Cold Heart

by Karen Pullen

  Clemmie’s was quiet. Lincoln sat in a corner booth, dominating the room with his size, impeccable in a custom-made charcoal-gray suit, gleaming white shirt, and gray silk tie. Next to him a woman typed furiously on a laptop. Lincoln introduced her as Ursula Budd, his bookkeeper. I had seen her in one of Fern’s art classes, and remembered her unusual looks—smooth pale skin and wiry orange hair, her features plain except for tilted greenish eyes, like a cat’s. Ursula scooped up the computer. “I’ll take this into the office,” she said. She headed toward the kitchen. Lincoln watched her walk away, seemingly mesmerized by the movement of her long legs and swaying hips under her silky dress. Something else I’d heard about Lincoln—rumors about women.

  I took her place in the booth and declined the beer he offered but accepted a coffee. He brought it to me himself, from a nearby cart. Tantalizing smells wafted from the kitchen, noisy with voices and laughter as the staff prepped for dinner. I decided to begin with heartfelt compliments. “I was here two nights ago. Fantastic food. And I love the happy colors.” Soft-orange tablecloths, lime-green walls, vases of delicate, lemon-yellow lilies.

  “Thank you, Stella, but I’m color-blind.” He leaned back in the booth. “It’s all gray to me. My wife gets the credit.”

  “But the restaurant was your dream, right?”

  “Put everything I had into it. But it barely makes a profit. I’m going to have to fire my manager.”

  “Actually, that’s why I’m here, to talk to you about Kent Mercer.”

  Before I could explain, Lincoln jumped in. “Lordy, it is hard to get answers out of that weasel. Every time I look at the books I have a dozen questions he somehow can’t answer right then, or the next time, or ever.” He picked up a fork and rapped hard on the table. “The way Kent tells it, he has to comp people, but isn’t sure how many, and the expense ratio is a little high, but maybe he’s double-counting the retained tips or depreciating the wine cellar or some restaurant accounting thing I don’t understand.” His voice had grown strangled and quiet.

  “Lincoln, Kent Mercer was murdered today.”

  He twisted toward me. “What?” He looked stunned. “Man, I wondered why he wasn’t here. What happened?”

  “We’re not releasing details. It happened at his home, this afternoon.” My intuition told me Lincoln had nothing to do with Mercer’s murder, but I’ve learned the hard way that my hunches depend on my hormones and caffeine intake. A cup of strong coffee and Linc’s pheromones had my intuition in a twist. So, for the moment, I pretended he was guilty as hell, perhaps even involved in Mercer’s drug sales. “Tell me what you did today.”

  “Got up about six, went for a run. I go around Two Springs Lake. Takes me about an hour.”

  “You live on the lake now?”

  “Silver Hills. Moved there in January. Clementine’s idea. She feels more protected, you know—it’s gated.” His hands played with the fork, bending its tines like they were pipe cleaners.

  “Silver Hills is where Mercer lived, too.”

  He shook his head. “Yeah. Maybe that’s where my money went.”

  “After your run?”

  “I had breakfast with Clementine and the kids. I drove my oldest to school and went by the chamber of commerce to review menus for a dinner. Went home, called around, and put together a golf game for the weekend. Talked to my agent about some upcoming events—charities, camps for kids . . . you know. Then I came back to the restaurant, to go over the books with Ursula. Kent was supposed to be here at two thirty.”

  He slumped back and looked at me. “Stella, I’m not a businessman. Ursula says the bills haven’t been paid in months. She’s prepared checks, but Kent’s not signed or mailed them.” He studied the randomly-pointed tines of the fork he’d been handling. “Darn it.” He pressed them back into line, one by one.

  “Were you home alone?”

  “Yeah, Clementine had a doctor’s appointment and the kids were at school.”

  I wished this big sweet man had an alibi. The phone calls might help; we could get his records and look at the times. But he was alone for the afternoon. He was in Silver Hills during the time window for the murder. He could easily overpower Mercer, who, it seemed, had nearly ruined him financially, cheating him and his family, on top of threatening his reputation with illegal drug sales.

  “I may want to talk with you again, Lincoln,” I said.

  He shrugged, both hands in the air. “What for? I’m not a killer, Stella, you know that.”

  That’s what they all say, though they’re usually not as well-dressed.

  I went to the cart and refilled my coffee cup, and Lincoln walked me to the office. He told Ursula, briefly, about Kent Mercer’s murder. Her only reaction was a narrowing of her tilted eyes as she searched his face. In collusion? I couldn’t tell. He left us to talk in private, and I asked her what her job was.

  “I do payroll. I also print checks for unpaid bills, though Kent signs and mails them. But look.” She showed me an invoice from a groceries wholesaler for over seven thousand, a bill from Marystone Meats demanding almost ten, and a letter from the seafood distributor threatening to cease deliveries if their account wasn’t paid in the next five days. “He’s nearly ruined this restaurant. Who do you think killed him?”

  “Too early to say. I’m learning he didn’t have many friends. You here full time?”

  “Oh no. Just two days a week. I help a neighbor, June Devon. And I have my seniors. You know Paradise Keep—the senior apartments? I spent this morning in Paradise. De-pressing. I hope I never get the way those ladies are. There’s Claudine—she’s forgetful and paranoid. ‘Why do you need my checkbook?’ she asks, watching over my shoulder. ‘Remember to pay the oilman,’ she says, and her apartment is an all-electric! The other one, Olive, she’s still in bed when I get there at eleven. She’s wearing this filthy wrapper, an awful old rag. Can you imagine, not dressed at eleven?”

  Ursula leaned toward me and her perfume hit me with a chemical smell like formaldehyde. I held my breath. “I didn’t like working when Kent was here,” she said. “He was always looking over my shoulder, telling me to change things. He’d reduce people’s hours here and there, trying to shave a little money off a paycheck. I always changed it back. I know the cooks and waiters work hard for their money.”

  “Clemmie’s is packed every night,” I said. “It must be making a profit.”

  “That’s the mystery—where’s the money? Lincoln will want me to figure that out now.”

  I thanked her and left. I drove a few blocks, parked, and retrieved a fingerprint kit from the trunk of my car. “Just curious,” I said to myself. “Won’t prove a thing.” I dusted the saucer from my coffee. I had picked up a second saucer when I refilled my cup, so I could leave one on the table. The dusting revealed Linc’s prints were clearly whorls, like mine and one-third of all humans. The bloody fingerprint under Mercer’s decking was a pocked-loop type. Not Lincoln Teller’s.

  I called Anselmo to update him. I asked about the toddler, Paige. He’d issued an Amber Alert and set up a search team command center in a vacant office outside the entrance to Silver Hills. The police were getting dozens of calls from people who wanted to volunteer or thought they’d seen her in a Topeka mall or on the beach in Florida. They were going to drag the lake.

  The highway was backed up as usual, giving me an extra half hour to sit in traffic and ponder the vulnerability of baby girls. I tried to think of a positive outcome, but none came to mind. To blank out my thoughts, I turned on the radio. In Final Four basketball news . . . More rain tomorrow . . . In Silver Hills searchers are . . . Police say no leads.

  CHAPTER 6

  early Tuesday morning

  Seven a.m. Fern and I sat on her back porch, in the fresh air, because her house was filled with a choking stench. She had run the washing machine and sewage had backed up into the lowest drain in her house, the downstairs toilet. We were waiting for the plumber.

  Fern worked on m
y hair, taming my thick curls into a respectable braid. “I am in awe,” she said, “the way you look all dressed up. I think, ‘where is that sassy child who wouldn’t take a bath?’ Now she wears a suit, silk blouse. And heels! All navy blue, très chic!” She snapped an elastic around my braid.

  “I get it from you, Fern. You’re a vision even at dawn.” In a pink terry robe with her white hair and rosy skin, Fern looked like strawberry shortcake.

  “I can’t afford a plumber,” she said. “They charge sixty dollars just to show up.”

  “You can’t afford not to have one. We’ll work something out.” I couldn’t think what. My sad little bank account was starting to recover from the expenses of my move to Verwood. Perhaps Fern could get a small mortgage, though with little income, she wouldn’t qualify and I’d have to cosign. I sighed.

  Fern twisted my braid into a bun and pinned it securely. “There, all done. Where are you off to today?”

  I told her about Kent Mercer and the missing child, and Fern turned on the TV. We watched the news from the porch, through a window. We waited through traffic, weather, and school stories until a report on Mercer’s murder began. As the screen panned from his home to the streets of Silver Hills, a voice-over described the million-dollar homes and exclusive golf club. A cluster of nervous neighbors said they were counting on the police to solve the crime soon. “You buy into a gated community, you think you’re safe,” said a portly man in a golf shirt. At the playground, a woman clutched a toddler, declared she planned to get a gun. Searchers in the woods around Two Springs Lake looked for signs of Paige.

  In a clip from last night’s news conference, Richard reassured the public. “The Essex County sheriff’s department and the SBI are going all out on this investigation.” He introduced Temple, who begged for the return of her toddler. A picture of Paige flashed onto the screen, a photo I’d seen hanging on the wall of the Mercers’ house. A delicate child, with her mother’s dark hair, hazel eyes.

  “That girl Temple—I know her,” said Fern. “She used to come here for painting lessons when she was in high school. After you went off to State. Talented girl, and pretty. Guess she got married.” Her tone implied that Temple’s life had thereupon ended.

  “She’s expecting her second baby any day.”

  My grandmother frowned. “She had talent. I’ll pay her a visit.”

  “She’s staying with a neighbor.” Sitting around, waiting for a plumber, made me twitchy. I checked email. Dr. O’Brien, the medical examiner, was a model of forensic efficiency. He had written me a synopsis:

  Time of death: one to three p.m. Cause of death: exsanguinations, preceded by severe head trauma. Bruising on left shoulder. Both forearms exhibit multiple, deep, lengthwise incisions, made with a sharp, concave blade that severed radial and ulnar arteries. Blood test positive for cannabis; no other drug indications. Brain swelling and skull bruising indicate the concussion injury occurred approximately thirty minutes before death.

  This explained why Mercer didn’t struggle as he bled out—he was either unconscious or very confused and disoriented. For thirty minutes? That was puzzling. The blade described was unusual. I would ask Temple if she owned a knife like that.

  The plumber arrived, took one look, and said he’d come back with a backhoe and a crew of four. Earth would be moved, lines uncovered, the blockage resolved. I told him to fix the problem, mentally shuddering as I added up the hourly cost for a backhoe and four plumbers, wondering if this was the first in a series of overdue old-house repairs.

  I asked Fern to stay with me for a few days. She tipped her head, a gesture meaning that she planned something I might not approve of. “No, I don’t want to be a bother.”

  “You won’t be a bother—you can walk Merle.”

  “He’s not easy to walk.” This wasn’t true. Hogan had trained Merle to heel beautifully.

  “Then don’t walk him. I have extra room. Please, Fern.” If Fern was hiding something, I knew from experience she’d never tell. Stubbornness was her birthright.

  “I’ll go to June Devon’s. She can always use a hand with her husband, Erwin. He had a stroke last month. Will you drop me off there?”

  Ursula Budd, Lincoln’s bookkeeper, had mentioned June Devon, too. The world kept getting smaller.

  June Devon lived in White Pines, a secluded, woodsy development on a winding gravel road. Fern rang June’s doorbell and I got out of the car to stretch. Spying a glint of water behind the house, I wandered down the driveway. The property dropped steeply to Two Springs Lake, and I saw activity on the other side, boats and divers. They were dragging the lake, looking for Paige Mercer, I guessed. A few hundred yards away, behind a bank of pale green foliage, I spotted the bright blue umbrella on Kent Mercer’s deck. So much for Silver Hills gated security—anyone could get across the lake with a rowboat. Like the one tied up below that must belong to June.

  “Stella?” Fern waved from the deck. “June is delighted to have me stay. Go on, don’t worry about me.”

  I took Henderson Road over to Highway 64 and headed into Raleigh to the SBI office, to face my ex. I needed Hogan’s help.

  Hogan was glued to his computer monitor. I tapped him gently on the shoulder and he jumped.

  “Dammit, Stella, you snuck up on me.” His gaze swept me from head to toe, and he frowned. “Have you gained a little weight?” To my dismay, I had. Since I left him, I’d found nourishment from other men—Papa John, Big Mac, and the Colonel.

  But Hogan had lost weight. His trim middle was accentuated by a slim-fit, gray herringbone shirt. Probably working out more often, trying to stay fit for his teenaged girlfriend.

  I decided to respond with a rueful smile. “I don’t know how you stay in such great shape, always in front of a computer, day after day.” This was a jab at his paper-pushing desk job, hunting down the dangerous criminals who fudged accounting records to siphon off a few bucks for their kiddies’ Christmas toys. When he wasn’t trawling meetaslut.com.

  He studied my face and decided to take me literally. Irritating. “Jasmine and I play a lot of tennis, and she’s turned me into a vegetarian, practically. Hard not to be healthy under those circumstances. What do you need?”

  “It’s that murder case I called you about. Kent Mercer. Credit check and all of his bank and credit card transactions for the past six months.”

  “Got the subpoena?”

  “Of course.” I put a copy onto his desk. “Five o’clock?”

  “I’ll do my best.” I knew he would. Hogan was methodical, knowledgeable, and thorough—admirable qualities in a husband. Unfortunately, he’d failed other sections of the test. I turned to leave.

  Richard, my boss, stood in the doorway with an unlit cigar in his mouth. He chews on those cigars to offset his dimples. He ran his hand over his head to smooth down the wisps, then tugged his foulard necktie a millimeter to the left. It looked new, expensive.

  “Thought you were in court,” I said.

  “What are you up to? Let’s talk,” he said. I followed him through the warren of cubicles into his corner office. He was grouchy. He’s always being blamed for mistakes his agents made; not that we make lots of them, but a thorough investigation sometimes means stepping on toes. At least once a week he’s called by a state legislator to explain where the hell the SBI got off treading on some constituent’s rights, or usurping some department’s authority, or prying into some agency’s records. No one envies Richard his job.

  I did envy his desk, unsoiled by paperwork. I filled him in on my interview with Lincoln Teller as well as the autopsy results.

  He swung his mahogany leather boots onto the desk. “How is Lincoln Teller involved?”

  “It seems that Mercer stole from his restaurant.”

  “Let’s not go public with that, Stella,” Richard said. “It makes Lincoln look like he had a motive, and the last thing we want to do is tarnish Lincoln Teller.”

  I told him about Mercer’s oxy sale to Fredricks an
d me, and his stash of small quantities, oddly packaged in hand-labeled baggies. “He’s not on our radar as much of a dealer. But we don’t have another motive yet. And the forensics are meager. Hogan’s looking into his financials today.”

  He scowled and examined his soggy cigar. “What about the wife?”

  “Shopping all day. And she’s desperate to find her daughter.”

  “No note or ransom calls? What if mom’s involved?”

  “She wouldn’t harm her own child.”

  “Don’t assume. Remember Susan Smith? Andrea Yates?”

  I didn’t like it when he talked down to me so I wandered over to his coffeepot and inhaled. Today’s brew was spicy-smelling, smoky. Oily beans spilled out of a brown paper bag, hand-printed with “Los Volcanes, Guatemala,” as though he’d picked and roasted them himself.

  “And we found a fingerprint,” I said. “It’s perfect evidence, in Mercer’s blood. No matches in AFIS, though.”

  “How about friends of the couple? You know—look for instability or tension?”

  “Good idea.” I had already planned to do that, but it never hurt to let Richard think he was brilliant. “Hey, I saw your press conference this morning. You looked good.” Richard’s GQ-worthy clothes, dimples, and crusty resonant voice were perfect for TV.

  “I look good when I have something to report. Don’t blow this opportunity, Stella.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Tuesday mid-morning

  All was quiet in Silver Hills except for the drone of a distant airplane heading toward RDU, the fountain’s splashing, and the creak of my shoulder holster as I poked the doorbell of Nikki Truly’s house. I wanted to talk to her about babysitting the missing toddler, her affair with the toddler’s dad, and any other subject she might be able to enlighten me on.