What’s left of the afternoon dissolves into evening. Our appetites return with a vengeance, and we are at the dinner table enjoying pizza and salad. Cavin turns on a local newscast at the top of the hour. All three of us almost choke on the lead story.
“Douglas County Sheriff’s deputies are on the scene of an apparent murder on Kingsbury Grade,” intones the anchor. “Details are sketchy, but the department confirms the victim, Sophia Garibaldi, died of a gunshot wound to the chest. . . .”
“Holy fucking shit!” exclaims Eli.
“No.” Cavin’s face drains of every molecule of pigment.
“Oh my God.” Those words are mine.
The studio cameras give way to a live shot with a young reporter who looks green, and not because of the lighting. She’s standing in front of an upscale condominium complex with, of all people, Deputy Cross. “Can you tell us what happened?”
“It’s an ongoing investigation, and we don’t know a lot yet. What we do know is that she was scheduled to meet with a friend and when he was unable to contact her, he called us. We found her on the living room floor, unresponsive, with a bullet wound to the chest. The state of her body confirms she died sometime last night. The television was on, with the volume extremely loud, which might explain why no neighbors heard the gunshot. . . .”
We sit in stunned silence, which Eli finally breaks. “Who the fuck would do that? I mean, she was a bitch and all, but . . .”
“Maury, maybe?” I guess.
“He’s an old dude, and probably in love with her,” says Eli. “Why would he kill her?”
“Scorned love often leads to crimes of passion,” I reply. “He wasn’t with her last night.”
“Oh shit. You don’t think she was sleeping with him, do you? Because that would be sick.”
“Frankly, Eli, I don’t think she cared about who she slept with, as long as it got her what she wanted. In fact, wasn’t it you who once said something like that to me?”
Cavin remains silent. I can almost see the jumbled emotions pinwheeling inside his head. Whatever their relationship had become, he still cared about Sophia, that much is obvious. Finally, he manages, “How could this happen? I just saw her.”
The remark stokes small embers of jealousy. And satisfaction. “We all did. She always made a point of being seen.”
“I just danced with her,” adds Eli, as if we need the reminder. “It was probably her last dance.”
I’m guessing he’s right. And it reminds me how intimately Sophia was connected to this family, which means we can probably expect a visit from law enforcement.
It only takes two days.
forty-one
C AVIN’S IN SURGERY.
Eli’s in school.
I’m loading the dishwasher when the doorbell, expected, rings.
Detective Martina Lopez introduces herself. “May I come in?”
“This is in regards to . . . ?” I don’t even sound like I have no clue.
“Sophia Garibaldi. You’re familiar?”
“Of course. Do come in.” I lead the way inside. “Can I get you something? Coffee? Water?”
“No thank you.”
I gesture toward the armchair. “Please sit.”
“Thank you.”
All this politeness is irritating. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m sure you’ve heard that Ms. Garibaldi was shot to death in her home, yes?”
“I watch the news. So yes. It’s been hard to miss.”
She assesses me carefully, taking note of my awkward posture. “Something wrong?”
Let’s see. Someone well acquainted with several members of this family is dead, and there’s a detective in my living room, taking notes. But that’s not where I go, not even remotely. “Oh, yes. I had knee surgery not long ago. It’s still hard to find a comfortable way to sit.”
“Ah. Skiing?”
“Exactly. It’s how I met my husband, in fact. He’s an orthopedic surgeon at Barton.”
She brings her eyes level with mine. “We know.”
Of course they do.
Now she amends, “We’ll interview him separately.”
“As a suspect?”
“As a possible witness, though at the moment everyone who knew Ms. Garibaldi is a suspect.”
“Including me.”
“Including you.”
At least she’s direct.
“Can you tell me your whereabouts this past weekend?”
“Well, yes. Friday I experienced a food allergy reaction that required an EpiPen intervention. Saturday, I was in charge of a fund-raising effort that required my attention all day, and well into the evening. And Sunday was my sister’s birthday. We celebrated with a Dixie cruise, followed by pizza right here.”
“You have witnesses who can confirm all that?”
“Absolutely.”
Suddenly, it strikes me. “Do I need an attorney?”
“Not at the moment. You’re not under arrest.”
Arrest? I’m kind of thinking I do need an attorney, and a good one. Be careful what you say, Tara. “I have no idea why I would be a suspect. I knew Sophia, but not well.”
“Your husband knew her well.”
Cavin. They think he did it. How much do they know about his relationship with Sophia? “What are you fishing for, Detective?”
“Whatever you’re willing to tell me.” She produces a small tablet. “You don’t mind if I record our conversation, I hope. I’d never want to be accused of not having my facts straight.”
I don’t like this woman. “Sophia knew lots of men. Cavin was one of them, yes, but their relationship ended some time ago.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure enough to have married him.”
“Are you familiar with a private investigator named Blaine Pederson?”
I’m starting to feel a little sick. “Yes. He’s done some work for me in the past.”
“Investigating your husband.”
“At Cavin’s urging. He wanted me to be sure about his motives before our wedding. I’ve got substantial investments to protect, and—”
“You didn’t hire Pederson to follow your husband more recently?”
What is she talking about?
“Absolutely not. I trust my husband.”
She types something into her tablet. “You know, I think I’ll take that water, if it’s all right.”
Detective Lopez follows me toward the kitchen, lagging behind enough to give the place (and me, I assume) a once-over. Not much to see, in my opinion.
I’m filling her glass when she asks, “Do you drive a Cadillac Escalade?”
“It’s one of my cars, yes.”
“Does anyone else have access to the vehicle?”
“Of course. My husband. My stepson. Assorted other family members, if they happen to be visiting. Why?”
She takes the glass from my hand. Sips. Sips again. “An Escalade has been spotted several times on Ms. Garibaldi’s street.”
“I’m sure there are other Escalades in South Lake Tahoe. Besides, I don’t even know where Sophia lived, other than up on Kingsbury somewhere, and everyone’s aware of that at this point.”
“How old is your stepson?”
“Eli’s eighteen. Why?”
“You said he has access to your cars.”
“I think that should be obvious. They’re parked on the property.”
“But he also drives a black Humvee.”
“That’s his car, yes.”
“Must be nice. Did you know he had a personal relationship with the victim?”
Oh my God. How much should I say? “I am aware of that. Do you mind if we sit back down? Standing is difficult for me.”
Not that difficult, really. But at this point, I’m hoping for a little sympathy.
“Of course.”
We reverse direction, settle back down in the living room. Eli? No. He might be sullen and resentful, and even righteously pissed off
at Sophia, but he’d never pick up a gun and kill her.
Gun.
Shit.
“Are you more comfortable now?” When I nod, she continues, “Did you recently have an intruder here?”
“Well, it’s been a couple of months, and he didn’t get inside. But yes, he tried.”
“And it was a Deputy Cross who took the report?”
“That’s correct.”
The sense of discomfort accelerates. The top of my head is tingling, like my brain really, really wants me to shut the hell up.
“At that time, he dusted your downstairs doors for fingerprints?”
So why don’t I shut up? “Yes.”
“And he also collected yours for comparison.”
Please shut up. “Yes.”
“At that time, he advised that you might want to consider a firearm for personal protection.”
Shut up.
Shut up.
Shut up.
I snap my mouth shut.
“Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Did you purchase a Glock 19, Gen4?”
She already knows the answer. “I did.”
“Do you know where it is currently?”
“Of course. It’s in the closet.”
“May I see it?”
Nerves erupt in my stomach. I push to my feet, go to the closet, take the purse from the coat hook inside.
Too light.
Much too light.
Still, I take it back into the other room. Turn it upside down on the coffee table. All that falls out are some ancient breath mints and three sets of spare keys. “It’s gone.”
“I know. We found it in a Dumpster, mostly wiped clean of prints. But we were able to pull a couple of partials from the barrel.”
“I need that attorney.”
“I think that’s a very good idea.”
“May I call my husband before you arrest me?”
“Make it quick.”
This is unbelievable.
Cavin is still in surgery when I call, so I leave a message with Rebecca that this is an extreme emergency and to please check his text messages immediately. Arrested for Sophia’s murder. Best attorney possible now.
I am arrested. Read my rights. Humiliated by handcuffs. Led to a county vehicle and stuffed into the backseat. Driven down the mountain to the Douglas County Jail, where I am processed like a common criminal and put into a holding cell. They offer the services of a public defender, which I vehemently turn down.
I don’t say another word, though a colleague joins Detective Lopez to try the “good cop, bad cop” routine.
Good cop: “We understand other people had access to the gun.”
Lopez: “Too bad we only found your fingerprints on it.”
Good cop: “Your husband had motive. Do you think he did it?”
Lopez: “You had motive, too.”
Good cop: “I don’t blame you. I might lose my temper if I found out my wife was fucking around on me.”
Lopez: “Losing your temper is one thing. Revenge is another.”
Revenge for what, exactly? I have no idea what they’re talking about, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve never been arrested before, but I know enough not to incriminate myself any more than I might have already. I go over and over inside my head exactly what I said to Lopez. Pretty sure I gave her no information they didn’t already have.
It’s late afternoon by the time the attorney Cavin hired is allowed to speak to me. He’s a tall, slender man of sixty or so, and I hope age in his case means wisdom. He introduces himself as Leonard Fleming but allows I should call him Len.
“How much trouble am I in?”
“I don’t as yet know everything they’ve got, but it appears to me that their evidence is largely circumstantial.”
“So what’s next?”
“The detectives will present their report to the prosecutor’s office. You’ll be arraigned. We’ll plead not guilty and ask for bail.”
“Do you know what they’re charging me with?”
“That will be up to the prosecutor.”
“Is there any chance of bail?”
Len shrugs. “Depends on the charge and the judge. You’ve got close ties to the community, which reduces your risk of flight. If the judge agrees, it’s liable to be a substantial amount.”
“How long until arraignment?”
“They’re allowed forty-eight hours. I’ll do my best to get you out of here by Friday.”
“I don’t know if it means anything or not, and you probably hear it all the time, but I did not do this.”
“Do you have any idea who did?”
I’ve had all afternoon to think about it. There are four possibilities.
Cavin, who maybe I don’t know nearly as well as I thought I did. Eli warned me there was more to his relationship with Sophia than I believed. But Cavin, as far as I know, had no clue about the gun.
Eli, who did know about the gun, and who had a recent confrontation with Sophia. But he cared about her, and I’ve never suspected him to be capable of overt violence.
Kayla, who might have found out about the gun from Eli and whose mental illness might push her into a very bad decision under certain circumstances. Sophia was on her shortlist of enemies and, quite possibly, so was I.
Finally, Melody.
She knew about the gun.
She was visiting at the time.
If she got up in the middle of the night, she could have taken the Escalade, accomplished the deed, returned the Cadillac, and gone back to bed before any of us noticed anything amiss. There were spare keys in the purse where the gun was.
I remember her demeanor that afternoon on the Dixie.
Shaky.
Pale.
Nauseous.
Uncommunicative.
Those things could be explained by a hangover, or Xanax, or a combination of the two. But then she took off without explanation or good-byes. The more I think about it, the likelier it seems.
An immense question materializes.
Why?
epilogue
C RAZY DOES, INDEED, BEGET crazy. Turns out Melody inherited the worst kind of crazy from our dear, departed Mom. The kind that not only negates compassion but also eliminates even the slightest compunction about murdering a complete stranger, all in the name of revenge.
Revenge against me.
The motion detection cameras we had installed on the exterior of the house did trigger with Mel’s leaving that night in my Escalade and returning an hour and twenty minutes later. The footage was time-stamped and coincided with Sophia’s approximate time of death as reported by the autopsy.
Unbeknownst to anyone else in the house, I had nanny cams installed in several rooms, too. The one in the living room caught Melody Ann Schumacher coming up the stairs and going into the closet by the front door, then withdrawing with a holstered gun in one hand and my spare set of keys in another. She didn’t even look guilty about it.
That was enough evidence to let me out, but not before I had to spend two days in lockup, wearing a baggy jumpsuit, barely eating the slop they served, and relieving myself in clear view of too many prying eyes. Beyond those things was simply the boredom, nothing to do but pace and think. I can’t imagine how people survive in such an environment for weeks, let alone years. It would make me absolutely crazy.
Worst of all was the total lack of control. Not just was I told what to do, and expected to follow orders, but I was powerless to help myself find a way out of the situation. I had to rely on my attorney, a relative stranger, to gather the necessary facts that would allow the charges against me to be dropped.
Len contacted Graham, who informed him that Melody had never returned to their home in Sacramento. He had no idea where she’d gone, and there had been a total lack of communication. She did manage to make several large cash withdrawals at a number of Reno casinos.
“Put Blaine Pederson on it,” I instructed Len.
He tracked Mel to Jerry’s house in Glenns Ferry, where she was arrested for Sophia’s murder. The last thing she asked for before they locked her up was a cigarette. Newport. I never had a clue she smoked from time to time, but she can’t indulge the habit in the Ada County Jail in Boise. She’s there now, awaiting extradition to Nevada.
Graham and I flew to Idaho to see her. He, to let her know he’d hired an attorney in Douglas County and to promise he’d take good care of the girls. I don’t think the weight of her deed totally sank in until then. By the time they let me see her, she was despondent.
All I wanted was that one giant question answered. “Why, Mel?”
Her demeanor flipped to defiant. She gave me more than I expected. “You’ve always gotten your way and never had to work for a goddamn thing. I mean, all you had to do was spread your legs for the right man and the money kept rolling in. I’ve struggled all my life just to be a decent mother and hold my marriage together. You had no right to try and take that away. Graham was everything to me.”
“Mel, the affair with Graham is completely in your head. It just never happened. But even if it had, why would you kill Sophia? Why not just kill me?”
Her laughter was alien. “You always said you’d rather be dead than face years living behind bars. I didn’t want to kill you. I wanted to maim you. It would have been fun to watch you waste away. Besides, the bitch deserved it. It wasn’t hard at all.”
Brutal.
Definitely insane.
It seems “crazy” also attracts greed, and Cavin defines the word. I should have quizzed Eli harder about the secrets he alluded to, secrets that turned up on Blaine Pederson’s report. Not the one I ordered. The one Mel did, in my name, trying to set me up.
She didn’t ask Pederson to follow Graham at all but rather to tail Cavin, hoping for some evidence of his dalliance with Sophia. Oh yes, they had a relationship, and it extended well after he married me. Whether or not it included sex is anyone’s guess, but it started with this little underground business he conducted, selling prescriptions for controlled substances.
The oxycodone found in Genevieve Lennon’s blood work after her accident? Yep, that came from Cavin, and it contributed to her intoxication that night. She should have known better than to drive under the influence of both booze and opioids, so I probably should blame her completely. But I can’t. And I’ll always wonder if that’s what she wanted to tell me.
A Sin Such as This Page 31
