Capital Crimes (22 page)

8

T
he next morning, Lamar was on the phone with the Mercedes dealer’s sales manager, a voluble guy named Ralph Siemens. Siemens gave up a name instantaneously.

“That’s got to be Mrs. Poulson. She bought a fire-engine SLK350 two months ago. I only sold two red ones in a long while, everyone wants white or black. The other was to Butch Smiley but he got an SUV.”

Defensive tackle for the Titans. Three-hundred-pound black man.

“Is Mrs. Poulson around forty-five with shoulder-length dark hair?” said Lamar.

“That would be her,” said Siemens. “You know who I’m talking about, right?”

“Who?”

“
Poulson.
As in Lloyd Poulson? Banking, electronics, shopping centers, whatever else makes money. Real nice gentleman, bought a new sedan every two years. He died last year, cancer. Mrs. Poulson stayed in the house but she also breeds horses in Kentucky. There was talk she was going to move there full-time.”

“Where does she live?”

“Where else?” said Siemens. “Belle Meade. Do me a favor and don’t tell her I’m the one who told you, but I might as well give you the address ’cause you’re going to find out anyway.”

Belle Meade is seven miles southwest of downtown Nashville and a whole different planet. Quiet meandering streets wind past Greek Revival, Colonial and Italianate mansions perched on multi-acre lots. Sweeping lawns are shaded by monumental oaks, pines, maples and dogwoods. The town’s an old-money bastion with plenty of new-money infiltration, but who-lived-here-before still affects real estate values. Driving through the wide lanes of asphalt, it wasn’t unusual to spot trim young women riding beautiful horses around private corrals. The street signs said it all: a racing horse with a colt behind a low-slung fence. Equestrian sports ranked right up there with golf and family football games as Sunday pastimes.

The town’s two thousand residents had been absorbed into the Metro Nashville utility grid years ago while managing to keep their high-priced real estate officially independent, with its own police force. Autonomy, and some believed psychological segregation from Nashville as a status symbol, was so important to the landowners of Belle Meade that they agreed to pay taxes to both cities.

No big strain; average family income nudged two hundred thousand, highest in the state. The locals were ninety-nine percent white, one percent everything else. Kids who wanted to go to Vanderbilt could, for the most part. Not much reason, in the past, for Lamar and Baker to drive through. Over the last three years, Belle Meade had registered no homicides, one rape, no robberies, four assaults, most of them minor, and a quartet of stolen cars, two of them joyrides by local teens.

That kind of peace and quiet left the twenty-officer Belle Meade police force time to do what had made it famous: mercilessly enforce the traffic rules. Including no special treatment for cops; Lamar drove down Belle Meade Boulevard slowly and carefully.

Making a quick turn, passing Al and Tipper’s place, he found the address easily enough. Pinkish cream, flat-topped thing about ten times the size of a normal house, set behind iron fencing but with a nice clear view of a three-acre swath of bluegrass. In the center of a circular driveway, a one-story fountain burbled. The red Benz was parked right in front, along with a Volvo station wagon. Pines so dark they almost looked black had been barbered to cones and were positioned at the front of the mansion, like sentries. Toward the front of the property, hanging over the fence, were some of the biggest oaks the detectives had ever seen.

As they parked and walked to the gate, Lamar saw how theatrical the landscaping was. The trees and foliage had been manipulated for uneven sun exposure so that the three-story expanse got maximum dappling. There was no lock on the gate. They walked through, made the hike to the front door, rang the bell.

Expecting a maid in full uniform, or maybe even a butler to answer their call: instead, a nice-looking, middle-aged woman in a pink cashmere cowl-neck sweater, tailored white slacks and pink sandals came to the door. Polish on her toenails, but not pink, just natural. Same for her nails, which were clipped surprisingly short. No jewelry except for a platinum wedding band.

She had dark hair, shoulder-length and flipped at the ends, soft-looking skin and blue eyes—true blue, not like the shrink’s. Her face was the perfect oval, a bit too tight around the edges but still pretty.

“Mrs. Poulson?”

“I’m Cathy.” Soft, thin voice.

The detectives introduced themselves.

“Nashville detectives? Is this for fund-raising? Chief Fortune didn’t mention anything.”

Letting them know she was connected, that she saw them as beggars.

Baker said, “We’re here about an incident that took place in the city, ma’am.”

Lamar said, “A murder, I’m afraid. Jack Jeffries.”

No shock on Cathy Poulson’s smooth face. She nodded. Slumped.

“Oh, Jack,” she said. “Please come in.”

She led them across an entry hall bigger than their residences, into a sunlit room that looked out to manicured acres of hillocks, streams, stone waterfalls, and tree girdle at the rear. A royal blue Olympic-sized pool was edged with golden tiles and dressed at the corners with more statuary—naked nymphs. A patch of color sparkled off to the left where a rose garden thrived. Green tarpaulin fencings in the distance shouted
Tennis, Anyone?

A maid in full uniform—young, black, slim—dusted antique furniture.

A rich lady who answered her own door, thought Lamar. Nervous about something?

Cathy Poulson went up to the woman and rested her hand on a shoulder. “Amelia, I need to talk to these gentlemen a bit. Would you please bring us some of that amazing lemonade, then see if the kitchen needs freshening?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

When Amelia left, Cathy said, “Please sit. I hope you like lemonade.”

Sinking into enormous silk-upholstered chairs, Baker and Lamar drank the best lemonade they’d ever tasted and took in the room. Fifty feet long by half as much wide, with high coved ceilings not much simpler than those in the Hermitage lobby. Stiff arrangements of gleaming, curvy-legged wood tables, delicate chairs and high-back French provincial couches shared space with realistic, soft seating. The walls were pale green silk hung with gilt-framed paintings of still lifes and country scenes. The stone fireplace at the far end was big enough to walk into. A few color photos rested on the carved mantel.

Lamar said he loved the lemonade.

Cathy Poulson said, “It’s amazing, isn’t it? The key is to use Meyer lemons along with the regular kind. Gives it a bit more sweetness. My husband taught me that. He was originally from California. Fallbrook, that’s down near San Diego. His family grew citrus and avocado. A drought and some bad investments wiped them out completely. Lloyd had to start all over by himself and he was successful beyond belief. He died six months ago. He was a wonderful man.”

She got up, walked to the mantel, fetched one of the photos and brought it back.

It looked like some sort of charity ball shot, where rich folk pose for photographers as they enter a fancy room. Cathy Poulson stood next to a short, thick, balding man with curly white hair fringing his ears. Red designer gown for her—same color as her car—tux for him. Lloyd Poulson’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. His pudgy fingertips were visible around his wife’s wasp waist.

He wore thick-lensed, black-framed glasses and had a gut that swelled his cummerbund, appeared to be at least seventy. Cathy Poulson looked like a movie star in the photo. Plenty of jewelry that night—diamonds at every strategic location. The bodice of her red gown was low-cut enough to expose a big, soft expanse of swelling breast. Perfect cleavage, thought Lamar. You’d never know to look at her in the sweater.

“Such a vital man,” she said with a sigh. “Prostate cancer. There was pain but he never complained.”

“Sorry for your loss, ma’am.”

Cathy Poulson picked invisible lint from her sweater, reached for the photo, placed it faceup on her lap. “Sorry to bore you with my personal problems. You’ve got important work to do and you want to know why I was talking to Jack the night before last.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“First off,” she said, “it’s pretty obvious that I wasn’t trying to hide anything. You don’t go into that neighborhood with a car like mine, park right out in front, if you’re worried about being seen.” She tapped the photo. “Who saw me, that girl?”

“Which girl?”

“A little blond girl, I assumed she was a waitress or something like that. She and a Mexican were the only ones left in the place. I saw her watching Jack and me from the doorway.”

“Spying?” said Baker.

“Probably, but trying hard not to show it,” said Cathy Poulson. “Unable to resist, I suppose. Which is understandable, given how famous Jack is. Was.”

She bit her lip.

“I found out about it this morning. Like everyone else. Drinking my morning coffee and reading the paper and there it was.” Her eyelids quivered. “I went into the bathroom and was completely sick.”

“You knew about the murder but you acted surprised when we showed up,” said Baker.

Cathy Poulson blinked. “Pardon?”

“That remark about fund-raising?”

The woman blushed. “That was stupid and snobbish, Detective. Please forgive me. I guess I—I don’t know why I said that. I certainly wasn’t surprised that you showed up. I knew that girl had seen me and if she told you, you’d probably trace me through my car. And of
course
you’d want to talk to me. I might have been the last person to see Jack before he—
was
I?”

“So far, that’s the case, ma’am.”

“Well, that’s horrible. Repugnant and horrible.”

Neither detective spoke.

Cathy Poulson said, “Did the girl tell you that Jack and I didn’t leave together? That I drove off and that he stayed behind?”

“No, ma’am,” Lamar answered.

“Well, that’s what happened. So it’s obvious I’m not your culprit.” Smiling and aiming for levity, but one hand clawed a white-trousered knee.

Baker said, “Why’d you go down to The T House to talk to Mr. Jeffries?”

“He chose it, said it was off the beaten path…how right he was. I knew it was a dump, but Jack could get insistent.” She shook her head. “The original plan was for me to be there earlier. I got held up and didn’t make it until closing. Jack understood. He could be quite…pleasant. When he wanted to be.”

“Sounds like you two go back a ways.”

Cathy Poulson smiled and sat back and swept dark hair from her face. Light from the rear of the room caught on her platinum ring.

“I suppose you could say that.”

“Would you be so kind as to fill us in?” said Lamar.

“About my relationship with Jack?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Is that really necessary? Seeing as I’m not your culprit.”

“The more information we have, the easier our job is, ma’am.”

“Believe me,” said Cathy Poulson, “I’m not going to be able to make your job any easier because all I can tell you is Jack and I spoke briefly and then I left.” A manicured hand graced her left breast. “Please, guys, given all I’ve gone through this past year, I really can’t handle any more stress.”

Shifting from “gentlemen” to “guys.” This one parceled out the charm. Lamar wondered how much she’d rehearsed, and knew Baker was thinking the same thing.

Baker put on his nice voice and leaned forward. “We have no intention of causing you stress, ma’am. But we do need to compile data.”

She stared at him, as if seeing him for the first time. Shifted back to Lamar. “College basketball?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Sorry, that was inappropriate. It’s just that my son’s into sports—basketball, football, baseball, you name it. He just started at college. I’m here all alone.
Feeling
really alone.”

“Vanderbilt?”

“Oh, no,” she said, with some fervor. “Vanderbilt would’ve been great, he could’ve stayed in a dorm room, he knows I’d never meddle, but he’d still have the opportunity to come home on weekends to dump laundry, maybe grant me a few ‘Hi, Moms.’ No, Tristan’s at Brown in Rhode Island. Smallest state in the union and there’s where he picks.”