Last to Know (16 page)

It was a perfect night, the black lake unruffled by so much as a ripple, the tiny white terrace lights giving the soft Christmasy glow that Rose loved year round. There was fresh bread in white-linen-draped baskets, tiny flat pots of golden French butter, each stamped with the imprint of a cow and a tiny leaf of parsley, a small touch but typical of Rose’s attention to detail. They had moved on from champagne to a rosé from Provence, standing the bottles along the length of the table so everybody could help themselves. The only thing that marred the perfection of the night, of the scene Rose had so artfully set so that it looked effortless, was the faint acrid odor of burned house and the lights across the lake where the police forensic detail was still sifting through the wreckage. No one looked over there, no one mentioned it, everyone kept on talking as though it had never happened, and as though the young woman sitting at the table had not just lost her mother in a horrifying fire.

Which was, Rose suddenly decided, looking at Bea, not normal. Conversation and laughter flowed around the girl but she said nothing. She seemed to feel Rose’s eyes on her, looked quickly up and gave her a smile. Heartwarming, Rose thought. She looked at Wally, leaning back in his chair, staring at the activity across the lake, not contributing to the conversation about some proposed local redevelopment with which normally he would have become deeply involved. Now, he simply sat, drinking—vodka, not wine, Rose realized—and saying absolutely nothing.

Rose excused herself to go to her kitchen. “Prepare yourselves for a treat,” she warned her guests. “My beef stroganoff. It’ll only take a few minutes. Wally,” she called. He lifted his head and looked at her. “I could use your help,” she said. She had to ask him what was going on. She had to know now.

But it was Diz who followed her into the kitchen, not her husband. “I can help you, Mom,” he said, sending her heart lurching with love for him. How, she wondered, looking at him, had she and Wally produced a kid that looked like this?

“It’s a nice party, Mom.” Diz came to stand next to her at the stove where she began browning the strips of beef, heating up the onions and mushrooms. The water for the fettucini boiled and she slid the pasta in, glancing at the wall clock to time it.

“Just get me the butter, sweetheart,” she said to Diz, who did as he was asked, then stood anxiously next to her again.

“Mom, I have to tell you something,” he said. “I don’t want to tell you, but I have to, because, well because … I heard you on the phone, you said it was murder. And now I’m scared.”

Rose turned to look at him. Her son’s face was scrunched tight with the seriousness of what he needed to say. She turned out the gas under the beef and put her arms around him. “What can be so bad you can’t tell me?”

“I saw Dad that night, in his boat, rowing back from that woman’s house. Bea’s mom’s house.” He looked up at her. “Dad was there just before it exploded. I saw him. And I saw Bea, running into the lake … and Roman was in the woods too … Dad was there, Mom, when it happened … and Roman … and now the woman is dead … and I don’t know what else to say.”

Rose glanced round her kitchen, at the fettucini simmering gently, at the warmed plates ready for serving. Her life had just fallen apart but she pulled herself together and did what she must do, for the sake of her son who was staring anxiously up at her, and for the sake of her family, and for Wally because she would never, ever believe he had done anything wrong.

“Well,” she said, smiling at Diz, “I’ll tell you what, I’ll ask Dad about it later. He’ll explain everything. And I’m sure Roman just happened to be taking a walk. Now remember, we have a party going on. You can help the girls carry the plates. And don’t worry, everything will be all right.”

As she watched her boy walk slowly out of the kitchen, she hoped she was right.

29

Harry parked at the precinct and saw Rossetti sitting in his BMW, waiting for him. Rossetti opened the door for the dog, who jumped into the backseat, giving his neck an affectionate slurp before settling happily down.

“So what’s up?” Harry climbed in, just managing to slam the door before Rossetti took off.

“You are sitting on the evidence,” Rossetti said. “In the file under your ass.”

Harry pulled out the plastic file. In it were some photos.

Rossetti said, “We were checking the Havnel woman’s bank account—which, by the way, is more than substantial—close to nine hundred K—in a checking account, for God’s sake, not to mention what she might have in safe deposit boxes, which we have not yet been able to get a look at. Anyway, that’s almost not the point. We got hold of the bank security videos, just checkin’ … and there she is, our murdered Lacey Havnel standing in line, waiting her turn for the teller—and who do you think is right behind her? Perhaps even with her?”

Harry took a long look at the photos printed up from the video. “Jesus! Wally Osborne!”

“The lovely Rose’s famous husband.”

Harry studied the pictures. Something about Wally’s body language told him that here was a man trying to look as though he was not with the woman he was with. “You think he was cheating on Rose, with her?” he asked, looking up at Rossetti.

“That’s what we’re gonna find out.”

Harry shuffled through the photos again. Lacey Havnel was wearing crotch-high white shorts and a dangerously low-cut tank top.

“Hardly appropriate clothing for a visit to the bank,” he commented. “In fact I’d say it was more appropriate for a little come-on rendezvous with a man she had her sights on, like the famous writer, her neighbor.”

“I’d guess she was not the kind of woman to respect marriage. Or another woman’s husband.” Rossetti shrugged. “All’s fair in love and war was probably Ms. Havnel’s motto.” He handed Harry another photograph. “There’s more. This was taken outside the bank, on the security video.”

There were three pictures. In the first, Wally and Lacey were standing outside the bank. In the second Wally was handing her an envelope. In the third, she was kissing Wally full on the mouth.

“Rossetti,” Harry said, “are we looking at blackmail?”

“Sure looks that way to me, buddy.”

“So what do we suppose Wally Osborne got himself into, that this woman had the power to blackmail him?”

Rossetti shrugged again, unsure. “The guy has everything: success, fame, money, a good wife…”

Harry was thinking about that good wife, thinking that Rose Osborne had no idea of what was about to hit her. “You thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked Rossetti, who glanced at him out of the corner of his eye.

“I think we have a motive,” Rossetti said.

“Which doesn’t necessarily mean Wally killed her. The man’s intelligent, clever, he could have come to the police, talked to us about blackmail.”

“But he didn’t,” Rossetti said. “There’s another reason, Harry, and I’ll bet it involves his family. With a guy like that, it always does. He might be protecting someone. Aw, shit, man, I hate to be talking like this. That’s a nice family there, they don’t deserve what’s gonna happen to them…”

Harry held up a hand to stop him. “All that’s gonna happen right now are some questions,” he said. “And who would he be protecting anyway? Wait a minute, you don’t mean the son? Roman?”

Rossetti shrugged. “Why not?”

“Because he’s a simple, quiet kid and she’s an experienced ‘woman of the world,’ and I mean the kind of world he knows nothing about.”

“Sounds like temptation, to me,” Rossetti said. And Harry had to agree maybe it did.

“Yeah. Well. Roman. He’s kind of a ghost kid around there, don’t y’think. Like, he’s there, but he’s not there at the same time, if you see what I mean.”

Harry did. “A teenager,” he said, trying to come up with an explanation and coming up instead with the same tired cliché.

Rossetti gave him a long disbelieving stare. “Were you like that when you were a teenager?”

Harry thought about it for a while. “I think I was into wine, women, and song, as the saying goes.”

Rossetti laughed. “As the saying goes, so did you. Myself I was all for hanging with the guys, looking at the girls and hoping…”

“Hope springs eternal,” Harry added, another cliché, and they both grinned. “Still, I know exactly what you mean. What gives with this kid? He’s got the world on a plate, an adoring mother, a great family, a good future.”

“It’s got to be a woman,” Rossetti said.

Harry gave him another of those searching glances. “That’s why I work with you, Rossetti. You always come up with the answer.”

“Wanna bet this is the right answer?”

“Who do you have in mind?”

“There’s only one woman round the lake who fits the bill…”

“Jesus, you think he was romancing Bea?”

“They don’t call it ‘romancing’ these days, my friend. And let’s also not forget Bea’s mother, the lovely Lacey. Older woman, all that young guy temptation stuff. A woman who is now well and truly dead. Murdered, if you recall.”

“Jesus!” Harry was truly stunned, and, thinking of Lacey, repelled. “If you’re right, we have another problem on our hands,” he said.

“And another suspect,” Rossetti said.

Harry didn’t want to believe it, but he knew Rossetti was right and he had better look further into young Roman Osborne’s life. And who would know more about that than his mother.

Harry put that on the back burner for now, though. He thought Roman Osborne was only an also-ran in this case.

“And before that I have something else I want us to think about. Ask yourself, Rossetti,” he said, “do we really know who Lacey Havnel is? Do we know for sure the woman in the morgue is in fact the woman she claimed to be? Let me tell you,” he added, “I have it on good authority”—he thought Jemima would have enjoyed the definition—“that Lacey Havnel of Miami, Florida, died some years ago. Childless.”

Rossetti drew in a deep breath. “Then who the fuck is she?”

“That’s exactly what we have to find out. And also, let’s not forget, buddy, who exactly is Bea Havnel.”

“The daughter.”

“The young woman who calls herself her ‘daughter.’”

They were on the lake road now. Squeeze scrambled to his feet as they approached Harry’s house, thinking he was going home. He gave an annoyed little whine when they did not stop.

“Okay, dog,” Rossetti called over his shoulder. “We have work to do first.”

Harry saw the fairy lights strung across the Osbornes’ terrace, the lamplit room behind. It looked so peaceful, so welcoming. He hated to do what he was going to have to do, but Lacey Havnel had been murdered and it was his job to find out who had killed her, and why. Even a man like Wally Osborne would have to take his chances in the court and the justice system, like any other citizen.

The charming image of Bea Havnel came into his mind. He wondered how involved she was, whether it was true that the real Lacey Havnel was already dead and buried and the body in the morgue was an impostor? Or was Jemima wrong and this really was her daughter? Thinking of Bea, of her quiet demeanor, her simplicity, he could not see how she could be party to such a fraud. And then, thinking of Rose Osborne, he said, “I’m praying I got it wrong, Rossetti.”

Approaching the Osbornes’ turnoff, he spotted a car pulled over to the side. A small silver Honda Accord. “Looks like we’re not the first here,” he commented, opening the back door for Squeeze, then walking with Rossetti up to the house.

*   *   *

Jemima had gotten there before them, just as the dinner guests were leaving. Now, she crouched behind her car, watching the two detectives. She had no idea what was going to happen, if anything, but at least she was there. If somebody got arrested she could report what happened on her crime blog. She was right on the scene of the action.

Skulking after the detectives, through the birch trees, she saw the front door open, saw the kid who opened it stare bug-eyed at the two men, then disappear quickly inside, heard him yelling “Mom.” Then the detectives followed him inside and closed the door.

Something rustled the leaves in back of her. A footstep. She half turned, with an “oh” of recognition, saw the hand holding the bloody knife as the weapon came at her.

30

Rose saw the two detectives in the hall, heard them ask Diz where his father was.

Pretty in her silky caftan, her cloud of hair tamped in a bow at the back of her long neck, as she came toward them her eyes were a golden-brown question mark.

“Mrs. Osborne.” Harry acknowledged her with a small polite bow.

“It’s Rose. Remember?”

“This is Detective Rossetti.” Harry waved in the detective’s direction.

“You both look very official. Somehow I get the feeling you’re not here for my dinner party, though you’d be a bit late for that anyway.”

“Mom? What’s going on?” Her daughters came to stand next to her, staring inquiringly at the two strangers. Roman joined them. He stood quietly behind. He was wearing glasses that hid his expression.

“Sorry to interrupt your evening, Mrs. Osborne.” Rossetti was doing the talking since Harry had fallen silent, mouth shut tight as a trap into which he had no wish to fall. “In fact it’s your husband we would like to talk to.”

“Wally?” “Dad?” The girls and their mother spoke as one.

Then Diz said, “I saw him go outside a couple of minutes ago. He’s probably taking a walk by the lake.”

“Walking off the vodka,” Roman said. His father was drinking too much.

Harry looked at Rose, who seemed to pull herself together, take control.

“I know where he’ll be,” she said. “I’ll go get him for you.”

Rossetti held up a hand. “No need, Ms. Osborne, the detective and I will find him. You said he won’t have gone far.”

“No, no, of course he won’t, he never does.”

“Unless he takes the boat out,” Diz blurted, then immediately wished he had not. “I mean, like, just sometimes he does that. But not like now. Not usually at night anyhow.”

A muffled whine came from the direction of the BMW. Harry looked outside and saw Squeeze with his head out the back window, kicking up a racket. Harry’s eyes met Rossetti’s, and they excused themselves and went to check what was going on. The dog was staring intently toward the birch woods by the lake shore.