She flung open the front door. On the front verandah lay a parcel, beautifully wrapped in gold embossed paper with an elaborate red bow. Nora looked left and right along the street, searching for signs of a delivery truck or van, but there was none. Some fool had just kissed a substantial tip goodbye.
The box was too large to contain jewellery, too small for an evening gown or fur. She shook it. Lingerie?
She lifted the lid. It was some sort of windbreaker, the shiny material making Nora’s skin crawl. The colour, too, was a horrendous fluorescent pink, a shade she had never worn and never would. What could Phillip be thinking? Perhaps he wanted her to take up golf, wear one of those silly little plaid visors and horrible saddle shoes. Was he taking her somewhere for a golf vacation? Bermuda? Or perhaps the Caymans? She rummaged in the pockets for plane tickets.
On closer inspection, Nora saw that the jacket was used. There was a ballpoint pen mark near the right slash pocket, and when she lifted the garment to her face, she smelled perspiration and stale cologne.
She knew Phillip could be frugal, but not even he would stoop so low as to present Nora with a piece of used clothing. Suddenly the presence of the ugly jacket in their beautiful living room filled her with revulsion.
When Phillip’s key turned in the lock, Nora hastily stuffed the jacket back into its box, crumpled the wrapping paper into a ball, and shoved everything under the skirted chesterfield.
“Darling!” Phillip trilled, sailing into the living room. “Miss me?”
It amazed her how this shrewd businessman, with his tremendous physical size and basso profundo voice could walk in the door, look at her, and metamorphose into a pussycat. An annoying pussycat.
She rose to her feet and opened her arms. “Of course I missed you, dearest,” she cooed as she glided toward him. She planted a kiss on his cheek. “And the lovely gifts, Phillip. Really, it’s too much.” She oohed and ahhed over them, displayed like priceless statues on the Hepplewhite sideboard. She didn’t mention the pink jacket. “You’ve made my birthday so special, darling. Now, enough about me. Make yourself comfortable on the sofa, I’ll pour you a sherry, and you can tell me about your day.”
And for a solid half hour, he did. Nora had long since mastered the art of appearing to hang on every word. She knew just when to nod, when to mutter “oh, dear, how dreadful” — or wonderful or shocking — and when to forsake the adjectives in favour of more physical cures for stress.
“My goodness,” he said finally, “I’ve been prattling.”
“Not at all, sweetheart.” Another cool cheek kiss.
“Nasty business at Alta Plaza. Did you see it on the news?”
Nora pursed her lips, allowed a small furrow to appear on her forehead. “You know I don’t watch the news, dear. Too depressing.”
“The police found that missing Mowatt girl. Remember the jogger? Didn’t live too far from here.”
“Oh dear. How dreadful.”
“Yes. Gave Warwick at the bank quite a turn. Thought at first it might be his daughter. Went white as a sheet when the news came over the radio.”
Nora remained focused on Phillip’s face and wondered why someone born and bred in San Francisco would pepper his vocabulary with British-isms.
“Seems Warwick’s daughter, a free-spirited type, had gone to Carmel to study art. She hadn’t called for a few weeks, so naturally Warwick was worried.”
Nora refilled Phillip’s sherry goblet and poured herself a generous Scotch. “Why would Warwick think the dead girl was his daughter?”
“It was the pink jogging pants,” Phillip explained. “Warwick’s girl had a pink jogging suit, so of course, when the body was discovered in …”
There was more, but Nora didn’t catch it. More important things commanded her attention — a cassette of Lloyd Webber show tunes and a manicure set. She’d read something a while ago about a dancer, gone missing after a rehearsal and an esthetician, a young girl who removed hair with hot wax, gave facials, and applied nail polish for a living. There had been other girls, and other gifts. Suddenly, she knew the identity of her gift giver, and the realization wormed through her with a creeping dread.
Her mind was a maelstrom of activity. She’d have to dispose of the jacket immediately. Perhaps, in bed later tonight, if she was very good, she might convince Phillip to move up the wedding date, tell him how she’d been dreaming of a world cruise and could they leave immediately? She had not come this far, to this mansion and this life, to lose it all. Not for the sake of a goddamn jacket. And Phillip, with his influential friends and his spotless image, must never know.
“Darling!” Phillip’s voice boomed.
“Yes, dear?” Nora felt an embarrassed flush creep up her neck.
“You seemed so far away. And that outfit.”
Nora glanced down at her lounging ensemble, a navy raw silk tunic and matching slacks. “I thought you liked this outfit, darling.”
“You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?” Phillip’s expression reminded her of a child who was being denied an extra cookie. She had the urge to slap him.
Then she knew why Phillip was sulking. “Our engagement photograph. It’s tonight, isn’t it? What outfit had we decided on?”
“Your turquoise suit, dear. Does wonders for your eyes,” he said, looking deeply into them. “Quick like a bunny upstairs to change. That photographer chap won’t be here for another half hour.”
As she planted another kiss on Phillip’s cheek, she gave the package under the chesterfield a reassuring nudge with the heel of her shoe. Tonight, she would smile for the birdie, then give the performance of a lifetime in the bedroom. Within a week, Mr. and Mrs. Phillip Rossner would set sail, and any future packages could pile up on the front verandah until they rotted, for all she cared.
Nora went upstairs, and so did the bottle of scotch.
30
By the time Kearns entered Beyond Expectations, it was 12:20. He’d circled Laurel Village twice before snagging a parking spot six blocks away from the café. Beth Wells, punctual to a fault, would be waiting.
Kearns grabbed an iced tea from the cooler at the front of the cafe and sidled by a ponytailed man leafing through a copy of Poetry Flash. As Kearns muttered “excuse me,” he wondered why anyone would consent to having one’s nose pierced not once, but twice. He paid for his drink at the counter and threaded his way to the rear of the café where Beth sat, drinking a cappuccino and reading San Francisco Weekly.
“Sorry I’m late,” Kearns said and pulled out the woven chair with chrome supports. “Breur’s chair, right?”
Beth smiled. “I’ll make a designer out of you yet, Jim. Maybe once this lunatic is caught, you’ll be ready for a career change.” When he sat down, she looked him straight in the eye. “I read about Patricia Mowatt. How awful for you.”
“Never mind me,” Kearns shrugged. “I’ll survive.” Still, he appreciated the empathy.
“Makes my horrid little letters seem ridiculous by comparison.”
“Not ridiculous, Beth. Just … different. You didn’t get another one, I hope?”
“No, thank heaven. I’m starting to believe in our theory — more immature than ominous. I think Bobby’s finally recognized the foolishness of his fantasy. Anyway, no more letters, and no Bobby hanging around lately either.”
“Still, you may have something there. More often than not, the people who do us the most harm are the ones right under our noses.”
Beth agreed. “It’s like what you said about the Spiderman. He’s somebody’s son, somebody’s neighbour—”
“Somebody’s boyfriend, for all we know. What better cover than to hide in a relationship? Trouble is, this guy’s not gonna have too many outward signs pointing to his deviance. Most of us can’t recognize a murderer until he pulls out a machete and chops our heads off. Oops, sorry.”
Beth shifted in her seat. “Jim, on the phone you said you needed my help. What is it?”
He took a long gulp o
f iced tea and cleared his throat. “It’s about Anne Spalding.”
“Oh, Jim,” Beth sighed, “there’s nothing more to tell. I knew next to nothing about Anne. Lousy as that sounds, it’s true.”
“Look, Beth, I’m not here to push your guilt buttons. Seems you do enough of that on your own. But sometimes, if enough time passes, memories surface. Think.”
He waited, but though he could read her expression and knew she was trying her best, nothing came.
“It’s no good, Jim,” Beth replied, sounding as frustrated as he felt. “Anne and I weren’t close. I know you think just because two women shared a house, we should have been having pajama parties, setting each other’s hair, and talking about men and sex until the wee hours, but we didn’t. I’m sorry.”
“Anne was a good-looking lady,” Kearns prodded. “She must have had some kind of social life. There had to have been a boyfriend. Surely some small talk, a casual comment —”
He caught it then, that look — the field mouse had spotted the hawk, but too late. Her eyes gave her away.
“I — I told you, Jim. Anne was very private. We both preferred it that way. No, that’s a lie. I preferred it that way.”
“No men coming to the house? Dates picking her up?”
Beth shook her head. “Nothing like that. Not even a phone call. When Anne was around, she watched television, read romance novels.”
Kearns took a small spiral notepad from his inside jacket pocket. “Listen, when Anne’s belongings were removed from your guestroom, did you notice anything missing?”
“Missing? She had so little to begin with. When I say Anne was running from an abusive husband, I mean that literally. She jumped off the plane, appeared on my doorstep clutching a copy of the newspaper with my ad for a roommate circled. All she had was her flight bag, some toiletries, a change of underwear. During the six months she stayed with me, she’d bought some casual outfits, two pairs of shoes. She didn’t own a dress, and her only jewellery was a Bulova wristwatch.”
Kearns remembered Inspector Anscombe’s list of Anne’s things. It had included the watch.
“My guest room is small,” Beth continued. “You remember. But Anne’s possessions weren’t cramming the drawers or closets. Not by a long shot.”
“Sounds sad.”
“It was. She was. I should have gotten to know her.”
Kearns heard the regret in her voice for about the hundredth time.
“Why do you ask if anything’s missing?”
“It seems, true to the organized killer’s profile, our perp is taking trophies. Wondered what he might have of Anne’s.” Kearns levelled a gaze at Beth. “You realize this is privileged info. If Devereaux were to get wind of this, I’d have to kill you.” He smiled, but Beth didn’t. Her expression was pained, tense with forced recollection. She wanted so badly to help, yet Kearns knew chances were slim to none that Beth would remember if anything had been taken. The Spalding trophy would turn up, with the remaining treasures, on the killer’s premises, when and if they caught him.
Something must be missing, but Kearns didn’t know what it was, and Beth couldn’t help him. He was pleased to see Beth concentrating so hard, and knew he’d done a good job setting up the trophy issue as the reason for their meeting. Now he could really get down to business.
He glanced at his watch. “I know you’ve got to be getting back soon. Let’s talk about more pleasant things. How’s the boyfriend?”
Beth frowned. “Mad at me.”
“Oh-oh. Trouble in Dodge. Is that why you’re not sleeping?”
“Something like that. You know, Jim, I’d make a good textbook chapter for a shrink. Anne Spalding lived in my house, and I treated her like a stranger. Rex McKenna, whom I loathe, gets treated with kid gloves, and he walks all over me. Ginny drives me crazy with her insecurity, but do I sit her down and tell her? No. And just when I think I finally find someone I might want to share my life with, I drive him away. I’m thirty-five, for God’s sake. When am I going to get it right?”
“That’s how we learn, Beth. By our mistakes,” Kearns said and meant it, knowing he didn’t have enough fingers and toes to count the number of times he’d screwed up. “So you and the pilot are kaput?”
“I don’t know. I hope not. But Jordan hasn’t returned any of my calls, and I haven’t seen him since Saturday night —”
“Cheer up, Beth. Plenty more where he came from. Nothing since Saturday, you say?”
She shook her head. “It may not sound like a big deal, but you have to understand, Jordan and I spent most of our evenings together since the day we met. We’d been to a party last Saturday and I — well, I’m not proud of how I behaved.”
“I can’t imagine you doing anything so wrong that some guy would just stop speaking to you. Want to talk about it?”
“I’d rather not. Jordan dropped me off curbside. I went my way. He went his.”
Yeah. Straight home to check on his latest victim.
Kearns avoided Beth’s gaze, not wanting her to see what had to be a glimmer in his eye. He doodled on his notepad. “Pilot, huh?” He looked up. “Those guys must have a tough time staying on the ground once they’ve experience the wild blue yonder. Probably not lasting-relationship material.” He watched her face. That comment struck a nerve. “Beth, it hurts now, I know. But you were moving kind of fast with this guy. Maybe this is a good thing in disguise.”
She frowned again. “It sure doesn’t feel like it.”
Kearns knew he was walking that fine line now, where he had to pretend his questions were nothing more than friendly concern, when in truth, he was a full-fledged cop on duty. He had to know how Bailey drew her in. “What did you think was so special about this guy?”
To Kearns’s relief, Beth’s frown softened, and her eyes took on a faraway look. She was ready to talk all right.
“He made me realize that I needed balance in my life. That everything doesn’t need to be about work. A simple lesson, I know, Jim. But until Jordan came along, I was moving too fast to learn it.”
“He encouraged you to open up, is that it?”
She nodded. “About things that really count. My conversations with Ginny and my clients are so superficial. In the context of those relationships, that’s fine. But Jordan gave me something more. I really connected with him.”
“What about him, though? He reveal anything about himself?”
He caught it again, that look. He hid things from you, didn’t he, Beth. Like what?
“You don’t learn a person’s life story in a few weeks,” she said.
Touché, Kearns thought. “Well, you know what they say about ‘if it was meant to be.’ You never told me how you two met.”
She told him, and he knew his expression concealed nothing. “Lower those eyebrows, Jim, and stop being a cop for a second. Jordan is shy. Following me from this café to my store is kind of sweet, really. Romantic. If he’d plied me with liquor in some singles bar, would that have seemed normal to you?”
“You’re right, Beth. Everyone’s mating ritual is different.” Again, he avoided her gaze, his pencil scratching across the paper.
Jordan Bailey custom fit the profile. Kearns didn’t like the way Bailey and Beth had met — what Beth had called sweet sounded a lot like stalking to Kearns. As far as he was concerned, the pilot could stay the hell away from her. He punctuated his drawing with a series of exclamation marks.
“Jim,” Beth said suddenly, “that does it. I’m definitely signing you on as an apprentice. Drafting board, unlimited supply of pencils, enough to satisfy the frustrated artist in you. What exactly are you drawing?”
He managed a sheepish grin. “You should rescind your offer. I’m no Picasso.”
He turned the notepad toward Beth. Her pupils fully dilated. A small gasp escaped before she could compose herself to feign nonchalance. “I give up,” she said. “What are those?”
The sheet was covered in Chi Rho monograms of varying size
s, thicknesses, some adorned with ornate serifs, wreaths of olive branches.
“Privileged information, part two,” Kearns whispered, leaning across the small Arborite table. “The killer carves this symbol on the victims’ bodies.”
So the way she muttered a hurried “my gosh, look at the time” and bolted from the restaurant confirmed Kearns’s suspicions.
He steepled his fingers together, took a deep breath, and glanced around the café. Framed children’s drawings from the Monart School of the Arts decorated the walls. The noon-hour crowd still sipped lattés, munched on salads, and appeared as bright and cheery as the artwork surrounding him. At once, the clanking of silverware against clear glass plates made Kearns ravenous. This wasn’t the sort of place to satisfy a truck driver’s appetite, nor a cop hungry for an arrest, but Kearns went to the counter and ordered a hot pastrami and Swiss anyway.
Back at the table, with no female to observe his table manners, Kearns wolfed the sandwich. His brain raced alongside his metabolism.
He flipped the page of his notepad and wrote.
mentioned Anne’s boyfriend — Beth nervous? What does she know?
fight with pilot; SATURDAY — Bailey left for Europe on Sunday.
In town for Mowatt’s death. Mowatt kept alive/starving while pilot overseas? Possible?
Kearns knew he had thrown Beth off balance, which was exactly what he’d set out to do. She wouldn’t be seeing the pilot again, that was for sure, not after all the doubts Kearns had so carefully planted. The Christograms, though, had done the real trick. Kearns had played out a spur-of-the-moment hunch, not knowing if his doodlings would lead anywhere, but the look in Beth’s eyes, the panic he’d seen there, told him one thing — she recognized the symbol.
31
Beth locked the door to Personal Touch, relieved to be finished for the day. Though the afternoon had been slack, Beth bustled around the showroom, dusting furniture, rearranging accessories, and straightening piles of invoices and fabric swatches on her desk.
Every Wickedness Page 13
