Time of Death (13 page)

Dean, the owner, who looked only a few years older than her son Thomas, recommended a medium roast espresso. PJ hadn’t had one in a while, so she took him up on it. She carried her cup and saucer back to the table, admiring the rich, golden cream on top. The aroma wafted up to her nose as she wondered what to expect when June arrived. The woman sounded so odd on the phone that PJ was beginning to wonder if grief—or guilt—had driven June over the edge.

June showed up carrying a brown envelope, and PJ hoped it wasn’t more sex pictures. Not in Dean’s Beans. Dean was probably underage.

June, indifferent about the menu selections, asked for a cup of coffee, then added six packs of sugar to the house blend she was given.

She and Dave ought to get together. Between the two of them, they could run this place out of cream and sugar.

Without preamble, June drew an eight by ten photograph from her brown envelope. PJ looked at it and blinked. It showed nothing but a hand, a woman’s left hand.

I knew it. I shouldn’t have met her anywhere in public. The next picture out of that envelope is going to be someone’s genitals.

“This was my ring,” June said. “A real rock, a glacier, a four carat diamond in a platinum solitaire setting. A symbol of undying love. I used to love waving it under May’s nose. After all, she’d been dumped.”

Giving the photograph a closer look, PJ did think the ring looked impressive. “When was this, June?”

“About ten years ago. May was about to become the fiancée of a son of Boston old money. Then the family matriarch had a meeting with her, and after that, poof. No engagement. I never found out why. No one did, except May, and she wasn’t saying anything.”

She seemed to want to pour it all out, so PJ put on her psychologist’s face, inhaled her espresso, and let the woman talk.

“I met my fiancé at a conference at UCLA,” June said. “He had this idea about a technology incubator in the Midwest. He wanted to bring together all these top people, pay them scads of money, and let them research their little hearts out. I was happy to be coming back to St. Louis under those circumstances, sort of triumphant. May and I didn’t always get along when we were growing up, you see.”

I think that’s been made perfectly clear.
“Sisters often have rough periods in their early lives,” PJ said. “Then they settle in and become good friends as adults.”

June held her cup up to her face, then left it suspended there beneath her nose, as though she’d forgotten about it. Her mind was elsewhere. Finally she sipped from it and put it on the table.

“Frankie and I come home for the holidays. It’s the first time he’s meeting Mom and Dad.” June continued as if there’d been no break in the conversation, and PJ noticed she was relating events in present tense again.

“The big moment arrives and he carries it off. May’s so jealous even the whites of her eyes are green, and she can’t keep her eyes off my ring. May sits across from us at the dinner table. Somewhere between the main course and dessert, I notice that she’s not looking at my ring anymore. She’s looking at my
man.”

A little color came into June’s cheeks, and her voice edged louder.

Wind her up and let her talk. Actually, she’s self-winding.

“I run my hand up Frankie’s thigh to remind him who’s wearing his ring. He kisses my ear, but I can see the gears spinning behind her eyes. She leans low to talk to him across the table, giving him a view of her two mountains and Paradise Valley. Really. She’s so obvious, I figure Frankie and I are going to have a good laugh about it later that night.”

There was silence for a time. “And did you?” PJ said. “Laugh about it later?”

“What? Oh, yes, of course we did. But during the next two days she’s all over him, touching him on the shoulder, letting her hair fall in front of her face.” June demonstrated, nearly landing her hair in her coffee cup.

“I almost think my parents are cheering her on, making a game of giving her opportunities to be with Frankie without me. It’s a good thing we’re staying at a hotel. At least I get him alone all night. After all, I’ve got breasts, too.”

PJ hoped June wasn’t going to demonstrate that, as she’d done with her hair. By now, PJ had a good idea where this was going. It was painful to listen to, especially with June reliving the experience.

“I’m busy packing away some Christmas gifts, and it occurs to me I haven’t seen Frankie in a while. I go down to the pool, check the bar, finally check the hotel restaurant. The waiter points out their table, but the chairs are empty. I decide to check the little girl’s room to see if May is putting on makeup.”

Coffee forgotten, June reached out. She put her hand on top of PJ’s, which was resting on the arm of the chair, as if using PJ for an anchor. She went on breathlessly with her story, rushing to the end.

“Inside I hear her. I hear them both. They’re in the last stall. May’s panties are on the floor and her legs are wrapped around Frankie. Her blouse is open and his head is buried in Paradise Valley. She looks at me and winks. Winks! I scream, and he keeps thrusting. The motherfucker keeps thrusting! I stand there until he finishes and pulls out. He sees me but he doesn’t really see me, like I’m invisible or something. It’s May he wants. I yank the ring from my finger and reach past May’s ass. I drop the ring in the toilet and flush.”

June had become the center of attention due to the volume of her voice and her subject matter, but in moments peoples’ eyes flitted away. Other conversations resumed, and loners studied the newspapers or books they’d brought.

“So your Frankie didn’t marry you,” PJ said. Every now and then she had to prime the pump.

“He’s May’s husband, Frank Simmons. He was mine first. I just wanted you to know how her marriage got its start. That’s why she’s so jealous of the true love that Arlan and I have. Now do you believe me when I tell you that Frank and May are out to get us? First Arlan and then me.”

June stuffed the picture of the diamond ring back into the envelope. Her face looked drawn, suddenly ten years older. She must have paid a high price emotionally revealing Frankie’s betrayal of her and May’s active part in it. Deep down, she probably still loved her sister, but there was a lot of static between that buried emotion and the surface.

PJ wanted to clear up something she’d been curious about. “Do you remember when we first met that you said you were sure that Arlan had hidden an anniversary gift for you in the house?”

June nodded. “I found it, too. It was lingerie, a sexy black lace teddy. True love, you know.” She frowned. “He got it in the wrong size. He hasn’t made that mistake in years. It was too small, and I had to exchange it.”

Too small, huh? Bet I know who that gift was really intended for.

Looking at June, PJ was reluctant to question her about infidelity, but it had to be done.

“June, were you aware that Arlan and Fredericka were having an affair?”

June’s eyes widened, but she said nothing for a long time.

PJ’s espresso was lukewarm. She drank it anyway, four quick swallows, and settled the cup back into the saucer. “June?”

“I can’t believe May would stoop to spreading lies like that,” June said. “That’s contemptible, even for her.”

“There’s another foreplay album, just like the one you and Arlan had. Only this one is for Arlan and Fredericka. I’ve seen it.”

“I can’t accept that. No. Arlan and I have true love. He only has eyes for me,” she said.

Clearly distressed, June looked like she was about to flee both the idea of the affair and the table.

“So your husband never gave you any reason to think he was involved with Fredericka?”

“Having sex with the little nympho?” She sneered. “That’s what he calls her, you know. He tells me everything. He resists when she flirts with him. If there are pictures of
her,
then May’s behind it. She has to be. And the pictures are fake.”

Before PJ could respond, June headed for the door, clutching her past in a brown envelope, her future in tatters.

S
CHULTZ AND ANITA WERE
sitting at the counter in Millie’s Diner. The place was nearly deserted. One table was occupied with a quartet of Ladies Going Shopping, hands emphasizing their words, laughing, lowering their voices to gossip. All of them had ordered large salads and were now picking at the remains. Words from their conversation drifted up and hung motionless above the women’s table until someone opened the door. The wind swirled the words over to Schultz.
Affair
…
Tacky
…
Fat ass
…
Adorable.

Hunched over his plate, he was rounding up the last of his French fries and making sure each one got its fair share of the salt stuck in the swirls of grease on the plate,

“I thought you were loyal,” he said.

“Where do you get off questioning my loyalty after what I did for you when you were accused of that hit-and-run?” Anita said, referring to an earlier case.

He waved away the reminder. “I know, I know, I’m talking about other shit.”

“Like talking about you with Doc?”

“Yeah.”

“She asked me. What am I supposed to do, lie?”

“Hell, yes,” he said. “You’ve done it for me before.”

“That was different. You were being framed then.”

And I’m being framed now.

Anita frowned, and then wrapped her lips around her soda straw. She might have been thinking the same thing as Schultz.

He pushed on. “She asked you specifically what you knew about my fantasy life?”

“No. The subject just came up, that’s all. We were talking about men in general.”

“Can you just watch what you say from now on? You got me in a shitload of trouble.”

“Actually, you’re the one who got yourself in trouble, from what I hear. Making it clear that Doc’s not part of the group because she doesn’t have a badge.”

Schultz put his head in his hands and groaned.
This is a nightmare! I don’t stand a chance with these women.

“How about we talk police work, Boss? You know, the homicides?”

“We already are. My love life’s a dead subject.”

“I’ve been looking into Shower Woman being the one who attended the workshop in K.C., like you asked. So far, no proof of that. Not even any prints at registration time. She was wearing winter gloves. Get this. She signed her registration slip and the gas credit card purchase left-handed, saying her right thumb was out of commission. The clerk saw the bandage sticking out from under the glove. Those signatures are inconclusive. Can’t be ruled a match, can’t be ruled a non-match to June’s exemplars with her left hand.”

“Marilee Baines could be a professional forger.”

Anita snorted. “Gimme a break, Schultz. June has an actual bruise at the base of her thumb, several days old, turning yellow. Shower Woman doesn’t. The K.C. hotel room has been cleaned and occupied, twice. No prints there, no nice long hairs, no fibers from her wool winter coat. Nada. The place prides itself on its exceptional housekeeping. June’s alibi is still good.”

“Shit. It was such a tidy package. June killed her husband because he was screwing around with Fredericka, and then killed the look-alike hired to create an alibi,” Schultz said. “Cleaning up the loose ends.”

“You’ve been reading too many mysteries, Boss. Things aren’t that tidy in real life. Besides, if we’re looking for wives whose husbands screwed Fredericka, the number is probably huge. I heard about her little love-fest with Dave.”

“It would be faster to list the people who’ve known Fredericka longer than thirty minutes and
haven’t
screwed her. Keep working on that alibi, Anita.” He stood up and left a quarter tip.

“You and your hunches,” she said. She put two quarters under her own plate, and when she thought he wouldn’t see it, slipped another one under his.

Christ. All these women are in it together.

“Anita, where’s Forest Park Terrace?” PJ was driving around in the private street section of the Central West End, having trouble finding the Simmons home. She’d finally resorted to calling Anita, who was working her way down the Simmons party guest list.

“I made a note about that in my report. I guess you didn’t spot it,” Anita said. “Forest Park Terrace is an old name, from the turn of the century. It’s Lindell Boulevard now.”

PJ sighed in exasperation. “Why does the Simmons home have a turn of the century address?”

“You’ll have to ask them. The house is about a hundred years old. I guess they thought it was classier to keep its old address, impressive in gold ink on invitations, that kind of thing.”

“Snootier, more likely. How do they get their mail?”

“Post office box, I suppose. Anything else, Boss?”

“Yes. Tell me how to get there. I just passed this huge gate with marble columns and a statue of a nude woman.”

“That’s Carrie. The statue, that is. The street you passed was Kingsbury.” She gave directions from there.

“Got it, thanks.”

The driveway was long and tree-lined, and the bare tree branches were covered with Christmas lights. The place must look fabulous at night, considering that it already looked fabulous during the day, without the benefit of holiday lighting. A gardener was working near the driveway, raking leaves that must have blown in from the neighboring house. He was young, early twenties, and had an amazing physique that drew PJ’s eyes. When he turned toward her, she saw that his face was disfigured on the left side, maybe a burn scar. He wore his cap pulled low on his forehead. He was putting leaves into an open-topped compartment on the back of a utility vehicle, a kind of lawn tractor without the mower blade. It had wood rails all around the back end, like a large children’s red wagon. She’d seen something similar at the Missouri Botanical Garden, but here it was at a private home.

Imagine having the resources to bring in a gardener and a cart for a few stray leaves.

The wind swirled the collected leaves, lifting some out of the cart. The gardener patiently went after them, and waved to her as she pulled up to the house. He had a smile that made it easy to forget the scar on his face. She smiled back.