Once Pined

by Blake Pierce

  Landis seemed to notice Riley’s curiosity.

  She explained, “Those are death portraits. In the old days, when photography was new, families posed for photographs with their departed loved ones. They often went to a great deal of trouble to make those corpses look as if they were alive.”

  She pointed to different pictures and explained.

  “Here you see two children posing with their dead little sister. In this one, a dead man is sitting with his favorite dogs on his lap. This one shows a dead little girl cuddling her beloved dolls. Here are two little girls holding hands—I’m not sure which one is dead. You’ll notice that the deceased’s eyes are always open.”

  Landis fell silent, letting the chilling effect of the pictures sink in.

  “I suppose it seems morbid to most people,” she said with a sigh. “But I think it was a touching tradition. Perhaps we’ve lost something essentially human as we’ve distanced ourselves from the realities of death.”

  Then turning to her visitors, she said, “But I’m being very rude. I haven’t offered you anything to drink. I’d offer you a beer or some wine, but of course you’re on duty. Would you like some tea or coffee?”

  Riley resisted the impulse to look at Bill. She was sure he was thinking the same thing—that Landis was deliberately toying with them. Would she really be so brazen as to poison two FBI agents in her own home? Riley doubted it, but she couldn’t be sure, and of course Bill must have felt the same way. Landis seemed to be getting some twisted amusement from their uncertainty.

  “No, thank you,” Riley said.

  “We’re fine,” Bill added.

  “Please sit down, make yourself comfortable.”

  Riley and Bill sat together on a settee with dark, plush upholstery. In front of them, an odd-looking piece of furniture was in service as a coffee table. It looked very old, with slender legs and a cane latticework top. Riley wondered what its original use might be.

  As she sat, Landis again observed her visitors’ curiosity.

  “This is a true antique,” she said. “It dates back to the nineteenth century. It’s been restored, of course, and the wicker weaving is new. Have you ever heard of a ‘cooling board’?”

  “I can’t say I have,” Riley said.

  “Me either,” Bill said.

  Landis patted the thin wicker top.

  “Well, today we take refrigeration for granted. But back in those days, storing dead bodies in preparation for a funeral was very difficult, especially in warm weather. Bodies were kept on cooling boards like this one. Ice underneath the latticework kept them cool. The lattice allowed blood and fluids to drain.”

  A nostalgic look crossed Landis’s face.

  “Cooling boards have long since been replaced by refrigerated storage units and metal embalming tables—not nearly so elegant, I think. Call me old-fashioned, but it seems to me that progress comes at the price of grace and style.”

  Landis looked and Bill and Riley with an inquisitive expression.

  “You said that you’d eliminated Maxine as a suspect. Why?”

  Riley studied the woman’s expression. Riley and Bill needed to handle this carefully. The goal right now was to get Landis to tip her hand, to say or do something that revealed her guilt.

  Riley said, “When we met, you told me that Maxine Crowe had gotten into trouble for experimenting on patients.”

  Landis nodded.

  Then Riley added, “But you didn’t tell me that she was experimenting with placebos, not anything actually poisonous.”

  Landis tilted her head curiously.

  “Placebos? I didn’t know.”

  Riley peered at Landis ever more closely. Was she lying? Riley usually found it fairly easy to detect a lie during an interview. But something in Landis’s perpetually sardonic expression made her difficult for Riley to read.

  Riley said, “You never mentioned that you and Maxine weren’t on very good terms when she left your school.”

  Landis gazed back at Riley intently.

  “Was I supposed to? When we met before, I didn’t know I was a suspect.”

  Riley didn’t reply.

  “Oh, I see. Maxine told you some rather sinister stories about my little gatherings right here in this room. And you seem to have jumped to some rather disagreeable conclusions.”

  Riley still said nothing. Both she and Bill knew that the best tactic was to say and ask as little as possible. They must let Landis do most of the talking—hopefully until she tripped herself up.

  Landis wrinkled her brow.

  “Agent Paige, are you suggesting I deliberately steered you toward Maxine Crowe as a distraction?”

  Riley held her gaze quietly.

  “I had hopes for Maxine Crowe,” Landis said. “But I think I made my educational goals pretty clear to you earlier. Denial is the healer’s worst enemy. That’s what my meetings here are all about. They separate the students who can face hard realities from those who can’t.”

  Still silent, Riley kept her eyes locked on those of the other woman. Neither of them blinked.

  Landis continued, “I expect my students to be able to look death in the eye, to see it for what it is. Maxine had—how would I put it?—a weak stomach for the sort of work she was training for. She graduated and got her credentials, but I’ve never given her my wholehearted recommendation. She’s obviously still sour about that, but it can’t be helped. There are some things you just can’t teach.”

  Landis broke their eye contact, glancing back and forth between Riley and Bill. Was it out of nervousness? Riley still couldn’t tell.

  Then a slight smirk crossed Landis’s face.

  “You’ve got no proof. You can’t very well arrest me just because a disgruntled ex-student thinks I’m morbid.”

  Again, Landis was toying with them.

  But did that prove she was a murderer?

  She’s right, Riley thought. We’ve got no proof—not yet, anyway.

  Riley and Bill had reached a stalemate. They were left with only one option. Riley glanced at Bill and saw that he was thinking the same thing.

  Bill got from the settee, walked over to Solange, and urged her to her feet.

  He said, “Solange Landis, you are under arrest for a class C felony.”

  Landis’s mouth dropped open with disbelief as he began to cuff her.

  “What?”

  Riley got up from the settee.

  “It is illegal to use or hold a fraudulent postsecondary degree,” Riley said. “The penalty in the state of Washington can be five years in prison and a ten-thousand-dollar fine.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Landis said.

  And for the first time, Riley knew that she was definitely lying.

  “I think you do,” Riley said.

  As Riley and Bill led Landis out of her house, she stammered in shocked confusion.

  “But if I did … I’m not saying I did, but … surely the FBI has better things to do than … Don’t you have a murderer to catch? … Please, I have a daughter, I try to do what’s right.”

  Riley said nothing as Bill pushed their captive into the car.

  It was a good arrest, but not as good as Riley had hoped.

  They still hadn’t proved that Solange Landis was a murderer.

  And if she’s guilty, Riley thought, she’s still got lots of tricks up her sleeve.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  Early the next morning, Riley felt a tingle of excitement as she and Bill drove within view of Amanda Somers’ mansion on Moritz Hill.

  She really lived here, Riley thought.

  An author who had profoundly touched Riley’s life had lived right here.

  The thought was truly awe-inspiring.

  Still, the place was certainly not what Riley had expected. It looked more like the dwelling of some medieval lord than the home of a great American author. The facade was half-timbered, its dark wood framework standing out against pale plaster. Impressi
ve as it was, it seemed antiquated and out of place in a modern city.

  Bill parked the car in the private lot next to the house.

  “I hope this isn’t a waste of time,” Bill said as they walked toward a pair of tall ornamental gates at the front of the property.

  Riley hoped so too. It hadn’t been her idea or Bill’s to come here this morning. Chief Sanderson had called them very early and appealed to them to stop by the mansion right away. He said that Amanda Somers’ son and daughter wanted to talk to them.

  Riley understood Sanderson’s reasons. Now that the public’s attention was focused on a famous author’s death, mollifying Somers’ children in every possible way was a huge PR concern.

  But Solange Landis was in custody. Riley knew that they needed to focus their energy on Landis—on determining her guilt or eliminating her as a suspect. Sanderson had said that Landis was still denying anything to do with the murders. The Seattle police and the local FBI had searched her home and office and found nothing suspicious—certainly not any poisons.

  This was a side trip, and not at all to Riley’s liking. She and Bill were due at a meeting at the field office as soon as they finished here. They needed to get their visit done quickly.

  As they walked through the gate, an extremely well-dressed man stepped out of the house to greet them in a formal manner.

  “I’m Cromer, the late Ms. Somers’ butler,” he said in an upper-class English accent. “And you are Agents Paige and Jeffreys, I believe. Come right this way. You are expected in the library.”

  Cromer led them through two large doors into a tiled foyer. Through an open door, Riley glimpsed a spacious living room with lots of dark wood paneling.

  She felt as though she’d stepped into the distant past—and like the outside of the house, none of this looked anything like what she’d expected. In her mind’s eye, she compared this very traditional mansion to the very modern houseboat. How had the same woman lived in both places? Riley had sensed that Amanda Somers had been comfortable on the houseboat. How could she possibly have enjoyed living in a place like this?

  Everything looked perfectly neat and clean, just as things had at Somers’ floating home. It didn’t look like the dwelling of a vibrantly creative person. It didn’t even look real. The house looked more like an elaborate stage set than a home.

  Riley kept flashing back to Somers’ unforgettable book, The Long Sprint, and its vital protagonist, Emerson Drew. Amanda Somers had created a world full of characters that had seemed realer than real, livelier than life. It just didn’t make sense that she’d called this darkly burnished museum of a place her home.

  Cromer led them into the library. He introduced them to Amanda Somers’ son and daughter and departed. Logan Somers and Isabel Watson were sitting at a large antique mahogany table poring over reams of manuscript pages.

  Riley breathed a little easier as she looked around. The library was chaotic and messy—much more the sort of creative environment that Riley had expected. The walls were covered with bookshelves filled with hundreds of haphazardly arranged volumes, many left open, others piled carelessly atop of one another. Books and papers were even lying on the floor and on all the furniture. It didn’t appear that anyone had dusted the place in a very long time.

  She probably didn’t allow it, Riley guessed.

  An old-fashioned mechanical typewriter sat on a plain wooden desk, still holding a page of unfinished manuscript. There wasn’t a computer in sight. It appeared that Amanda Somers hadn’t entered the electronic age even after all her years of writing.

  Riley wasn’t the least bit surprised. Somers had belonged to a literary tradition that was fading away. Such authors had no desire to keep up with the latest technology.

  Logan Somers peeked up at Riley and Bill over a pair of reading glasses.

  “We’re glad you’re here,” he said.

  Isabel Watson didn’t even look at them.

  “Have a seat,” she snapped.

  Riley and Bill had to move piles of books off of two straight-backed chairs in order to sit down. For a few moments neither of their hosts said anything more, so Riley kept surveying her surroundings. An open door led to a bathroom. Riley noticed a small daybed in one corner. Riley sensed that Amanda Somers slept there much of the time. In fact, Riley guessed that she seldom left this room whenever she was in this house.

  She hated this house, Riley realized. This library was her sole refuge here.

  Riley then took a moment to study the faces of Somers’ children. In her notorious reclusiveness, the author had never allowed her picture to appear on copies of her own book. Riley hadn’t seen a photograph of her until just yesterday. Then she had been struck by the humanity and depth of character of that face—exactly the demeanor Riley would have expected in the author of The Long Sprint.

  And now did Riley see any resemblance between these two adults and their mother? Their faces had much the same shape, and their chins and noses were similar. But their features seemed small somehow, and devoid of any real feeling.

  Riley found no trace of the penetrating soulfulness she’d seen in Amanda Somers’ photograph.

  Maybe it skipped generations, Riley thought.

  Unlike their mother, Logan Somers and Isabel Watson were palpably shallow people. Riley also sensed that they had been estranged from their mother for a very long time.

  Finally, Logan Somers pushed some papers aside and looked up at Riley and Bill with an insincere smile.

  “Great house, isn’t it?” he said.

  “We encouraged Mom to buy it when it came on the market,” Isabel Watson added, barely looking up from what she was reading. “We thought it was perfect—really suitable to a person of her literary stature.”

  Riley noticed a distinct hollowness in how Isabel said those words, “literary stature,” as if she didn’t fully understand what they even meant.

  Logan Somers shook his head and added in a bitter tone, “Mom didn’t spend nearly enough time here. She kept going off on her own, staying on that damned boat.”

  “That stupid boat,” Isabel said. “We tried to talk her out of buying it. What a waste of money.”

  Her tone was chilly and uncaring.

  Money, Riley thought. That’s all they care about. Mom’s money.

  And now they were hovering over stacks of Somers’ unfinished manuscripts like vultures.

  Bill said, “Chief Sanderson said you wanted us to come talk with you. What about?”

  Logan smiled again.

  “We just wanted to make sure that we’re on the same page,” he said.

  Riley exchanged glances with Bill.

  “What ‘page’ is that?” Bill asked.

  Neither Logan nor Isabel replied for a moment. Isabel finally put her papers aside and looked at Bill and Riley.

  “We understand that you’ve taken a suspect into custody,” Isabel finally said. “A woman.”

  “We have,” Riley said.

  Logan and Isabel looked at each other, then back at Riley and Bill.

  “Well, you just have to do your job, I guess,” Logan said with a shrug.

  Riley felt somewhat puzzled.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “You have to eliminate all other possibilities,” Logan said.

  “Other possibilities?” Bill asked.

  Logan emitted a slight chuckle.

  “Other than suicide, I mean. That’s what Mom’s death was, of course. I think we all know that.”

  Riley felt a flash of anger.

  “We don’t know any such thing,” she said.

  Bill added, “Your mother was killed by an elaborate cocktail of rather unusual poisons—hardly what most people would use for suicide.”

  Isabel smiled a haughty smile.

  “Our mother was hardly ‘most people,’” she said. “She was a creative genius, after all. But you’re investigating a serial case, aren’t you? Well, it simply doesn’t make sense that our moth
er’s death had anything to do with that. The other two victims were too … well, ordinary. They had nothing in common with our mother.”

  Riley remembered what Dr. Prisha Shankar had said to her about how suicide would add to the market value of Amanda Somers’ work.

  “She’d be tortured and unhappy as well as reclusive. It all adds up to the stuff that literary legends are made of.”

  That’s what this was all about—complete control of an author’s posthumous reputation. Riley sensed that Bill felt as annoyed as she did. But as usual, he maintained a tactful tone.

  He said, “I assure you that we’ll do everything we can to uncover the exact circumstances of your mother’s death.”

  With a slight smirk, Isabel said, “Agent Jeffreys, we know the exact circumstances. And her agent has hired a PR firm to handle the story of her last days. I’d hate for the police and the FBI to contradict that story.”

  Riley’s mind boggled at the woman’s brazenness.

  She said, “And I’d hate for you and your brother to be charged with obstruction of justice. You’d better not let that ‘story’ of yours go public before we finish our investigation.”

  Isabel’s expression darkened, and the room suddenly seemed a few degrees colder. She gestured toward the enormous piles of manuscripts.

  “Agents Paige and Jeffreys, you’re looking at a literary treasure trove,” she said. “There are at least five unpublished novels here. It’s a dream come true for our mother’s legion of readers. Why spoil their enjoyment with a sordid scandal?”

  The woman’s hypocrisy astounded Riley. Neither of these people wanted to avoid a scandal. They just wanted it to be a scandal of their own choosing—suicide rather than a murder, especially if it was just one among other murders. And with all the money they were about to inherit, they could afford to hire an expensive team of lawyers and successfully buck an obstruction charge. They could make this investigation much more difficult than it already was.