Dead Men's Tales (Olivia Grant Mysteries Book 2) (3 page)

After Brad left, I turned on the computer, entered his few notes, and printed them. Then I put the sheet of paper in a folder marked
Hammond
and placed it on his desk. I spent the next hour thinking about Rose and what we learned from Debra. I made my own list of persons of interest, which probably looked a lot like Brad's. However, I added some Brad hadn't mentioned, such as the ones Harry visited in Los Angeles. Maybe something happened on his trip down there that provoked the murder.

While I mulled this over, Debra called and said her mother wanted to see me right away and gave me directions. I grabbed my coat and searched Brad's deep desk drawer. One of his recorders was gone, and I debated slipping his spare one into my purse. Then I decided he'd taken it for his interview with Rose, so I didn't need to. Besides, he hadn't asked me to do it. I just thought it was a good idea. Like many professional detectives, he liked to have a record of interviews or impressions of a person or scene while it remained fresh and useful. His smart phone could do that too, so it seemed that avenue was covered.

I didn't bother with the freeway just to go to Hillsborough, which was the adjoining suburb on the peninsula. I drove slowly through the winding, tree-lined streets, enjoying the sight of houses owned by people who, in former years, had flown on the Concorde, sailed on the QEII and dropped names like Bill and Hillary. (Clinton. That Bill and Hillary.)

The Hammond house sat so far back that it couldn't be seen from the road. Before I got to the black wrought-iron gates surrounding the place, I passed a gaggle of news reporters lounging against their parked cars and talking. A few smoked cigarettes, but on seeing me, they dropped their butts and snapped to attention. Someone must have told the press not to get too close, so I ignored them and kept on going up the long driveway. At the top, the gate was open, and the house came into view. Three stories, colonial architecture, white with black shutters. The driveway circled in front, and, to its right, sat a low building containing three two-car garages.

Debra had suggested that, rather than park in front, I drive to the back, so I continued straight ahead alongside the house. I came to another large, paved parking area between that and the fenced-off garden, swimming pool, and cabana.

Rose had really come up in the world, although, even when we met more than twenty years before, her house in San Ricardo had been larger and fancier than mine. Now, I half expected to see a line of servants decked out like the ones on
Downton Abbey
.

Her higher income level never bothered me. I didn't envy people who had more material goods than I did. I just thought that if I had them, I'd have to find a place for them, clean them, or insure them. As for Rose being a serious suspect in her husband's murder, she had nothing to worry about. In this country, as some comic once said, you're guilty until proven wealthy.

I stopped the car in front of yet another garage, entered the back door of the house, which stood open, and came face to face with a short, plump Hispanic woman. After I told her my name, she waved me on through the country-style kitchen.

Beyond the kitchen, in a hexagonal breakfast room at the front corner of the house, four long windows faced the lawn. Rose sat on a cushion in a window seat but got up when I entered, and we hugged like long-lost sisters.

When she released me from a painfully tight grip, I saw a woman as thin as a pretzel stick. I wondered if she wasn't carrying that old adage, "You can never be too rich or too thin," too far.

Again, I felt guilty for having let our friendship dwindle to notes on Christmas cards. "How are you holding up?"

She waved me to one of the chairs next to the round, glass-topped table and returned to her place on the window seat before she answered me. "This is horrible, just horrible. As if losing Harry wasn't bad enough… The press… You can't imagine."

She leaned her head back against one of the windows and closed her eyes. She seemed tired, with lines around her eyes and mouth, which she held tightly closed. A woman hanging on for dear life.

"You don't have to talk about Harry's murder if you don't want to," I said. "I read the account in the newspaper, and Debra filled us in on details."

"I wish I
could
tell you something." She gave me a look of bewilderment. "I know absolutely nothing. Harry went into that linen storage room, and the rest of us went to the dining room, and then police appeared from everywhere."

She broke off, and while I waited, I noticed her short, ash-blonde hair seemed perfectly coiffed. For at least three months after my husband Stephen died, I looked like the "before" picture in an extreme makeover, but perhaps people as rich as the Hammonds did things differently. Maybe she had a live-in hairdresser as well as a cook, housekeeper, gardener, pool boy, and whatever. Her heavily applied makeup, however, didn't hide the circles under her eyes.

"Brad's been here already and asked a few questions, but I couldn't tell him much."

"We thought it might be easier if you and I just talked like the old-time friends we are."

She gave a weak smile and nodded.

I took a breath and plunged in, repeating some of the things Debra had told us that morning.

"Debra said you and Harry arrived at the banquet separately. Did you speak to him before he went into the linen storage room?"

"Yes, briefly, in the reception area where they served cocktails."

"Did he say anything unusual at that time, anything that might be a clue, however farfetched it might seem, to his murder?"

"He said something unexpected had come up in Los Angeles, which kept him a day longer. That's all." She hesitated, as if trying to remember. "Almost immediately he said he needed a quiet place to study his material, and he left to ask someone about it."

"Did you see where he went?"

"He followed a waiter toward a hallway at the back of the room. I never saw him after that." She pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her navy wool skirt and put it up to her eyes.

Good. She had tears to wipe away. I've always believed it's better to get your grief out instead of bottling it inside.

"Did you see anyone else go toward that hallway?"

Rose seemed to sit up straighter, and she almost spat the words. "I saw Amanda Dillon follow Harry in that direction."

An icy chill from her contemptuous tone made me shiver. "I understand she brought in the box with the awards statues."

"Not by herself. They were apparently quite heavy, and a young man followed her. He carried the box."

"Did this young man remain the entire time Amanda stayed in that room?"

"I can't be sure, but I wouldn't think so."

"Anyone go in after Amanda left?"

"No. If anyone else went there, I didn't notice."

I shrugged and changed the subject. "When Harry didn't return from Los Angeles on Friday as he planned, were you concerned?"

"No. He has so many business affairs to handle, he sometimes forgets to call me." She stood and moved toward me. Her eyes shone like blue steel. "Look, Olivia, I know it's natural to ask these questions, but that was one of the most painful parts of the police interrogation. They asked over and over about our personal relationship. I could feel the hostility. I knew they thought I killed him, but even if I'd wanted to, I couldn't have. I stayed in the dining room talking to friends the entire time."

I remembered something Debra had said. "You didn't go to the ladies' room, for instance?" I hoped she'd say no. A little voice in my head repeated, "Say no, Rose," but she said, "Yes."

Her face turned the faintest pink, and she resumed her seat. "I left for only a minute or two after they announced dinner. To wash my hands."

"You know that's located in the same hallway as the linen room, don't you?"

"I didn't then. I do now. The police pointed it out to me." She sounded bitter, then leaned forward, eager to talk, her fingers kneading the balled-up handkerchief. "You haven't asked me if I saw Amanda after she took the statues to Harry."

"Did you?"

"As it happens, I did." She licked her lips briefly. "And she looked nervous. On her way back to her table, she passed close to me, and her face seemed flushed. Since she's a woman who never shows emotion, I couldn't help noticing the change."

So maybe the harpy had a motive, like a lower salary than a man in the same job would have received. I knew sex discrimination was still alive and well in corporate America.

"What time did she do that?"

"Before we went into the dining room."

"Have you spoken to her since Saturday? Did you ask her why she looked nervous?"

"She telephoned me the next day, asking questions, but she refused to answer mine, almost slammed the receiver in my ear."

I took that as an opening. "So you and Amanda Dillon aren't exactly on friendly terms."

She spent an inordinate amount of time twisting the handkerchief into a small rope. "You might as well know the truth. I think she was having an affair with my husband."

Her statement struck me into silence. The harpy had some other qualities besides understanding spreadsheets? Even more shocking, was mild-mannered Harry having an affair with her? Years had passed since I'd seen him, but I suppose he was entitled to a midlife crisis like anyone else.

Finally, I asked, "How do you know? Did he admit it?"

Her voice dropped to a lower pitch. "He wouldn't."

"Then why do you think so?"

"Because she's a gold digger."

The old-fashioned expression made me visualize 1940s movies.

"Did she want him to marry her, or did he give her money?"

She sighed. "Maybe both. I'm not sure. Olivia, you're a mature woman. You've been married twice and divorced. You've been, er, out there."

Before I could stop myself, I said, "It's a jungle out there."

Rose ignored my comment and leaned toward me. "You know that women don't age as gracefully as men. Men have character lines. Women have wrinkles. Men become more distinguished looking. Women just get old."

True or not, I'd always pictured Rose as too sophisticated to utter such clichés.

"Furthermore, my husband is—was—very wealthy, and wealthy men are targets for young women who want to advance themselves. To steal a man from his wife and enjoy the good things that the wife helped him create in the first place…" She seemed to realize the bitterness in her voice, stopped, pursed her lips, and leaned back, closing her eyes.

I used the moment to change my mental image of Amanda to that of a younger woman. Still a harpy but under senior-discount age.

"I know what you mean, but nobody said life is supposed to be fair." Embarrassed, I clamped my mouth shut over
my
second cliché in two minutes.

Rose opened her eyes and spoke in a quieter tone. "I'm afraid it's no secret that Harry and I hadn't been perceived as the perfect couple for some time. We didn't go many places together because his business always interfered, and you know how rumors start when a man hires a woman to an important position."

"Is it true he made Amanda his executive assistant?"

"More than that. He retained the title of president of the firm, but I worried he'd begin to call himself chairman of the board and make her the president."

"That's a radical move. Is she that good?"

The bitterness returned. "At her job or as his mistress?"

"Whatever."

She relaxed slightly, but a frown creased her forehead. "It's not pleasant to be the object of pity among one's friends."

"But you loved Harry. After so many years together, perhaps if you ignored it, his infatuation with her would have ended. That's probably all it amounted to."

"I don't think I loved him anymore."

Another startling revelation. Debra was wrong. Brad was right. "Well then, a divorce could take care of everything. You'd probably have received a good settlement."

"And let him have a trophy wife?" She apparently regretted the remark and softened her tone. "Besides, getting alimony in California isn't easy. Plus, if you remarry, it disappears."

At first, the years since I'd seen Rose had dropped away, but as she spoke, I began to feel that both of us had changed dramatically in the interim. Another thought nagged me. Could Rose be surveying the jungle herself? Did she have husband number two waiting in the wings already?

She disabused me of that notion. "Men! They're all alike. Youth and beauty are all they want in a woman." She twisted the handkerchief rope some more, a lot like strangling someone of youth and beauty. Yet, could the harpy be beautiful or only in Rose's estimation?

She dropped the hanky-rope in her lap. "Of course, assets are important. After all, I have no skills or training to earn money myself. Women in my position just don't. Still, I also enjoyed a great deal of prestige in being Mrs. Harold Hammond. In spite of the rumors, I went to all the best social events, even when he couldn't attend. I had a certain stature."