As the path curved, the bench came into view, illuminated by the hazy glow of a streetlamp. This was where Thalia had been instructed to leave the money. Now, as I reached the bench, I steeled myself for some sign of mayhem. I slowly panned the beam of my flashlight over the area. Nothing. Just a worn bench with peeling green paint. No sign of the package that Thalia had left. No pool of blood. I was flooded with relief that was replaced instantly by weariness. It had been a very long day. I lowered myself onto the bench with a sigh. Thalia was probably at home, fast asleep in her five-hundred-dollar Italian sheets.
All I wanted to do now was crawl into my own bed—preferably without waking my husband. My nocturnal outing seemed ridiculous now, and I certainly didn’t want to explain to Peter where I’d been.
I stood up to leave, which the dog took as a cue for more exploring. He lunged into the bushes behind the bench, jerking the leash from my grasp. “Jasper! Bad boy!” I feared he was pursuing a raccoon—or worse, a skunk. Driving home with a dog who stank to high heaven was not how I wanted to end this miserable night. I clomped after him angrily, following him into a clearing behind the shrubbery. “Bad dog!” I scolded again. Jasper was standing stock still, ears flattened, emitting a low growl. I quickly stooped to grab the leash. That’s when I saw the body.
It was a scene I knew would be burned into my brain for the rest of my life. Thalia, impeccably dressed, sprawled facedown in the dirt. The remains of an erstwhile homeless encampment littered the spacious clearing—ratty sleeping bags, food wrappers, beer bottles, and cigarette butts—including two Gauloises with Thalia’s pearly-pink lipstick staining them. A smashed cell phone lay next to her body, along with her ring of keys. I stood rooted to the spot, trying to make sense of what I was seeing.
I knelt down and shook Thalia by the shoulder, hoping to somehow rouse her. It was only when I rolled the body over that I saw the blood soaking the front of her white raincoat and puddling on the ground. I felt for a pulse but found none. Thalia’s skin was cold, so cold. And she had a very odd expression on her mud-streaked face. I remember screaming then, but I’m not sure for how long. Finally, I found the presence of mind to call 911.
Sirens blared as police cars and an ambulance arrived in quick succession. I couldn’t help thinking that Thalia would hate to be seen like this, dirty and disheveled. She should be lying on a bed of rose petals, not sprawled in this sordid atmosphere of mud and trash. I had an irrational urge to wipe her face clean, but I didn’t. Death was never pretty, but at least it could have some dignity. Thalia’s carelessly abandoned body had none.
I was led away from the scene, as police began roping off the area. A woman emerged from a car with photographic equipment, while several others donned white jumpsuits and gloves. They headed toward the roped-off area. A young uniformed officer questioned me for what seemed like an hour, skeptical of my sudden desire to drive to San Francisco in the middle of the night. And being covered in Thalia’s blood didn’t help. Finally a detective came and spoke with me. After a test of my hands showed that I hadn’t fired a gun anytime recently, they finally let me go with the usual caution to stay in town.
I barely remember the ride home, other than the dog sitting beside me in the front seat, happily slurping my face as tears ran down my cheeks.
CHAPTER 5
I lay on the couch, feeling numb. I had no tears left. Just anger—and guilt so strong my chest felt like it would explode. How could I have let Thalia go off alone? Peter sat down and put his arm around me. “Why don’t you try going to bed? You’ve been up all night. I’ll wake you when the detectives get here.”
“No, I’m OK,” I answered unconvincingly.
He stroked my hair. “You should have called me last night. I can’t believe you drove yourself home after what happened.” That was the third or fourth time he’d said that since I’d walked in the door and awakened him to share the news. But I hadn’t wanted to call anyone, not even Peter. By the time the police had finished grilling me, all I wanted to do was get in my car and go home.
The phone rang. It was Luc, sounding distraught. “I’m so sorry you had to be the one to find her,” he said. He dismissed my regrets at letting Thalia go to the park alone. “Why wouldn’t she go alone?” he asked. “She was probably on her way to meet Etienne.”
“So you know about their relationship?” I was surprised. “Thalia told you?”
He hesitated. “No. I just kind of figured it out. It was rather obvious after seeing them together at the party. And Thalia spent a long time getting ready to go out last night, so I just assumed . . . I didn’t mention the affair to the police, since that has nothing to do with her getting mugged by some stranger.”
“It was not a mugging,” I said forcefully. I told Luc about the blackmail notes, Thalia’s suspicions of Marcel, and her reason for going to the park. He was disbelieving at first but came around when I told him I’d actually seen the notes. He urged me to tell the police, which I certainly planned to do.
Jasper gave a sharp bark as the doorbell rang, and I ended the call with Luc. Peter answered the door, then came into the living room accompanied by two men, one tall and blond with broad shoulders, probably in his midthirties. The second man, who was more portly and looked to be in his midfifties, introduced himself in a gentle voice. “Mrs. Sullivan, I’m Detective Hernandez, and this is my partner, Detective Warren. We’re with the San Francisco Police Department.” I nodded. “I know you discovered the body last night. We need to ask you a few questions.”
“Of course.” As Peter and I sat down on the couch, I motioned for them to sit in the two chairs that faced us. Detective Warren took out a notebook and a pen.
“Thalia Holcombe was your business partner?” Detective Hernandez began.
“Yes. And my friend.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss.” I wondered how often he had to say that to the bereaved. He managed to sound sincere. Maybe he really was sorry, I thought, sorrier than the rest of us, seeing so much death on a daily basis. With a job like that, maybe he was the saddest person in the world.
As he pulled his chair closer to me, I saw cufflinks peeking out from the sleeves of his raincoat. I liked that. I liked that he brought a sense of dignity to his work, this horrible work of dealing with violent death. He was mostly bald, but the hair that remained was jet black and plastered to his head. He had dark, bushy eyebrows and a hint of a five-o’clock shadow on his olive skin, even though it was still morning. He smelled of Old Spice.
“When did you last see Mrs. Holcombe?”
“Yesterday. At the shop we own.” Funny how that seemed like weeks ago now. The younger detective wrote in his notebook as Hernandez asked more questions.
“Do you know why Mrs. Holcombe was in San Francisco Monday evening?”
“Yes.” Why must they call her Mrs. Holcombe? I wondered. Surely they could call her Thalia. Or would that be too personal?
Hernandez politely repeated his question. “Mrs. Sullivan, we’re wondering why Mrs. Holcombe was in Golden Gate Park.”
“She went to meet someone who was blackmailing her.” The detectives exchanged surprised glances at this bit of information.
Peter quickly said, “Rae, you don’t know that.”
Hernandez held up a hand. “OK, let’s start at the beginning. What makes you think your friend was being blackmailed?”
“She got a note. In France. An anonymous note from Marcel Benoit.” Warren interrupted and had me spell Marcel’s last name. I continued, “Thalia caught him looking through private papers, and he threatened her.”
Hernandez stopped me. “Was the note anonymous, or was it from Mr. Benoit?”
“Both. I mean . . . it wasn’t signed. But Thalia showed it to me, and she said it was from Marcel.” This was frustrating. “He lives in France. But he’s here in the Bay Area.” I went on to recount Thalia’s suspicions of Marcel. “He’s staying at a hotel in the city. You need to go talk to him before he leaves
town.”
“Let’s go back to the note,” Hernandez said. “Do you remember what it said?”
“Of course! It said, ‘I know about your affair.’”
The detectives looked at each other again. “And did Mrs. Holcombe in fact have a lover?” Hernandez asked.
I hesitated, then nodded. I didn’t want them to think of Thalia like that, like someone who had no scruples, someone who got what she deserved.
“What’s this person’s name?”
“Etienne Duchamp.” Before Warren could ask, I spelled it for him. “He’s Marcel’s boss.”
“OK, so Mrs. Holcombe was involved in a relationship with Mr. Duchamp,” Hernandez continued. “To your knowledge was her husband aware of this?”
“Oh, no,” I said emphatically.
“And the note demanded money?”
“Not that one. But the second note did.”
Hernandez took a deep breath. “The second one?”
“Yes, she got it on Sunday.” I explained that she’d found it on her car the morning after the party. “This time he asked for money to keep the affair secret.” I looked up at Hernandez with impatience. “Don’t you see, it had to be one of the people who were here from France.”
“And this demand for money was the reason Mrs. Holcombe was in Golden Gate Park?” Hernandez asked.
“Yes, that’s what I’m telling you,” I said, growing more frustrated. “The note told her where to leave the money. Twenty thousand. But she wouldn’t do it. She said she was going to tell him to leave her alone. I begged her not to go. Or at least to take her brother with her. She tried to get me to go with her, but I said no.”
“Oh my God,” Peter burst out.
“I wish I had, Peter,” I said in anguish. “Maybe she’d still be alive.”
“Or you could both be dead!” Peter said.
Hernandez coughed, and Peter and I fell silent, glaring at each other. Hernandez continued. “This relationship with Mr. Duchamp—you say Mr. Holcombe wasn’t aware of it?”
“No, I’m pretty sure he wasn’t,” I answered.
“And yet Mrs. Holcombe was not overly concerned about this note writer telling her husband about the affair?”
“It wasn’t that. Of course, she didn’t want Garrett to know. But she wasn’t prepared to give in to blackmail. Look, if you knew Thalia, you’d understand.”
Warren spoke up. “Is Holcombe a jealous type?”
Before I could answer, Peter said, “He was probably too caught up in his own business to notice anything.”
Hernandez said politely, “I need to hear from Mrs. Sullivan right now, sir. When we’re finished, we’ll have a chat with you.” Peter nodded.
Warren continued. “Suppose Mrs. Holcombe told her husband the truth. How do you think he’d react?”
“I have no idea.”
Warren looked skeptical. “But you’ve known him for years. You must have some idea. Suppose she told him about the affair and maybe even about her plan to go to the park. That could have given him the idea to follow her—”
I interrupted him. “Wait, you think Garrett killed Thalia? That’s ridiculous! He loved her!”
Hernandez attempted to smooth things over. “We don’t have any theories yet. We’re just beginning our investigation. We’re simply trying to get a better understanding of the situation. And the information you’ve given us is very helpful.”
I sank back against the couch cushions and closed my eyes. How could they think it was Garrett when I’d practically solved the case for them? I had nothing more I wanted to say.
“Look, my wife is exhausted,” Peter said firmly. “I think that’s enough for now.” The detectives agreed that I should come to the police station the next day when I was feeling better. Peter poured me a glass of brandy and ushered me upstairs. “Drink this,” he ordered. Although it was only eleven in the morning, I was happy to comply.
I opened my eyes and checked the clock: 5:40 p.m. Why was I in bed? Jasper was curled in a ball next to me on top of the comforter. What day was it? Then I remembered, and my throat tightened.
I stumbled into the bathroom. My head felt like it was stuffed with cotton balls, and an acrid film coated my tongue. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, then brushed my teeth again. When I emerged from the bathroom, Peter was setting a tray on my night table. “I heard you walking around,” he said. “I made you some tea.”
“Thanks.” I had no desire for tea but took a few sips anyway. Suddenly, I realized it was Tuesday. “No one opened the shop today! And I had a customer picking up an order—”
“Relax. Sonia went there early this morning and took care of everything. She put up a sign saying you’ll be closed for a week.”
“What! Sonia wouldn’t do that without talking to me first!”
“She talked to me. I told her you’re still in shock. You’re in no condition to go to work.”
“Don’t baby me, Peter,” I snapped. “I have things to do.” I stripped off my sweatpants and T-shirt and started getting dressed. “I’m sure Garrett needs me.”
Peter reached out and took hold of my wrist. “Garrett’s OK. I talked to him this morning. Rae, this isn’t the time for you to take care of everyone. You’ve had a nasty shock. Give yourself time to recover.”
I shook his hand off my wrist. “I am recovered! I’m sure Garrett would like some help getting ready for the funeral. And I have to talk to Detective Hernandez,” I insisted. “He wants me to come in. You heard him. I need to make sure he understands about Marcel.”
“Tomorrow. He said to come in tomorrow.” He spoke in a gentle voice as if talking to a not-very-intelligent child, which infuriated me.
“OK, fine. I’m going to call Garrett and then I’m going out for a hike. I need to clear my head.”
A half hour later, as I was stepping out the front door with the dog, Peter put his hands on my shoulders and spun me around to face him. “You know that I love you, right?” he asked. “I only want what’s best for you.” I nodded.
I led Jasper down the brick path and through the front gate. We turned right and set out with no destination in mind. All I knew was that I needed to keep moving because that somehow muted the anger and grief. I breathed deeply, inhaling the smell of approaching fall. Already the sycamores were dropping their leaves, which crunched underfoot, releasing their tangy aroma. It was a smell that never failed to transport me to my grand-mother’s Brooklyn front porch, shaded by a broad, leafy canopy. This memory had always been a source of comfort, but today it brought a lump to my throat.
After about twenty minutes, we came to the outskirts of Deer Park at the northeast foot of Mount Tam. Jasper was tugging excitedly at the leash, his nose twitching. He knew this place, where there were flowing streams, scampering squirrels, and the occasional horse and rider—all deliciously interesting.
We quickly crossed the flat field near the park’s entrance, and, after a few minutes, the trail started to rise, passing through low, scrubby brush. I kept up a rapid pace, not slowing even when my calves began to burn. The path zigzagged up the mountain’s steep flank, passing under bay and live oak trees, then through sunny grasslands, until it finally leveled out at a junction of several trails. I paused for a minute, wishing I’d brought water, then pressed on. I was determined to reach the intersection of trails known as Five Corners before turning back.
“Come on, Jasper, we’re almost there,” I said to the dog, who was losing momentum. At last we reached our destination, a spot that felt like the epicenter of the planet. Utter stillness. No roads, no sound of cars, not a structure in sight. The formerly tawny hills were already sporting a downy, green cloak after just one rainfall. I sat down and gazed into the distance. How could one person murder another? I pondered. Clearly Marcel wasn’t a psycho who kills for pleasure. What could Thalia have said that had so enraged him? Had she threatened to go to the police? Maybe he was desperate for money, so desperate that he killed Thalia when she refus
ed to pay.
It wounded me to imagine Thalia suffering or, worse, afraid. I’d never known her to fear anything. A fresh flood of tears started flowing. What right did Marcel have to make Thalia afraid? What right did he have to obliterate my pleasure in the smell of sycamore leaves?
I will punish Thalia’s killer, I said to myself. I will expose him, and I will punish him. I rose to my feet, wiped my face, and started down the trail.
CHAPTER 6
The morning commute traffic was heavy on Highway 101 going south. Peter had offered to drive, reminding me that if there were two of us we could use the carpool lane, but I wanted time alone to think. I mentally rehearsed my conversation with Detective Hernandez. I realized that I hadn’t been completely coherent when he came to the house yesterday. No wonder he hadn’t understood about Marcel.
Today I felt a lot more levelheaded. Plus I was dressed like a grown-up: slim gray skirt, crisp white blouse, and a gold bangle bracelet. I’d even dug out a pair of no-nonsense black shoes I rarely wore because they looked like they belonged to a nun. I was determined to be taken seriously. I envisioned Detective Hernandez nodding sagely as I explained about Marcel.
He and Detective Warren needed to let go of this silly notion that Garrett was involved in Thalia’s murder. Poor Garrett. Not only was his wife dead, but the police were also grilling him about whether he knew of her affair, which he’d sworn to me he hadn’t when I talked to him this morning. Well, at least Peter had gone over to the house to be with him.
How wrong Thalia had been about Peter, I thought with a touch of self-righteousness. Years ago, she had tried to convince me that he was a bad bet. Now she’ll see, I told myself. Not that I believed in an afterlife. At least not exactly. But part of me was convinced that somehow in death all truth was revealed.
Thalia had called Peter a heartbreaker. “My friends say he’s slept with every woman on the Berkeley campus—at least all the straight, pretty ones,” she had warned me, taking it upon herself to delve into Peter’s reputation after I spent a night with him. It was during our senior year in college. I’d flown in from Madison to visit Thalia at Stanford. She had dragged me to a party in Berkeley, which turned out to be hosted by one of Peter’s grad school classmates. My first impression was that this brash, handsome man was entirely too full of himself, but his charm won me over, and I agreed to leave the party and have a beer with him. Many drinks later, we ended up back at his place, an apartment in a converted attic near campus.
The Sleeping Lady Page 4
