Sleuthing Women

by Lois Winston

  At first, I thought maybe Pepper was organizing some fund raiser for the police department—that’s the sort of thing she did—but when I considered it further, I didn’t see why she needed to meet with the bulk of the force simply to discuss her plans. Besides, her daughter Kimberly had a cold, which was why I hadn’t taken her to school that morning, and somehow I couldn’t imagine Pepper playing host to a group of policemen while Kimberly whined and sniffled in the background.

  The whole time I was cleaning up the breakfast dishes and washing out the sink, I was also peering out the window to see if I could catch a glimpse of any activity.

  Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  What they were all doing in there, I couldn’t imagine. In the back of my mind I was trying to figure out the most socially appropriate way to broach the subject with Pepper later that afternoon. I knew the minute the police left I would be on the phone grilling her; I just wanted to be able to do it with some class.

  Finally, because the waiting was making me antsy, I drove to the cleaners to pick up Andy’s suits, which I’d had cleaned so that if he ever “found himself” and decided to come home to us, they’d be there waiting for him. It was either that or pack them up, along with his monogrammed shirts, twenty pairs of Italian loafers and maybe his prize record collection, and ship the whole mess off to Goodwill—which was something I’d considered doing on more than one occasion.

  What stopped me was Anna, who thought her dad was nothing short of terrific. And maybe some small, feeble hope that it might still work out right.

  “It’s not you, Kate,” Andy had explained the evening he announced he was moving out “It’s me. I have to sort things out, figure out where I’m going and who I am.” I thought it was pretty clear who he was—my husband, Anna’s father and regional sales manager for Voice Mail USA, but that was apparently not what he meant.

  Maybe it was the prospect of turning thirty—although my thirtieth birthday a year earlier hadn’t phased him in the least—or maybe it was looking in the mirror one morning and finding his thick, sun-streaked hair was no longer quite so thick . . . or sun streaked. Or maybe it was the fact that I was pregnant again.

  Whatever the reason, he quit his job, took half of our meager savings, and was now jaunting around Europe, trying to find the meaning in his life.

  When I was honest with myself, which was less often than I liked to admit, I knew I’d seen it coming for a long time. Probably even before Andy himself. And I knew that the disenchantment wasn’t totally one sided. Andy is a sweet guy, and a lot of fun, just so long as your wants and needs happen to coincide with his. It had taken me a long time to figure that out.

  ~*~

  By the time I returned from the cleaners, only a couple of police cars remained in Pepper’s driveway, but they had been joined by some new, unmarked cars and a gray van which I recognized as belonging to a local news network. My curiosity finally got the better of me.

  Very nonchalantly, as though I’d just happened to look up and notice a touch of unusual activity in the neighborhood, I moseyed over to the Livingstons’. In the driveway, a policeman was leaning against the fender of his car, writing in a notebook. He was short and stocky with thinning hair and a heavy black mustache. Like a cop in some TV sitcom.

  “Is everything okay over here?” I chirped, knowing full well it was a dumb question. The police don’t hang out in front of your house all morning if everything is just fine. Even in Walnut Hills there are other things to do.

  The man looked up and glared in my direction. “Who are you?”

  “Kate Austen. I live next door.” From where we were standing my house looked even smaller than it was, but I thought the fact I lived in the neighborhood would give me some credibility. “That’s our place over there.”

  “You know the Livingstons?”

  “Yes. At least I know Pepper. I’ve only met Robert a few times.”

  The man played with his mustache a moment, combing it with his fingers and then brushing the ends flat. Finally he looped a thumb through his belt loop and shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry you gotta hear it like this ma’am, but there’s been a homicide here.”

  “A homicide?” I felt certain I’d misunderstood.

  He nodded. “Your friend is dead.”

  I waited for him to smile at his truly tasteless joke, but he continued fingering his mustache instead. “Someone broke into the house during the night.”

  “There must be some mistake,” I sputtered, trying to ignore the queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. Terrible things didn’t happen to people like Pepper. Even minor inconveniences fell much more often at my doorstep than hers.

  “No mistake, I’m afraid. Be sure to lock your doors and windows up tight,” he warned as he climbed into his car. “Until we catch this creep, no place is safe.”

  I nodded numbly and moseyed back home again, not at all nonchalantly.

  It’s funny the things that go through your head at a time like that. I couldn’t focus on the dead part. I kept thinking of that mane of silver blond hair, the long polished nails, the wide mouth capped with perfect, white teeth. Pepper drove a candy red Mercedes convertible, and that was the image that stuck in my mind—gorgeous Pepper behind the wheel of her snazzy little car, dashing off down the street as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

  Before I got to know her, when all I saw was the picture on the society page and the array of delivery trucks that stopped daily at her door, I thought she was your basic pampered princess, which on one level she probably was. How many people, after all, hang around the house folding laundry, or whatever, dressed in a silk jumpsuit and heels? Or have their mechanic make house calls? But Pepper was also a surprisingly nice person, at least most of the time. Very straightforward, with none of the cattiness which is typical of so many of the women in this town.

  Not that we were exactly chummy. Our lives were too different for that. Our expectations, our experiences, even our husbands.

  Once, a few months after they moved in, we invited Pepper and Robert over for a barbecue. Andy, in faded shorts and thongs, was mashing burgers and gulping beer when Pepper and Robert arrived bearing a bottle of fine French wine—to my mind sheer showmanship when you live in California—and an arrangement of flowers which probably cost more than the entire evening meal. After a few false starts, Pepper and I settled into a comfortable pattern of mommy-talk. But Andy wasn’t so lucky. He was deep in the role of backyard host, poking at the barbecue fire and glibly showing off his knowledge of baseball trivia while Robert, in gray flannel slacks and a blue blazer, balanced precariously on one of our aluminum lawn chairs and tried to engage Andy in a discussion of tax-exempt bonds.

  The evening was a disaster, and we never attempted anything like it again, although the Livingstons did include us in several of their large holiday parties. We went at my insistence, and always left early at Andy’s.

  Pepper’s was a charmed life, I thought, sometimes with envy. But that was before I realized that nothing is as simple as it first appears, and everything has its price.

  ~*~

  My conversation with the policeman left me shaken, and after I dragged myself home, I plopped down at the kitchen table where I began absently picking at the glob of dried orange juice and corn flakes left from Anna’s breakfast. I was still sitting at the table sometime later when the doorbell’s buzzing and Max’s barking shook me from my daze. I opened the door cautiously, letting Max inch his fuzzy brown nose through the crack before I even peered out. Hadn’t I just been warned to keep my doors and windows locked up tight?

  “Officer Jenkins,” the man at the door said, holding his badge out for me to examine. “May I talk to you for a moment?”

  At first I thought it was the same policeman I had spoken to earlier, but on closer examination I saw that although the resemblance was truly amazing, Officer Jenkins had less hair and more belly.

  “Sure,” I told him, “just a minute. Let me get th
e dog out of the way first.”

  Max wouldn’t hurt a flea, but he’s been known to crawl into any available lap, all fifty pounds of him. And he’s very free with his kisses. That’s his Airedale parentage we’ve been told. He’s got some other kinds of dog in him too, but the exuberant terrier spirit dominates. He’s a charmer, a fluffy teddy bear of a dog, but also a handful.

  I locked him in the kitchen and then led Officer Jenkins to the living room, where I kicked a path through the assortment of Barbie-doll clothes spread across the floor.

  “Can I get you anything. Coffee? Soda?” I wasn’t sure what proper etiquette called for. My experience of talking to the police was pretty much limited to those times I mumbled at them under my breath as they handed over a ticket.

  “No, thanks,” Jenkins said, dropping his ample body into the green armchair I was itching to replace.

  I took a seat across from him, on the couch, perching on the edge like a guest at a formal tea. Jenkins pulled out a notebook and clicked his pen. Then he took his time looking around the room.

  “Is this about Pepper Livingston?” I asked, offering him my polite, hostess smile.

  He looked surprised. “How do you know about Mrs. Livingston?”

  “I was talking to one of the other policemen a little while ago. Over in front of her house.”

  “Oh,” he said, clearly disappointed. Maybe he thought he’d stumbled onto the killer already, exposed through her unthinking, but incriminating, slip of the tongue. Again clicking his pen, he asked, “Did you know her well?”

  “We’re friendly, and our daughters go to the same preschool, but we don’t, uh . . . didn’t exactly travel in the same circles.”

  Jenkins scratched something in his notebook, then looked back at me. His face drooped, like bread dough before it’s begun to rise, and his lids barely opened. “Is that a ficus over there?” he asked, pointing to the large pot in the corner.

  “Yes, it is.” Had they found ficus leaves at the scene of the crime? Irrationally, my heart began to pound.

  “It’s beautiful. I can’t seem to keep the damn things alive, myself.”

  I relaxed and again smiled. “It’s mostly luck. You have to have the right light, room temperature, that sort of thing.”

  He nodded and cleared his throat. “When did you last see Mrs. Livingston?”

  “Yesterday afternoon, about two o’clock. She dropped my daughter off from school.” That was less than twenty- four hours ago, I thought with a chill. We had stood by her car talking about nothing important. I had touched her bare arm, making some comment about skin that tanned rather than freckled, and promised to buy a ticket to the Guild Wine Festival.

  Jenkins made another quick notation. “How often do you water it?”

  “Water it?”

  “The ficus.”

  “I don’t know, once a week I think, when I water the other plants.”

  He admired the tree for a moment, then shifted his gaze back to me. “Were you home last night between the hours of ten o’clock, P.M., and two o’clock, A.M.?

  I nodded.

  “Did you see or hear anything unusual?”

  I tried to remember. “No, not really.”

  “You’re sure? No screams or loud noises?”

  I shook my head.

  “Nothing to indicate a struggle?” He asked the questions as if he were reading from a script.

  “No. I went to bed about ten, but I’m a light sleeper. I’m sure I would have heard anything like that.”

  “What about unusual activity in the neighborhood? Anyone going door to door recently selling window cleaning services or magazine subscriptions?”

  “Only salvation.”

  He stared at me blankly.

  “No,” I told him. “There hasn’t been anything out of the ordinary.” I noticed that Jenkins had closed his notebook, clipping his pen to the front cover. My time was almost up. “How did it happen?” I asked, trying hard not to sound like the nosy busybody I really was.

  “Looks like someone got in through the kitchen window.” He shifted in his chair, settling in more comfortably. “An open window, it’s like an engraved invitation. People just don’t realize.”

  I mumbled concurrence.

  “Looks like she was strangled. Some kind of rope or cord, if I had to guess.” Officer Jenkins appeared to find talking about the murder more interesting than investigating it, and his voice lost its monotonous quality. “It happened in the bedroom. Her body was lying across the top of the bed, but she was dressed in her nightgown and the covers were mussed as though she’d been asleep. Probably woke up when she heard a noise, then went to investigate.”

  Not exactly the way I would choose to go, but preferable, I suppose, to being hacked apart with a knife.

  “Looks like some jewelry was taken, and maybe some other stuff, but nothing big. Stereo, VCR, TV—they’re all there. Until the husband’s had a chance to go through her things we won’t have a complete list.”

  “Robert. And Kimberly, the little girl. They’re all right then?”

  He nodded, then leaned back, resting his arms on his belly. “Apparently the husband was out last night. Didn’t get in until after one. Slept downstairs so as not wake his wife and that’s why he didn’t discover the body until this morning. It was the little girl, actually, who found her.”

  All of a sudden it finally hit me, the dead part. I thought of Kimberly rushing to snuggle with her mother in the early morning and finding instead a stiff, unresponsive corpse. She might have shaken Pepper lightly, like Anna does when I’m pretending to sleep, and then finally, with growing frustration and fear, gone to get Robert. “Something’s wrong with Mommy,” she would have whimpered. “I can’t get her to wake up.” In spite of the deep breath I forced into my lungs, my eyes filled with tears and my throat ached. How could you explain to a five-year-old that her mother has been murdered?

  Officer Jenkins leaned forward, tugging at his mustache. I got a whiff of cigarette smoke and mint mouthwash. “You all right, ma’am?”

  “It’s just such a shock.”

  He nodded. “Well, if you think of anything . . .” He tucked his notebook back in his pocket and looked around the room. “Be sure to keep your doors and windows locked.”

  It must be the official line, I decided; it was the second time that day I’d been similarly warned.

  We were at the front door going through the “Thank you . . . oh, anytime” routine when it struck me. “Did you say the prowler came in through an open window?”

  “Yeah, in the kitchen.”

  “Why would Pepper leave the kitchen window open?”

  He shrugged. “It was a warm night.”

  “But they have air conditioning.”

  “Maybe she liked fresh air. Or maybe she just forgot to shut it.”

  He wandered off to his car, and I went to pick up Anna. It wasn’t like Pepper to forget to lock a window. In fact, I was surprised she’d opened it in the first place. None of the Livingstons’ front-facing windows had screens—they ruined the effect of paned glass, Pepper had explained to me—and Pepper was finicky about bugs. On more than one occasion I’d watched her, dressed to a tee in her Ann Taylor finery, walking around the family room swatting at a fly even as we talked. “I don’t know which is worse,” she told me once, “the live ones buzzing in your ear, or the dead ones squashed on your wall.”

  I thought of that same Pepper, now dead, and shivered.

  TWO

  The phone was ringing when we walked in the door, and Anna rushed to answer it. In my pre-parenthood days, when I thought one simply told one’s children what was and wasn’t allowed, I used to curse parents who let barely intelligible youngsters field incoming calls. But having children teaches you a thing or two, and I’d finally realized that some battles are simply not worth fighting.

  “It’s Daria,” Anna said, handing me the phone and wrinkling her nose at the same time. Daria Wilkens was probably m
y best friend in Walnut Hills. Not that we had one of those intensely intimate, soul-mate friendships you sometimes read about, but Daria was the first real friend I made after moving here, and the threads of our lives were entwined in ways too complex to unravel. Anna thought Daria was too “geeshy,” and while I wasn’t sure I understood the meaning of the word, I did sometimes understand the sentiment. Not that it mattered. You take your friends the way they come, blemishes and all.

  “I just heard. It was on the radio.”

  “You mean about Pepper?”

  “Of course I mean about Pepper. What else would I have heard?”

  “I don’t know, maybe something about famine, threat of war, the budget deficit, that sort of thing.”

  “I don’t think this is anything to joke about.”

  She sounded shaken, and I immediately regretted my flippancy. I have a tendency to avoid the unpleasant with sometime inappropriate comments.

  “You’re right,” I told her. “It isn’t.”

  “What have you heard? The news didn’t have much.” The fact that Daria had heard the news at all was something of a surprise. Usually she listened to those dignified classical stations—the kind where announcers speak in soft, cultured voices, delivering only public service announcements and an occasional, tasteful commercial. I didn’t think these stations covered news, much less messy, morbid stuff like murder.

  “I haven’t heard much,” I told her, shooing Anna off to the other room. “There were a bunch of police cars in front of the Livingston place this morning, and then a policeman came by a little later to talk to me.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Just to ask some questions. How well did I know Pepper? Did I hear or see anything unusual last night. That sort of thing.”

  “Did you?”

  “Hear anything? No.”

  “You’re sure?” The sharp tone in her voice made me feel guilty, as though I should have been listening for cries of help instead of selfishly sleeping the night away in a comfortable bed. “What about Max? He didn’t bark or anything?”