A Bitch Called Hope (6 page)

He leafed through the pages, his eyes running down each one. A speed-reader.

The sky darkened and it began to hail. The hailstones pinged against the glass wall. Kline straightened the recommendations and bounced their collective edges. A small smile played around the corners of his mouth.

“Commendable,” he said. “But you worked on criminal cases when you were with the Portland Police?”

The leather sighed as he leaned back in his chair and waited for her to elaborate.

“I worked on the police force for eight years,” she said. “Two years in vice, the last four in homicide.”

The hail came down harder now and beat steadily against the glass. Here it comes, she thought, the big question. And she was so close, so close to having this job. She wanted to reach across August P. Kline’s enormous desk, grab him by his shiny ears and say, “Give it to me, man.”

“Detective?” he said. “Isn’t that pretty far up the ladder?”

Her yes led to the inevitable next question. He was watching her. No, more like studying her. A man who’d probably never had to justify a goddamn moment in his life. He’d never been in trouble or in danger, never seen his lover down on the ground, gut shot.

She felt the self-loathing writhe in her stomach. She pushed the feelings down and found her voice.

“I always wanted to own my own business,” she said. “Be my own boss.”

She had to figure over the years he’d heard every possible half-truth or downright lie a person could invent. Look at him with his corner office, bird’s eye view and all his gold-plated diplomas. She locked eyes with him and dared him to judge her.

“We’ve been quite happy with Calderbank Investigations,” he said.

She’d been waiting for this one. She had planned to bring up Calderbank if he hadn’t. “But I’m surprised you’re happy with Calderbank. Their success rate for “not guilty” verdicts is only fifty-seven percent.” She leaned forward. “When I worked for the DA, his prosecution ratio for my collars was ninety percent if you include plea bargains.”

“That could have more to do with our clients than Calderbank.” But his ears turned pink along the edge. Calderbank’s losses were in part his losses. And he looked like the kind of man that didn’t like to lose. “Delia Pike wants you as our investigator. You probably knew that already. She said you’re an old family friend.”

“I’m a good investigator,” she said. “And I believe Delia Pike is innocent.”

“Let’s hope that’s enough,” Kline said.

After she signed a standard-issue employment contract, Kline gave her the go-ahead to partner with Ham on the investigation, Klein calling Ham “Hiram Greene.” If she hadn’t been on her best behavior, she would’ve told Kline unless you were a judge, it was best to call Hiram Ham.

Kline handed her a thick file from the D.A.

Bill Pike was found dead at his residence, 35516 SW Talbot Road, Portland, Oregon. He was sixty-six and had a history of heart disease. Cause of death: insulin poisoning. Deceased’s pupils were widely dilated. Bloodstained froth was found in his nose and mouth. Insulin delivered in an inhalant. That plus a .115 blood alcohol count stopped his heart.

Tommy or one of his detectives found Bill’s asthma inhaler at the bottom of a garbage bag in the back of the caterer’s truck. Instead of the asthma medication in the inhaler the lab found traces of Nypril, a form of insulin inhalers they don’t make anymore. The type Delia Pike used regularly for her diabetes. The police got Bill Pike’s thumbprint on the prescription label of the inhaler and a smudge of lipstick later identified as Dior’s
Brown Sugar,
a lipstick used by Delia Pike. It was clear what Tommy was thinking: Delia replaced the label of Bill’s asthma medicine onto one of her inhalers for diabetes.

Lennox turned to the witness list and glanced up from the report to see Kline watching her.

“Aurora Cooper found the body. Any relation?”

“She’s my mother,” Lennox said.

“Is that an issue?”

“Of course not.” Lennox met his eyes and didn’t break contact until he shrugged. She went back to reading the discovery. A few guests witnessed words between Bill and Delia. Delia was heard saying, “You’ve gone too far,” and, “I’m not doing this with you again.” When questioned Delia Pike had denied the argument.

Interview after interview, Delia insisted that Bill Pike was a devoted husband. Yet according to several of her friends, Bill Pike was a ladies’ man. Lennox winced when she saw her mother’s name as one of the witnesses for that tidbit.

If all that wasn’t damning enough there was the question of Dr. Michael Engstrom. From the looks of this report the cops were aware that Mrs. Pike and Dr. Engstrom had more than a simple doctor-patient relationship. The doctor admitted to the police that he’d sold Mrs. Pike the insulin inhalers. He explained that Delia Pike had become upset when she learned that the manufacturer was discontinuing inhalers, so he helped her locate as many as possible. You had to think Portland’s finest were taking a long, hard look at the good doctor.

So they have an overweight guy in his sixties with a heart condition. He’s drinking. The autopsy showed he’d been smoking. Boom! He falls over with a heart attack. Who doesn’t know that smoking kills? Dr. Engstrom administers CPR, declares him dead. End of story. What the murderer hadn’t known was that any time a person, even a person with known heart problems, dies outside a hospital or a hospice situation, the death is treated as a possible homicide.

As far as Tommy was concerned, Delia Pike had the means. She also had the motive. The police probably thought Delia had in mind to kill her husband for some period of time. Those twenty-six murders committed in Portland every year? Half of them were committed by the victim’s near and dear.

Chapter 8

What Lennox remembered about Delia was how pretty she was. Even as a little kid she knew that Delia was not a dumpy housewife. But that was the thing about Aurora’s friends: they were a well-tended lot. They all kept their weight down, their roots tinted and their skin moisturized. So it was hard seeing Delia like this sitting at a plastic cafeteria table in jail-issued blue scrubs, her skin looking like old paper, her eyes showing fear and lack of sleep. But give her credit: she sat very tall in the plastic chair.

Lennox remembered when their two families rented a cabin at Crater Lake Park, Delia was the one that got up early with Lennox and the boys and made huckleberry pancakes for them. Lennox put her hand on top of Delia’s and gave her messages from Aurora and her other friends.

“Why haven’t they arrested the thief? She’s the one that murdered my husband,” Delia said.

Lennox explained that Alice Stapely had no knowledge of Delia’s insulin. And Alice had passed a lie detector test.

“It doesn’t mean she isn’t lying,” Delia said.

“I plan on interviewing her,” Lennox said. She shuffled her notes until she got to the right page then asked her about the guests. Was there any suspicious behavior, anyone angry with Bill, anyone that could have been holding a grudge.

“You knew Bill,” Delia said. “Everyone loved him.”

“I knew him as a kid,” Lennox said. “I don’t know anything about rivalries or bad blood.”

“There was no bad blood. He was a good provider. A man who made things happen.”

“A successful man,” Lennox said. “There’s always someone who is jealous of a successful man.”

Delia shook her head. “I can’t think of anyone.”

“But someone hated him enough to take his life. Someone close. Who knew you were diabetic and used inhalers and that Bill was asthmatic.”

Delia covered her face. “Horrible.”

Lennox touched her arm. “I know. I know. But I’ve got to ask these questions so we can get you out of here.”

Delia’s face softened. “Do you remember that Easter when you were little? That darling yellow dress, you looked like a baby chick. Do you remember? No. Of course not. You were probably only three, maybe four.”

How was Lennox supposed to keep it professional when Delia said stuff like that?

“This attorney of mine: do you think he’s any good? He says he’s talked to the judge about bail.” Delia waved her hand dismissively. “He gave me some nonsense excuse. Now, I’ve tried to be patient, but for heaven’s sake, four days.” She leaned forward, her voice conspiratorial. “What do you think?”

What Lennox could’ve said was that August Kline was a pompous ass. What she did say was he was the best defense attorney in town and urged Delia to at least consider who might want to harm Bill. Then Lennox turned the page of her notebook, not because of all the great information Delia had given her, more just to signal a change of topic.

“Where did you keep your surplus inhalers?” Lennox said.

There was a cabinet in her closet, Delia told Lennox, by the shelves where she stored her sweaters. It had a special catch: you pushed the door in and it released and swung open. There were little shelves. “It’s a perfume cabinet,” Delia said. “You know, to keep the perfume out of the light.”

It made the likelihood of an outsider committing the crime remote. “Who knew about the cabinet?” Lennox said.

“Bill. The boys, I suppose.”

“Anyone else?”

Delia shook her head.

“Why don’t we start with a few nits between your statements and the police findings.”

Which was a nice way of saying you lied to the cops. Cops hate lies: a little fib or a big fat whopper; it doesn’t make any difference. Once they smell it they lose all sympathy for you. Nowadays, Lennox took a more nuanced view.

“The argument you had with Bill just before he was murdered,” Lennox said.

Delia looked down at her hands. They were clenched together on the table, her nail polish half chipped off. “I’m sure it was some trivial misunderstanding. I really don’t remember.”

The florescent lights hummed overhead. Lennox took a deep breath. The room reeked of Lysol. She said, “Delia I’m in a bit of a spot with you. I know our families go way back and all and I don’t want to show you any disrespect, but the thing is.” She braced her arms on the table, folded her hands. “I can’t do my job if we don’t trust each other with the truth.” Lennox landed on “truth” just enough to make her point. “Witnesses stated that they heard you say to Bill that he’d gone too far. That you wanted a divorce.”

Lennox held Delia’s eyes until she finally spoke. “It’s bad enough when he thinks he’s being sneaky,” Delia said. “But I saw them.”

Finally, a crumb from Lady Pike. “Them?” Lennox said.

“Both girls. First the waiter. Coming from a room she had no business being in, her face red as all get out. Then Scotty’s little girlfriend. My God! You’d think Bill would have more sense.” Delia rolled her eyes. “Or more taste.”

Priscilla was Scotty’s little girlfriend. Lennox knew pay dirt when she heard it. “What happened exactly?”

“No.” Delia shook her head. “It’s in the past. I want to forget the whole thing.”

“Bill was flirting with Priscilla? Or something more? Did Scott see them too?”

“That girl would not have been my choice for him. I’ve always wanted the best for my children,” Delia said.

“Delia, did Scott see Bill with Priscilla or not?”

They stared at each other. Delia’s posture tightened. “Where are you going with this?”

“I’m looking for motive.”

“My son?”

“This is a very painful time for you,” Lennox said. “But it’s possible someone in the family is responsible for Bill’s death.”

“Not the boys.” Said with finality.

Lennox tried a different tack. “Who might benefit financially from your husband’s death?”

“Bill was always a good provider,” Delia said. “He worked very hard for us.”

Lennox nodded.

“Both houses belong to me. The boys and I inherit a third of the business each. And Mac came out all right.”

Mac was Father McMahon, Bill’s first cousin, Delia explained. More of an older brother to Bill, a partner with Bill on some properties.

“Including Hunter’s Ridge.” Delia started picking at her nail polish when she talked about the priest. She said, “Apparently Bill and Mac signed a partnership agreement where Mac inherits. Bill never said a word.” Cranberry colored flakes of nail polish scattered on the tabletop.

“I thought priests took a vow of poverty,” Lennox said.

Turns out there were two classes of priests, the class that took a vow of poverty and the class that owned their own golf carts and timeshares in Hawaii. Father McMahon belonged to the golfing class. Bill had no other business partners.

“I don’t know why Bill signed it. He’d never done anything like that before.”

“Could Father McMahon have known about your little cabinet? The one you stored your inhalers in?”

Delia’s eyes widened as she considered the priest. “I don’t know. He spent a lot of time here over the years.”

“Delia, the men that parked cars the evening of the party?”

“They used to serve Mass for Mac when they were young. They do odd jobs for the family.”

Lennox was loving this already. She jotted some notes for Ham and turned the page of her notebook. “Who of your guests knew about your diabetes?”

As soon as Delia got off the subject of the priest she left her hands alone. She said, “Just about everybody except maybe Bill’s business friends.”

“Did any of your guests know you used insulin inhalers?”

“No. I mean, why would I tell them that? Wait a minute. Your mother knew. And Michael, he knew.”

“Michael Engstrom?”

“Yes.” Her face brightened. “Did you meet him?” Lennox saw her old warmth and style.

Lennox said, “I just read the report. How long has he been your doctor?”

“One and a half years.” The answer came out quickly like it was an anniversary she counted.

“And the two of you are friends?”

Delia’s blush traveled up the neckline of her blue top. She looked down at the table.

“Delia?” Lennox said.

The overhead lights buzzed like insects. A small smile twitched the corners of Delia’s mouth and she grew pinker still. Finally she spoke. No, more like gushed, how Michael was such an inspiration, such a friend. He was the person who helped her detox from the effects of gluten, animal fat and lactose products. Did Lennox realize how few people can actually digest milk products after the age of two? The medicines Michael prescribed helped Delia lose that last fifteen pounds. The last few months he became something more than a friend. Lennox pressed her about what exactly she meant by “more than a friend.” Delia looked down and smiled that unmistakable in-love smile.