“Is this about that picture?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I don’t trust coincidences. Ever. The fact that you were bullied into selling a picture of Josiah Wentworth, then the buyer dies, and now the Senator dies, well…it’s hinky. That’s a cop term for ‘it doesn’t smell right.’”
I nodded. “Unfortunately, I’ve had experience with bad smells.”
67
~Lou~
7 p.m. on Saturday
Stuart Police Department
After driving back from the morgue in Fort Pierce, Lou sat down at his desk to write up his notes and promptly fell asleep. He woke up to find a sticky note stuck to his face. His pen had rolled off the desktop and onto his lap, staining his pants with a big black puddle. In the john, he noticed a weird crease across his face, probably where his skin had rested on his notebook. To top it all off he felt sluggish. His thinking was thick and muddled, as if he had a hangover.
Splashing water on his face didn't help much. He went back to his desk. The next shift had started. People were milling around. A few sent covert glances his way. After working up his notes on the interview with Cooper, he dropped them by Police Captain Davidson’s office, which was empty.
Lou ran down to the drycleaner, picked up clean clothes, and came back to the station to change. He also had a quick shave. But he couldn’t do anything about the weird imprint on his face. Everyone noticed and snickered.
“Why didn’t you run home to take a nap?” asked Davidson, with the report in his hands. “You’re no use to me if you’re too tired to think. The desk isn’t much of a mattress.”
“I’m okay,” Lou mumbled. Although he wasn’t. His head felt like it had been wrapped in twenty yards of flannel. His shoulders ached from the awkward position he’d assumed. And his mouth was dry as a piece of cotton wadding.
“We’re taking a trip to Jupiter Island,” said Davidson. “Meet at my car in five.”
On the drive to the barrier island, Davidson asked Lou how he felt about the interview with Cooper. “You think he’s holding back?”
“I do.”
“What do you want to do next?”
“That depends. Any luck with Kathy Simmons’ computer?” Lou asked.
“Not yet. Can't get past the password. Sid promised to think on it,” and then Davidson told Lou about the photo.
“You think there’s a link between Kathy Simmons’ murder and the Senator’s death?” Lou asked.
“I think it’s too timely to be random.”
“How do you figure it?”
“I’m not sure. I’m hoping that Mrs. Wentworth will give us information we can work with.”
“We can't trust her. She blamed Dick, Honora, and Cara for the Senator’s death. Said that one or all of them dosed his iced tea on the day of their visit. It couldn’t have happened that way. Faraday says the Senator was poisoned over a long period of time.”
Davidson nodded. “Be that as it may, Jenny Beth Wentworth wanted those three people blamed. Immediately. That leaves me wondering, why? Think of it as a clock face. We see the numbers, but behind the face is an intricate mechanism. Wheels turning. Cogs meshing with cogs. And a stem winding all this up. So, what’s behind all of this hoopla? All this finger-pointing. She told us right away her husband had been poisoned. How did she know?”
“Because she did it?” Lou ventured a guess.
“Or she was in it with someone.”
“Everything she tells us needs to be checked out. She even lied about the doctor up at Johns Hopkins. I tracked him down. He told Mrs. Wentworth that her husband had less than a year to live. That was six months ago. But she told us that he had the constitution of an ox! So what's the deal here? How does she benefit from his death?”
Davidson shook his head. “I don’t know. At least, I don't know yet. None of this makes sense. If Mrs. Wentworth is the one who killed her husband, why didn’t she keep her mouth shut and let us think he died of natural causes? The poison might have slipped past us.”
“Was she trying to get revenge by blaming the others?” wondered Lou. “Payback for Dick Potter embarrassing her and her husband at the VIP Open House?”
“Could be, except that ethylene gycol is an unpredictable toxin, right? In other words, this wasn’t a one and done sort of poison. The killer couldn’t have predicted when Josiah Wentworth was going to die. So how could Mrs. Wentworth have known that Cara, Honora, or Dick were going to visit on the same day her husband died? She couldn’t have.”
“Maybe Cara, Honora, and Dick were collateral damage,” said Lou. “They picked the wrong day to visit the Wentworths, and Mrs. Wentworth took advantage of their visit to blame them. But why involve them at all? Isn’t that risky for her?”
“To distract us from the real killer?” wondered Davidson. “Or to distract us from something else. You ever read up on magicians? How they do their tricks?”
“No.”
“They use distractions all the time. You’re watching one piece of rope, and they’re pulling a second rope out of their sleeves. I’m wondering if Mrs. Wentworth blamed three innocent people to steer us in the wrong direction.”
“Okay,” said Lou cautiously. “But that still doesn’t answer the question of why? Why bother to kill a man who’s not long for this earth?”
“Let’s go back to the coincidence. Why would a reporter turn up dead after buying an old photo of the Senator? I’m wondering if Jenny Beth Wentworth can tell us the names of the boys in that picture.”
“What about the antifreeze? We don't have a search warrant. How do you plan to get your hands on the empty container?"
"She’d be a fool to keep something like that around," said Davidson. "George Fernandez's people took a lot of photos when they did their search. The empty containers didn't show up in any of them. But I've got something up my sleeve. I'll tell you about it later."
“What about Dick, Cara, and Honora?”
“What about them? If we find evidence that links them to the crime, we’ll follow up. I can only operate within the rule of law.” Davidson adjusted his sunglasses as they drove through the tunnel of ficus trees leading to the island proper. “That said, Mrs. Wentworth knows she has me in a tough spot. On one hand, I have to seem sympathetic to the grieving wife of a prominent man. On the other, I have to investigate her husband’s murder. It’s a real catch twenty-two. If I take a wrong step, my career could go up in smoke.”
Lou thought his boss had finished talking. It surprised him when Davidson added, “But if she thinks she’s got me over a barrel, and I’m going to do nothing, she’s got another think coming.”
68
~Lou~
3:30 p.m. on Saturday
Senator and Mrs. Wentworth’s home on Jupiter Island, Florida
"Let me take the lead,” said Davidson, after pushing the doorbell.
"No problem. It’s all yours.” Lou was happy to step aside.
LaTisha Johnson answered the door. Although she hadn’t changed much since he’d last seen her, Lou noted she’d adopted a beaten-down posture. She wouldn’t even look him in the eyes. That made him sad. He’d thought of her as a survivor, a woman who would pick herself up and start over. Maybe he’d been wrong.
After a quick nod of greeting, LaTisha ushered them into the foyer. The house smelled overpoweringly of lilies. Every wall was lined with a piece of furniture, benches and what-not stands. All were crammed with knickknacks. The effect was claustrophobic. “Please wait here, " she said, before hurrying down the hall.
A door opened, closed, and opened at the far end of the house. A middle-aged woman tottered toward them in high heels. She wore a crisp gray skirt and white blouse. Her bifocals were perched on the tip of her nose, and a yellow pencil was tucked behind her ear. In short, she was a stereotype come to life.
"I am Melinda Brosnan," she introduced herself. "Mrs. Wentworth's personal assistant. She's very busy right now with finalizing arrangements for th
e Senator's funeral and memorial service. I suggest that you call for an appointment and—"
"Police Captain Nathan Davidson." He displayed his badge. "I’m here on official police business. I need to see Mrs. Wentworth."
"Sorry, but she can't—"
“I realize this is inconvenient, but Mrs. Wentworth herself asked that I get involved. Director Fernandez is on his way. Now would you like to take me to her, or should I go find her myself? It's your call, Miranda."
"Melinda,” she corrected him.
"Melinda."
"Wait here," she said. The clicking of her heels on the cold tile suggested that Melinda was not amused. A few minutes later, Fernandez joined them, along with Detective Joliffe from the Martin County Sheriff’s Department. “The walls have ears,” Fernandez said. Lou, Joliffe, and Davidson nodded, catching his drift.
Melinda returned, nodded to them with a brusque, "Follow me."
The policemen were ushered into a room, paneled heavily in a dark wood, totally at odds with its Florida setting. The place smelled musty.
Instead of suggesting that they take a seat, Melinda said, “Mrs. Wentworth will be with you shortly.” The sneer on her face indicated she was not happy about the intrusion.
Lou did a slow turn, trying to read the titles of the shelves of books. The collection was highly regimented with books arranged by color and size. This library was more of a statement than an invitation, and the message was clear: The person who owns this is a well-read man. Intrigued, Lou bent to observe one of the books closer. He tugged at the spine. It wouldn’t come lose. It had been glued in place.
Fernandez coughed to hide a laugh.
Joliffe turned away.
Davidson’s eyes twinkled.
"At least he was trying to look well-read,” said Showalter. “Got to give the Senator points for knowing he was supposed to be an educated man.”
“I guess the Senator’s decorator didn’t want anyone messing around with his reading material,” said Lou, admitting defeat.
"Did you notice the computer has been switched out recently?" Davidson asked. "See? There's a pullout tray for the keyboard of a desktop. A dent in the carpet where the hard drive would have been sitting. But instead of a desktop, there's only a laptop. Interesting, eh?"
The door opened to reveal Jenny Beth Wentworth wearing a black dress. Pinned to one shoulder was an enormous diamond and pearl brooch. Mrs. Wentworth kept her eyes on the floor, as she moved forward at a cadence as slow as it was theatrical. Behind her, at a respectful distance, came Melinda and a guy who looked like he used steroids.
Fernandez made the introductions. Mrs. Wentworth didn’t seem to care.
"So,” said the widow, “have you come to tell me that you’ve arrested my husband’s killer? Or killers? I certainly hope so. Mr. Fernandez, you got everything you need from me right? Then what brings you back? This is hardly the time for a social call."
"We need to speak with you, ma’am,” Fernandez said. "It's important."
"Phillip? Don't just stand there. Get me that chair I like."
Phillip walked over and reached for the chair with both hands. It should have been easy for a man so muscle-bound, but when he went to move it, he winced in pain. Stepping back, he gripped his forearm and rubbed it slowly. On his second approach, he leg-walked it over to where his employer stood. Mrs. Wentworth sank down slowly into its rich tapestry.
She peered up at him, as though the weight on her shoulders was too burdensome to bear. “The only news I want to hear is that those two murderers confessed and are being hauled off to jail. Have you come to tell me that? I’m a busy woman. The President of the United States called me only minutes ago. He wants to deliver the eulogy for Josiah. A delegation from the UN would like to come and say a few words. I have people flying in from all over the world. You see? I don’t have time for this!”
“Mrs. Wentworth, I realize your time is precious,” said Davidson. "We'll make this quick. The medical examiner has confirmed that you were right. Your husband was poisoned.”
“Of course he was! One minute he’s fine and the next he’s thrashing about on the tile. What else could it be? I told you he’d been poisoned. I even told you who did it! Then I allowed you to search my house, Mr. Fernandez, to prove that there was nothing here that could have been used to hurt my poor, dear husband. Why, I've done most of your job for you. And you still haven't arrested those people!”
“We’d like to make an arrest, but we need proof,” said Davidson.
“You don’t need any more proof. I gave him,” and she pointed at Fernandez “— the glass that my poor Josiah drank out of. You have witnesses. LaTisha and I were both here. What is that old saying? Means, motive, and opportunity? You have all three!”
“We have the means. Ethylene gycol, commonly known as antifreeze,” said Fernandez. "But we did not find a container like that on the premises."
"Of course it wouldn't be on the premises. What nonsense!" she said as she threw up her hands.
“And I’m unclear about the motive,” said Davidson.
“To get back at Josiah! Dick Potter blamed my husband for his wife’s poor judgment. Cara is the granddaughter. People heard Dick attack poor Josiah at that silly event. Anyone within hearing distance could tell that Dick was seriously deranged.”
"But why would Honora McAfee get involved?"
Mrs. Wentworth shook her head as though she was being bothered by a mosquito. "That business deal years ago. She blamed Josiah for her husband's stupidity."
Davidson and Fernandez exchanged looks.
“Since this is such a high-profile situation," said Fernandez, "we need to move carefully. We don't want to cause you any additional stress, like unwanted media attention."
"The media," she said, thoughtfully. "You're right. I'll have to deal with them. Melinda? Call my public relations agency and have them prepare a release right away. Explain to them that the Senator was murdered. I want the whole world to know that my husband was a martyr."
Lou glanced at Davidson, who gave a tiny shake of his head. A martyr? How did Mrs. Wentworth figure that?
"We're talking Looney Tunes," said Showalter.
"Then we'll leave that to you," said Fernandez. "But we need your help, Mrs. Wentworth. The world has changed. People get off too easily. Your husband was a big believer in mandatory sentencing, so I'm sure you're aware of this problem. To put the killers away and keep them shut up, we need an air-tight case. To move forward, we will need to clear other people who have had access to your husband. Do you have people who come to the house regularly? More than once a week?”
Lou pulled out his notebook and posed his pen over a clean page. It was an obvious ploy, but he’d found that it often encouraged people to talk. In fact, he’d read about a study where college professors tended to lecture differently when their students took notes.
“We all want to feel like we’re important,” said Showalter.
“Of course we have people who come to the house regularly,” said Mrs. Wentworth with a sniff. “This is an estate, not some dinky lot in a subdivision. We have grounds people who come weekly. LaTisha is here every day. There’s also Barton. He’s our personal trainer. He comes twice a week.”
“Could you read that back for me, Detective Murray?” asked Davidson.
Lou went over the list, waiting patiently for Mrs. Wentworth to supply surnames.
“What about Mr. Coslow?” asked Fernandez, nodding toward the thug.
“Phillip lives here on the grounds in a small apartment over the garage. He’s like a son to me.”
“But he would have access to your husband on a daily basis, right?"
"I repeat: He is part of our family. You don't need to worry about Phillip."
When they finished, Davidson asked, “Is that it? Everyone who visited more than once a week? This is important. It will help us when we bring the responsible people to trial. Are you sure you haven't left anyone off the list?"
69
~Lou~
"Mrs. Wentworth, we'll need to talk to Mrs. Johnson and to Mr. Coslow for a few minutes," said Davidson. "Perhaps you have a couple of rooms we could borrow?"
"If you must," she said.
“One last question,” said Davidson, reaching into his jacket pocket. “Do you recognize any of the people in this photo? Besides your husband?”
He passed the picture to Mrs. Wentworth.
For a tick, Lou could have sworn that he saw the mask drop. He couldn’t be certain, because it happened too quickly.
“My, my,” she said, softening her tone. “Get me my reading glasses, Melinda.”
The younger woman dutifully left the room. No one spoke until she returned with the spectacles.
“Yes, that is my darling Josiah. As for those two other hoodlums, I have no idea who they are.” She continued to stare down at the picture. Lou thought he saw tears pool in her eyes, and he liked her better for it, because he thought she might be human after all.
“Is it possible that they are the children of friends?”
“Hmmmm.”
“Or a neighbor’s children?”
“Does it matter?” she asked, as she removed her glasses. “Anyone can see they’re nothing but white trash. Look how dirty they are! Where did you get this photo?”
“Do you know where it was taken?” Davidson ignored her question and persisted with his own.
“I have no idea,” she sank back in her chair. “This has become tedious. Do you have the vaguest concept of how many people Josiah and I met over the course of his career? Do you realize how important my husband was? The places we visited? I couldn’t even begin to remember all of them. Why are you bothering me with this?”
Kiki Lowenstein Books 1-3 & Cara Mia Delgatto Books 1-3: The Perfect Series for Crafters, Pet Lovers, and Readers Who Like Upbeat Books! Page 114
