She Wore Mourning

by P. D. Workman

  She nodded her understanding. “You can understand where they’re coming from. It’s pretty tough to lose a kid like that. You want to blame someone. Whether it’s a stranger, or the police investigation, or the medical examiner. Someone to blame.”

  “Yeah. Maybe so. As long as they don’t blame me.”

  “As long as they pay you, who cares? Maybe you can offer it as a service. Scapegoat for hire.”

  Zachary chuckled. Kenzie had some twisted sense of humor.

  “Since we can’t read the report while we’re eating, why don’t you tell me about yourself? Have you been a private investigator for long? What made you go into it?”

  “My interest in photography, for one. And TV. I grew up on detective shows.”

  “And is it like you thought it would be?”

  Zachary snorted. “I don’t carry a gun. I don’t break into people’s houses. I don’t chase down murderers every week. A lot of it is tedious desk work, but yeah, I still enjoy it. I like teasing out all the evidence and solving the puzzle. Although most of what I do isn’t that puzzling… husbands and wives cheating on each other, routine background checks, that kind of thing. I don’t always get something that I can dig my teeth into.”

  “Do you come from a big family? Lots of brothers and sisters?”

  Zachary was taken aback and immediately on guard. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  Kenzie’s eyes flashed up from her steak to his face in surprise. “I’m wondering about your background. What makes you tick. It was just a question.”

  “I don’t…” He had been about to say that he didn’t want to talk about his past, but that would just send up flares that there was something to talk about. “I don’t have any siblings.”

  “Only child?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Were you spoiled?” Her eyes were dancing. “I’ll bet you were spoiled.”

  “No. My parents… I lost them when I was young.”

  “Oh.” She blinked and recomposed her face. “I’m so sorry. That was a tactless thing to say.”

  “You didn’t know.”

  She ate in silence, her cheeks noticeably pink even in the dimness of the room.

  “How about you?” Zachary asked. “You have to tell me about yourself. How did you get into the medical examiner’s office? I hear people are dying to get in there.”

  “Oh,” Kenzie groaned and kicked him under the table. “You did not just say that!”

  “What? It was an accident. I didn’t mean that…”

  She laughed and shook her head. “You are an enigma, Zachary Goldberg! I always loved science in school. I was fascinated when we did dissections. Couldn’t get enough of it. While the boys were horsing around, throwing frog intestines at each other, and the girls were pretending to throw up or faint, I was enthralled. I mean, there I was, for the first time, actually seeing an animal’s organs. I’d always understood they were there, and what they did, but I was actually seeing them and holding them in my hands. It wasn’t abstract anymore.”

  “And that’s when you decided you wanted to be a death doctor when you grew up”

  “It was either that or a serial killer. I thought I’d make more as a doctor.”

  Zachary laughed. As long as the spotlight wasn’t on him, he could have a lot of fun with Kenzie. She was fun and pleasant to be with. “So, are you on your way to becoming a full-fledged medical examiner? I mean… I’m not sure what your training is or what your duties are now.”

  “I’ve still got a little way to go yet. It’s like… an apprenticeship. I get to work with a brilliant doctor, get some practical experience while I’m doing my schooling. It works for me.”

  “And do you have family around here?” He was careful to phrase it as a casual question about her family and let her fill in the details, rather than putting her on the spot as she had done with him.

  “My parents are about a three-hour drive away. Close enough to get there if they need me, or I need something from them. Far enough away to be independent. So that they don’t call me about every little thing, and vice versa.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “I am an only child.” She offered it up, knowing that he wasn’t going to ask.

  “Spoiled?”

  “Not as much as you’d think.”

  Zachary’s steak was gone. He sat back, having a sip of beer and thinking about his case.

  “Parents don’t always spoil their children, even if they only have one child.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “I don’t think Declan was spoiled.”

  Kenzie nodded gravely. “Do you think they were strict with him?”

  “Not strict…” Zachary made a face, trying to think of how to phrase it. “Well, maybe strict, but not big disciplinarians. They both have OCD, so there were probably a lot of rules. Things that they wouldn’t let slide that a normal parent—”

  “Neurotypical,” Kenzie corrected.

  “I think they were probably different than neurotypical parents. And I don’t think they were that… close to him.”

  “Well…” She scraped at the gravy and mushrooms left on her plate. “Not all parents are as closely bonded to their children as you would expect. Though sometimes, it’s just that they don’t show it well. Not all parents are demonstrative.”

  “Maybe that’s it. They act like they cared for him, but it feels funny. More removed.”

  “That’s something you should probably consider.”

  He raised his eyes to hers. “You think…”

  “I don’t think anything, but if you’re getting a funny feeling about it, you should follow your instincts. See if it leads anywhere.”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  While Zachary was considering whether they should have coffee, or whether he should ask Kenzie if she wanted dessert—maybe they should share one—a group of men and women in fancy dress went to the front of the restaurant and gathered around a microphone. Zachary’s heart sank.

  “We should go,” he suggested. “We’re not going to be able to talk over that—”

  “No, no,” Kenzie protested as they started singing. “I love carolers! They always put me into such a Christmas spirit.”

  Zachary tried to signal to the waiter for the bill. He needed to get out of there. Kenzie watched the carolers, enthralled. She barely noticed Zachary getting the bill and paying it. Zachary tapped on her arm. “We can go now, Kenzie…”

  She looked at him, startled. She took in the fact that he had paid the bill and was rising to his feet, eager to get out of there.

  “What’s your hurry, Zach? Relax for a few minutes and listen to the Christmas songs.”

  “I really… I really need to go, Kenzie.”

  “What’s wrong? You didn’t seem like you were in any hurry before. Where do you need to go?”

  “Out of here.” He knew his voice was angry, the words bitten off, but he couldn’t explain it to her. He couldn’t put it into words.

  “The music isn’t that bad,” she laughed. Then she studied him more closely. “Is it the music? Is it some sensory thing?”

  He made a gesture toward the door. Kenzie got up, and without any further protest, led the way to the coat check where they retrieved their winter gear.

  Zachary breathed a sigh of relief. The door closed behind them, blocking out any residual sounds of the music. Kenzie took his hand, watching his face.

  “Better?”

  Zachary took a few more deep breaths and nodded.

  “What was that? Sensory overload? Flashback? Can you explain it to me?”

  “No… I just… don’t like Christmas.”

  “You don’t like Christmas.”

  “No.”

  “So, Christmas songs, decorations, movies, cookies, you avoid all of that?”

  “Pretty much, yeah,” Zachary gave a little grimace. “Sorry, I didn’t know they did that here, or we could have gone somewhere else.”


  “Somewhere else where you might not accidentally hear Christmas music.”

  “Uh-huh.” His face was hot, and he was sure it was bright red, but maybe she couldn’t tell in the darkness.

  “And where does this pathological fear of Christmas come from?”

  “I’m not afraid of it. I just…”

  “That was more than just not liking Christmas songs. I saw your face.”

  Zachary looked away from her, trying to put some distance between himself and the emotions. “Can I take you home? Or do you want to go somewhere for a coffee?”

  Kenzie was staring at him, not ready to let it go.

  “It’s just a bad time of year for me,” Zachary said. “I’m sorry. It doesn’t have to ruin our night, does it? Let me take you for ice cream.”

  “Ice cream?”

  He could see their breaths as they talked. The cold wind was cutting through his jacket and biting his cheeks.

  “Uh—hot chocolate?” he amended.

  Kenzie laughed, and after a moment of consideration took him by the arm.

  Chapter Six

  Dave Halloran was the producer of The Happy Artist. He was a large man, balding, with a florid complexion, who always seemed to be panting and trying to keep up with some unseen race. Zachary had talked to him on the phone, and while Halloran seemed reluctant to meet with him, he eventually agreed when Zachary repeated that he had been hired by The Happy Artist’s family, and she wanted him to interview everyone.

  In reality, he wasn’t sure how Isabella would feel about him interviewing her coworkers. Zachary’s employer was Isabella’s mother, not Isabella, and the scope of his job was to investigate all avenues to help put Isabella’s mind at ease and help her to avoid a breakdown.

  He could justify it to Isabella. If any of her coworkers were jealous of her, they might want to harm her through her son. Therefore, he had to talk to them. But he didn’t think that was really the case. She was their bread and butter, and if she had a breakdown, the show would be canceled. What he wanted was their take on Isabella herself. How she had behaved since her son’s disappearance and death compared with how she had behaved before.

  Zachary looked around the room as he sat down. A small office, considering that the producer was the top man on the network’s most popular show. It looked more like the size of an accounting student’s office than a big-shot TV producer’s. There was paper everywhere, reminding him vaguely of Isabella’s studio. Binders lined up on top of filing cabinets, stacks of paper and scripts in piles on his desk, a colorful wall calendar so filled with symbols, arrows, and squiggles that it might as well have been written in Greek. There were framed pictures, certificates, and awards plastering the walls.

  “We’re all very sorry for what happened to Isabella,” Halloran said tentatively.

  “It’s tragic,” Zachary agreed. “And from what I understand from Isabella’s mother, she has changed since her son’s death.”

  Halloran’s eyes were hooded. “I suppose.”

  “Is that not accurate?”

  “I really don’t feel comfortable talking about Isabella behind her back.”

  “This investigation is for her benefit.”

  “Still…”

  “Isabella’s mother is very concerned for her welfare. If something was to happen to her…”

  Something changed in Halloran’s face. “You don’t think she would do anything… to harm herself… do you?”

  “I’ve met Isabella once. You’re the one who has known her for several years, who sees her almost on a daily basis. You tell me. What would happen to your viewership if you lost The Happy Artist?”

  Halloran’s ruddy complexion drained of color. When he spoke, his tone was flat, but that didn’t fool Zachary, who was more interested in the nonverbal indicators. “Of course, that would be bad for the network, but we do have insurance in such cases, which would give us some protection while we changed our line-up…”

  Zachary stared at the pictures and awards on Halloran’s wall, considering his approach.

  “Well then, I suppose there’s no point in staying around here arguing. I’ll let Molly and Isabella know that you were not comfortable in helping us. They’ll have to look elsewhere for assistance.” He printed in his notebook slowly and deliberately: Halloran did it.

  Zachary was sure that Halloran was in no position to see what it was that Zachary was writing. It was the implication that Zachary had gained insight from the fact that Halloran wouldn’t help him that was important. It was the pantomime that was meant to have an effect. He might just as well have written The Cat in the Hat, but there was a one in a million chance that Halloran’s subconscious could tell what Zachary was writing from the movements of his pen or the sound of the scratches on the paper. Or there might be a reflection or surveillance camera of which Zachary was unaware. If there was any chance that Halloran could guess at what he had written, consciously or unconsciously, Zachary didn’t want it to be nonsense. He wanted it to be an accusation.

  “No, no, I didn’t say I wouldn’t help,” Halloran protested quickly, taking the bait. “I’m just… having difficulty reconciling how any of this is going to help our Isabella.”

  “You leave that part to me. I’ve done my best to explain it to you, but I can’t tell you everything I know.”

  Halloran vigorously scratched the top of his bald head, scowling.

  “Isabella has always been a little… flighty. She has an artist’s disposition. They’re not always the easiest of people to work with. She takes offense or gets put off. Or something is wrong, and she gets preoccupied with it. Not because she’s a prima donna, she just… gets stuck when things aren’t right. The wrong kind of water. Someone gets the wrong shade of paint or the wrong shape of brush. She gets all bent out of shape over it. That’s just the way it is when you’re dealing with artistic temperaments. Actors are just as bad, or worse.”

  “Sure,” Zachary nodded. “Just because she’s brilliant and comes off as happy and friendly on the screen, that doesn’t mean that’s how she is in private.”

  “That damn title,” Halloran snapped. “Why did we have to call it The Happy Artist? Practically doomed it to failure.”

  “Because you can’t exactly have your happy artist in mourning on screen.”

  He nodded. “And let me tell you, happy she is not.”

  “She just lost her only child. Who could expect her to be?”

  “She didn’t just lose him. It was months ago.”

  “And you expected her to be over it by now?”

  “Not exactly… but she wasn’t the motherly type. She didn’t talk about him all the time and post his crayon drawings in her dressing room. She barely mentioned her family.” At Zachary’s look, he shook his head. “Maybe she was just the private type. Maybe she was all kisses and cuddles at home. I have no way of knowing, but we do have a contract. She’s required to be here and to fulfill the terms of her contract. Even before this happened, I wouldn’t say she was happy. Off screen. There was always some problem.”

  “Did she rub anyone the wrong way? Was there anyone in particular who was bothered by her moodiness?”

  “Was there?” Halloran repeated. “You mean before her son died? You’re asking if anyone had a motive to kill her child because they didn’t like the way she behaved on set?”

  “I’m just exploring the possibilities.”

  “You can put that one right out of your mind. She was annoying, but no one wanted to destroy her. No one would kill her child just to stop her from showing up for work.”

  Zachary nodded. He hadn’t expected the line of questioning to lead anywhere. “Still, was there anyone who was particularly irritated by her? Or jealous of her success? What would you have done if she had been unable to continue her show?”

  “We would have had to change the lineup. I can’t be sure who we would have put in her place. We would have needed something new; we didn’t have anything that would have the sa
me success in that time slot as The Happy Artist.”

  “Is there anyone who might have thought that they would get it?”

  “I’m sure that all the other shows thought they were as good as she was or had the same draw, but one over another… no. Sorry.”

  “Do you have a list of the other shows…?”

  “You can pull that online. There’s nothing confidential about the line-up.”

  But that didn’t stop him from being obstructive. Zachary leaned back in his chair, trying to give Halloran the impression that he was calm and relaxed, finished with the serious questioning.

  “How has she been since her son’s death? Any… unusual or concerning behavior?”

  “She was always eccentric, but since then, things have gotten a little out of hand. That tattoo, all her memorial jewelry… I had a hell of a time talking her into taking off the jewelry when she is on screen. She can wear the ring and one of the necklaces. Not the one with the teeth!”

  Zachary suppressed a snort of laughter. He could just see Isabella wearing that one during the show.

  “She does not appreciate being told that she has to cover up her tattoo during the show. Can you imagine how distracting that would be? We have to show close-ups of her hands to show technique. Lots of zooming in, and that great big tattoo on her arm! The viewers wouldn’t see anything else. Why couldn’t she just do something small and tasteful in a part of her body that wouldn’t be on the screen? Her ankle. We never show her ankles.”

  “Was there anything in her contract that said she couldn’t get a tattoo?”

  “No, but we have the right to make wardrobe and makeup choices, and covering up the tattoo falls into wardrobe, so she has to suck it up.”

  “And has she?”

  “There was trouble over it the first few days, but she’s gotten used to it now.”

  “I gather she can be pretty stubborn.”

  “Stubborn doesn’t even begin to describe it. We’ve had to have her therapist on site a few times to figure out how to get past her emotional issues.”

  Zachary raised an eyebrow. “Before or after the accident?”

  “Both. More often when we first started the show. Then things settled into a routine, and she does well if everything is routine. It’s when something has to change that there’s a problem.”