the door, followed closely by the other two women, who made similar excuses.
"Wait," I said, rising from the sofa. "Don't you want to see my bruises?"
Lilah followed the women to the front door, murmuring abject apologies. I distinctly heard her say something about "former cleaning lady, unbalanced, just released from drug rehab." The front door slammed shut, and I heard her little Pappagallo flats clicking furiously down the marble hall floor. She burst into the room in a fury.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she screeched. "You've humiliated me in front of my committee for the Garden of Eden Ball, just because my friends decided to stop doing business with you. Are you out of your mind?"
I pulled my blouse open and pointed to my chest, which was streaked black and purple. "This isn't about cleaning, you sniveling bitch. You see these bruises? See the cuts on my face? Your husband, the big he-man developer, paid some skinheads to beat me up last night. They could have killed me."
Her mouth dropped open, but only for a second. "Bo wouldn't do that," she said flatly. "You're making this up. I'll bet one of your cop boyfriends did this to you. Bo fired you and you're trying to get back at him, but it won't work. And don't think we don't know you've been working for that nasty bull dyke who killed our nanny."
I buttoned my blouse slowly, for the effect. "I am working for Ardith Cramer," I said. "You've got that much right. But I've got news for you, Lilah Rose. Your husband is in this up to his neck, and I intend to prove it."
She flipped her hair out of her eye, reached in her pocket for a cigarette, and lit it. "Grow up," she said, try
ing to sound bored with the whole discussion. "So he slept with the little slut. That doesn't mean he killed her. Bo was with me in Hilton Head that weekend. We have witnesses to prove it. I'm not even upset that he slept with her. In fact, we're going to Saint Bart's next week, sort of a second honeymoon."
I had to laugh at this glimpse of her little fantasy world. "Can you prove he was in bed with you all night last Sunday, Lilah? Can you prove he didn't charter a plane back to Atlanta for a cozy little rendezvous with Kristee? You know he took her to your condo in Hilton Head for the weekend back in March, don't you. He and Eddie Shaloub had a cute little ménage a trois, right there in your condo. You know that's where the picture you found was taken, right by your own pool."
The color drained from her face. "I don't believe any of this. The police have arrested the person who killed Kristee. Now you'd better get out of my home or I'll have you arrested too."
"Speaking of arrests," I said, "I think Bohannon is going to want to talk to you again about the time you allegedly spent in Beaufort."
"What do you mean?" she said quickly.
"Just this. I called the Blue Crab this morning. The health department shut them down a month ago. Some problem with their live holding tank for the crabs. There's no way you ate lunch there that day."
"It was another seafood restaurant, then," she said. "Bo and I eat at the Blue Crab so often, I guess I said that by mistake. It was probably the Beaufort House where I ate."
I shook my head slowly. "Nice try, but I don't think so. I don't even think you were in Beaufort that day. But don't worry, I'll find out where you really were."
"God damn you," she said through gritted teeth. "You don't know anything. I tell you, I had nothing to do with Kristee's murder. Nothing. Do you hear me, you bitch? And if you keep up this talk, I'll have my lawyer sue you for slander."
"Maybe I can't prove you or Bo killed her," I admitted. "I'm fairly sure it was either Bo or Shaloub. But in the meantime, Bo's crooked business deals are starting to come unraveled. I know what's going on out at L'Arrondissement. That's why Bo had those thugs attack me, to try and scare me off. I know he paid off Shaloub and those other council members to get his property annexed into Kensington Park. Bribing an elected official is a federal offense, and I intend to see he goes to jail for it."
Tears glittered in her eyes, but none fell. "Tell me something," she whispered. "What is any of this to you? I just told you, Bo's not a murderer, he's a businessman. He doesn't sell drugs. He's not a slumlord, he doesn't make poisoned baby food. He doesn't hurt anybody. Why don't you leave us alone?"
"I tried to leave you alone," I told her softly. "Remember? You got me into this thing. So I'm in. And I'm not getting out of it until I find out who killed Kristee."
27
AN UNFAMILIAR GUNMETAL-GRAY MERCEDES was parked at the curb when I got home. We don't get a lot of new Mercedeses in Candler Park, so I walked out to look at it. It had a car phone antenna on the trunk, an alarm sticker on the front windshield, and a front plate that said KENSINGTON PARK, WHERE EVERYBODY IS SOMEBODY.
I had a feeling I knew which somebody was visiting the Garritys this overcast spring Saturday.
He was sitting in the living room, glancing nervously at his reflection in the front window. He wore spotless white jeans, a navy blue knit sweater, and white deck shoes, like he intended to spend the day yachting on Lake Lanier instead of slumming in Candler Park. He'd let his thick black hair grow longer since the last time I'd seen him, and I thought he was showing a lot less gray around the temples, too. There was an enormous gold watch on his wrist, and a gold medallion shone among the curling mass of black chest hair visible above the sweater's V-neck. I wondered idly who was the patron saint of corrupt politicians. He was very tan, even for Eddie Shaloub. Must have been all that golf he was playing at his new country club.
He stood up quickly as I entered the room. "Callahan," he said warmly, putting an arm around my neck and drawing me close to him. He reeked of some kind of musk cologne. I managed to sidestep his embrace, but it wasn't exactly a subtle move.
"OK," he said, folding his arms across his chest. "You're right. This isn't a social call. So why pretend?"
"How'd you get in here?" I asked, looking around for any sign of Edna.
"Your mother let me in. You know, I don't think she likes me. She didn't even offer me a glass of iced tea."
"You're right," I said, seating myself in a wing chair near the fireplace. "She doesn't like you. Neither do I. I especially don't like your having your buddies on the force harassing me."
He seated himself, uninvited, on the sofa across from me. "Oh. Is that what they're doing? Trying to enforce city ordinances prohibiting illegal businesses in a residential neighborhood and keeping unlicensed vehicles off the city's streets?"
"It's harassment," I said hotly. "I want it stopped."
"Suppose you stop harassing me," Shaloub said evenly. "Dick Bohannon called me today, asking me all kinds of questions about my relationship with Bo Beemish and did I know this dead girl, Kristee Ewbanks." He laughed abruptly. "Even he doesn't even really believe all this shit you're handing him. Nobody does."
"But he called, didn't he?"
His face darkened under his Palm Beach tan. "You and I have known each other a long time, Callahan. You were special to me at one time. That's why I can't believe you've been going around making all these wild-ass accusations about me. I don't appreciate this shit. In fact, I've talked to an attorney, and he says if you keep up these malicious statements I can sue you for slander."
"Lots of people want to sue me for slander today," I said lightly. "But why bother hiring an attorney? Why don't you just have your skinhead friends kick the daylights out of me again, like they did last night?"
"You're crazy," he sputtered. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"I think you do," I said. "But let's be specific here. Which of my wild accusations do you object to? Is it the one where I've accused you of selling your vote to Bo Beemish and betraying your public trust? Or are we talking about my accusing you of being involved in some kind of illegal land use at L'Arrondissement? Or are we talking about my suggestion that you could be involved in the murder of Kristee Ewbanks?"
"You know damned well that's all a lot of bullshit," Shaloub said. "You don't honestly believe I did any of that."
"You know, the old Eddie Shaloub, the one I used to know when he was a cop, probably wouldn't have gotten involved in any of this shit. He was a hustler, sure, but not a criminal. But this new Eddie, he drives a Mercedes, rubs elbows with the country club set, has people beat up and shot at. The new Eddie has a lot more to lose. So I intend to prove everything I've accused you of. In fact, I can already prove you're on Bo Beemish's gravy train."
He clucked his tongue. "I always thought you were such a clever girl, Callahan. We were clever together, weren't we? Now you disappoint me by coming up with this wild conspiracy theory involving murder, bribery, assault, and God knows what all. Tell me, when did you first notice these symptoms of acute paranoia?
"Never mind," he added quickly. "It doesn't matter. Bo Beemish's dealings with the city of Kensington Park have been perfectly legal and aboveboard. Mr. Beemish was disappointed that the shortsighted bureaucrats in Fulton County wouldn't allow him the highest and best use of his land. Our city needed to broaden its tax base and attract a high-quality mixed-use development like L'Arrondissement. It worked out well for everybody. Does that spell a conspiracy? Hardly."
"I'd say you and your mayor and that other councilman—what's his name? Strong?—got more out of this deal than the taxpayers will," I said. "Let's see. You get a prime lot at L'Arrondissement, a membership in Bo Beemish's country club, and a contract to sell him beepers. The mayor got a sweetheart deal to market the houses out there. I haven't figured out yet what Strong got, but I will."
Eddie leaned over and gave me a patronizing pat on the knee. "You ought to stick to cleaning houses and leave
the detective work to the big boys, Callahan. You don't know shit about how business works in the real world. All my business dealings with WDB Enterprises and Bo Beemish are perfectly legal. There's nothing in our city charter to prohibit council members from earning an honest living."
"'Honest' is the operative word here," I said. "But what about murder? You got anything in your city charter making murder acceptable?"
His black eyes glittered dangerously. "You're nuts," he snapped. "Why would I murder that girl?"
"Kristee told my client, Ardith Cramer, that she'd gone away to Hilton Head Island with Beemish and a 'business associate.' She was already blackmailing Beemish over the vote buying. After that weekend—when, by the way, she told Ardith she slept with both men—Kristee told Ardith that she was going to put the squeeze on the other man too. I think you were on that trip, Eddie."
"Get real."
"And I think after Kristee threatened to expose the fact that you'd sold your vote, you either killed her yourself or helped Beemish do it."
"You think."
"If my theory is so ridiculous, why don't you tell me where you were last Sunday night? I'm sure Bohannon already asked you the same thing."
I heard a staticky noise then, followed by a high-pitched beep. It was coming from Shaloub's midsection. He reached down, hiked his sweater up an inch, and pressed a button on the top of the black case attached to his belt. He glanced down at the readout window, then at his watch, and rose quickly.
"Gotta run now," he said. "But sure, hell, I'll be happy to tell you where I was last Sunday night. I had a pizza delivered to the house around seven P.M., ate it, watched a movie I'd rented, made some business calls, and went to bed early. Alone. Oh, yeah. The pizza was from Domino's and the movie was Lethal Weapon Two. Hell of a flick. It's not a very elaborate alibi, but then, you can't prove any of it's not true."
I got up and flung the front door open, standing inside to let him pass.
Every Crooked Nanny Page 19
