Sweet Revenge

by Diane Mott Davidson

  Tom finally gave me the benefit of his sea-green eyes. “Maybe that something was a map he was going to get out of his boss’s house…a map that’s hidden in there somewhere. God only knows where.” Tom turned the key in the ignition. “Neil Tharp did not convince me of his innocence. You find someone who feels he’s owed, someone who’s already ethically mushy, and you’ve got a suspect.” He backed out of the bumpy driveway. “Neil Tharp’s boss was stealing,” he went on. “His boss was also fooling around with much younger women. And hey! Maybe Neil thought if he got rid of the boss and the boss’s main competitor, he’d have the local map clientele all to himself.”

  Once we were out in the street, Tom lifted his chin toward Neil’s modest dwelling. “At least then he’d be able to buy himself a bigger place, something on the order of Drew Wellington’s rented mansion.”

  “But…if that’s true, why would Neil leave one rare map inside Drew’s clothing and toss another one into Cottonwood Creek?”

  “Distraction, maybe. Make it look like someone else is our perp.”

  “Well,” I said forcefully, “I disagree. And now I think I know why Sandee is back.” I told Tom about the call I’d gotten and my theory about Vix Barclay, the little cousin who was the asset Sandee had come to protect.

  “Could be.” His tone was dubious.

  “It makes perfect sense, Tom. Sandee finds out from Catherine Barclay that Drew, Larry, and Neil got Vix liquored up. So Sandee risks coming back to Aspen Meadow, to protect her cousin from sexual predators. She digs for information about Drew, stalks him, sends him those threatening e-mails, and just in general tries to intimidate him so he’ll move out of town. When none of those maneuvers seemed to have any effect, she may have followed him into the library, drugged his booze so he wouldn’t fight back, then dumped cyanide into his coffee, and just for good measure, stabbed him with an X-Acto knife, maybe his own. And then perhaps she went after Larry, too.”

  “We don’t know any of this for certain, Miss G. Especially as we haven’t located the handle to the X-Acto knife, the blade of which sliced into Drew Wellington. We also have to hope that handle has some of Drew’s blood on it.”

  “I’m starting to get a headache.”

  “Goldy, you’re getting tired. Burned out.”

  “I’m fine. I’m just frustrated.”

  “I’ll run your theories by our team, okay? Thanks for bringing the whole Vix angle up with Neil.”

  “Just as long as your guys follow up, okay?”

  “Of course. You still want to go see Patricia Ingersoll?”

  “I have to. I promised Hermie I’d convince Patricia to come to the party, even though Elizabeth is going to be there. And maybe she has other information about Sandee and how she stalked Drew.”

  “Hold on while I call the department.” Tom accelerated out of Neil Tharp’s small housing development, then used his cell to call a member of his team and give the executive summary of my theory regarding Sandee. Maybe it was far-fetched, but knowing Sandee, nothing was far-fetched.

  The van’s tires crunched over newly plowed snow as we headed toward Flicker Ridge, where Patricia Ingersoll and Elizabeth Wellington lived, and where Drew Wellington’s enormous rented house now stood empty.

  “Tom,” I said suddenly, “can you tell me any more about why you arrested Patricia?”

  “We got a tip. It came from a pay phone in Boulder.”

  “Whitney Ingersoll,” I supplied. “She keeps up with the Aspen Meadow gossip.”

  “So does Frank Ingersoll’s daughter by his first wife have a grudge against Patricia? Wait, that’s a rhetorical question. They hate each other. Only, we’re not allowed to go talk to whoever-it-was, just because we think she left a tip on our line. Her identity is protected.”

  “I’m telling you, it was Whitney Ingersoll. Grace Mannheim informed me—”

  “Wait. Our guys can’t just drop in on Whitney Ingersoll and say, ‘By the way, we heard you hated your stepmother and tried to implicate her in a murder.’”

  “Okay, okay.” We were passing a stand of blue spruce, now freshly frosted with snow. Just past the tall trees, Aspen Meadow Library came into view. “Did your informant say anything about the X-Acto knife?”

  “She did not. We’re guessing she knew nothing about the X-Acto. Our informant did say that she’d seen a silver BMW X-5 speeding away from the library. Yes, Patricia drives an X-5, but there’s no way anyone could have seen that car leaving the library, then driven the hour plus it would have taken to get to Boulder, in the snow, and call us from a pay phone. So our informant was guessing. Whitney hates Patricia, knew Patricia was Drew Wellington’s flame—”

  “Tom. Nobody says ‘flame’ anymore.”

  “All right. Drew Wellington’s girlfriend. His bedmate. His whatever.” Traffic slowed as we approached the lake. “Looks as if our guys are still processing the scene.”

  I studied the view to my right. Waves of ice crusted the falls where Aspen Meadow Lake spilled into Cottonwood Creek. A large curtain still kept the crime scene from prying eyes. As the cars inched forward, toward the road that would take us east to Flicker Ridge, I could just make out the wildlife preserve. The way the newly planted trees had been placed on the fire-ravaged slopes resembled a whitened cross-stitch.

  Once we’d passed the lake, the late afternoon sun emerged. The meadow flanking the highway spread out like a sparkling sheet. Farther off, a sudden wind brought a fresh shower of flakes off the hills and whipped it into a snow devil. The van windshield dazzled under its new curtain of ice bits.

  “You know where we’re going?” Tom asked as he piloted the van through the stone walls that marked the entrance to Flicker Ridge.

  “Let’s drive past Drew Wellington’s rented house first, okay? I just want to make sure your guys are still there.”

  Tom wasn’t happy, but he acquiesced. The roads inside the Ridge had been plowed. This action had backfired, as the sunshine had melted the snow on the pavement and sheeted it with black ice. Tom slowed as we passed snow-hatted mansions and made the long loop through Flicker Ridge. At the far end of the Ridge, he turned right onto the short road that led to Drew Wellington’s former dwelling. Two sheriff’s-department vehicles were parked in front of the imposingly large one-story house, whose exterior was dramatically trimmed with silvery-gray river rocks and thick dark wood planking. No one had shoveled the driveway or the walk.

  “Nice place,” Tom commented. “Too big to live in alone.”

  “Elizabeth’s house isn’t far from here.” I gazed up at Drew Wellington’s imposing residence. Too bad it was all for show, a rented house in which he couldn’t even do business. “Elizabeth’s house is smaller than this.”

  “Oh, don’t I know. We went to talk to her. I’m not going again.”

  Tom stopped the van, lowered the driver-side window, and waved to the first car. The officer flashed his lights.

  I returned my gaze to Drew Wellington’s house. “It’s unfathomable to me that he could have made enough money to support such an extravagant lifestyle.”

  “Oh, he didn’t. But that’s another key to the case that you simply cannot share with anyone.” Tom took a deep breath. “When we went to see Elizabeth, we asked her about the money situation with her ex-husband. She said he manipulated her into deeding him half her inheritance.”

  “Half her what?”

  “Elizabeth’s father died soon after she and Drew were married, and her mother followed a few months later. Elizabeth, with no siblings, was the recipient of her parents’ entire estate, valued at somewhere upward of five million dollars. Elizabeth told us she was the will’s executrix, which meant she had to spend months and months in Seattle completing all the paperwork. By the end of it, she was exhausted. Then, instead of welcoming her home with open arms and expressions of affection, Drew said, ‘If you cared about me, you’d give me half that money.’”

  I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “I’d heard something
about this, but I didn’t know the details. How could he possibly justify taking half of her money?”

  “Whatever I have is yours, that kind of thing.” Tom shook his head. “And he wouldn’t shut up about it, Elizabeth said. So finally she gave him half of her inheritance. He used it to buy himself a little house in Aspen. Not Aspen Meadow, Aspen. He kept the deed in his name and held on to it. Eight years later, when they got divorced, he sold it. Multiplied his money—her money—several times over, according to Elizabeth. I’m telling you, that woman is bitter.”

  “I guess she would be. But if someone, anyone, wanted to murder Drew Wellington, why not do it here, at the far end of Flicker Ridge? The killer somehow gains entrance to that great big house, then kills him. I don’t understand why someone would risk being registered by the library surveillance camera, being seen by other people, or having something go wrong.”

  Tom waved to his fellow officers, pulled back onto the main road, and headed toward Patricia’s place. “We don’t know any of those things either…except remember the nosy lady across the street from Drew. She might have been keeping track of everyone who went in and out. Plus, now we know Wellington regularly saw clients at the library, back in that far corner by the exit. Maybe whoever was planning all this out knew his routine, and for some reason didn’t think he or she would be able to get into that big house. Although I have to say, the security system is very low grade. Far as we can make out, Drew Wellington kept all of his valuables in a safe that’s bolted down to the floor of his basement.”

  “Omigosh, did your people find anything significant in there?”

  Tom shook his head. “We found a couple of things, his financial statements, his will—”

  “To whom did he leave his stuff?”

  Tom turned down the short road that led to Patricia Ingersoll’s house. Both sides of this particular byway were piled high with snow, as if the plow driver had become tired and decided only to clear one lane. Tom proceeded carefully, then said, “Get this. I’d laugh, but I’m not that much of a cynic. I did think of it, though, when Neil told us his story.”

  “Drew left his money to Neil?”

  “Nope. Drew left his estate to Stanford University.”

  “What?”

  “So according to Neil, Drew steals one or maybe more maps from them, then says, ‘I’ll pay ya back when I’m dead.’”

  “How much did he have?”

  “We’re still working on that. Maybe about half a million, maybe up to five million. It’s going to take our guys a while to figure out where he might have stashed cash, maps, you name it.” Tom reached for the radio dial. “You mind if I turn on the game?”

  “Tom! Look out!”

  Tom steered my van hard to the right and narrowly missed hitting a gold Mercedes with the logo for one of the local real-estate agencies. Once past us, the woman driving the car honked angrily, as if we had been the cause of her dozing off at the wheel. Tom carefully backed out of the drift where we’d impacted.

  “What was that lady thinking?” he fumed. “We’ve got a single lane open here, and she’s driving right down the middle of it, as if she’s just landed on Mars and owns the planet.”

  We had arrived at the end of the cul-de-sac, where Patricia Ingersoll lived in yet another dauntingly grand stone-and-wood domicile—by herself.

  “Okay, listen.” Tom pulled the car into the area meant for a turnaround and killed the engine. “Remember, Patricia doesn’t know exactly who gave us the tip about her car leaving the library.”

  “She can guess, Tom.”

  “Let her. But it was the X-Acto knife in her house with blood on it that caused us to arrest her.”

  “Precipitously,” I said as I opened the passenger door, “and without knowing if she had a motive.” I hesitated. “Should I look around for the Rodin?”

  “I don’t have a warrant, if that’s what you’re talking about.”

  “Tom, please. Give me some credit. What I want to do is check what’s on the walls. Ask questions, that kind of thing.”

  I felt a bit strange as I picked up my purse with the picture of Sandee and my bribe bag of cookies. I carefully stepped onto the driveway that sloped down to Patricia’s house. Patricia had asked me to help her look into Drew’s murder and clear her name, and I’d been willing to do just that. But here I was, going into my former client’s house to check for stolen artwork. It didn’t feel great.

  Patricia opened her massive front door before we were even on her porch. Like Neil, she was wearing workout clothes. What was this, National Fitness Sunday? Unlike Neil, Patricia had a tall, trim figure. Her eyes were red, and when she said, “Hello?” her nasal passages sounded stuffed up. I wondered how long she’d been crying.

  “I brought you something.” I handed her the bag of cookies. “I know it’s probably not on the Losers diet, but the holidays are for indulging, right?”

  She looked past me to give Tom a sour look. “So, am I under arrest again?”

  “No.” Tom held back, not sure if he would be invited in.

  “All right. Why don’t you both come in, then?”

  She disappeared into the cavernous house. I followed her, as did Tom. The foyer held no artwork. Silver-framed photos of Patricia with Frank Ingersoll were set in a row on a small end table. On our left, a red-painted dining room boasted a long, pale wood dining table, covered with photos and scrapbooks. That was probably where she kept her X-Acto knives. Oh Lord, I didn’t want to think about her being arrested and spending the night in jail, where she’d been so miserable. Ahead of us, I thought I heard her blowing her nose.

  The living room, where Patricia had preceded us, soared three stories, all of which were covered with windows. The view down into a valley that led to the invisible interstate was spectacular. Thousands of pines balanced precarious loads of snow, and fat Steller’s jays were already flitting between the trees that bordered Patricia’s huge deck.

  Patricia sank into a leather-upholstered chair next to her cold stone hearth. Tom and I, unsure of ourselves, perched on a brown leather sofa facing her. Immediately I realized I was facing the deck, and not the soaring three-story wall, where pictures, maybe even a Rodin drawing claimed by Frank’s daughter, might be hung. And where did she hide her Ritalin? I wondered. Had the cops found any of that?

  “Patricia, I want to ask you a question,” I said. I pulled the copied news photo from my purse and handed it across to her. “This is a picture of Sandee Brisbane. You said that you thought you recognized a young woman, who was following Drew and might be his stalker, as Sandee. I was wondering if you could look at this photo and confirm that she was the woman you saw…I’m also trying to find out if you’ve seen her anywhere recently. Or maybe you remember some other details, anything Drew told you about the person who was stalking him.”

  Patricia frowned at the paper. “Yes, this is the woman I saw. I thought she was…stalking Drew. I told you about the vole on his doorstep. And sometimes, when Drew and I were together, out somewhere having lunch or dinner, she’d be there. I always thought she wanted to say something to Drew, but each time she would slink away as if she’d changed her mind.”

  “Did you ever see a weapon on her? A knife or gun?”

  Patricia shook her head and handed me back the photocopy. “She never got that close, or at least, not when I was there. But her face. Her face I won’t forget. She stared at Drew with a sort of mixture of hatred and…fear. Should I be worried about this woman coming after me?”

  “We don’t think so,” Tom commented. “But it would be good if you could take a normal amount of precaution.”

  “This is getting heavy,” I commented, glancing into the kitchen, an open space on our left. “May I get a drink of water?”

  Patricia’s look was puzzled. “Of course. You want some herb tea or something? Sparkling water?”

  “I’m fine,” I replied. Once I’d located a glass and filled it with tap water, I turned and faced the livin
g room, then twisted some more—as nonchalantly as possible, of course—to my right, where indeed, some artwork was hanging. I frowned. This stuff was all of the Mexican hand-embroidered variety. I wasn’t exactly an art expert, but unless Rodin worked in purple and orange fabrics, I’d say his work hanging here was a no-go. Did I dare to go in the bathroom and nose around for ADHD drugs? No, I didn’t.

  “What are you looking for, Goldy?” Patricia trilled.

  I took a long swig of water. “I was just admiring your hangings. They’re beautiful.”

  “No maps,” she said placidly.

  Time to come clean. “Actually, I have two other things to talk to you about. Your stepdaughter, or whatever you would call her—”

  “I’d call her a little bitch,” she retorted. “What would you call her?”

  Tom said, “Now, Mrs. Ingersoll, there’s no need to—”

  Patricia snapped, “Please, you don’t know her.”

  I said, “Maybe we should just go.”

  “No, no!” Patricia protested. “Tell me what little Whitney did now. Ever since her daddy died, she’s become a lot more interested in his stuff than she ever was in him. Who visited Frank every day in the hospital? I did. Who took care of him once they sent him home, and hospice took over? Me again. So if little Whit sent you over here on a fruitless journey to find her precious Rodin drawing, let me tell you something: I have no idea where that thing is. Whitney should just claim it on her insurance, and move on.” She gave us a morose look. “Moving on is probably what I should do, too, since I’ve now lost both my husband and my lover. But I can’t move on until I have something to wear. Officer Schulz,” she said, “do you suppose your employees would allow me to go in and retrieve my clothes from Drew’s house? Some of my best dresses are in the closet I used over there, and I’d rather they didn’t disappear mysteriously, into some police wife’s closet.”

  Tom replied, “Our officers will be pulled off Mr. Wellington’s house when we have collected all the evidence we need from in there. But I can tell you with some certainty that there isn’t a police wife in the county who could fit into a size two.”