by Lois Winston
“That limits it, doesn’t it?”
“You’d think so.” His words were weighted with defeat, and I felt his frustration. Like women throughout time, I wanted to make things right.
“What about Robert?” I asked. “Isn’t he a possibility?”
Michael picked at his muffin, which he’d barely touched. “The guy’s peculiar, no getting around that, but there’s not one shred of evidence which suggests he killed her. And you can’t arrest a guy just because something about him strikes you as odd. Not in this country anyway.”
“But he’s still a suspect?”
“Yeah, most definitely.”
During the last few days I’d done my best to avoid Robert, but try as I might, I hadn’t been able to avoid thinking about him. How could a man I knew, a man I was truly fond of, be a murderer? Sometimes the absurdity of the notion made me laugh. But deep down in my heart, I wasn’t convinced he was innocent.
“Right now,” Michael continued, “he’s the only name we’ve got.”
“Besides McGregory.”
“Right, and we’ll know more about that when we finish analyzing the note Connie found.”
“Well,” I said philosophically, “something’s bound to turn up sooner or later.”
He shook his head. “Not necessarily. And the longer it takes, the worse the odds.” Pushing back his chair, Michael stood and stretched. “One thing’s for certain, we’re never going to make any progress if I sit here feeling sorry for myself.”
“I wish you didn’t have to go just yet,” I said, standing also and moving close.
“Me too.” His eyes fixed on mine and lingered there while he brushed my cheek with his fingertips. “You sure you’re okay about . . . about what happened?”
Most of our conversation the previous evening had focused on my miscarriage, and I’d been acutely aware of both the concern in Michael’s voice and the guilt, though I’d done my best to allay both.
“I’m fine,” I assured him. “Stop worrying.”
He leaned over, kissed me, and then, arms entwined, we walked to the door.
Sharon was wandering up the walkway just as Michael was leaving. Her eyes followed him to his car and she waited until he’d started the engine before speaking. “I thought I’d drop off that price list for playground equipment. Give you a chance to look it over before the next board meeting.”
Replacing the old swing set and slide was the board’s final project for the year, and I had agreed to study the issue, but Sharon’s timing was bad nonetheless. It was quite a picture—me in a bathrobe waving good-bye to a strange man at nine in morning. That was enough to cause even Sharon to raise an eyebrow.
“Well, well,” she said after Michael had driven off, “I see the benefits of having a husband who’s away. Myself, I’m always stuck with those dreary motels.”
“It’s not the way it looks,” I told her firmly.
She laughed and handed me a thick manila folder. “Too bad. It looks kind of nice.”
~*~
A little after five that afternoon Mrs. Marsh called to ask if I would watch her pie while she took Kimberly to some magic show at the club. Since she offered to take Anna too, I could hardly refuse. Besides, I could sit and stare mindlessly out a window from the Livingstons’ house as easily as I could from my own.
“I don’t know what I was thinking of, waiting so long to make that pie,” Mrs. Marsh said, as she ushered me into the kitchen. “Some days my mind’s like that. You sure this isn’t a bother?”
“Not at all. And Anna is excited about going to the show. It’s kind of you to take her.”
After the three of them had gone, I sat down on the couch and began leafing through the stack of magazines on the coffee table, but they failed to hold my interest. Finally I gave up and went to check the pie. On the counter by the oven, next to a basket of pens and paper clips, I found a recent newspaper article about Robert and his amazing investment acumen. The article had run several weeks earlier. I remembered saving my copy for Pepper to send to Claudia. Some other friend had obviously clipped this one and just now sent it on.
The article was flattering, but the accompanying picture was not. Although Robert was smiling, his face was unnaturally tight and his eyes stared out blankly from the page. When I’d first seen it, I’d made some cynical remark about newspaper photographers training at the DMV. You almost had to go out of your way to take an attractive, polished, deliberately postured guy like Robert and fail to capture any of that on film.
Now, as I studied the photo again, I was struck by something about his expression. Maybe it was the aftermath of Daria’s repeated hints about Robert’s temper. Or maybe it was simply the oddness of the picture, or the fact that I was alone in the house where Pepper had been murdered. Maybe the timing, all these things coming together at once. For whatever reason, I was no longer able to brush aside the doubt that had been hovering, like an elusive gnat, at the edges of my mind.
Robert could be charming, for sure, and I’d been touched by his helplessness in the wake of Pepper’s death. Yet there was something about him, not dishonest exactly, but . . . well, something almost Machiavellian. Michael had noticed it, although he’d put it a little differently. And with all honesty, I’d noticed it, despite my reluctance to admit the fact, even to myself.
And then there was the thing with the Cherokee. There may have been a perfectly innocent explanation, but if that was the case, why had Robert lied to me? And I was sure he had – he’d told me it belonged to an employee, not a client. Besides, he’d been decidedly cool to me since the police had talked to him. If the car didn’t mean anything, why was he acting like a man who had something to hide?
Reluctantly, I began to sort through the details of Pepper’s death. Robert certainly could have killed her. There was no one to verify his whereabouts the night she was killed. It would explain how the killer gained entry to the house and why there were no unusual fingerprints or other bits of physical evidence in the room. I remembered, too, that Robert hadn’t thought the open downstairs window odd in the least, even when I’d asked him about it specifically. In fact, he’d been careful to point out that the window wasn’t connected to the alarm system. As though he wanted the police to believe the killer gained entry in that way.
But why? While I was pondering the reasons a successful, reasonably happy man might kill his beautiful, reasonably nice wife, the oven buzzer sounded. Grabbing a potholder, I opened the oven door and turned the pie, then adjusted the temperature, just as Mrs. Marsh had instructed. Pepper might have been a bit self-centered, bitchy even, to use Daria’s words, but that was hardly grounds for murder. Besides, he’d married her in the first place, and it was unlikely her personality had made a complete flip-flop following their wedding.
Then I remembered the letter and newspaper clipping. The envelope was addressed to Pepper, but Connie had found it tucked into Robert’s datebook. Had he somehow stumbled across the letter and so learned the sordid details of her past? What would he feel, a meticulous, proper man like Robert, a man who put great store in “keeping up appearances,” when he discovered that his wife had deceived him, maybe even used him for her own purposes?
It was only a theory, but it was plausible.
I checked the clock above the oven. The pie had another thirty minutes. It wouldn’t hurt to look around, I told myself. Michael had asked me to do that very thing not so long ago, and Claudia had readily assented. The feeble voice of my conscience tried to convince me that this wasn’t quite the same, but I wasn’t persuaded. This was murder, I argued back. You do what you have to do.
Robert’s den was at the back of the house and I went there first. The room, like the man himself, was neat and orderly. His papers were stacked efficiently on one corner of the desk; his books, dull gray and green volumes on taxation and investment strategy, lined the shelves with military-like precision. There were no pictures or personal mementos of any kind. Boldly, I checked his
drawers and files, then leafed through his datebook, which was filled with meetings and appointments. But nothing struck me as unusual. Of course, he was hardly going to write “kill Pepper,” under his list of things to do for the day. I had hoped there might be something out of the ordinary, though, some small, telltale scribble or scrap of paper. There wasn’t a thing.
Carefully, I backed out of the room and shut the door, which clicked loudly in the heavy, afternoon stillness.
Upstairs, I headed straight for the bedroom, where I stood for a moment, taking it all in, waiting for a revelation. When none appeared, I began methodically opening drawers. Robert’s were filled with neatly folded socks, sweaters, underwear; Pepper’s, newly empty. Equally unenlightening was the large walk-in closet, where at least fifteen suits hung neatly along one wall.
What was I expecting to find anyway? A yellow and black silk tie, complete with revealing tear at the edge? Or maybe the heavy, sharp object used to bash Pepper’s skull? If Robert was a killer, he certainly wouldn’t be the sort to leave evidence lying about in open view. And besides, the police had been through everything already.
Feeling both foolish and guilty, I was turning to go when my foot kicked against a wadded-up shirt lying on the closet floor. Only there was something solid at the center of the wad. Out of curiosity, I picked up the shirt and unfolded it. Inside was a heavy, bronze rabbit, its peaked left ear coated with dried blood.
My first inclination was to drop the thing as quickly as I could and run. Then I thought perhaps I should carefully rewrap it, tuck it back in the corner, and simply forget I’d ever seen it. Instead, I stood motionless, staring at the bloodied creature and listening to the heavy pounding of my heart against my ribs.
So it was Robert, after all. This man I’d sat and talked with—Kimberly’s father, my friend’s husband—was a murderer. Behind that cool, reserved veneer lurked a monster, a crazed maniac with so little emotional depth that he could kill his wife in cold blood and then feign innocence. So lost was I in these thoughts that I didn’t hear the approaching footsteps until they were right behind me. When I turned, I was standing face to face with Robert, who glared at me the way the school bully glares at the teacher’s pet.
“What’s going on here?” His voice was low, tighter than usual.
“I, uh . . .”
Then, as simple astonishment gave way to outrage, Robert stepped closer. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing snooping around in my closet?”
Again I opened my mouth and closed it, without uttering a word. His face, darkened and tense, pressed closer, and I could smell the alcohol on his breath. There was none of Robert’s customary reserve or gentlemanly good humor in the face before me.
“Well?”
They say that in moments like this you get a rush of adrenaline which empowers you in ways that stretch the imagination. A frail man is able to lift the weight of a car single-handedly; a bedridden invalid is somehow able to crawl through a darkened house to safety; a young child sees suddenly and clearly what must be done to save her younger brother.
But it didn’t work that way for me. My mind went utterly blank and my body froze. I wasn’t sure I even remembered how to speak, had I had anything to say. Somewhere from deep within, a little voice urged me to think—there had to be some reasonable excuse that would explain my presence and allow me to escape. But my brain refused to cooperate. Like a frightened animal, I cowered in the threatening silence while Robert watched and waited.
Then he saw the bundle in my hands and his mouth began to twitch. “You bitch,” he hissed. “You sneaky, underhanded bitch.” He stepped into the doorway, blocking the closet entrance—and my only way out. “What are you doing with that?”
“Look,” I squeaked, lifting the rabbit to the light, “Pepper’s blood is still there.”
“You don’t really think I’m going to let you get away with this, do you?”
Robert made a grab for the figurine, but I turned and he gripped my arm instead. His fingers pressed into my flesh, their strength surprising me. I remembered Pepper’s bruises and Michael’s description of her lifeless body. Suddenly my mind started working again. Twisting free of his grip, I shoved him hard against the back of the closet and took a step closer to the doorway.
“Lieutenant Stone knows everything,” I said, wishing I spoke the truth. “And he knows I’m here right now. If anything happens to me it will only make matters worse.”
“Lieutenant Stone knows what you’re doing here? Surely you don’t expect me to believe that.”
“Oh, but he does,” I insisted, amazed at my bravado. Robert’s grip on my arm tightened and without thinking I twisted toward him, bringing the bronze rabbit down hard on his knuckles. Cursing, he released my arm. I darted for the bedroom door, but again Robert blocked my path. His steely blue eyes glared at me, and my own eyes, which I feared were not nearly as steely, glared right back.
“It took a while to figure out,” I told him, “but all the pieces fit. The arguments with Pepper, the lies you told about the Cherokee, the note about Pepper’s past which Connie found in your datebook.” Keeping my distance, I circled around to the far side of the room by the open window. If he tried anything I could scream. From that position at least, there was a chance someone might hear me.
“Is the note what did it?” I continued, unable to hide my disgust. “Was it discovering that your beautiful, remarkable wife wasn’t quite the princess you thought she was?”
Robert stepped closer, his breathing thick and throaty. And then another idea sprang into my mind. “Or was it her unfaithfulness? Is that what finally got to you? Your fragile male ego couldn’t take that, could it?” Once I got started, I couldn’t stop. Fear, and my shock at finally confronting the truth, were too great. “It must have been so easy. You had a key, you knew the alarm code, and you knew the back windows weren’t wired. So you took Pepper’s wallet and some of her less valuable jewelry, opened a window and made it look like a burglary.”
I laughed nastily, forcing myself to look him straight in the eye. “No wonder the killer didn’t tear up the house or take anything of real value.”
Robert stopped his advance and stared at me. “You think I killed Pepper?”
“I know you did. The police do, too. And now that I’ve found the object you hit her with—”
“Found?”
“In your closet.” He shifted his eyes momentarily, and I readied myself. I was a runner after all, I just needed a break, a few seconds when his attention was diverted. “It’s a pretty stupid place to hide it, practically out in the open.”
Robert stepped toward me again. “You’ve made a big mistake, Kate.”
Watchful and ready, I waited for him to pounce, to grab for me, but he instead shook his head bleakly and walked past me, over to the bed. With a deep, throaty groan, he dropped down, head in his hands. And when he finally spoke, his voice was a faint monotone. “I knew it would all come out eventually. Some things you just can’t hide.”
Still gripping the bronze rabbit, I inched over to the door. It was a trick, I felt certain. I couldn’t believe the man was going to give up so easily. “You’re right,” I said sharply. “And murder is one of them. It was pretty gutsy to think you could get away with it in the first place.”
Robert looked up, fixing his eyes on mine. Except for the soft hum of the electric clock by the bed, the room was perfectly quiet. “Kate, I didn’t kill Pepper. You’ve got to believe me. I loved her. She and Kimberly were . . . were my salvation, my life.” He clasped his hands together, pressing thumb against thumb. “It’s probably not the kind of relationship you’d understand, but it was real, based on love and trust.”
I was at the door now, my safe retreat assured. This sense of security, and the almost imperceptible quiver in his voice, prompted a moment of kindness.
“Disappointment, hurt, anger—emotions like that can be overwhelming,” I told him. “Can make people do things they ordin
arily wouldn’t.” I paused, imagining for a moment the fiery tides that had driven Robert to kill his wife. “It must have come as quite a shock,” I said, “to learn about Pepper’s past.”
Robert rubbed his cheek wearily. “I knew all about her background, even before we were married. It didn’t matter in the least.”
“You knew about her brushes with the law? And Jake?”
He nodded.
“What about Tony?”
“I knew she’d had a child, but I didn’t put the pieces together until the police came by asking about him. Then I remembered some of the things she’d said. A few discreet inquiries and I had the answer.”
Robert hadn’t moved from the bed, had hardly stirred at all, in fact; but I wasn’t taking any chances. I remained by the bedroom door, poised to run at a moment’s notice. “You think anyone is going to believe you? If your marriage was so full of love and trust, why didn’t she tell you when Tony showed up?”
“I don’t know the answer to your second question, I can only speculate. But as to the first, no one has to take my word for it. The night she was murdered I was with friends. I didn’t get home until almost two A.M.”
I gave him an icy glare. “You told the police you were at work, alone.”
He nodded, pressing the knuckles of one hand against the palm of the other. “I spent the evening at a sex club in San Francisco.” He looked at me and smiled wanly. “You know what that is?”
I did. Or at least I thought I did. But it didn’t make sense. The city’s sex clubs, hangouts for prurient, no-holds-barred homosexual activity, had made the news frequently since the advent of AIDS. I’d read the articles with almost painstaking thoroughness and then tittered with my friends at the bewildering exploits alluded to.
Robert watched me closely. “I’m gay, Kate. Bisexual actually. There’s a man I’ve been seeing quite a bit of, and I was with him all evening, although there are others who can vouch for me as well.”
