Cold Heart

by Karen Pullen

  “Great job,” Hogan said. “Looks terrific.” I was thankful he didn’t mention the interrupted kiss.

  “Where’s what’s-her-name? Begonia?” I looked around for her little stick figure.

  “Jasmine. She had a Tai-Bo class.”

  “I have a job for you,” I said. “Background check on someone.”

  “Sure. Give me the name.”

  I wrote “Tobias James Allen” on a card and slipped it into his pocket. “Fern’s over there, go say hello.” I pointed to the apple-green-clad figure across the yard. I wanted to flirt with Sam and Hogan was a hindrance. Hogan took the hint and wandered off.

  I asked Garrett if he wanted some ice cream. He nodded, keeping his finger firmly in his mouth. We three went into the kitchen. Iggy had brought a tub of homemade strawberry ice cream, and I fixed three cones. “The house looks beautiful,” I said. “And you finished so quickly.”

  “It was a matter of scheduling the crews,” said Sam. “They enjoyed it, working on a nice old place like this. It has real character.”

  “It goes back five generations. My great-grandmother was born here. Now it’s renewed.”

  “For future generations?”

  “We’ll see,” I said.

  “Here’s hoping,” he said, and raised his cone to me in a toast. I licked mine and tried not to be annoyed at his assumption that I planned to reproduce. Even loveable Sam was getting on my nerves today. It had been a long day, starting with the pre-dawn raid on Bryce, then all morning in the evidence cave with Anselmo, followed by visits to Paradise Keep, the high school library, and TJ Allen’s mobile home. I was tired. And I still had a murder to solve, a missing CD, nagging questions about Lincoln Teller, a bruised forehead, and a cracked rib.

  “Whose idea were the happy wall colors?” I asked Sam.

  “Fern chose them. I’ve got no color sense.”

  “Your clothes always look nice, though—coordinated.” He wore a taupe silky knit polo and perfectly creased charcoal slacks.

  “I get help. Emma used to shop with me. Now there’s this salesman I always go to.”

  What’s the part of the brain that retrieves memories? The hippocampus? Mine woke up when he said Emma picked out his clothes. Who else had his wife’s help with colors? Lincoln Teller had told me Clementine picked out the colors in his restaurant because he was color blind.

  It mattered, but how? Carefully I turned this puzzle piece around. Lincoln said he had seen Mercer’s car in the driveway the afternoon Mercer was killed, but later, when I arrived, it was in the garage. But what if Lincoln had seen someone else’s car and being color blind, hadn’t realized it was a different color, hence a different car? What if that someone else had watched him discover the body, assumed he would remember and identify the car, and decided he was a threat?

  Mercer’s car was a burgundy Infiniti SUV. Lincoln wouldn’t have noticed the color. But would he have noted the model? Would he remember? I gave my ice cream cone a final lick and tossed it into the trash. I wanted to put Hogan to work, and tell Anselmo what I was thinking.

  “You busy tomorrow?” said Sam. “I’m going out on my boat. Want to come?”

  I was torn. What did I need more: an afternoon with Sam on the sparkling lake, a couple of beers, and a few knee-buckling kisses? Or hours with Hogan and Anselmo pouring over car registrations and Silver Hills gate records? “I’d love to, but I have to work.”

  Sam wiped a drip off Garrett’s shirt. “On Sunday? You and Emma, both workaholics.”

  Ouch. He’d likened me to his ex-wife. “Rain check?” I asked. “When I’m done with this case.”

  “Next weekend?”

  I nodded a definite yes—something had to break in a week—and Sam seemed satisfied. I hoped he wouldn’t find someone else to boat with in the meantime.

  I found Hogan with George Budd, both drinking Coronas, eating barbeque, and laughing like long-time buddies. I took him aside and told him my hypothesis about the car in Mercer’s driveway but Hogan didn’t seem impressed. “Everyone drives SUVs these days,” he said. “Even if Lincoln Teller can identify the model, you haven’t got much.”

  I must have looked deflated because he added, “But it explains a lot of things. I like it. Points to someone else being there.”

  I asked him to find out what kind of cars everyone even remotely involved in this case drove. “The butcher, the baker—everyone.”

  “Sure. Tomorrow soon enough?”

  It wasn’t but I let it go. Unlike me, Hogan had a personal life.

  Fern wandered over, Wesley at her heels. “There you are,” she said. “This gentleman is taking me out to dinner, to celebrate.” She and Wesley exchanged shy smiles. As I’d predicted, Wesley was the newest member of my sixty-two-year-old grandmother’s fan club.

  Zoë Schubert joined us, wearing white skinny jeans and a sheer jacket over a navel-baring crop top. What almost-forty-year-old woman exposes her middle? She carried a strawberry trifle in a glass bowl. She raised her eyebrows when she saw me. “I’d forgotten you were related to Fern,” she said.

  “Where’s Nikki?”

  She shrugged. “Right at this moment? She’s supposed to be doing homework.” I wondered whether Zoë knew I’d driven her daughter to the mall yesterday and quizzed her about Mercer’s secret recordings. I remembered how she and Nikki had sat wedged hip to hip when I interviewed them the day after Mercer’s murder, looking like sisters, with the same petulant expression, dark-lashed gray eyes, each gripping the other’s hand. But had she lied to me about Nikki’s expedition with Bryce to the mountains? It was hard to believe Zoë was aware of her daughter’s blackmailing “business plan” with Mercer.

  Fern linked her arm through Zoë’s. “Did you know Zoë’s an amazing fundraiser? The arts council is actually solvent this year.”

  “My friends are generous.” Zoë held the trifle bowl out to us. “Want some? Real whipped cream.”

  Zoë’s monied friends. Silver Hills friends. Money talk triggers an unattractive seething in me, the aftermath of an impoverished childhood. I pushed the feeling aside, reminded by Fern’s beaming face that today she lacked for nothing, and picked up a spoon to inhale a bite of the trifle—a mix of pound cake, strawberries, sherry, vanilla custard, and whipped cream. “Oh my. Good.”

  Fern leaned into us and whispered. “There’s a problem and I don’t know who to ask. It’s Temple. She wants to go home, but she shouldn’t be alone.”

  “I thought she was better,” I said.

  “She’s started medication, but she still has bad days.”

  “Where is she?” Zoë asked.

  “I’ll show you.” Fern led us both to the art room, where Temple sat on a stool in the corner, leaning against the wall with her eyes shut, twisting a strand of greasy hair around her finger. On her lap, the baby fretted, gnawing on his hand. Paige had dragged a box over to the sink and turned on the water to “wash” various brushes and bottles. She was soaking wet, her diaper hanging sodden below her soiled t-shirt.

  “You’re missing a great party,” I said.

  Temple opened her eyes. “Do I look like a party? I’m on antidepressants so I can’t nurse and my boobs are dripping like a leaky faucet. I don’t know why we came.”

  What could I say? She was beautiful in an exhausted maternal way, though she wouldn’t believe me if I said so. At least she wasn’t weeping. She lifted John, but he banged his nose on her shoulder and started to cry. “There, there.” She patted his back. “We’re going home, as soon as I get water baby away from the sink. She’s liable to pitch a screaming fit.”

  “Let me help.” Zoë efficiently picked up toys from the floor and stowed them in Temple’s tote bag.

  “I should be able to handle all this,” Temple said. “I have to sooner or later. Fern’s been a godsend, but she’s moving back here tonight and then I’ll have to manage by myself. You know what really bothers me? Kent’s killer hasn’t been caught. I keep thinking he’ll s
neak back into the house.” She walked around the room as John wailed.

  “Why would he sneak into your house?” Zoë asked.

  “Why not? Who knows? No one knows why Kent was murdered, do they? It seems completely random. Yesterday I even bought a gun. Got the permit a year ago, but couldn’t be bothered until now. I still don’t know if I want it in the house.” She lifted Paige off the stool onto the floor. “Sweetie, we have to go. It’s almost bedtime.”

  Paige shrieked “No! No!” then started to yowl, adding her cries to the baby’s. Their racket put me on edge. I found an old frayed towel and wiped up the water puddled on the floor.

  “Maybe they’ll quiet down on the ride home,” Temple said.

  “Let me go with you,” Zoë said. “William can get me later.”

  Temple looked at her. “Are you sure?”

  Zoë nodded firmly. She picked up the tote bag and Paige’s boom box, then walked outside to help Temple fasten the children into their car seats. I watched the minivan roll away, feeling uneasy about the cosmic shifts in my universe: Zoë was being helpful, Wesley was sleeping with my grandmother, Lincoln had lawyered up, and Bryce wanted to join the military. What was next?

  I needed to think. I went back inside the farmhouse, climbed the stairs to my old bedroom, and lay down on the kitten-soft bedcover. Stared at the ceiling. I tried to visualize Mercer’s last morning, the SUV in the driveway, the murderer hiding under the deck. I scrolled through my phone until I found the photo I’d taken of the bloody fingerprint. That bloody fingerprint was useless until we had a suspect. Who was desperate and cold-blooded enough to carve the flesh of an unconscious man?

  I slid the facts around like letters on a Scrabble rack. Someone had taken Mercer’s computer, his phone. Where was the missing April 2 CD? Betrayal, knife, blackmail, abduction. Jealousy, fear, revenge, anger. If I could just find the right order . . .

  CHAPTER 35

  Saturday late afternoon

  I went back to the scene of the crime.

  The guard waved me into Silver Hills. After almost two weeks of driving through these streets, I no longer ogled the turreted mansions. The only people I saw were crews spraying weeds and blowing pine needles off driveways, small brown men who probably felt as out of place as I did.

  No one answered Temple’s doorbell, but the house was unlocked as usual so I let myself in. I locked the door behind me, a habit of mine, one I wished Temple would adopt, at least until we found her husband’s killer.

  Chaos reigned in the kitchen. John whimpered in his baby carrier. Paige sat on the floor amidst spilled Cheerios, putting them into her mouth one by one. In the family room, Zoë crouched on the floor, sorting and straightening Paige’s toys and books. I supposed Temple would appreciate the order, but it wasn’t my priority. “Where’s Temple?” I asked Zoë.

  “Upstairs,” she said. She’d found a carton and was filling it with stuffed animals and dolls.

  I went upstairs to Temple’s bedroom and knocked on the open door. “You okay?”

  “I’m in here. The only place I’m ever alone,” she yelled from the bathroom.

  “What can I do?”

  “Give the baby a bottle. There’s one in the fridge. Warm it in the microwave ten seconds, then shake it.”

  “I can do that. Why don’t you stay up here, relax? We’ll be fine.” I hoped this was true—I had no experience with week-old infants. But John’s whimpers slowed when I settled with him on the couch, and he latched onto the bottle like a pro. It felt natural to tuck his blanket snugly around him and cuddle him close. Success.

  Zoë was organizing a toy kitchen that seemed to have a hundred pieces—pots, pans, cups, dishes—as well as a veritable grocery store of wooden food items. She arranged everything neatly, then lifted the carton of stuffed toys and dolls. “I’m going to take these to the playroom,” she said, heading into the hall.

  Paige followed her, returning with toys to bombard me with noise. First she paraded around the room pushing a diabolical popping toy, shouting “pop-pop-pop-pop.” She squeezed Barney’s purple plush paw as he sang “I Love You” in a growly voice, over and over. When that got old, she pushed a button on Elmo’s foot. His red arms flapped and he began a high-pitched song—“Elmo wants to be a chicken, Elmo wants to be a duck.” Paige accompanied him on a drum. After about eight repetitions, I hated Elmo and wished him dead.

  In spite of the commotion, John sucked enthusiastically on the bottle with a pause now and then to catch his breath. Halfway through I thought a burp might be in order. I propped him in a sitting position and he obliged, spitting up milk. I wiped him off, told him he was a good baby. I could actually hear myself. Paige had abandoned noisy toys and put on headphones, a brilliant invention. Now she was trying to jam a CD into her boom box. She squealed in frustration.

  “Bring it here,” I said. “Look, there’s another CD in there already. We have to take that out first.” I reached to help her with my free hand.

  “No!” She mashed the “play” button and closed her eyes to concentrate. No wonder June Devon abandoned her in the grocery store. I’d been alone with her for ten minutes and felt like reporting myself to the child-abuse hotline as a precaution.

  “Daddy,” she said.

  “Daddy?” I leaned toward her and peered through the transparent plastic at a spinning homemade mini CD, Memorex 80 like the others Mercer had recorded. I reached out to take the headphones. “Let me listen, sweetheart.”

  “No, no!” she screamed, and pulled the boom box out of my reach. She ran into the kitchen. SBI training didn’t include seizing evidence from a toddler, but I knew what worked with Merle—distraction, preferably food. I put John back into his carrier, dashed into the kitchen, and rummaged through the cupboards. Temple was a damned crunchy mom. I found only organic-this and whole-wheat-that. Finally, in the freezer, a box of frozen fruit bars.

  “Look, Paige,” I said, “pink popsicle!” I put the stick end in her hand as I snatched the boom box and headphones away. She screamed anyway so I flicked on the TV and scrolled through the channels until I found a trio of squeaky-voiced pudgy creatures. Paige turned to the screen. The popsicle dripped onto the floor. I sat her on the couch and put a towel in her lap. Temple would forgive me.

  I lifted the CD out. April 2, it read, the date of the missing CD, number eleven of Mercer’s homemade collection.

  “I’ll take that.” The voice behind me was soft and low.

  I turned around. Zoë Schubert stood in the doorway. Her face was ashen, not so young. “I’ve been looking for that CD everywhere,” she said. “And it was in the kid’s boom box all along?” She laughed and held out her hand. “Give it to me, it’s mine.”

  The tiles lined up, the puzzle pieces slid into place. Zoë, who grew up shooting squirrels for stew. Who once owned a garage, working side-by-side with her husband. The nurse Zoë, in the hospital on the day of Lincoln’s overdose. Who owned an SUV and sent me to the mountains to be a sniper’s target. Who had enough money to buy Mercer’s silence.

  I didn’t know why, but the answer had to be on this CD. “What’s on it that’s so important?” I asked.

  Her eyes glittered. “What do you want? I can write you a check right now. Five thousand dollars.”

  “A confession? A secret?”

  “Ten thousand. Please. I have to have it.”

  I didn’t have my gun or handcuffs and I didn’t want to get physical with the kids around. I needed to call for backup to arrest her. But as I took a step toward the hall, where I’d left my phone, she reached into her handbag, brought out a gun, and pointed it at my throat.

  Zoë with a gun. Had she shot Emilie, grazed me, shattered a mirror scattering shards into my face, sent sniper fire raining down on me and Merle at Brenner Creek? As adrenaline spilled into my bloodstream, my breath grew shallow. She was extremely dangerous.

  “Slide it over here. Now.” Her voice was harsh.

  “Looks like a Glock 19,”
I said to Zoë. “Uses nine-millimeter ammo, right?”

  “I want the CD, nothing else.”

  I could charge her and grab the gun but I didn’t want to risk a scuffle—Paige sat a few feet away, still absorbed in the television, and the baby was close by too, not to mention my own precious self. I tossed her the CD. She put it in her pocket. Paige was still glued to the TV and hadn’t noticed a thing.

  “Get down on the floor,” Zoë said, gesturing impatiently. Reluctantly I sat. My mind raced, looking for a way to stop her.

  “My show! My show!” Paige wailed. A commercial had come on. She looked away from the TV and saw grim-faced Zoë holding a gun. She looked at me for reassurance. I smiled but that wasn’t enough and Paige started to cry, “Mama mama ma—” “Make her lie down with you.” Zoë’s voice was steely.

  Behind Zoë, the stain of a shadow moved on the wall. A bare arm, a body wrapped in a towel, Temple’s pale face, dripping hair. I tried ESP: stay there, Temple, don’t come any closer.

  “Come here, Paige,” I said. “Sit by me.” I patted the floor.

  “No! Mama mama mama . . .”

  “Don’t come after me,” said Zoë. “I’m taking the baby,” Still pointing the pistol at me, she picked up the baby in his carrier with her other hand, backed out of the room, and disappeared into the hall.

  Paige stopped crying. She looked at me for an instant. “My baby,” she said. She ran after Zoë. I lunged across the floor to stop her, but missed. She dashed around the corner.

  “Goddammit all to hell!” I heard Zoë cry, her voice no longer soft and refined but shrill with a nasty twang. Paige howled and a gun went off, the explosion reverberating through the house as I instinctively covered my head. Terrified of what I might see, I jumped up and scrambled into the hall.

  Temple stood there, a gun in her hand. “Did I kill her?” she whispered. She didn’t mean Paige, who clung to her legs, furiously sucking her thumb. John cried angrily from the shock of being dropped, carrier and all. Temple pulled off her towel, knelt down, and dabbed blood spatters off the baby. “There, you’re all right,” she said. She picked up the baby, jouncing him. She didn’t seem to care that she was naked.