“I have an appointment.”
“This won’t take long. Can I come in?”
“I don’t suppose it’d do any good to say no,” she said and stepped away from the door. “You know where the living room is. I’m going to get me a cup of coffee.”
Rachel detected a faint odor of alcohol on Monica’s breath as she walked past her. Nana may have been right about Monica having a drinking problem. Rachel chose to sit on the red sofa again. With the curtains drawn and the blinds shut, the room had a dungeon effect. She took out a pencil and pad and then flicked on a lamp.
A low rumble from the kitchen startled her, and she touched the pistol on her belt. The noise turned to gurgling, and heat crawled up her face. A pod coffeemaker. She heard the same sound every morning in her own kitchen. She would have been mortified if Boone had been there to read her body language.
Coffee sounded pretty good right now. Probably too much to hope that Monica would offer her a cup. She hadn’t guessed wrong when Monica returned with a single cup and sat on the piano bench like before.
“I don’t know what you expect me to tell you that I haven’t told you already.” She picked up the almost empty pack of cigarettes, but she didn’t take one out.
“I’d like you to take a look at photos taken the night Harrison won the Elvis contest at the Cook Convention Center,” Rachel said, taking the package from her bag. “You are in quite a few of them.”
“I never said I wasn’t there.” She drank from the mug and then pulled a cigarette from the pack. “Look, I didn’t kill Harrison.”
“Did you love him?”
The question rocked Monica back. She set the cup down hard and fumbled for a lighter. Without looking up, she raised the cigarette to her lips and flicked the wheel of the lighter. Flicked it again when it failed to ignite.
“Did he return your love?” Rachel pressed.
“I didn’t say—”
“You didn’t have to.” She waited.
Monica stared at the end of the cigarette as though it would magically light up. Finally she returned it to the package. “Yes, he did. Unfortunately, there weren’t many women he didn’t love.”
“Did that make you angry?”
“I was thirty-five and had spent the last five years waiting on Harrison to propose. Time was running out if I wanted children. And then I realized he was in love with someone else. Wouldn’t that make you angry?”
She did not want to think about just how angry it would make her. Angry enough to stay home when her husband wanted her to go fishing with him. Angry enough to feel nothing when she learned he’d drowned on the trip. She attributed her lack of emotion to shock, and later she did feel something. But instead of grief, what she felt was guilt.
“You’re thinking about someone who hurt you right now, so you know how I felt.”
“We aren’t talking about me.” She focused on the pencil in her hand. “How did it make you feel?”
Monica snorted, drawing Rachel’s gaze. She wished she’d kept looking at her pencil. The oversized glasses magnified the glint in the older woman’s eye. Rachel hadn’t fooled her.
“Whatever.” She pushed the glasses up on her nose. “Made me angrier than a wet cat, but I didn’t kill him. You know why? He swore it was just business. And like a fool I forgave him.” Her eyes turned misty. After a few seconds, she shook her head, as if to clear it. “And then someone killed him.”
“Did you catch him with someone?”
“More or less.”
“What do you mean?”
“I heard him talking to someone on the phone. Pledging his undying love. I confronted him. That’s when he said it was only business on his part.” Her lip curled like she’d tasted something rotten. “I demanded the five thousand dollars he owed me. ‘Aw, baby, don’t be like that,’ he said. ‘There’s a lot more than five grand involved. This pigeon is loaded.’”
“Are you saying you have no idea who the woman was?” She would not let herself even think Monica was talking about her mother.
“It could’ve been an older woman. I hate to say it, but Harrison was bad to play up to those old biddies.” She played with the pack of cigarettes in her hands, turning it from top to bottom. “He was a sorry piece of trash . . . but there was just something about him that I couldn’t get out from under my skin.”
It hadn’t been that way with Corey. As soon as he left on his fishing trip, Rachel had contacted a divorce attorney she knew. “Randy Culver said Vic Vegas was in a deep discussion with someone Friday night. Was it you?”
“We talked, but I wouldn’t call it anything deep.”
“Did you see him talking to anyone else?”
“I was too busy to follow him around.”
“Randy also commented that a jealous husband could have killed Vic. Was he like Harrison? With the women, I mean. Could he have been killed over a woman?”
An amused smile quirked Monica’s lips. “No, he was nothing like Harrison. Yeah, he flirted with the women—it was part of who he was—but Vic Vegas was a straight arrow. Always kind of surprised me that he was so intent on finding Harrison’s murderer with all the lousy things Harrison was involved in.”
It made Rachel feel better to know that about Vic. That had been the sense she’d gotten about him until Culver made that remark. She put her pencil and paper away and stood. “Thanks for talking to me. I have a better picture of Harrison than I did.”
The event planner nodded. “Look, I didn’t mean anything yesterday about your mother loaning Harrison money. To be truthful, I was always kind of jealous of her and Harrison, even though he always said they were just friends.”
“They’d known each other a long time.”
Monica dropped her gaze. Indecision played out on her face. Rachel waited, letting the silence grow. Most people couldn’t stand dead air and usually rushed to fill it. Especially if they had something they wanted to get off their chest.
“You seem like a nice person. Like your mom . . .” She hugged her arms to her waist.
“Thank you.”
Again Rachel let the silence lengthen.
Monica lifted her chin and removed the glasses. “I’ve never told anyone this, and it’s always bothered me that I didn’t. But something else happened you should know about.”
She stood and walked to the window, where she moved the curtain and opened the blinds to look out. It took every ounce of Rachel’s self-control to not push her. Monica’s shoulder straightened and she turned around.
“Like I said, I liked your mom, went to her funeral. After the service, I went back to get a rose from one of the arrangements.” Monica ducked her head. “It sounds silly now, but I wanted a memento of Gabby because she was so kind to me when others weren’t. Anyway, Harrison was at the graveside, arguing with someone, accusing them of killing Gabby . . . threatening to go to the police with what he knew unless this person made it worth his while to keep quiet. The other person told Harrison he should have gotten rid of him years ago. That night Harrison was killed.”
The hair on the back of her neck raised. “Who was the person he argued with?”
Monica licked her lips and swallowed. “Your father.”
Cold seeped into Rachel’s face as the room tilted. “Th-that’s impossible.” Her voice sounded hollow to her own ears. “I don’t believe it.”
“That’s one reason I’ve never told anyone. Who would believe me over Lucien Winslow? I’d had a couple of drinks, and there was no proof, other than what I’d heard. The police probably would have laughed at me. And if he did kill Harrison, I didn’t want to end up dead too.”
Rachel couldn’t imagine the Judge that angry. He just didn’t lose control like that. She shook her head to clear it. “Getting rid of someone doesn’t necessarily mean killing them.”
“I just know what I heard and who I saw saying it. You’d believe your father could have done it if you’d seen the look on his face—he could’ve killed Harris
on right then.”
The dark room closed in on her. She had to get out of here. Rachel stood. “If I have more questions, I’ll call.”
“Sure.” Monica slid a cigarette from the pack and lit it. After a long drag, she blew smoke out the side of her mouth. “You don’t believe me, but I’m telling you the truth.”
Rachel planted her feet, as if that would ground her in the spinning room. Monica Carpenter actually believed her father had killed Harrison. “He may have threatened Foxx, but he would never act on it. He’s spent his life upholding the law.”
“Given the right circumstances, we’re all capable of committing murder. Even Judge Lucien Winslow.”
“No. You’re wrong about my father.” What if Monica spilled this to reporters? “I wouldn’t repeat this crazy story to anyone else. They might think you made it up to divert suspicion away from yourself.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Of course not. But if you think about it, you had motive to kill Harrison—he threw you over for someone else. Maybe Vic figured it out.”
“You’re crazy. I thought you wanted to know the truth, but you don’t. You’re not even going to investigate this. You only care about what happened to Harrison as long as it doesn’t inconvenience your father.”
“That’s not—”
“Don’t lie. Besides, I’m not going to tell anyone, at least not right now, but not for the reason you think. I don’t have time to deal with the publicity if this hit the news. Now if you don’t mind, I have an appointment.”
The weight of the accusation about her father followed Rachel to her car. She should report what Monica said to Boone. But if she did . . . No. She had to keep this to herself until she knew more. The Judge could not be a murder suspect. The senate would soon vote on his nomination to the Sixth District Court of Appeals.
Rachel rubbed the back of her neck. Her father would never forgive her if she derailed his nomination.
35
“JASON LANCASTER?” BOONE ASKED. Unlike a lot of the guards around the hospital, Lancaster had kept himself in shape since his retirement.
“That’d be me.”
The two men shook hands, and Lancaster said, “You want to go inside or stay out here?”
“Inside.” The way sweat was running down Boone’s back, he was pretty sure the temperature was already in the midnineties. In the lobby they found a spot away from the main foot traffic.
“Been thinking about the case since you called. I don’t like leaving things undone, and that case is one of the reasons I hated to retire. So, I’m hoping you can finish what I couldn’t.”
“The report indicates that Mrs. Winslow surprised a burglar.”
“Yeah. The thing is, at first I thought the break-in looked staged . . .” He scratched his chin. “Not exactly staged, more like an afterthought. But then I couldn’t find a motive for anyone killing her. There was no huge insurance policy on her or anything that pointed to something other than a break-in.
“I did think I had something when I learned the Winslows were separated, but that turned out to be a dead end. Judge Winslow had an ironclad alibi, and from what everyone said, they were working on getting back together. He freely admitted the separation was his fault for working all the time. I couldn’t find any signs of someone else being in the picture, even though she had a few male friends. But everywhere I asked, turned out that’s all they were—friends. Winslow volunteered to take a lie detector test and passed it with flying colors, and I marked him off my list. The woman apparently didn’t have an enemy in the world.”
“None of the neighbors saw anything?”
Lancaster shook his head. “Their house is on a wooded lot, back off the road. They hadn’t lived in the neighborhood that long, and they entertained quite a bit so there were a lot of cars coming and going.”
He’d described the Winslow property to a T. It’d be easy enough for someone to pull in unnoticed. “I noticed prior to her death there’d been a burglary ring operating in the area. I understand those cases were solved, that it was a cleaning service.”
“Yeah.” The security guard frowned. “Never did like it that the person who supposedly broke into the Winslow house died of an overdose before I could question him. You might pick up a little more information about the ring if you talk to the guys in Burglary—could be someone is still around from seventeen years ago.”
He made a note to check. “So it is possible she encountered a burglar.”
“It’s possible. There were several expensive items in a pillowcase at the back door, like maybe the thief got scared and ran off and left it,” he said. “But you know how sometimes you have these hunches?”
Boone knew exactly what he was talking about.
“I don’t have a clue of who or why, but my hunch says it wasn’t a break-in and my first instinct was correct—the mess in the house was created as a diversion. I believe someone went there with the intention of killing Mrs. Winslow.” Lancaster tilted his head. “And I’m not the only one who thinks that way. Have you talked with her daughter? Rachel Sloan? We’ve discussed the case numerous times. She’s determined to get to the bottom of it.”
It didn’t surprise him that Rachel and Lancaster had discussed her mother’s case, but why hadn’t she mentioned talking to him? Was she withholding any other information? That was the problem with a detective working on a personal case—too much secrecy.
Boone thanked him for his time. He turned the case over in his mind as he took the stairs down to Culver’s room in ICU. The nurse he’d talked to yesterday was working at her computer, and he stopped before going into the room. “How is he today?”
“Ask him yourself,” she said with a smile. “He’s awake.”
She followed him inside the room. The head of Culver’s bed was raised, and he looked alert. Culver eyed Boone curiously. “Do I know you?” he asked in a raspy voice.
“Lt. Boone Callahan,” he said. “We talked before your collapse.”
The blank look on Culver’s face indicated he had no memory of their talk. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember a lot of what’s happened lately.”
“Do you know what happened to you?”
“Nobody tells me anything around here. Just that I overdosed on my diabetes medicine, and I don’t see how that’s possible. I’m real careful about that.” He tried to pull himself up in the bed but couldn’t make any headway.
“Here, let me help you,” his nurse said, and Boone jumped to help her.
“Why am I so weak?” Culver asked as they pulled him higher in the bed.
“You’ve been very sick,” she said. “I’ll leave so you and Lieutenant Callahan here can talk, but if you need me, I’ll be outside the door.”
“Do you know what happened to me?” Culver asked when she left.
“I’m afraid someone tried to kill you.”
“What?”
Boone hadn’t thought the singer could get any paler, but he managed it.
“Why would anyone do that?” His eyes narrowed. “How?”
Boone pulled a chair up to the bed and sat in it. “Do you remember anything about Saturday night?”
Culver rubbed his hand over his face. “Singing. I remember being on the stage—who won?”
“I don’t know, and I’m not sure who won last night, either.”
The singer tried to sit up again. “I’ve got to get out of here. This contest is my big break.”
“Whoa,” Boone said. “You’re not able to leave just yet.”
The words didn’t deter Culver. He swung his legs over the side of the bed. An alarm went off, and his nurse was back in the room almost immediately.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Getting out of here . . .”
Culver’s eyes rolled back in his head, and Boone grabbed him as he slumped forward.
“Help me lay him back,” she said. Once he was stretched out on the bed, she took his blood pressure. “Way too
low. He needs quiet. You’ll have to go.”
Boone hung around until the nurse came back to her station. “Is there any chance his memory will come back?” he asked.
“Anything is possible,” she said. “But from my experience with critically ill patients, he’s remembered about all he’s going to.”
36
RACHEL’S FIRST IMPULSE was to drive straight to the courthouse and question her father about Monica’s accusation. But he was in court. She probably needed to think this through, anyway. According to Monica, Foxx had evidence that the Judge killed her mother. So far Rachel hadn’t found it. And Vic never alluded to her father being his friend’s killer.
Monica said she’d been drinking. What if she had hallucinated? Or made the whole thing up? What if she killed Foxx? She was angry enough. But if she killed him, why didn’t she report what she’d overheard to throw suspicion in a different direction? Maybe because she never was a suspect and wouldn’t want to draw attention to herself. Perhaps Sergeant Warren could shed some light on the case.
The retired officer lived in East Memphis on a cul-de-sac. As Rachel parked on the street, her cell phone dinged with a text. Terri.
I’m teaching a class at the police department gym. Want to join us? Thought we might have dinner afterwards to celebrate your birthday tomorrow.
Her birthday. Rachel had been so busy it slipped her mind. She could definitely use the workout, and over dinner would be a good time to unofficially question Terri about Harrison and her mother. Terri had been at her mother’s funeral. If anyone knew anything about her father threatening Foxx, she would.
Sure. See you at six? Will Erin be joining us?
They sometimes picked up Erin when they went out to eat. A text dinged back.
Not tonight. Be prepared to sweat. ;-)
Exactly what Rachel needed. She locked her car and walked to the bungalow that had a riot of color across the front. Marigolds. The pungent, half-pleasant scent brought back memories of working with her mother in their yard as she climbed the steps to a porch that stretched across the front of the house. The man who answered her knock fit the comfortable-looking house. “Sergeant Warren?”
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