The Alibi (6 page)

Rory?" She came to stand within touching distance

and, tilting her head to one side, smiled up at him.

"After all, we're practically kinfolk."

She extended him her hand. His was dry and

warm. Hers was slightly damp and very cold, and she

wondered if he guessed that came from holding a

tumbler of vodka.

He released her hand and indicated the woman

with him. "This is Stefanie Mundell."

"Steffi," the woman said, aggressively thrusting

her hand at Davee.

She was petite, with short dark hair and dark eyes.

Eager eyes. Hungry eyes. She wasn't wearing stockings

even though she had on high-heeled pumps. To

Davee that was a breach of etiquette more offensive

than her own bare feet.

"How do you do?" Davee shook Steffi Mundell's

hand but released it quickly. "Are y'all selling tickets

to the Policemen's Ball, or what?"

"Is there someplace we can talk?"

Concealing her uneasiness with a bright smile, she

said, "Sure," and led them into the formal living

room. The housekeeper, who had admitted the two

before notifying Davee that she had guests, was moving

about the room switching on lamps. "Thank you, Sarah." The woman, who was as large and dark as a

mahogany armoire, acknowledged Davee's thanks,

then left through a side door. "Can I fix y'all a

drink?"

"No, thank you," Smilow replied.

Steffi Mundell also declined. "What a beautiful

room," she said. "Such a wonderful color."

"You think so?" Davee looked around as though

assessing the room for the first time. "Actually, this is

my least favorite room in the whole house, even

though it does offer a lovely view of the Battery, and

that's nice. My husband insisted on painting the walls

this color. It's called terra-cotta and is supposed to be

reminiscent of the villas on the Italian Riviera. Instead,

it makes me think of football jerseys." Looking

directly at Steffi and smiling sweetly, she added, "My

mama always said that orange was a color for the

common and coarse."

Steffi's cheeks flamed with anger. "Where were

you this afternoon, Mrs. Pettijohn?"

"None of your goddamn business," Davee retorted

without a blink.

"Ladies." Smilow shot Steffi a stern look with a

silent command behind it for her to shut up.

"What's going on, Rory?" Davee demanded.

"What are ya'll doing here?"

Coolly, calmly, and deferentially, he said, "I suggest

we all sit down."

Davee held his gaze for several seconds, gave the

woman a withering glance, then with a brusque gesture

indicated the sofa nearest them. She sat down in

an adjacent armchair.

He began by telling her that this wasn't a casual

call. "I'm afraid I have some bad news."

She stared at him, waiting him out.

"Lute was found dead late this afternoon. In the

penthouse suite at the Charles Towne Plaza. It appears

he was murdered."

Davee kept her features carefully schooled.

One never displayed too much emotion in public.

It simply wasn't done.

Holding emotions intact was a skill one naturally

acquired when Daddy was a womanizer, and Mama

was a drunk, and everybody knew the reason she

drank, but everybody also pretended that there wasn't

a problem. Not in their family.

Maxine and Clive Burton had been a perfect couple.

Both descended from elite Charleston families.

Both were utterly gorgeous to look at. Both attended

exclusive schools. Their wedding was a standard by

which all others were compared, even to this day.

They were a sublime match.

Their three adorable daughters had been given

boys' names, either because Maxine was drunk when

she went into labor each time, or because she was so

far gone she was confused about the gender of her

newborn, or because she wanted to spite the wayward

Clive, who yearned for male offspring and blamed

her for producing only females. Never mind the absence

of Y chromosomes.

So little Clancy, Jerri, and Davee grew up in a

household where serious domestic problems were

swept beneath priceless Persian rugs. The girls

learned at an early age to keep their reactions to any

situation, no matter how upsetting, to themselves. It

was safer that way. The atmosphere at home was unreliable and tricky to gauge when both parents were

volatile and given to temper tantrums, resulting in

fights that shattered any semblance of peace and tranquillity.

Consequently the sisters bore emotional scars.

Clancy had healed hers by dying in her early thirties

of cervical cancer, which the most vicious gossips

claimed had been brought on by too many bouts

of venereal disease.

Jerri had gone in the opposite direction, becoming a convert to a fundamentalist Christian group her

freshman year in college. She had dedicated herself

to a life of hardship and abstinence from anything

pleasurable, particularly alcohol and sex. She grew

root vegetables and preached the gospel on an Indian

reservation in South Dakota.

Davee, the youngest, was the only one who remained

in Charleston, defying shame and gossip,

even after Clive died of cardiac arrest in his current

mistress's bed between his board meeting in the

morning and his tee time that afternoon, and following

Maxine's being committed to a nursing home

with "Alzheimer's" when everybody knew the truth

was that her brain had been pickled by vodka.

Davee, who looked as soft and malleable as warm

taffy, was actually tough as nails. Tough enough to

stick it out. She could survive anything. She had

proved it.

"Well," she said, corning to her feet, "even if y'all

declined a drink, I believe I'll have one."

At the liquor cart, she dropped a few ice cubes into

a crystal tumbler and poured vodka over them. She

drank almost half of it in one swallow, then refilled

the glass before turning back to them. "Who was

she?"

"Pardon?"

"Come on, Rory. I'm not going to have vapors. If

Lute was shot in his fancy new hotel suite, he

must've been entertaining a lady friend. I figure that

either she or her jealous husband killed him."

"Who said he was shot?" Steffi Mundell asked.

"What?"

"Smilow didn't say your husband had been shot.

He said he'd been murdered."

Davee took another drink. "I assumed he was shot.

Isn't that a safe guess?"

"Was it a guess?"

Davee flung her arms wide, sloshing some of her

drink onto the rug. "Who the hell are you, anyway?"

Steffi stood. "I represent the D.A.'s office. Or, as

it's known in South Carolina, the county solicitor."

"I know what it's known as in South Carolina,"

Davee returned drolly.

"I'll be prosecuting your husband's murder case.

That's why I insisted on coming along with

Smilow."

"Ahh, I get it. To gauge my reaction to the news."

"Precisely. I must say you didn't seem very surprised

by it. So back to my original question: Where

were you this afternoon? And don't say that it isn't

any of my goddamn business because, you see, Mrs.

Pettijohn, it very much is."

Davee, curbing her anger, calmly raised her glass

to her lips once again and took her time answering.

"You want to know if I can establish an alibi, is that

it?"

"We didn't come here to interrogate you, Davee,"

Smilow said.

"It's okay, Rory. I've got nothing to hide. I just

think it's insensitive of her"—she gave Steffi a

scathing once-over—"to come into my house and

start firing insulting and insinuating questions at me

seconds after I've been informed that my husband

was murdered."

"That's my job, Mrs. Pettijohn, whether you like it

or not."

"Well, I don't like it." Then, dismissing her as no

one of significance, she turned to Smilow. "I'm

happy to answer your questions. What do you want to

know?"

"Where were you this afternoon between five and

six o'clock?"

"Here."

"Alone?"

"Yes."

"Can anyone vouch for that?"

She moved to an end table and depressed a single

button on a desk telephone. The housekeeper's voice

came through the speaker. "Yes, Miss Davee?"

"Sarah, will you come in here, please? Thank

you."

The three waited in silence. Fixing the prosecutor

with a cool, contemptuous gaze, Davee fiddled with

the single strand of perfectly matched pearls that she

wore around her neck. They had been a coming-out

gift from her father, whom she both loved and hated.

Her therapist had suggested that they were a symbol

of her mistrust of people, due to her father's unfaithfulness

to his wife and daughters. Davee didn't know

if that was true or if she just liked the pearls. Whatever

the case, she wore them with everything, including

the short shorts and oversize white cotton shirt

she had on this evening.

Davee had inherited her live-in housekeeper from

her mother. Sarah had been working for the family

before Clancy was born and had seen them through

all their tribulations. When she came into the room,

she shot Smilow and Steffi Mundell a hostile glance.

Davee formally introduced her. "Ms. Sarah Birch,

this is Detective Smilow and a person from the

County Solicitor's Office. They came to tell me that

Mr. Pettijohn was found murdered this afternoon."

Sarah's reaction was no more visible than Davee's

had been.

Davee continued, "I told them that I was here in

the house between five and six o'clock and that you

would back me up. Isn't that right?"

Steffi Mundell nearly blew a gasket. "You

can't--"

"Steffi."

"But she's just compromised the interrogation,"

she shouted at Smilow.

Davee looked at him innocently. "I thought you

said I wasn't being interrogated, Rory."

His eyes were frosty, but he turned to the housekeeper

and said politely, "Ms. Birch, to your knowledge

was Mrs. Pettijohn at home at that time?"

"Yes, sir. She's been in her room resting nearly all

day."

"Oh, brother," Steffi muttered beneath her breath.

Ignoring her, Smilow thanked the housekeeper.

Sarah Birch moved to Davee and enveloped her

hands between her own. "I'm sorry."

"Thank you, Sarah."

"You all right, baby?"

"I'm fine."

"Anything I can get you?"

"Not now."

"You need anything, you just let me know."

Davee smiled up at her, and Sarah ran her hand affectionately

over Davee's tousled blond hair, then

turned and left the room. Davee finished her drink,

smugly eyeing Steffi over the rim of her glass. When

she lowered it, she said, "Satisfied?"

Steffi was seething and didn't deign to respond.

Crossing to the liquor cart again, Davee asked,

"Where is the ... where was he taken?"

"The medical examiner will perform an autopsy."

"So funeral arrangements will have to wait--"

"Until the body is released," Smilow said, finishing

for her.

She poured herself another drink, then when she

came back around asked, "How did he die?"

"He was shot in the back. Two bullets. We think he

died instantly, and may even have been unconscious

when the shots were fired."

"Was he in bed?"

Of course Smilow knew the circumstances of her

father's death. Everybody in Charleston was well apprised

of the scandalous details. She appreciated

Smilow for looking a little pained and embarrassed as

he answered her question. "Lute was found on the

floor in the sitting room, fully dressed. The bed

hadn't been used. There was no sign of a romantic

rendezvous."

"Well, that's a change, at least." She drained her

glass.

"When did you last see Lute?"

"Last night? This morning? I can't remember. This

morning, I think." Davee ignored Steffi Mundell's

harrumph of disbelief and kept her eyes on Smilow.

"Sometimes we went for days without seeing one another."

"You didn't sleep together?" Steffi asked.

Davee turned to her. "Where up North are you

from?"

"Why?"

"Because you are obviously ill-bred and very

rude."

Smilow intervened again. "We'll invade the PettiJohns'

private life only if we need to, Steffi. At this

juncture it isn't necessary." Back to Davee, he asked,

"You didn't know Lute's schedule today?"

"Not today or any day."

"He hadn't indicated to you that he was meeting

someone?"

"Hardly." She set her empty glass on the coffee

table, and when she straightened, she squared her

shoulders. "Am I a suspect?"

"Right now everyone in Charleston is a suspect."

Davee locked eyes with him. "Lots of people had