Dead Jitterbug (16 page)

“But Hope—you never knew
what
she had on her mind. In all the years I’d known that woman, seldom was she spontaneous. Always calculating, never letting her guard down. Her face was perfect all right—a perfect mask. At least in public.”

“Are you saying that before the diagnosis of Alzheimer’s, she was having problems?” asked Lew.

“Oh, yes. In spite of her money and her fame, Hope did not have an easy life. She disparaged her talent, for one thing. More than once she told me she felt that her father had bought her success: he owned the newspapers, and he made them run her column. What she refused to hear was that while that may have been true in the beginning, you don’t last as long as she did in so many papers worldwide if you aren’t damned good.

“On the other hand, she used her money to buy friends, to buy that idiot husband, to buy a beautiful lifestyle. But,” said Lillie, shaking her cheeks as she spoke, “there was one thing she could not buy … she could not escape tragedy.”

“Her parents died when their private plane went down in Lake Superior,” said Osborne.

“Yes. Hope was in her mid-thirties when that happened. She was devastated. Two months later she lost that dear sweet little boy. She never got over a terrible sense of guilt about that awful, awful day.”

“Kitsy told us her parents blamed her for her brother’s death,” said Lew.

“Really?” asked Lillie. “Hope never said any such thing to me. So far as I could see, she blamed herself. After Brian’s death, she changed. She had bouts of manic depression and started drinking, taking pills. She was deeply unhappy in her marriage, and I urged her to divorce Ed. But she refused. She let him talk her into the whole public image thing—I’m sure she could have worked her way around that. “Over the years I watched her turn into a public Hope and a private Hope. And on a bad day, let me tell you, the private Hope could be a hard woman to be around.”

“That surprises me,” said Lew. “I only knew her through the columns. But she seemed so wise, so understanding. Her sense of humor was priceless—”

“I never said Hope wasn’t brilliant and witty, she was. But, like I said, she never gave herself enough credit. In a way, that was the secret to her success. Readers loved her because she could empathize, because she understood pain.

“But where she was an expert on telling others how to care for the people they love, she was not capable of that herself. I will bet you she never once said, ‘I love you,’ to that daughter of hers. What she could do in public, she couldn’t do within her own family. She was an emotional cripple.

“I’m telling you this because I don’t know who killed her. But this may lead you somewhere. Hope had great difficulty loving herself. Did she deliberately put herself in danger? She has before, you know.”

“If you mean the plastic surgery,” said Osborne, “I was astounded. She must have had at least four facelifts.”

“That was Hope’s way of hiding,” said Lillie. “Destroy the evidence. Tears, booze, pills, inappropriate men. Those take a toll on your face, not to mention your soul. But Hope threw money at it. She paid a surgeon to cut away the consequences.”

Placing both feet on the floor, Lillie leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “So, okay, we’ve established the fact that my client was not a virtuous woman—but she was human. She tried to love, she knew hate, and she made terrible mistakes.” A sad smile crossed Lillie’s face. “On the other hand, how else could she have been so perceptive?”

Lew tapped her pen on her notepad, then asked, “What do you mean by ‘inappropriate men'?”

“During her forties and fifties, Hope went through a string of good-looking, worthless types. But that was twenty years ago. If I thought we had a suspect in the crowd, I’d have told you this morning.”

“Gigolos?”

“Along that line, yes.”

“Lillie,” Lew asked, “when was the last time you saw Hope?”

“Six weeks ago. She knew she was slipping, but she had lucid periods, enough for us to review her legal affairs—her will, the McDonald Trust, some bequests she wanted to make. Ed’s out of his league, by the way. That threat he made this morning is ridiculous. I had Hope’s physician fly up from Madison to witness her behavior. He sat in as she made her decisions. There’ll be no contesting the will no matter what Ed says.”

“Did she give any indication of being afraid of anything?” asked Lew. “Any person?”

“No. But one thing I did find unusual: she was adamant on wanting to be alone. ‘I want solitude, Lillie,’ she would say over and over. Now, much as she was comfortable in that big place of hers, she had always had help maintaining it. So it was strange that she wanted no one there. She kicked her daughter out, she fired her longtime housekeeper. She turned into a hermit. It wasn’t safe, and I tried to talk her out of it.”

“Chief,” Osborne asked, “do you mind if I ask Lillie a question?”

“Go right ahead.”

“Are you saying it wasn’t safe because of her mental state?”

“Yes. And because I was expecting that she might find herself on the dock some night, down at the end where the water is deep, and accidentally fall in. Possibly with some help. That’s what I have been worried about.”

“Ed?” asked Lew.

Lillie shrugged. “I don’t think I have to tell you two how many accidental drownings around here should have been more closely looked into—do I?”

“That may be how it used to be,” said Lew. “Not while I’m head of the department.”

“So call me crazy, but that’s what I expected to hear from Kitsy when she called. That or suicide.”

“Suicide,” said Lew. “Nine bullets in the head is not suicide.”

“Not unless you act in a way to precipitate that.”

“Are you saying Hope might have deliberately—”

“You asked me when I saw her last. That was six weeks ago. I
spoke
with her on the phone Sunday morning. She told me she was planning a party. She called it a ‘black velvet oblivion.’ ”

“So she was really losing it,” said Lew.

“Maybe, maybe not. When it came to difficult things in life, Hope was a genius at finding someone she could pay to do it for her. In fairness, I’ll admit her mental state was deteriorating, but who knows?

“After we talked, I tried to reach Kitsy. All I got was voice mail so I left a message. Then I called her former housekeeper—you know Bunny DeLoye? She wasn’t home either, but I did leave a message.”

“Did you call Ed?”

“God, no. She needed help, not torture. Now, of course, I blame myself for not driving out there, not following up the next day….”

“But, Lillie, you’re not her family,” said Osborne.

“I know. Plus she had taken to accusing me of interfering. As the disease was progressing, I could see that the slightest stress caused her to become agitated. I just—I didn’t want to push her too far.”

“We know that Ed was in Madison—”

“Of course he was,” said Lillie, interrupting Lew. “Just because I think he’s an idiot doesn’t mean he’s not cagey.”

“I get the point,” said Lew. “Lillie, would you take a look at these and tell me what you think?” She handed over copies of the letter and the blue-penciled column.

Lillie examined the column first. She looked up with a sigh. “How would you feel if you were Kitsy? She did the work, you know. The idea was to keep Hope feeling involved. This is so sad. To have these be your mother’s last words? Poor woman.”

Osborne wasn’t sure if she meant Hope or Kitsy.

“Well, this is a thank-you from Darryl Wolniewicz,” said Lillie on reading the copy of the card. “Hope made him a gift of some land. The property isn’t anything that Kitsy should get upset over. It’s along the channel, quite a bit of wetland.”

“You don’t mean Carla Wolniewicz’s father?” asked Osborne.

“Yes, he’s the one person Hope would allow onto the property.”

“How on earth did that happen?” asked Osborne.

“Whatever her state of mind, Hope still had one endearing quality,” said Lillie. “She looked out for the underdog.

“You may not know this, but she did something very special over the years. When she had letters from people who were obviously suicidal, she would call the newspaper where they lived and insist that the publisher get help to that person.

“Darryl, to her, was one of those people. Early this spring she hired him to cut down some trees, and when he charged all of twenty dollars for each tree—she couldn’t believe it. The lawn people wanted at least two hundred a tree! Next, she asked Darryl to clear an area where she planned to build a gazebo. About that time she asked me what I knew about him.

“Now, I’ve represented Darryl pro bono over the years. You know, Chief, those DWI’s of his. So I told her he was harmless and had gotten kind of a rotten deal, what with that wife of his. I encouraged her hiring him. As far as I could see, it was doing them both good.

“He was like her puppy dog. He fixed the door stoop, cleaned the garage, picked up groceries. He did everything she asked—and charged so very little for his services. When she found out he loved fishing that channel, she decided to gift him some acreage.”

“Do you think he had a key to the front gate?” asked Lew.

“I doubt it. Why?”

“Just curious. Where will I find Darryl?” asked Lew. “Do you have his address?”

“Only a P.O. number.”

“Ray will know, Lew,” said Osborne. “Darryl used to help Ray out at the cemetery.”

“Lillie, is there anything else that you can think of that might help me right now?” asked Lew.

“Not at the moment. But I do need your help with Molly McBride. I’m very, very worried about that young woman.”

“Right,” said Lew, standing up and checking her watch. “I’ll pull the files on the case tonight.”

“Do more than that,” said Lillie. “See if any of the evidence is still on the shelf over in Pecore’s offices.”

“What am I looking for? Pecore’s labeling is awful.”

“You might find a plaster cast of a footprint. I was representing that young Native American, the one who died in jail, and they alleged to have found his footprint outside the kitchen window: a Nike tennis shoe, size ten.

“You have
nooo
idea how much I wanted to go to trial with that as their sole evidence that he had been on the property,” said Lillie, her voice a buzz saw. “Do you have any idea how many men and boys wore size ten Nikes in those days? Molly’s father was one.”

“But the key piece of evidence was the pair of pajamas that Molly was wearing when she was found. I was told at the time that she had been sexually abused by the killer, and the proof was a semen stain found on her pjs. However, the physician who examined her found no signs of an assault. I’ve always felt it was possible the killer left those stains to divert the investigation, to hide his motive for killing her parents.”

“Really,” Lew asked. “What makes you think that?” “It was a chicken-hawk murder. A gay revenge killing.”

“Lillie,” Osborne asked, stunned. “Are you sure?”

“After the boy’s death, I did some detective work on my own. Molly’s parents were in marriage counseling at the time. Her father wanted a divorce. He had decided he was bisexual and had fallen in love with a man. But he would never say who it was.

“I know this because I spoke with the minister who was counseling them. Unfortunately he’s no longer alive. But Molly’s aunt is, and, Chief Ferris, she knew about the marital problems. She can back up everything I’m telling you. Before you leave, I’ll give you her phone number.

“That coupled with the violence against the wife convinced me. She was killed first, in the downstairs family room where she was ironing. Bludgeoned to death with a portable radio. Then the killer went up two flights to the bedrooms, where he took a baseball bat to the father and the son who were asleep in upstairs bedrooms. And—
and,”
Lillie shook a finger, “the family dog was killed where it was sleeping on the floor near the boy’s bed.”

“So the family dog knew the killer,” said Lew.

“That’s right. I am convinced that the family was killed by the man with whom Molly’s father was having an affair, and I’m damn sure that man is Jerry O’Brien.”

Lew leveled a long look at Lillie. “How can you be so sure that he was the one?”

“I know someone who saw them together,” said Lillie. “Unfortunately, this person—who is no longer alive, so I’m not violating my client’s confidentiality— was so frightened of Jerry that she refused to go to the police. She was just a girl at the time, working at the newspaper, and even later in life never a person with much confidence.”

“You don’t mean Sherry Peterson?” asked Osborne, remembering the small, slight woman who walked hunched over as if permanently expecting a blow. A woman so shy, she never spoke above a whisper. She’d lived with her elderly father and died within a few months of his death.

“Yes,” said Lillie.

“About two years before she died, she came to me for legal advice. She’d been at the newspaper for ages, working in the accounting department, when she was accused of stealing. It was her supervisor who was the guilty party. He thought he could bully poor little Sherry into resigning so it would look like she was guilty. I got wind of what was going on and insisted she sit down with me—we got things straightened out.”

“I’m sure you did,” said Lew.

“One day, out of the blue, I asked Sherry if she had known Molly’s father. The look on her face …
pure terror.
Knowing she trusted me, I pressed her on it. I promised I would tell no one. And I haven’t until now.

“She told me that one night she had had to work late in the back office. Now, this was a week or so before the family was killed. She thought she was the only one in the building and was on her way to the bathroom when she heard voices. The door to Jerry’s office was ajar, and all the lights were on. She couldn’t help but see Jerry and Patrick together. This was a woman who had never seen men as lovers. She was shocked, she was frightened. Thank goodness, they did not see her.

“Then, when Patrick was murdered days later, she felt very confused and afraid. She kept that secret for all those years, never even told her father. I didn’t do anything about it at the time because I knew Sherry could never testify in court. She wasn’t mentally and emotionally capable of that.” With a sigh, Lillie said, “If only Sherry hadn’t been such an easily frightened little person….”