The Undertaker's Widow (19 page)

“Don't do this, Laura. I love you. We need to discuss this calmly.”

“We do, but I am not calm now. I am very, very angry, and I need some time away from you to think about what I want to do. We can talk when you get back. Right now, I can't stand the sight of you.”

Quinn's plane landed in Portland at eight-thirty Friday evening. Laura knew his flight number and the time of arrival, but she was not waiting for him. Quinn found a taxi.

There were lights on in the house when the cab arrived at Hereford Farms. Quinn paid the driver and carried his suitcases to the front door. Laura opened it before he could ring the bell. She was wearing dark jeans and a black turtleneck. Her hair was combed, but she wore no makeup. There were circles under Laura's eyes and her complexion was paler than usual. He forced a smile, but Laura did not return it.

“We have to talk,” Laura said without any preliminaries.

Quinn left his bags in the hall and followed Laura into the living room. She sat in an armchair and Quinn took the couch.

“You don't know what you've done to me,” she said.

“Laura, I …”

“No. Let me say this.” She looked down. Her hands were clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles were white where the blood was cut off. “I trusted you completely. You have no idea how hard that is for me. I know we've had trouble. I know I'm not the easiest person to live with. But I was certain that I could trust you.”

Laura's eyes began to tear and she swiped at the drops angrily. Quinn was shocked. Laura never cried. The sight of his wife in tears made Quinn sick. “You don't know how difficult it was for me to fall in love with you. I swore that I would never give myself to a man the way my mother did.”

Laura shook her head, too choked with anger to go on. Quinn watched helplessly, knowing that there was nothing he could say.

“I don't want to live with you.”

“You want a divorce?” Quinn asked incredulously.

“I haven't thought that far. What I do want is to be alone for a while.”

“Can't you forgive me? Don't you see how sorry I am? I love you, Laura.”

“I don't know that. Right now, I don't want to be around you. I've made up the bed in the guest room. You can stay here until you've found somewhere else to live.”

Quinn was desperate.

“Don't do this. Don't destroy our marriage.”

Laura's head snapped up.

“Don't you dare put this off on me. No one made you go with that woman.”

Quinn could see that Laura was so angry that nothing he said would change her mind.

“I'll get an apartment for a while,” he said softly. “Whatever you want, as long as you promise me you'll think about what we have. No matter what I've done, I still love you and I don't want our marriage to end.”

Hell Week

It was almost three when Quinn signed in with the guard at the front desk of the Multnomah County Courthouse on the Sunday afternoon following his return from St. Jerome, then took the elevator to his chambers on the fifth floor. He was depressed and a little hung over, having had way too much to drink the night before. Quinn rarely drank excessively, but Laura would not take his calls and his small apartment with its ugly rented furniture had gotten him down.

Quinn hung up his raincoat and put on a pot of coffee. He was in for a solid afternoon of legal research and he hoped the caffeine would clear the cobwebs from his brain. The pretrial hearing in
State v. Crease
was set to start Monday afternoon. The defense had filed several motions. Quinn's ruling on three of them would have a significant impact on the trial. Mary Garrett was asking Quinn to suppress all of the evidence found during the search of the crime scene that had been made a week after the shootings. Ellen Crease's defense attorney was also asking Quinn to suppress certain statements as hearsay.

The State had filed only one motion of importance. Mary Garrett wanted to introduce evidence concerning Martin Jablonski's prior crimes. Cedric Riker opposed the introduction of this evidence.

Quinn organized the materials relating to each motion
into a separate pile while he waited for the coffee to perk. When the coffee was ready, Quinn filled a mug and started reading the memos relating to the motion to suppress the evidence found at the crime scene. Three hours later, he was slogging through the police reports detailing Martin Jablonski's criminal history so he would have a better idea of how to handle the district attorney's motion. He finished deciphering Portland Police Officer J. Brademas's handwritten account of a six-year-old, extremely violent, home burglary and was about to start Officer K. Raptis's report of an older liquor store holdup when he heard the phone ringing in the outer office and saw one of his lines flashing.

“Hello.”

“Is this Richard Quinn?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Kyle Fletcher. I'm a detective in Missing Persons.” Quinn straightened up, suddenly alert. “I'm looking into the disappearance of a woman named Andrea Chapman. Does that name ring a bell?”

Quinn's heart rate accelerated.

“Judge Quinn, you there?”

“Uh, yes. I was just thinking,” Quinn said to stall for time while he tried to figure out why a policeman was calling him about Andrea.

“This woman disappeared last week while she was vacationing on the Caribbean island of St. Jerome. You were there the same time she was.”

“That's right. I was speaking at a legal seminar.”

Quinn wanted to forget about St. Jerome. His failure to tell the police about Andrea's murder haunted him. Detective Fletcher's call gave Quinn a chance to tell someone about the terrible thing that had happened in the cove.

“I believe Miss Chapman sat next to you on the flight from New York to the island. I got your name from
the manifest.” Quinn heard a deep sigh. “I'm stuck here calling everyone in first class. Then it's on to economy. If you could tell me what you remember about her, it would be a help.”

Quinn wanted to tell the truth, but he was afraid. So much time had passed. If he confessed to witnessing the murder now, he had no idea of the consequences.

“Okay. Now I know whom you're talking about. I didn't remember her name. The woman who sat next to me on the flight from New York to St. Jerome designed belts. She was wearing a very attractive belt that she'd designed for some collection.”

“That's her. What did you two talk about?”

“Not a lot. The type of things you discuss with a seat companion on a flight. I was reading a book for part of the time.”

“Just what you remember.”

“I believe she mentioned that she was flying back from a show for leather suppliers in Bologna, Italy. We talked about her job. That's about all I remember, except that she didn't like flying, but she had to because of her work.”

“Did she tell you her plans on St. Jerome?”

Quinn was sweating. This was his last chance to tell Fletcher what had happened, but he could not do it.

“She was going to stay at a friend's villa,” Quinn said. “I don't remember his name.”

“That fits in with what I have so far. Did she mention someone she was going to meet or someone she knew on the island?”

Quinn felt sick and he hoped that his voice did not betray him.

“I don't remember her saying she was going to meet anyone. I got the impression that she just wanted to relax.”

“Is there anything else you can recall?”

“No. I think that's it.”

“Say, did you see her after the flight? On the island?”

Quinn froze. “What was that?” he asked to cover his hesitation. “You faded out there for a moment.”

“Sorry. Must be my line here. I asked if you saw Miss Chapman after you landed. Maybe at your hotel?”

“No. Not after the airport.”

“Okay. Well, thanks.”

Quinn knew that he should hang up, but he could not help asking, “Uh, what happened? I mean, what do you think happened? She seemed like a nice person.”

“What we know for sure is that the day after she landed she went to the beach late in the afternoon. We think she might have planned to meet someone, because she took two sets of snorkeling gear. However, the local police questioned the servants and she never said anything to them about meeting anyone.

“The St. Jerome Police tell me that there are lots of safe beaches on the island. Then you get some with real strong currents. A person could be swept out to sea. They get a tourist drowning every couple of years. There's warnings posted, but people don't listen. The locals think that's what happened.”

“And you? Is that what you think?”

“No reason to think otherwise. Except, of course, there's the extra snorkeling gear. The cops did find her blanket and stuff along with one set of equipment, not two. And the cove where they found this stuff, it's supposed to be safe. Then, again, there have been several reported disappearances in it over the years. So who knows? Anyway, thanks for your time, Judge. I'll let you get back to your work.”

Quinn hung up. His hands were sweaty and he was breathing hard. He had just lied to a police detective. If he was ever linked to Andrea … But he wouldn't be.
If they knew that he was the person that Andrea was meeting, the detective would have questioned him further. Or would he? What if they did know and the conversation was a trap? The conversation could have been taped. He was getting a headache. Quinn stroked his temples. He should have told the detective what he knew, but anything he said would incriminate him. He could not call back, anyway, he suddenly realized. The detective had not left his phone number or the city he was calling from.

The call from the detective had drained Quinn of energy. He went into the bathroom in his chambers and took two aspirin. While he was washing them down, he saw his reflection in the mirror. He looked pale and shaken. Since his return from the island, the murder had taken on a dreamlike quality. Andrea still haunted his dreams, but her features were blurring and there were times when Quinn did not think about St. Jerome at all. The detective's call had made Quinn relive the horror in the cove and the cowardly way that he had dealt with it.