* * *
The burg’s police department had a staff of six—one chief, four patrolmen, and a clerk who also served as dispatcher and official town gossip. The department handled minor emergencies such as broken-down snowplows and lost pets, parking tickets when tourists passing through stayed too long in an antique shop, and an occasional DUI.
By big-city standards, the gossip wasn’t all that scandalous. It might revolve around who had recently gone to New York City for a face-lift, who was selling their country house to a movie star who futilely wished to remain anonymous, and who had checked their daughter-gone-wild into drug rehab after a tempestuous family intervention. Residents could safely leave their homes and cars unlocked because thefts were rare.
The last homicide in the county had occurred during Lyndon Johnson’s administration. It had been an open-and-shut case. The culprit had confessed to the killing when police arrived at the scene.
The department’s lack of experience as crime solvers worked in Maris’s disfavor. But it worked to her advantage in that a murder investigation stimulated more enthusiasm than tacking up notices of a lost kitty or setting up bleachers for the Fourth of July concert and fireworks display.
The officers had approached the investigation of Daniel’s death with a zealous desire to sniff out the ruthless killer of an esteemed citizen, even if he was a weekender.
She and Noah drove up in separate cars. The exterior of the ivy-covered building looked more like a yarn-and-woolens boutique than a police station. Maris arrived a few minutes ahead of Noah. As soon as he got there, they were ushered into the chief’s office. Both declined an offer of coffee and sweet rolls from the local bakery.
Chief Randall, a ruddy-faced man with a bad, blond comb-over, sensing her desire to cut to the chase, kept the pleasantries to a minimum and settled behind his desk. He seemed more disappointed than relieved to report the outcome of his department’s investigation.
“I’m afraid I haven’t got all that much more to tell you that wasn’t in the initial report, Mrs. Matherly-Reed. My people went over the house with a fine-toothed comb. Didn’t find a thing that suggested foul play.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Noah complacently fold his hands in his lap.
“The officers think, and I concur, that your father simply fell down the stairs. There were some bloodstains on the floor where he was found, but they’re explained by the gash on his scalp. It split open when his head struck the floor.”
She swallowed, then asked, “What about the autopsy report?”
He opened the case file and slipped on a pair of reading glasses that were too narrow for his wide face. The stems were stretched and caused the glasses to perch crookedly on his nose. “The contents of his stomach verify that he ate only minutes before he died, which is what Mr. Reed had assumed.” He peered at Noah over the eyeglasses.
Noah gave a solemn nod. “When I went into the kitchen to call 911, there were dirty dishes in the sink. I had cleaned up after dinner, so I surmised that Daniel had gone downstairs for something to eat. On his way back up, he fell.”
“Is it possible that the scene was staged, Chief Randall?”
“Staged?”
“Perhaps the dishes were placed in the sink to make everyone think Dad had used them.”
“Oh, he used them,” Chief Randall assured her. “His fingerprints were on them. Nobody else’s.”
“The dishes could have been used upstairs. He often ate off a bed tray. How do we know he was downstairs?”
“Crumbs.”
“Excuse me?”
“Bread crumbs on his robe, his slippers, and on the floor near the sink. My best guess is that he stood and looked out the kitchen window while he ate his sandwich.”
Patting his comb-over as though to make sure it was still in place, he referred to the file again. “His blood alcohol level was above the legal driving limit but not by much.”
“Any trace of a controlled substance?”
“Only the medications he was taking. We checked out the prescriptions with his physician in New York. Dating from when they were last refilled, the correct amount of dosages remained. There was no sign that a struggle had taken place anywhere in the house.”
“You found his cane in his bedroom?”
“Leaning against the nightstand, and yes, we checked it for prints,” he said before she could ask. “His were the only ones on it. No evidence of a break-in by an intruder. Not a mark on your father’s body except for the cut on his head, which the ME said was consistent with the fall. He also places the time of death within minutes of when Mr. Reed’s 911 call was received. That’s all documented.”
He removed his glasses and rested his clasped hands on top of the binder containing the report. He cleared his throat and looked at her sympathetically. “When a tragic accident like this occurs and someone dies, their loved ones look for reasons. A scapegoat. Something or someone to blame. I know it’s hard for you to accept, but it appears that your father ran into some difficulty as he was making his way upstairs. He lost his balance and suffered a fatal fall. I’m sorry, Mrs. Matherly-Reed.”
Maris was neither heartened nor disappointed. The findings were exactly what she had expected them to be. She gathered her handbag and stood. Reaching across the desk, she shook hands with the police chief. “I appreciate your time and effort.”
“That’s what I’m here for. I’ve put your house on our regular drive-by route. We’ll keep a check on it for you.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you. Thank you.”
Once outside, Maris made a beeline for her car. Noah caught up with her before she could get in.
He gripped her upper arm, pulled her around, and pushed his face close to hers. “Satisfied?”
“Completely.” Looking at him evenly, she said, “I’m convinced beyond a shadow of doubt that you were the ‘difficulty’ Dad encountered on his way up the staircase.”
His narrow lips stretched into a smile that raised the hair on the back of her neck. “There’s absolutely nothing to substantiate these nasty suspicions of yours.”
“Let go of my arm, Noah, or I’m going to start screaming bloody murder. That nice chief of police would dearly love to rush to my rescue.”
Seeing the wisdom of letting go, he did.
“Chief Randall might be interested to know that my father had retained Mr. William Sutherland to investigate you.”
“Which is circumstantial. So where does that get you?”
“Nowhere. You made certain there was no evidence of wrongdoing. But you underestimate my ability to recognize a good plot.”
“This isn’t a novel.”
“Unfortunately. But if it were, I would suspect you of being the villain. Part of my job is to isolate a character’s motivation, right? His goal must be clear or the story has no legs on which to stand. Well, Noah, you goal is glaringly apparent. Why did you shuttle Dad off to the country house while I was conveniently out of town, especially since we were separated? Why, when you enjoy being waited on, did you insist that Maxine remain in the city?
“You lied about Nadia. You lied about taking up writing again. What else have you lied about? WorldView? Surely. On that I would bet everything I hold dear. When Morris Blume inadvertently mentioned that secret meeting to me, you finessed your way through an explanation. You had covered your rear by informing Dad of it, on the outside chance that one of us would get wind of it. But I wasn’t convinced of your innocence then, and I’m even more certain of your guilt now.
“I think Dad was on to you. Why else would he retain Mr. Sutherland? I think he knew you were dirty-dealing. Maybe he even had proof. When he confronted you with it, you killed him.
“I hope you haven’t committed murder in the hope of securing a deal with WorldView. Because if you have, you’re going to be sorely disappointed. Understand this, Noah. Matherly Press will remain autonomous, just as it always has been.”
“Be very careful, Maris.” His voice was low, but it vibrated with menace. He reached up and took a strand of her hair, winding it tightly around his index finger. To anyone passing by who happened to glance at them, it would look like an affectionate gesture. But he pulled the strand of hair taut enough to hurt.
“It’s you who needs to understand this,” he said. “Nobody is going to prevent me from having everything I want.”
She had been right to fear him the night before she left for Georgia. The latent violence she had sensed in him then hadn’t been imagined. She had glimpsed an evil component of Noah that was no longer content to lie dormant.
But, oddly, she was no longer afraid of him. He had lost the power to intimidate or frighten her. She laughed softly. “What are you going to do, Noah? Push me down a staircase, too?”
“Daniel alone was responsible for his death. He lost his temper, reacted recklessly, temporarily forgot his physical limitations, and suffered the consequences. If you want to place blame, place it on him. But,” he continued silkily, “I’ll admit that his death was very convenient.”
She recoiled and, because he still had hold of her hair, the sudden movement caused a painful yank on her scalp. It was sharp enough to bring tears to her eyes. But she hardly noticed. Because the yank on her memory had been even sharper.
Actually, her death was very convenient.
She’d read that line a dozen or more times. It was a key piece of dialogue, so she had dwelled on it. She had played with ideas on how the statement could be improved or enhanced, but after trying several changes she had concluded that it didn’t need improving or enhancing. It was perfect as it was. Its cold candor was deliberate. It made the statement all the more shocking. Parker had used that simple sentence to provide a revealing sneak peek into the dark soul of the character. Realization slammed into her.
“You’re Todd.”
Noah’s chin went back. “What? Who?”
Thoughts were snapping and popping in her mind like a sail in a high wind, but one thought isolated itself and became jarringly clear: This could not be a coincidence.
With more ferocity than she believed herself capable of, she said, “For the last time, Noah, let go of me.”
“Of course, darling.” He uncoiled her hair from around his finger. “You’re free to go. Now that we understand one another.”
She slid into the driver’s seat and started the motor. Before pulling the door closed, she said, “You have no idea how well I understand you.”
“Envy” Ch. 22
Key West, Florida, 1988
It was one of those days when the words simply would not come.
Roark pressed his skull between his hands, squeezing it like a melon, trying to force the words out through his pores. To no avail. He came up dry. So far today, he had contributed exactly two and one-half sentences to his manuscript. Nineteen words total. For the past three hours, his cursor had been stuck in the same spot, winking at him.
“Mocking little bastard,” he whispered to it now. Deliberately he typed, The grass is green. The sky is blue. “See, you son of a bitch? I can write a sentence when I want to.”
It made little difference that yesterday, his day off from the club, had been a productive one. He had put in sixteen hard hours of writing, going without food or drink and taking bathroom breaks only when absolutely forced. He had over twenty pages to show for his labors. But the euphoria had lasted only until he awakened this morning to discover that evil spirits had sneaked in during the night while he slept and robbed him of yesterday’s talent. What other explanation could there be for its overnight disappearance?
His frustration was such that he considered shutting down for the day, taking in a movie, or going to the beach, or getting in some fishing. But that kind of retreat was easily habit-forming. It was too convenient to surrender to a momentary block. It might become a permanent block, and that was the dreadful possibility that kept him shackled to his chair, staring into a blank screen while being taunted by a blinking cursor that didn’t go any-goddamn-where.
“Roark!”
The door slammed three floors below and Todd’s running footsteps echoed in the stairwell. Lately, he had been working through the restaurant’s lunch hours to earn extra money. Roark welcomed the time Todd was out, when he was left alone in the apartment to write without the distraction that even having another warm body nearby could create.
He turned around in time to see Todd barge through their door. “What’s up? Is the building on fire? I wish.”
“I sold it.”
“Your car?” That was the first thing that popped into Roark’s head. Todd was constantly bitching about his car.
“My book! I sold my book!” His cheeks were flushed, his eyes were feverishly bright, his smile was toothpaste-commercial caliber.
Roark just looked at him, dumbfounded.
“Did you hear what I said?” Todd’s voice scaled upward to an abnormally shrill pitch. “I sold my manuscript.”
Unsteadily Roark came to his feet. “I… th-that’s great. I didn’t even know you… When did you submit it?”
Todd somehow managed to look abashed while maintaining his wide grin. “I didn’t tell you. I sent it on a whim about two months ago. I didn’t want to make a big deal of it because I was afraid—Jesus, I was positive—I’d get another rejection letter. Then today, just now, less than an hour ago, I got this call at work.”
“The publisher had your work number?”
“Well, yeah. In my cover letter, I listed every conceivable way they could contact me. Just in case, you know? Anyway, the manager of the club, that fag we hate, prances over and tells me someone wants me on the phone in his office. He says that personal calls aren’t allowed and to please limit the conversation to three minutes. Like we were busy,” he snorted.
“I hadn’t parked a car in half an hour. I figured it was you or one of the babes calling.” To Todd, their neighbors had collectively become “the babes.” “Overflowing toilet or something, you know? But instead, instead, this guy identifies himself as an editor, says he’s read my manuscript, says it blew him away. Those words. ‘It blew me away.’ Says he wants to publish it. I nearly shit right there, man.
“Then, for a heartbeat or two, I thought you or somebody, maybe the fag we hate, was jacking with me, you know, playing a trick. But no, this editor goes on and on about my story, calls the characters by name. Says he’s willing to offer in the neighborhood of high five figures, but I’m sure that was only his starting point. As much as he raved over the book, there’s got to be wiggle room to up the ante.”
Suddenly he puffed out his cheeks, then emptied them like a bellows. “Listen to me, will ya?” he chortled. “Holy shit! It hasn’t even sunk in yet. I’m standing here talking about negotiating an advance, but I haven’t even grasped it yet. I’ve sold a book!”
Roark, forcing himself to move, forcing elation into his expression, crossed the room and gave Todd a mighty hug, thumping him on the back, lifting him off the floor, congratulating him in the spirit of a good fraternity brother and colleague. “Congratulations, man. You’ve worked hard for this. You deserve it.”
“Thanks, Roark.”
Todd pushed him back, looked him square in the eye, and stuck out his hand. They shook hands, but the solemnity was short-lived. Within seconds Todd was whooping like an air-raid siren and bouncing around the apartment with the jerky, disjointed hyperactivity of a rhesus on speed.
“I don’t know what to do first,” he said, laughing.
“Call Hadley,” Roark suggested.
“Hadley can go fuck himself. He didn’t show any confidence in me. Why should I share my good news with him? I know,” he said, vigorously rubbing his hands together. “A celebration. Blowout party. You and me. On me.”
Roark, feeling less like celebrating than he ever had in his life, was already shaking his head. “You don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to. I want to. Tonight. I’ll make all the arrangements.”
“I’ve got to work.”
“Screw work.”
“Easy for you to say. You’ve sold a book. For high five figures with wiggle room.”
The statements jerked a knot in the rhesus’s tail. Todd stopped bouncing and turned toward Roark. He treated him to several moments of hard scrutiny. “Oh. Now I get it. You’re pissed because I sold before you did.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Well, that’s good,” Todd said sarcastically. “Because if you were pissed, you might be acting like a jackass instead of my best friend on the happiest day of my life.”
True. He was acting like a jackass. Rank jealousy had turned him into a prick, and he was running headlong toward ruining the happiest day of his best friend’s life.
Not that it would be any different if the situation were reversed. Todd would behave just as badly, probably worse. He would sulk and mouth about life’s injustices. He would be resentful and caustic, and then he’d turn cruel.
But since when was Todd Grayson his standard for good behavior? He liked to think he was a finer person and better friend than Todd. He liked to think he had a stronger character and more integrity.
He plastered on a fake grin. “What the hell, I’ll call in sick. Let that fag we hate fire me. What time’s the party start?”