Bunny nodded toward a plastic chair draped with jeans and shirts and damp-smelling towels. “Sit down,” she said. She waited until Derrick had tipped the items onto the floor and settled into the chair before she told him that Sloan wanted a divorce.
“What!” Beer foam sloshed over the rim of the bottle. “Why didn’t you tell me, instead of giving me a heart attack?”
“I’ve explained why a divorce would never work.”
“You want me to talk to him? Convince him to cut you in for a bigger slice? You tell me what you want, and I’m all over it.”
“I want you to kill my husband.”
Derrick’s head snapped backward, his eyes widening. “Kill him? You want me to kill him?” He gave a shout of laughter.
“There’s no other way.” Bunny kept her voice quiet, certain.
He took a moment; then he said, “You’re not kidding, are you?”
“I’ve thought it through carefully,” she said.
“In what, ten minutes?”
Bunny turned sideways and looked out the window at the lights shining in the windows across the way, the streetlights washing over the snow on the road. The mountain itself was a black mass; the caterpillars had finished for the night. After stumbling away from Tanya’s, Bunny had spent two hours driving through the old Aspen neighborhoods and up the winding roads into the mountain suburbs. Around and around she had driven, going over every possible detail.
Only one problem was left.
“Have you told anyone about us?” she said.
Derrick chugged the last of the beer, set the bottle on the floor, and pushed himself out of the chair. He started patrolling the room, kicking at the litter on the floor. Finally he turned toward her. “You said it was our little secret. Mrs. Sloan Pearl getting it on with her ski instructor, didn’t want her high-and-mighty friends to know.”
Bunny felt a wave of relief wash through her. He hadn’t told anyone, because he hadn’t wanted it to end. “This will be our little secret, too,” she said. “First thing tomorrow morning, I’ll have Sloan’s pilot fly me to Denver. Sloan will figure I’m upset over the possibility of divorce. He’ll expect me to go shopping. Tomorrow night . . .”
“Tomorrow night?” Derrick waved a hand back and forth between them like a flag. “Oh, no. I have to think about this.”
“We’ll have everything, Derrick. Any hot sports car you want, our own yacht, our own private jet, our own pilot on call. We’ll spend months at the house in Spain on the Mediterranean. We’ll fly to the house in Long Island, and we’ll come back here for ski season. You can ski every day. No more instructing! If you get bored, we’ll go to Switzerland or France to ski. Anything you want, Derrick, we’ll do.”
Derrick stopped moving about the room. He planted his hands against the wall and leaned forward, the knobs of his spine bursting through the back of his shirt. For a couple seconds, he didn’t say anything. The party noise from another condo sounded muffled and far away, the sound of a CD like the dull drone of a plane passing overhead.
“Chile?” he said.
“What?”
“I always wanted to ski in Chile.”
She had him then, she knew. Derrick Fitzsimmons wanted all of it; he had always wanted what the wealthy skiers on the slopes had. She went over the details of the plan: It had to happen tomorrow night, before the security system was repaired. Otherwise he would have to disable the system somehow, and that could be a problem. And it had to happen before Sloan’s lawyer had any idea that Sloan wanted a divorce. Derrick would park down the mountain and hike up to the house through the trees. He should tie towels over his boots to obscure the markings on the soles. Was that clear? He would break through the basement window at the back of the house. It had to look like a break-in because there had been several in the neighborhood. By three a.m. Sloan would be in his usual sleeping-pill-induced coma. No matter where he might go earlier, Sloan liked sleeping in his own bed. Once inside the house, Derrick would take the back steps to the second floor. The master bedroom suite was on the right. He would use the large, bronze candlestick holder above the fireplace.
Derrick looked up at that. “Christ, Bunny!”
“It will be fast, a few blows. Be sure to remove the money from his wallet on the dresser, but don’t take anything else that could connect you to the . . .” She stopped. “Incident,” she finished.
“Christ!” he said again.
“The cleaning lady will arrive in the morning and find him.” Bunny got up and went over to Derrick. She ran her hands along the hard knobs of his spine. “Remember,” she said, “we’ll have everything.”
* * *
Sunshine flooded the Palace Arms at the Brown Palace Hotel. The velvet burgundy draperies, pulled to the sides and secured with golden rope. The tables, set with crisp, white linens and heavy silver flatware and vases of fresh roses. Not a vacant seat in the restaurant. Bunny settled back and sipped at the steaming coffee in the white porcelain cup. Beyond the windows, the morning traffic crawled down Seventeenth Street and serious-looking business types hurried along the sidewalk. Yesterday had been perfect: the boutiques in Cherry Creek, the Denver Country Club for lunch, the fine jewelry shops where she had treated herself to a diamond pendant and a Piaget watch; Sloan would expect no less. A peaceful night in the penthouse suite of the Brown Palace.
She spotted the pair of burly suits walking past the window outside. Everything was going as she planned. The two police detectives had come to inform Mrs. Sloan Pearl that she was now a grieving widow. They came through the restaurant door, went over to the blond, willowy hostess with the Hermès scarf arranged around the neck of her blue dress, and huddled for a moment around her desk, voices as subdued as water trickling over rocks. In a moment, the hostess came walking over. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs. Pearl,” she said, “but the two gentlemen from the Denver Police Department wish to have a word with you.”
Bunny hesitated for an appropriate moment before she said, “Send them over.”
“Mrs. Pearl?” The cop with the round, reddish face and Marine-style haircut stood on the other side of the table and held out a badge wallet. “Detective Garrity, DPD,” he said. “My partner, Detective Simson.” He gave a backward toss of his head toward the man hovering at his shoulder. “I’m afraid we have some very bad news for you.”
“Bad news?” Bunny said. “I don’t understand.”
“The hostess has made a private room available,” Garrity said. “Follow us, please.”
The room was located at the far end of the restaurant, all low, leather chairs, dark wood tables, and Oriental carpets, with sunlight refracted in the mullioned windows. Bunny had felt the eyes looking up from Eggs Benedict and waffles and coffee and following the progress across the restaurant of the stylish, beautiful woman and the two men who might as well have had neon lights blinking Cops on their backs. Highly embarrassing, and hardly part of her plans, but inconsequential next to a billion dollars. She had stepped into the room and perched on the edge of the leather chair nearest the door.
“What is it?” she asked again. She could hear her voice, breathless and filled with trepidation, as if she were prepared to break into tears at any moment.
The two detectives occupied the chairs on the other side of a small table. “I’m afraid your husband . . .” Garrity began.
“My husband! Oh, God, something’s happened to Sloan? Tell me it’s not true! Please, tell me he’s all right.”
The detective took his time, rubbing a knuckle around the edge of his chin, before he said, “Mr. Pearl is fine. He was not harmed.”
“Not harmed?” Bunny sank against the back of the chair and dropped her face into her hands, aware of a warm flush of shock and surprise moving through her. “Oh, thank God,” she said, wishing the chair might swallow her. “What exactly happened?” She clasped her hands in her lap n
ow to steady herself.
“I’m afraid there was a break-in at your home last night,” Garrity said. “A man by the name of Derrick Fitzsimmons . . .”
Bunny forced herself to look up. Her face burned, as if the cop had slapped her. “Derrick, my ski instructor?”
“I’m sorry to have to tell you that he broke into your house and bludgeoned to death a young woman, Tanya Kendricks, who happened to be there. Mr. Pearl was in the bathroom when he heard the commotion. He grabbed a pistol he keeps in a bathroom drawer and confronted the perpetrator. Unfortunately, the Kendricks woman had been killed instantly. Mr. Pearl held the perpetrator at gunpoint until the Aspen police arrived.”
“My God,” Bunny said. She pressed both hands over her eyes for a long moment, feeling the moisture warm her palm. All the carefully thought-out details, smashed. She had tried to think of everything. She had even thought of the pistol, but Sloan was sure to have been in his nightly coma when Derrick arrived. She had never thought Sloan would bring his tart home for the night, not with the cleaning lady expected first thing in the morning. Sloan was nothing if not scrupulous about complying with the proper social norms she had taught him.
“How perfectly dreadful,” she said in the most cultivated voice she could muster. “I must go to my husband at once.”
“We’ve already asked the doorman to summon your pilot,” the first cop said.
* * *
Bunny sat close to Sloan, thigh against thigh, hands entangled, and waited for the Aspen detective to scribble in his notepad. The guesthouse was quiet, except for the ticking of a branch against the living room window and the stuttering noise of voices from outside where police officers, forensics people, photographers, and journalists were stomping about. Yellow police tape had been strung around the main house. The minute Bunny had swung the BMW into the driveway, an officer had materialized and directed her to the guesthouse in back. Sloan was waiting in the living room, and she had flung herself into his arms, surprised at the salty taste of the tears stinging her face.
“I’m sorry, Bunny.” She had felt his breath moving in her hair. “I made a terrible mistake.” Then he had introduced Detective Peterson, the big-shouldered man with the shiny bald head waiting across the room. “You know Chester,” Sloan said, nodding toward the short, blocklike man against the wall, in gray suit, pink shirt, and cowboy boots. Then he led her around the coffee table to the overstuffed cream-colored sofa. “The detective would like a few words with you,” he said.
Chester stepped forward, lowering his head toward her. “You are under no legal obligation to answer any questions,” he said.
“I wish to cooperate in any way I can,” Bunny said, giving him a dismissive wave. The lawyer moved back to the wall, head still bowed, hands clasped across his chest.
Detective Peterson had dropped down on a chair across from the sofa. He turned his attention for a moment to the tape player whirring on the table before regarding Bunny out of small, watery blue eyes. “I regret to have to ask these questions, Mrs. Pearl,” he said, finally, “but we have a statement from Derrick Fitzsimmons to the effect that you arranged for him to kill your husband. He claims that you made all the plans.”
“Preposterous,” Bunny said, squeezing Sloan’s hand. “Derrick was my ski instructor. I skied with him several days a week. I can’t imagine . . .”
“Were you lovers, Mrs. Pearl? Did you promise to marry him?”
Bunny leaned against Sloan’s shoulder. His breathing was quick and raspy, as if he were struggling for air. Everything depended on whether Sloan believed her, but why wouldn’t he? No one knew about her and Derrick. There were no rumors or gossip about them. She had never mentioned Derrick to any of her friends, and Derrick had been equally discreet. “I believe I understand,” she said. “Derrick developed a crush on me in the last few weeks, inviting me to join him for drinks after the lifts closed, complimenting me, pawing at me. Naturally I rebuffed him and insisted our relationship remain strictly professional.”
“How did he take your rejection?”
“It disturbed him,” Bunny said. “I didn’t want to think about the fantasies he was entertaining. His behavior became more and more annoying. Standing too close, placing his hand on my arm or my back, as if he could make me change my mind. I informed him of my intention to hire another instructor.”
Detective Peterson went back to scribbling. After a moment, he said, “It’s possible you were the intended victim.”
“Oh, my.” Bunny was grateful for the weight of Sloan’s arm slipping around her shoulders, keeping her anchored in place. The scenario had shifted so fast, she felt dizzy and confused. And yet, she realized that this new scenario gave Derrick a more plausible motive to commit murder than his assertion that the wife of Sloan Pearl had wanted him dead. In that instant, she knew she was free. No police detective or district attorney in Aspen would take the word of a ski instructor over the word of a billionaire’s wife, a prominent New York socialite.
“One more matter to clear up.” The detective flicked a glance at her. “Fitzsimmons claims you told him the security system was disabled. How else would he have known?”
Chester lunged forward. “No need to say anything else, Bunny.”
Sloan put up one hand. “I’ll handle this,” he said. “It’s clear the man is a liar. No doubt he came prepared to disable the system himself, which is what occurred in the other burglaries in the neighborhood. He is using the fact that our system happened to be down in his attempt to incriminate my wife. The man is shameless.”
Detective Peterson nodded; then he pocketed the tape recorder and notepad and got to his feet. He would send over the statements for their signatures later, he said. He planned to walk Derrick Fitzsimmons through the crime scene to confirm his path in the house, and he hoped that wouldn’t inconvenience them. Naturally he understood the couple had long-standing plans to leave for Spain this evening, but they would be expected to return to testify at the trial.
“Naturally,” Sloan had said, following the big detective and the lawyer across the room and ushering them out the door. Then he turned slowly to Bunny. There was such bright relief in his eyes that she clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “At Tanya’s house, my dear,” he said, “you conducted yourself like the lady you are. I knew then I had made a terrible mistake. I intended to break it off with her before you returned from Denver. Can you ever forgive me?”
* * *
Bunny felt the SUV shiver as the driver thumped the luggage into the back. The car had arrived precisely at six p.m., as Sloan had ordered. They had packed only a few personal items, but after all, they kept the appropriate wardrobes in each house. The tailgate slammed and the driver hurried around. A blast of icy air mixed with flakes of snow invaded the SUV as he climbed behind the wheel. Sloan had taken hold of her gloved hand and was holding on tight, as if she were a lifeline of some sort. The engine coughed into life as they started bouncing down the driveway next to the house. A line of police vehicles was parked in front. What nuisance and inconvenience, she thought. Such scandal. She was grateful to be leaving. She sat straight, facing the road that wound down the mountainside past Tanya’s house, past the trees on the right that Derrick had climbed through last night, Sloan’s profile floating beside her, the granite jaw and bulbous nose, the eyes trained ahead.
Another police car crawled up the road, and the driver guided the SUV over to make room. Bunny forced herself not to look at the occupant in the backseat as the car passed, and yet, there was the slightest glimpse of the tousled black hair, the red-rimmed dark eyes in the handsome face with features carved in the mountain winds and baked in the snow glare of the sun. She could feel Derrick looking at her, and then, as quickly as he had appeared in her life, he was gone, snow from the rear wheels of the police car flecking her window. She thought he might have waved, but she co
uldn’t be sure.
Molly Brown and Cleopatra’s Diamond
{ A Novella }
“Welcome to the Brown Palace, Mrs. Brown.” The doorman extended a black-gloved hand. Specks of snow glistened on the dark shoulders of his uniform and speckled the top of his cap. Molly Brown took his hand and stepped down from the buggy, as the pair of horses whinnied, stamped their hooves, and blew gusts of steam into the frigid evening air. Bells jangled on the other buggies passing along Tremont Street.
“Good evening, Mr. Brown,” the doorman said, as J.J. alighted beside her. Through her silver fox cape, Molly could feel the pressure of J.J.’s hand on her arm, guiding her toward the glass revolving door. Other doormen doffed their caps, and she and J.J. stepped into a vestibule of marble floors and bronze elevators and electricity-lit sconces that sent tongues of light flickering over the mahogany walls.
“They think we own the place,” Molly said. The idea made her suppress a little giggle. Two years ago, in 1894, the only thing they had owned was a two-room bungalow—not much more than a shack—in Leadville. Then J.J. had tunneled into a vast deposit of gold in the Little Jonny Mine, and the Brown family—she and J.J. and the children, Helen and Lawrence—had packed their belongings, ridden the train to Denver, and moved into a mansion on Pennsylvania Avenue on Capitol Hill, Denver’s best neighborhood.
How many times since had she corrected some well-meaning new acquaintance who blurted out: “Brown? Oh, you must be the Browns of the Brown Palace!”
“I’m afraid not.” Molly had learned to lift her chin in an attempt to dismiss the matter. She had no intention of being linked to old Henry Cordes Brown, despite the fact that he was among the Old Guard that had arrived in the 1860s, when Denver was nothing but a collection of tents, cabins, and dusty roads filled with gold seekers desperate to find fortunes. Old Henry had built the Brown Palace in 1892 and promptly gone broke, which hardly left him a member in good standing in society.
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