Stiff Penalty (A Mattie Winston Mystery)

by Annelise Ryan

  Wendy Ames looked to be in her late thirties or early forties. I gathered there was some Asian blood in her family tree based on her glossy black hair, small build, somewhat sallow complexion, and slightly almond-shaped eyes, which at the moment were red-rimmed and smeared with runny eye makeup. She was about the same size as Mandy Terwilliger, so I was still unsure who the clothes in Derrick’s bedroom belonged to.

  Wendy’s cell phone sat on the tabletop in front of her, so apparently whatever calls she was making were done for now. She looked up at us as we entered and blew her nose. When she was done, she tossed the tissue onto a pile that had accumulated on the table beside her. Then she sucked in a deep breath and straightened up in her seat, visibly gathering herself together for our talk.

  Richmond took a seat directly across from her, and I settled in on his left.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Ames. I’m Detective Bob Richmond, and this is Mattie Winston, an investigator with the medical examiner’s office.”

  “Please, call me Wendy,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I don’t suppose you allow people to smoke in here?”

  “Sorry, no,” Bob said.

  “Didn’t think so.” She yanked another tissue from the box beside her and blew her nose again. “Just as well,” she said when she was done. “I’m trying to quit anyway.”

  “First of all, let me say that we are very sorry about Mr. Ames’s death,” Richmond said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Were the two of you close at all?”

  Wendy snorted. “I don’t think anyone would call our relationship a close one. When we first split up, things were pretty tense. But these days we make an effort to get along for the sake of the boys.”

  “I understand that the two of you share custody, is that right?”

  Wendy nodded. “I wanted full custody at first, but we reconsidered the arrangement when our boys said how much they missed their dad. I realized I was being selfish and considering my own needs over theirs.” She shrugged. “So I relented and let Derrick have them half the time.” She paused and gave us a wan smile. “The boys keep trying to get us back together, no matter how many times we tell them it won’t work. I’ve tried to tell them that . . . well, that it’s complicated.”

  Something in the way she hesitated made me think there was more to the story. “Are you seeing anyone else?” I asked.

  She hesitated long enough before answering to let me know I was on the right track. “There is someone,” she said. “But the boys don’t know about it. It helps that this other person doesn’t live here. You know how small towns can be when it comes to gossip.”

  “A name please,” Bob said, pen poised over his notebook.

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s a potential suspect. We need to talk to anyone who has a connection to your husband, particularly people who may have a motive for wanting him out of the picture.”

  “He’s my ex-husband,” Wendy said irritably. “And the idea that the person I’m seeing has any motive for wanting Derrick dead is utterly ridiculous.”

  “That’s your perspective,” Richmond said, making Wendy’s frown deepen.

  Wendy chewed on her lip, and I could tell she was scared. Why? Did she think the guy might have done it? Or was he married, perhaps?

  “Is this really necessary?” Wendy asked in a voice that was half whiny, half angry. “There’s a marriage at stake here.”

  I gave myself a mental pat on the back for figuring it out, but soon learned that I was only partially right.

  “It is, unless you want us to arrest you on obstruction charges,” Richmond said.

  “Fine,” Wendy snapped, clearly irritated. “It’s Blake. Blake Sutherland.”

  “And how can we get hold of Mr. Sutherland?” Bob asked, scribbling down the name.

  Wendy bit her lip again, rolled her eyes, and then sagged in her seat. “It’s Mrs. Sutherland,” she said finally, looking away in embarrassment. “Blake is a woman.”

  Richmond stared at Wendy, his pen poised over his notebook. There were several seconds of awkward silence as we digested these pieces of information, which clarified the issue about the woman’s clothes in Derrick’s bedroom. I suppose Wendy might have left a blouse and some slacks behind, but the underwear was on top of the laundry pile. They had been left there recently, which meant they must have belonged to Mandy.

  Richmond said, “Are you referring to the wife of John Sutherland, the owner of Sutherland Enterprises?”

  Wendy nodded. I gave Richmond a questioning look. I had no idea who John Sutherland was, but clearly he did. Richmond must have sensed my confusion, because he leaned into me and explained. “Sutherland Enterprises is a real estate and building company that specializes in top-end, luxury houses. John Sutherland is one of the richest men in Madison.”

  Now I understood why Wendy didn’t want to get Blake involved. No doubt a breakup of the Sutherland marriage would impact Blake’s, and perhaps Wendy’s, lifestyle.

  Wendy started sobbing, and this time I wasn’t sure who her tears were for: Derrick or Blake. Or maybe she was crying for herself.

  Richmond said, “I’ll try to be as circumspect as possible in questioning Mrs. Sutherland. But I do need to talk to her. If she wants to come here to talk, I’ll do my best to see to it that her specific involvement with this case doesn’t come out, assuming of course, that I can rule her out as a suspect.”

  Wendy plucked several more tissues from the box and swiped at her tears. She nodded her understanding, and when she had herself somewhat together, she gave Richmond a cell phone number. Then she said, “I’ll talk to her and see if she can come by tomorrow. Will that do?”

  “I’ll contact her myself,” Richmond said. “In the meantime, can you please account for your whereabouts today?”

  “Seriously?” Wendy said, glaring at Richmond. “You think I’m a suspect, too?”

  “Everyone is a suspect until we can rule them out. The more people we can rule out early on, the faster and tighter our investigation will be.”

  Wendy shook her head and sighed. “I was at the grocery store around nine or ten this morning. I went home, put the groceries away, and then I took the boys to the noon matinee at the movies. After that I left the boys and went to a friend’s house for an hour or two. Then I went home and stayed there.”

  “What was the movie?” Richmond asked, and Wendy told him, naming the latest action flick that was showing in town. “What time did you get home and when did you leave for your friend’s house?”

  “I think it was between one-thirty and two when we got home. I left maybe ten or fifteen minutes after that.”

  “And your friend’s name?” Richmond asked, scribbling again.

  “Donna Martin. We got together to discuss plans for the costumes we’re making for the middle-school play. I suppose you’re going to have to question her, too?”

  Richmond nodded. “Where were your boys during the time you were at Donna’s house?”

  “At home.”

  “How do you know they were there the whole time?”

  “Where else would they be?”

  Either Wendy had been a well-behaved child who spent her teenage years being a goody-two-shoes, or she was a naïve parent. Somehow I suspected the latter. And since the neighbors had seen one of the sons leave his father’s house earlier in the day, I knew Wendy’s belief or insistence—whichever it was—was incorrect.

  “Both boys were there when I got home around four,” Wendy insisted. “My oldest boy, Jacob, went to a friend’s house for dinner later, but other than that and the movies, he was home.”

  “The friend’s name?” Richmond asked, his pen poised.

  “Sean Fitzpatrick,” Wendy said, looking annoyed.

  “And what time was he there?”

  “From four-thirty until around eight, I think.”

  Richmond wrote down the information, set his pen aside, and folded his hands on the table in front of him. “Mrs. Am
es, I need to talk to your boys to verify their timelines, and I’d prefer to do it individually.”

  Wendy gave him a whatever shrug, nodded, and blew her nose. “And I’d prefer to do it alone,” Richmond added when she was done honking.

  Wendy gave him a puzzled look. “You mean without me here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? You’re not going to tell them about Blake, are you?”

  “No, but I do need them to tell me where they were today, and where you were, since they are part of your alibi. And I don’t want them to have a chance to conspire and fabricate something.”

  “My boys wouldn’t fabricate anything,” Wendy snapped. “They have no need to.”

  “Then it shouldn’t be a problem if I talk to them,” Richmond said. “As I mentioned before, the sooner we can rule out the innocent people, the quicker we can get on to the real killer.”

  Wendy took half a minute or so to consider the request. I could see her mentally weighing the pros and cons. Finally she said, “You can talk to them individually, but I insist on being in here with them.”

  Richmond gave her a half-hearted shrug of acceptance, then tossed out his own ultimatum. “That’s fine as long as you stay here while I have each of them brought in, and you remain quiet while I talk to them.”

  Again Wendy took her time answering, and when she did, she leaned across the table and pointed a finger at Richmond. “I can live with that as long as I don’t think you’re asking them things you shouldn’t be. But if I hear something I don’t like, I’ll stop you dead in your tracks.”

  I arched my brows at her choice of clichés, and she saw my reaction. A few seconds later she realized why. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, it’s just a saying!” she snapped. “You people . . .” She left the rest of her opinion hanging, and I spent the time it took Richmond to fetch the first of the Ames boys filling in the blanks.

  Chapter 8

  Richmond brought the younger boy, Michael, in first. He had his father’s wispy blond hair, but his mother’s dark, almond eyes and slight build. Derrick Ames had been of average height—around five-ten or so—but with thick, tree-trunk legs and a broad chest. His son Michael, on the other hand, was short and skinny with a narrow, slightly concave chest and stick legs that looked lost inside the baggy, knee-length shorts he was wearing.

  “Have a seat right there beside your mom,” Richmond said, directing the boy with his hand. At first I was surprised by this, thinking it would be better to put some distance between mother and son, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized how smart Richmond’s seating arrangement was. With his mother nearby, the boy would feel more comfortable and willing to talk. And with the two of them sitting side by side, it would be impossible for Wendy to give her son any looks or mouth any words to him that we might not see. It did allow for some under-the-table hand or foot stuff, but at the moment Wendy had both of her hands on top of the table, shredding the last tissue she had ripped from the box.

  Michael looked sad, and I could tell he’d been crying. I felt for the kid, and hoped Richmond would be gentle and tactful with him. I hadn’t interviewed a child with Richmond yet, so I had no idea how he would handle it.

  “Hi, Michael,” Richmond said, settling into his seat. “My name is Bob, and this is Mattie. We’re trying to figure out who hurt your dad. I’m so sorry about what happened to him. You must be very sad.”

  Tears welled in Michael’s eyes, and as he nodded, one of them coursed down a cheek that I saw was still covered with down. It stirred something deep in my gut, and oddly enough, it also made my boobs ache. I pushed aside my curiosity over these sensations for later contemplation, assuming they were probably related to my pregnancy.

  “Are you cops?” Michael asked, sniffling.

  “I am,” Richmond said. “Mattie works with . . . with the coroner’s office.”

  Michael looked at me with a curious expression. “What’s a corner office do?”

  “Not corner, coroner,” I corrected gently. “We help the police when someone dies by figuring out how it happened and whether or not a crime has been committed.”

  Michael frowned at that. “Is that because someone killed my dad?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said, giving him a sympathetic look. “And I’m so very sorry that that happened. I know you must be very sad right now, but it’s important that we find out who might have wanted to hurt your dad.”

  Michael’s tears welled again, and as he nodded they rolled down his cheeks and fell into his lap.

  Richmond continued in a soft, friendly voice. “We have to ask you some questions about where you, your mom, and your brother were today. It might sound like we think you had something to do with what happened to your dad, but the main reason we need to ask these questions is so we can figure out where everyone was when your dad was hurt. It helps us to focus on the right people. Does that make sense to you?”

  Michael nodded again, staring at his hands in his lap. His mother grabbed a used tissue and reached over to try to wipe his nose, but Michael shied away from her and swiped his nose with his arm.

  “Can you tell me how you spent your day today?” Richmond asked. “Start around lunchtime.”

  “Mom took us to the movies for lunch.”

  “What movie did you see?”

  Michael named the same movie his mother had.

  “Did you like it?” Bob asked.

  Michael nodded.

  “What did you do after the movie?”

  “We came home. I played some video games, and Jacob went to his room.”

  “Was Jacob home with you all afternoon?”

  Michael’s eyes shifted toward his mother for a second and then, just as quickly, back to his lap. He reached up and started pulling at a lock of hair at his nape. “Yes,” he said, but he wouldn’t look at us when he answered, and I felt certain he was lying.

  Even his mother shot him a look, her brows drawn together with worry. “Michael? Did Jacob go out somewhere this afternoon while I was at Donna’s?”

  Michael looked at her again but quickly averted his gaze. He squirmed in his chair. “He was there. We both were home all afternoon. Nobody went anywhere.” His answers came out rapid-fire, as if he was trying to convince himself as much as us.

  Richmond leaned across the table and stared at the boy, who refused to look at anyone. “Michael, you know how important it is to tell the truth, right?”

  Michael nodded, still staring at his lap.

  “Was your brother really with you all afternoon?”

  Michael didn’t answer, and after a long period of silence, Wendy said, “Michael David Ames, you need to tell the truth. Did Jacob leave the house today while I was gone?”

  Tears flowed down Michael’s cheeks, and my boobs were practically throbbing. What the hell?

  “Michael!” Wendy yelled. “Tell the truth!”

  “Jacob’s gonna get mad at me. He told me not to tell.”

  “Tell what?” Richmond pushed.

  “He went out this afternoon for a little while. He climbs out his bedroom window all the time. He doesn’t think I know it, but I do, and I knew he was gone because I went to his bedroom to see if he wanted to play Mario Brothers with me and he was gone. When he came back, he came out and pretended he’d been in there the whole time, but I told him I knew he’d gone out. He got really mad and went back in his bedroom and slammed the door.”

  Wendy leaned back in her seat and squeezed her eyes closed. She ran a hand through her hair and sighed. Then she sat up and looked at Richmond. “Derrick was killed this evening, correct?”

  Richmond nodded.

  “Then it shouldn’t matter where Jacob was this afternoon.” Wendy said, looking relieved. Her reprieve didn’t last long.

  “Though it does show his propensity to lie to you,” Richmond said.

  He gave her a moment to digest this, and after a few seconds, Wendy’s eyes narrowed, and she leaned forward with that fierce mother-
bear-protecting-her-cub look that moms seem to come by naturally. “We’re done talking until I can consult with a lawyer,” she said, trying to sound stern, though I heard a definite quaver in her voice.

  Richmond sighed and leaned back in his chair. Michael started sobbing, his shoulders shaking, while I struggled to resist an urge I had to massage my aching boobs.

  Wendy stood abruptly, yanked Michael out of his chair, and dragged him toward the door. She exited the room and steered a tearful Michael down the hall into the break room, where Jacob was waiting with Officer Brenda Joiner. “Let’s go,” Wendy said to the older boy, her lips and voice tight.

  Jacob Ames was a big boy, with his father’s sturdy build and height but his mother’s dark hair and eyes. As we entered the room, he looked from one person to the next, his expression one of surprise initially, then suspicion. “What happened?” he asked, settling his gaze on his mother.

  “I said let’s go,” Wendy repeated.

  Jacob shifted his attention to Michael, and his eyes narrowed. “You squealed, didn’t you, you little weasel.”

  Michael hiccupped a sob and stuttered, “I’m . . . s-s-sorry . . . J-jake.”

  Jacob walked over and cuffed Michael behind the ear. “You stupid little brat! I should have known better than to trust you.”

  “Shut up, both of you!” Wendy snapped. “And move it, Jacob!”

  I watched Jacob shuffle his way toward the hall. His stonewashed jeans were baggy and long on him, the backs of his hems worn and frayed from being stepped on and dragged along the ground. They swished with every step he took, marking the group’s progress down the hallway, through the door to the front public area, and out the front door.

  Richmond, Stephanie, and I watched as Wendy herded the two boys across the parking lot and into her car, nearly getting hit by a sporty little convertible that was pulling in. As soon as the two boys were settled in the backseat of Wendy’s car, Jacob punched Michael in the arm, Michael shoved back, and seconds later the two of them were going at it, wrestling and punching one another in the backseat while Wendy screamed at them loud enough for us to hear her inside the police station.