“Do you know what he said?”
“He yelled about the money. I think he went to the bank and found the box empty. He said, ‘Where's the fuckin’ money?’”
I'd caused Merry's death.
“Mom tried to walk away, but he grabbed her from behind. He had something hard on his hand, the one he put under Mom's chin.”
The cast. I was mesmerized by the faraway look on Emilie's face.
“Dracula demanded the money again. Then he put a gun behind her right ear and pulled the trigger.” Emilie's chest heaved in a loud sob.
I pulled my granddaughter to me. She wept against my shoulder.
“That's when it all stopped. All my feelings. That's when Mom died.”
No one had told the children any details of Merry's murder, other than she'd been shot. No one mentioned the shot behind one ear, so Emilie couldn't have learned it from overheard conversations. The papers hadn't reported that detail, either.
I held Emilie until she stepped back, wiped her eyes, and pointed to a spot on the rug.
“That's where the police found her. She wore that old pink bathrobe I gave her for Christmas years ago.” Emilie's voice broke, but she steadied herself.
Another unreported fact. I freaked out. I suggested we look around, gather Merry's clothes, and leave this dreadful place. Something was wrong. If this was a crime scene, something was missing. At last, I got it: no trace of fingerprint powder.
I set the chair upright and stepped around a spot on the carpet. It wasn't blood, but spilled liquid dried near the sofa. I didn't want to think about what it was.
Emilie called back that the kitchen was early Goodwill, all mismatched dishes and cheap pots and pans. The fridge held some takeout containers, the food inside long taken over by gray-green fuzz. I tossed her a garbage bag. She emptied all of the food out of the fridge and cupboards and marched the trash out to the dumpster.
I took the bedroom and bath. I didn't expect any surprises. Someone had pulled out every drawer in the chest and thrown the contents across the floor. The police hadn't reported finding the place torn apart. Instinct took over, and I reached down to fold the clothes before Emilie stopped me.
“Wait a minute. The police didn't do this. Dracula did.”
“Are you sure?”
“I feel him searching this room. He didn't find what he wanted. It was later, though. Not the night he killed her. He came back for the money. Why's the money so important?”
I reminded her about Merry putting money in the safe-deposit box. After all, she found the key. I also told her Dracula couldn't get his hands on it, because I had it.
“He was after it all along.”
Emilie took several pictures of the ransacked bedroom with her cell phone. She returned to the living room and took a picture of the end table before sending the photos to Alex.
I looked at the blouse clutched in my hand and at the rest of the clothes scattered about. Most were new and too young looking for Merry's age. They were hers, though, and I didn't want to leave them to be thrown away by uncaring strangers. I folded underclothes, blouses, dresses, skirts, and pants. Some of the blouses were soiled. I rooted around in the closet until I found Merry's suitcases stacked in the rear behind a pile of dirty laundry.
I looked for her jewelry box, the one I delivered to her lawyer so many weeks ago, but it wasn't there. What happened to the four-carat diamond ring Whip gave Merry for their tenth anniversary? Where were the diamond heart-shaped earrings? What about my mother's gold watch?
“Do you see her jewelry case?”
Emilie shook her head.
I started a list of questions for Vince. The first was why the police hadn't dusted the living room for fingerprints. They said the crime scene didn't look like a robbery, yet the bedroom was a shambles. If they'd let me in at the time, I'd have missed the ivory-inlaid ebony jewelry box Whip brought back from Africa.
Emilie walked over to the bathroom door and looked inside. I followed. The bath was shabby, and at the same time it was quintessential Merry—full of potions and salts, lotions, and cleansers. Even before Hunter, she was manic about the latest skin products, wrinkle-prevention creams, exfoliants—whatever was new and expensive. Merry single-handedly helped beauty products become a multibillion-dollar-a-year industry. In that way, she was just like her mother.
Something was wrong, but for the life of me I couldn't see it. Emilie stared too. I packed cosmetics in the suitcases with the clothes and took one last look. Then it hit me. “If she'd just emerged from the bath, as the police think, where's the bath sheet?”
“Maybe Dracula wrapped what he took in it.”
Another question for Vince.
I sat on the couch for a moment and waited for Emilie to rejoin me. I thought about other things that should have been there. Her cell. Where the heck was it? Her handbag. Did the police take it as evidence? Or for safeguarding? More questions.
I could get nothing more from the room that had never seen a professional cleaning crew, no matter what the rental agent said. There was nothing of the fabulous apartment Merry told Emilie she'd rented. I put my hand down to brush some crumbs from the brown-striped couch. Merry loved to snack in front of the TV. My face grew tight and my eyes leaked in sorrow, anger, and frustration. Emilie held me this time as we cried for a life cut short. We'd never stop missing a daughter and a mother. Sometime later, I wiped my eyes and opened the door.
An elderly white-haired woman waited in the hallway. She about spooked me.
“Are you related to the poor woman who was killed?”
“My daughter.”
“My mother.”
“I live next door.”
Just what we need—a snoopy neighbor.
“These walls are so thin. I've been waiting since I heard you come in. Would you like a cup of tea?” She smiled at Emilie, who nodded. We introduced ourselves. I pulled the door closed behind me and followed the woman into an overly furnished apartment. A sunnier mirror image of Merry's, it was stuffed with early-American maple, chintz, and ruffles. She poured from a kettle already boiling. She carried a tray with cups, a teapot, and a plate of cookies into the living room.
“I'm Mrs. Curry. I've lived here for thirty years. I've seen residents come and go, but I've never had a murder happen next door.”
Emilie gave the woman her full attention.
Mrs. Curry might be a lonely shut-in excited by the murder, but a cup of tea would soothe our tired souls.
“You don't look like your mother.”
“I used to.”
I noted the bitterness and felt sorrow for my grandchild. My mind drifted while our hostess nattered on, until she said something that swept the cobwebs away.
“Mrs. Curry, you just said you were home the night Merry was shot.”
“Of course. I never go out after dark alone. It's not safe, and I don't drive at night.”
My friend Eleanor was the same. Closing in on seventy-five, she went out after dark if she took a taxi or one of us drove.
“As I said, these walls are so thin. I tried not to listen, but his voice was so loud. Your daughter sounded like she knew him, but she sounded scared. At first I couldn't hear most of what they said, but I heard the anger. Later, I heard more of the conversation, such as it was.”
I had a brief image of Mrs. Curry holding a water glass against the drywall to listen more clearly. I stifled a smile. “Why do you say she was scared?”
“Because she kept begging him to calm down and not hurt her.”
“Did you hear anything else?” With a trembling hand, I put the delicate porcelain cup back on its saucer. I was afraid I'd snap the handle.
“He cursed a lot, like so many of the young do today.”
“He was young?”
“After you reach eighty, almost everyone's young. I could tell from his voice he wasn't my age, so by the process of elimination, he had to be young.” Mrs. Curry patted her white hair. For a second, I saw Ju
lia McKenzie as Miss Marple of PBS's Masterpiece Theater. I smiled.
“As I was saying, he cursed. He kept asking where the money was.”
I jumped. Is this the proof we need that Hunter killed Merry? I knew where the money was. Whip didn't, not until after Merry's murder. Emilie froze.
“You know what that means?” Mrs. Curry refilled our cups.
“I do. Can you remember his exact words?”
Mrs. Curry closed her eyes for a moment and then leaned forward. “He said, ‘where's the fuckin’ money?’ Then I heard a noise. I thought he slammed a door, but I now think it might have been a gunshot.”
“Do you remember what time it was?”
“Oh, yes. It was a little after nine. Maybe nine-fifteen. A repeat episode of CSI had just started.”
“Mrs. Curry, have the police talked to you?” Emilie asked.
“The police? Why, no, they haven't. I assumed they arrested the killer. The papers said he's in jail.” She shook her head. “Such a tragedy.”
“Mrs. Curry, you've been so kind to offer us tea and tell us what you heard. Would you be willing to talk to my son-in-law's lawyer?”
“Of course.”
I took one of her hands in both of mine and stroked the tissue-thin skin of advanced age. “You've given us hope. Please don't believe everything you read. The man in jail, Merry's husband, Emilie's father, my son-in-law, did not kill my daughter.”
I carried the tea tray into the tidy kitchen and rinsed the pot. I set the cups on an embroidered tea towel, and we took our leave.
When we stopped at Merry's apartment to pick up the suitcases and a couple of bags of clothing, a small, darkish object at the edge of the couch glinted in the harsh overhead light. A key. I wrapped it in a tissue and tucked it into my handbag. I knew where its brother was.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
After coming off the emotional rollercoaster of cleaning out Merry's apartment, I wanted to tell Whip about Mrs. Curry right away. I'd been going to the jail every other day or so, but I didn't want to wait until my next scheduled visit. We were lucky because the police relaxed their restrictions and allowed me nearly unrestricted access. Could Whip's friend, the police chief, have stepped in? I hoped so. We might need that connection again later.
The booking area roiled with a dozen people under arrest and their handlers and lawyers who shouted to get the attention from the desk sergeant. Ten minutes after I arrived, Pete unlocked the door from the cells. Once again, I looked around the interview room. It would look less like the room of no hope from a bad film noir with a fresh coat of paint to hide stains, streaks, and years of handprints. I was so wound up I blurted out everything we learned almost before Whip took his usual seat.
“Odd. If your Miss Marple overheard Hunter demand the money, doesn't it prove he killed Merry?”
“Not really. Remember, you didn't know I'd cleaned out the safe-deposit box until after you were arrested.”
“Yes, but we didn't tell anyone. Hunter had access.”
“Hunter made a mistake.” I reached into my handbag, pulled out a tissue, unwrapped the key, and showed it to Whip. “Merry's key is in my bureau. This was on the floor in her apartment.”
“This should prove I didn't do it.” Whip's eyes flickered. “Why didn't the cops find it? I thought they searched her apartment.”
“I don't think it was there when Merry died. There's more.” I told him about the missing jewelry, cell phone, and handbag. “Her bedroom was trashed. The police didn't mention that. Most important, I found no trace in the apartment.”
“What do you mean, ‘trace’?”
“We always see fingerprint powder used at a crime scene on television, don't we? The CSI people grab jars of powder and brushes when they test solid surfaces. They don't clean up afterward, do they?”
“I don't think so. Ask Jerry. He'd know.”
“We found the normal accumulation of dust on the hard surfaces but no fingerprint powder. If they'd conducted a thorough search, wouldn't you think the police would have found this little key? After all, I found it, and I'm no professional.” I returned it to an inside pocket in my handbag. “I asked Vince for the police report. I want to see if they mention the state of the bedroom.”
“Why?”
“Em says Hunter came back. She thinks he went to the bank and found the box empty. He got so angry he confronted Merry and killed her. The police tape was ripped. Em knows he did it. He ripped the bedroom apart. When he didn't find the money, he threw the key on the floor and left.”
“You may be right. How can we use this?”
“I'm not sure. That's Vince's problem. Em took pictures and sent them to Alex. See, the bedroom's ruined. The living room's normal.” I laid a stack of photos in front of Whip.
“Here's where I found the key.” I pointed to the edge of the couch.
“Give these to Vince.”
“Of course. You can't imagine how weird it was standing where Merry died. I hoped for some kind of sign, a ripple in the Force, anything, to let me connect with her. Some people believe the spirit of a murdered person remains near the place of death. I couldn't feel her presence.”
I bet Whip wanted to laugh because I'd hoped for a sign to help me with my grief. Maybe the key was it, and I was too earthbound to see it.
Vince arrived with news just as I was getting ready to leave. Whip would be arraigned in two days at which time he'd enter his plea. Afterward, they'd see the prosecutor's case.
Things weren't moving as fast as Vince originally predicted. Whip had sat around far longer than was usual. The idea of a rapid trial didn't carry as much weight when a murder was involved. The police could delay as long as they continued to build a case against him.
“They'll probably go for manslaughter, although the district attorney might try to make this a signature case to support his bid for re-election.”
“Why?”
“He hasn't won a murder trial in four years. He could go for murder two, but I don't think that's likely. He needs a conviction on which to hang his campaign.”
“I don't see how they can charge Whip with murder,” I said.
“The district attorney will try for as high a profile case as possible.”
“Any chance they'll let me go?” Even to me, Whip didn't sound hopeful.
“Snowballs in Hell, Whip.”
“Terrific. A political volleyball to satisfy some prick's ambition. Where's the justice in that?”
“Cut the crap. Justice and politics repel each other. We'll ask for dismissal on lack of physical evidence.”
I told Vince about my visit to Merry's apartment. He made little of the fingerprint powder, but he jotted a note to look into it further. Maybe we could get this thrown out on sloppy police work. “Here are the photos Em took at the apartment yesterday. Will you compare them with the official police file?”
Vince put them in a new folder he labeled “Apartment.”
“Now, do you want the charges dismissed? Or do you want to be found not guilty?”
Good question. No one was found innocent, just not guilty. I could split that hair seven ways from Tuesday. I already knew what Whip's answer would be.
“Dismissed.”
“I agree. We want the charges dismissed with prejudice.”
“With prejudice?” I'd never heard that term before. It didn't sound good to my non-attorney ear, though.
“If the charges are dismissed with prejudice, you can never be charged for the same crime again. If charges are dismissed because of lack of evidence, the police can and probably will keep the case open. If they ever find anything, they can come after you again. There's no statute of limitations on murder.”
We spent another hour going over what to expect and made a list of the clothes Whip wanted me to bring. At least he wouldn't be led into the courtroom in chains and an orange jumpsuit. Much as I hated to have Emilie and Alex hear their father charged with killing their mother, I wanted him to see
the kids, talk to them, and hug and kiss them. I hoped he'd get the chance.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
I putzed around making dinner and trying to figure out what to do next. Alex was upstairs, and I hadn't seen Emilie since I got back from the jail. She might be taking a nap. God knows, she must be emotionally drained from going to her mother's apartment. I needed a nap, too, but early to bed would suffice.
Dinner wasn't quite ready when Emilie and Alex came downstairs together. Odd. Standard practice was to call them several times, particularly Alex. When he was online, the world could end and he'd only become aware of it when the power went off.
The kids were deep in conversation. Emilie put a pad of paper upside down beside her place at the table. Without being asked, they got out four settings.
“Four? We're having company?” I'd made enough pasta and sausage to feed a small army. Alex was going through another of his growth spurts and inhaled everything biodegradable.
The doorbell rang, and Emilie went to answer it. I was pleased when Johnny entered with a bottle of Tuscany Rustico cradled in one arm. He kissed me on the cheek, ruffled Alex's hair, and leaned against the counter.
“Rumor has it you're making spaghetti.” Johnny winked.
“I called Uncle Johnny, Mad Max,” Emilie said. “We need a family conference, and Dad's not here.”
Hmm, a conspiracy. One I hadn't concocted. I put salad on the table, filled bowls with pasta, meatballs, and sausage, and ladled my homemade sauce over it all.
We ate and chatted about junk and nonsense. Whenever I looked at Johnny, he just shrugged and glanced at Emilie and Alex. I knew who was in charge of this scenario.
Emilie and Alex cleared the table without prompting.
A first.
That left me alone with Johnny and half a bottle of wine. I refilled our glasses and smiled over the rim. Johnny's eyes twinkled. The dishwasher started. We waited for the kids to return.
“I called Uncle Johnny because we need his help.” Emilie plopped back into her chair. “He always helped Mom when Dad was out of town.”
I was glad Emilie found Johnny's presence as comforting as I did.
Mad Max: Unintended Consequences Page 16
