by Elaine Viets
‘Are you sure?’ I said.
‘Well, maybe just a little. My stitches had healed so well, he thought we should celebrate with champagne. It was good, too. Cristal. I got the implants because Joey – he’s my husband – wanted me to get them. I’d wanted a D-cup, but Dr Bob told me that a C-cup would look more natural. And he was right.’ She lifted her generous chest for me to admire.
‘And your husband? Which did he like: C or D?’ OK, I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t resist.
‘Joey wanted a D-cup, too, but Dr Bob talked to him. He explained that a C-cup would look classier and more ladylike. Joey wants me to be a society lady. That’s why I’m co-chairing the ball this year. It helps to get on the important charity committees.’
‘So Dr Bob had champagne for lunch, and then he was driving you home.’
‘Well, not home, exactly,’ she said. ‘He was taking me back to Solange, where I’d left my car. We’d had a drink there before our meeting in St. Louis.’ At first, Melissa had said they were driving back from a business lunch at Solange. Now she said they were driving back to Solange.
‘So how many drinks did Dr Bob have at Solange?’ I asked. ‘One – what? Scotch, bourbon?’
‘Martini,’ she said. ‘Solange makes the best martinis. I like to suck his olives.’
I prayed for the strength not to turn this interview into a dirty joke. I reminded myself that I was a professional and the decedent was a man – a flawed one, maybe, but who wasn’t?
‘So Dr Bob had one martini at Solange?’
‘Two,’ she said. ‘He drank most of mine, too. Then we went to the Parkside for the examination.’
‘What happened to your car?’
‘I left it at Solange. We were driving back to get it. At the Parkside, we also had some champagne.’
‘How much?’ I knew a magnum held about fifty ounces of champagne, or ten five-ounce glasses.
‘I just had a glass,’ she said. ‘Dr Bob drank most of the bottle.’
She saw me typing that on my iPad and said, ‘But he wasn’t drunk. Not really. Dr Bob could hold his liquor. When we left the hotel, he walked just fine. He didn’t slur his words or anything. And he didn’t drive too fast on the highway, either.’
I suspected the doctor had driven at a drunk’s pace, just below the speed limit.
‘We had a nice talk on the way home, and then he looked at his watch and said, “Jesus, I’m late!” He turned off the highway and BAM! – he hit the tree and was dead. It was terrible.’
‘How fast was he going?’
‘The speed limit,’ she said. ‘Forty-five.’
‘Really?’
‘Maybe a little faster. I wasn’t paying attention.’ She burst into torrents of tears. I doubted I would get more information out of her.
Now came the difficult part of my job – informing the decedent’s wife. It would be doubly difficult because Dr Bob had died under embarrassing circumstances. Usually the detective who caught the case went with me, but Greiman refused. ‘I have to take Melissa back to her car at Solange,’ he said. ‘She’s too shaky to drive after the accident.’
Pretty little Melissa was clinging to him like kudzu. He helped her into the front seat of his patrol car.
‘You can go with that new guy you’re banging – Chris Ferretti. I gave him a call. He’ll be here shortly,’ Greiman said.
I started to tell him that Chris and I had just had one dinner date, but I bit back my words. There was no point trying to change his mind. He hopped into his unmarked car and drove off with Melissa.
By the time the morgue van had arrived for Dr Bob and I’d signed the conveyance paperwork, Chris was there, looking fresh and handsome in his uniform.
‘Detective Greiman radioed me and said you needed an escort to inform the next of kin,’ he said. I could smell his spicy aftershave.
‘Thanks. Greiman took the accident survivor back to her car.’
‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘She’s young and pretty.’
‘You’re catching on,’ I said. ‘I’m glad for the company. This is one of the downsides of the job.’
‘You never know how the next of kin are going to react,’ he said. ‘In Chicago, a grieving father whipped out his gun and tried to shoot the minister who told him his only son had died in a drive-by.’
‘Wow. I’ve never had anyone react like that. Mostly, they try to hit me. I’m not expecting Samantha Scott, the late doctor’s wife, to attack me, but you never know.’
I gave Chris the address – number two Laurent Lane – and he followed me. Dr Bob had lived in a massive white stone Romanesque revival mansion bristling with arches and pillars and stained glass. We climbed the white stone steps and I rang the doorbell.
A thin blonde woman in her early forties answered the door. She saw the two of us – me in my DI black suit and Chris in the CHPD uniform, and rage transformed her delicately boned face into an angry mask.
‘He’s dead, isn’t he? Let me guess – he was drinking and driving and he had some slut with him. Did he kill her? Tell me he did. Please tell me he did!’
Chris was too stunned to answer. I gently took the new widow’s hand and led her inside to her living room. The main foyer was an impressive display of nineteenth-century oak woodwork, which glowed in the slanting afternoon sun. We crossed an Oriental rug the size of a pocket park, and I sat her down on an antique velvet sofa.
‘Mrs Scott, I’m sorry to inform you that your husband did die in a car accident, and it appears that he had been drinking. The medical examiner will be able to confirm that.’
‘Who was the slut he had with him?’ she asked, her voice hard. ‘Is she dead, too?’ Her blue eyes were narrowed, and framed by deep crow’s feet, and her chest was flat as a tabletop. She definitely didn’t use her husband’s services.
‘Uh, he was accompanied by Mrs Melissa DeMille. She was unharmed.’
‘He did her tits! Let me guess – he’d been examining them at some hotel.’
I didn’t reply.
‘Hah! She wants to break into society. I’ll make sure this is the last major event she co-chairs. And I don’t care how many tables her husband buys – she’ll never be allowed in society! She’ll be shunned by everyone!’
While Samantha Scott was pronouncing the fate of her husband’s paramour, I pulled my iPad out of my purse.
Chris said, ‘Mrs Scott, may I make you some coffee or tea?’
‘Tea, please. It’s in the kitchen. First cabinet.’
‘Mrs Scott, I’m the death investigator on your husband’s accident,’ I said. ‘I have a few questions for my files.’
Samantha Scott was nibbling the polish on her French manicure. She had the hands of a chronic nail biter – her nails were gnawed well below the rounded tops of her fingers, and her cuticles were ragged. The manicurist did their best to make her nails look almost normal, but it was a hopeless task.
‘Go ahead,’ she said. ‘I’ll answer them.’
Samantha Scott said the doctor’s health was nearly perfect. ‘He got a clean bill of health this December and he takes no medications. He’s not allergic to anything, either. He started drinking heavily about a year ago. Bob’s staff enabled him: they scheduled his most difficult operations first thing in the morning, and none after lunch, when he usually had too much to drink. I prayed that he wouldn’t botch those procedures and we’d lose everything in a malpractice suit. In fact, I even made an anonymous complaint to the hospital’s Impaired Physicians Committee. They did nothing. My husband was a big moneymaker for SOS.’
I continued with my list. ‘Did he have any hospitalizations?’ I asked.
‘None,’ she said.
‘Any mental illnesses?’
‘None, unless you count humping everything in a skirt.’ With that, her anger dissolved into tears, and she pounded on a velvet couch pillow.
‘I still love the two-timing bastard,’ she said. ‘And I hate myself for being so weak.’
When Samantha was calmer, I said, ‘Mrs Scott, is there someone you’d like to stay with you?’
‘My sister, Vanessa. I’ll call her now.’
She went into another room to make the call, then came back and said, ‘She’ll be here in ten minutes.’
She sat in silence, sipping her tea, until we heard a car in the gravel drive. Samantha looked out the window and said, ‘That’s her. You can leave. I’ll be OK.’
She paused, then said, ‘I hated myself for loving that tomcat, but I did. Now the spell is broken. I’m free.’
TWELVE
As soon as her sister arrived, Samantha couldn’t wait to get rid of us. Vanessa jumped out of her white Mercedes coupe, and ran up the stone steps. She was a younger, leaner version of Samantha, with long dark hair.
‘Sam, darling!’ she cried, and folded the new widow into her arms. Samantha cried on her sister’s shoulder. Vanessa hugged her tightly, then guided her to the sofa and turned to Chris and me.
‘You can go now,’ she said and showed us the door, in case we didn’t get the point.
We did. I stashed my iPad back in my purse, and nodded at Chris. He was ready to go. After we walked out the door, Vanessa slammed the door behind us – and locked it.
We’d been given the bum’s rush. Chris and I found ourselves standing in Samantha’s driveway.
‘Do you feel as dazed as I do?’ Chris said.
‘Yes, that was unreal.’
‘I’m off work now. Would you like to grab a coffee at the new shop, Supreme Bean?’
‘I’d be delighted,’ I said, and this time I didn’t hesitate. I wanted to be with Chris. No reservations.
I was angry at our high-handed treatment by the two sisters, and needed to shake off my anger. I knew people did strange things when shocked by grief. Talking it out over coffee with Chris would help me relax after a trying emotional scene.
We climbed into our cars and met again at the coffee shop, about a mile away. The lot was crowded and we were lucky to snag two parking spaces. Supreme Bean was a small white Victorian cottage trimmed with gingerbread. Inside, the walls were lined with bookshelves. The shop was crowded with twenty-something customers. Some lounged on the Oriental rugs or stretched out on the comfortable sofas. Others sat at tables and chairs. All were chatting, drinking coffee and studying their smart phones. A few even read magazines and fat school textbooks.
A blackboard announced the specials: oatmeal raisin cookies and avocado toast on seven-grain bread. Homemade desserts and snacks were displayed behind the counter. We were greeted by the smiling owner, Trey, a thirty-something guy in jeans with his dark hair done up in a man bun.
Chris and I both settled for dark, rich Colombian coffee in thick brown mugs and a couple of oatmeal raisin cookies. We spotted an empty table by the window. Chris chose the seat where he faced the door. I smiled when he did that: cops were only comfortable when they could watch the entrance.
Once we settled in, Chris said, ‘That woman had the strangest reaction. Talk about a love-hate relationship with her husband.’ He was careful not to mention Samantha’s name or her dead husband’s. I did the same. This was a smart move in a public space, where eavesdropping was a popular sport.
‘Poor woman,’ I said. ‘He must have humiliated her daily. At least she gets his money. Even though that’s cold comfort.’ I crunched my cookie and wrapped my hands around my coffee cup for its warmth. I still felt cold after my encounter with Samantha and Vanessa.
‘She’s an attractive woman,’ Chris said. ‘I hope she finds the right man.’
‘If that’s what she wants,’ I said. ‘After that marriage, she may prefer to live without one. At least she has her sister to take care of her.’
Chris asked how the investigation into the ‘young women’ was going, and in the sketchiest terms, I told him we were waiting for the results of the items we’d gotten from the search.
From there, Chris talked about the searches and crime scenes he’d known in his job. ‘Nobody in my family was ever a cop,’ he said. ‘My mom thinks the murders I encounter are like the ones on TV. You know, where the dead victim is artistically arranged in a perfectly clean home.’
‘The decedent is blonde, of course,’ I said.
‘And beautiful,’ he said.
‘Her living room has expensive Italian furniture,’ I said, ‘and an all-white carpet. A few decorative drops of blood are splashed about to add pops of color to the scene.’
He laughed, and said, ‘I don’t tell Mom anything that would change her image. She worries enough.’
I was happy for this chance to get to know Chris. When we went to dinner at Solange, I’d still been keeping him at arm’s length. Our conversation had been more impersonal. Not today.
‘Is your father still alive?’ I sipped my coffee. The temperature was just right.
‘No, he died two years ago and Mom died a year later. I understand you’re a widow.’
‘Yes,’ I said. I let it go at that. I didn’t want to bring Donegan into this.
‘And a couple of years ago you had your own brush with death – six strokes and brain surgery?’
Another subject I liked to avoid. ‘Yes, but I’m fine now. Healthy as a horse. So tell me about some of the crime scenes you don’t want your mom to know about.’ I bit into my cookie. It was fresh and tasted of cinnamon, nutmeg and honey.
‘The worst ones were when I was a new uniform,’ he said. ‘When I first started, I got all the bad jobs. I’d show up in my new pressed uniform with my shiny shoes, and the old cops loved to send me Dumpster diving. Those were the worst. The owner of a pizza joint had been shot to death in a hold-up and I had to search the rat-infested Dumpster behind the place for the murder weapon.’
‘What did you do?’ I asked. ‘You couldn’t shoot the rats.’
‘No, but I got lucky. A tough old alley cat showed up at the scene, just like he’d been sent as back-up. In fact, that’s what I named him – Back-Up. He was a real battle-scarred veteran with one ear. He heard rustling and leaped over the yellow tape. The crime scene people tried to stop him, but I said to leave him alone. Back-Up cleaned that Dumpster out faster than you could blink. Rats were flying everywhere – and some were almost as big as the cat. When it was over, I rewarded him with a can of Fancy Feast. From the way he acted, you would have thought he was dining on caviar.’
‘Not bad,’ I said. ‘Eco-friendly rat removal.’
‘For less than a buck,’ he said. ‘The murder weapon had been dropped down a sewer two blocks away. I had to climb down and search that, too. We caught the killer, a stupid kid who threw his life away – and the store owner’s – for sixty-eight dollars. Old Back-Up patrolled the neighborhood alleys for years and every week I left a can of Fancy Feast for him.’
He laughed, then drank his coffee. I smiled at him, and drank mine. I liked a man who was kind to animals. I also liked the way his hair curled around his ears. His Old Spice was a manly smell.
‘Did I ever tell you about the time I had a death investigation in a hoarder’s house?’ I said, and we were off, swapping stories.
Periodically, we would get up to order more coffee. Then a couple of plates of avocado toast and another round of cookies. In between, I admired the way Chris smiled, and the crinkles around his eyes. I’m a sucker for eye crinkles.
Chris was telling me about investigating a ‘shots fired’ in a bad neighborhood. ‘It was a horrible place,’ he said. ‘My partner and I were down in the basement. I thought it had brown walls. Then my partner put his hand on the wall and it moved – the wall was covered with roaches!’
I shivered and eyed the raisin in my last bit of cookie suspiciously, then said, ‘I once had an investigation—’
‘Excuse me,’ said Trey, the owner. He was using an old-fashioned floor sweeper to get the crumbs by our table. That’s when I noticed it was
dark outside, and the other customers had left.
‘Good heavens, Trey, how late is it?’ I asked.
‘Five to seven,’ he said. ‘We’re closing soon.’
‘We’ve talked the afternoon away,’ Chris said, standing up. He left a ten spot on the table, but Trey handed it back. ‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘I appreciate it, but you don’t have to tip me. I’m the owner. Just come back soon.’
I grabbed my purse. I was so full of coffee, I sloshed. But I felt good. For a couple of hours I’d forgotten that I was a widow and lost the endless burden of my grief. It was fun to talk to another professional who understood my job.
Chris and I walked slowly to the now empty parking lot. When we reached my car, he asked, ‘Would you like to go to dinner?’
‘Now?’ Suddenly, I panicked. Our cup of coffee was turning into an all-day date. I wasn’t ready for that. It was too soon. Where would it lead?
‘Yes, dinner,’ he said. ‘Do you like Mexican? We can go to Gringo Daze.’
My panic increased. If I went to a local hangout like Gringo, I might as well take out a billboard that said, ‘Angela Richman is dating Chris Ferretti.’
‘Uh, I have plans,’ I said.
‘Tonight?’ He didn’t believe me.
‘Yes.’
With that, he kissed my lying lips. It was a good kiss, sweet and firm, slightly coffee-scented. I kissed him back, hard. My fingers ran through his hair. Then I pulled myself away, breathing a little too hard. It was the first time I’d kissed a man – really kissed him – since Donegan had died. I didn’t know what to think, but I knew I wanted to run.
‘I have to go,’ I said, slipping out of his arms and into the safety of my car.
‘Angela, you will see me again?’ He looked forlorn now.
‘Yes,’ I said.
I put the car in gear and drove to my dark, empty house. All the way home, I cursed my cowardice.
THIRTEEN
After a restless, sleepless night – and don’t ask me what was running through my head, I just want to forget it – I finally gave up the fight for sleep at about seven a.m.
