Kill Smartie Breedlove (a mystery) (7 page)

“It’s a great life…”

“
If you don’t weaken!
”

The Quilters had long since left the building. Phyllis had a long way to go before she could quit her day job at the advertising agency. Yuki’s boys were in high school and had early morning football practice. Before Temple could go to bed, she had to frost four dozen cupcakes for her grandson’s Cub Scout bake sale.

Smartie stood at the sink, carefully washing and stacking the sushi sets, waiting for Herrick and Casilda to come to the kitchen with the empty wine glasses.

“Let me wash these, will you, Smartie?” Casilda said, as she did every week.

Usually Smartie waved off the polite offer, so Herrick was surprised when she said, “How ’bout I wash, you dry, and Herrick can put away?”

“Good idea,” Casilda said. “We haven’t had much chance to talk lately.”

“Is something wrong?” asked Herrick, but Casilda put her hand on his sleeve.

Smartie suddenly wondered how much of the earlier kitchen conversation Casilda had overheard, but if Casilda knew what was coming, her expression did not betray it. Casilda almost always had the same serene, vegetarian expression on her face. The unperturbed visage of a caftan-wearer.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Herrick groused. “If you’re planning to cluck at me over that damn blogger—”

“No, no,” Smartie hurried to brush that aside. “Actually… Herrick…”

She turned away from him and plunged her hands into the dishwater.

“I was trying to remember. In
Double Indemnity
, Cain has the protagonist talking about the three things needed for a perfect murder. What were they, Herrick?”

“You know perfectly well what they are. Don’t patronize me.”

“I like the way you tell it,” Smartie said truthfully. “Please?”

“
Get this, Phyllis.
” Herrick wrapped a hard noir casing around his Southern gentleman lilt and recited the passage almost word for word. “
There's three essential elements to a successful murder. The first is, help. One person can't get away with it, that is unless they're going to admit it and plead the unwritten law or something. The second is, the time, the place, the way, all known in advance. The third is, audacity. There comes a time in any murder when the only thing that can see you through is…audacity!
”

Smartie and Casilda applauded, and Herrick acknowledged with a constipated bow.

“
Audacity
,” said Smartie. “What a great word. You feel kind of audacious just saying it.”

“
Audacity
,” Casilda whispered. “Oh, by God, that’s true.”

“It’s lovely how y’all two share an appreciation for words,” Smartie said warmly. “In fact, you have so much in common… and it’s been five years now that you’ve been living together, and I wonder… Herrick… and Casilda… don’t you ever think of maybe getting married?”

“I
am
married,” Herrick said darkly.

“But Herrick,” Smartie ventured, “maybe it’s time for us to accept that our marriage didn’t work out.”

“Smartie. My god. Are you divorcing me?” He licked his lips, blinking in disbelief. “
Divorcing
me over that damn blog?”

“No! I mean yes. I am divorcing you, but it has nothing to do with—with—” Smartie stumbled and searched. “Herrick, you’ve been living with another woman for five years.”

“So you’re jealous,” he huffed. “It’s as pedestrian as that.”

“You know we should have done this a long time ago.”

“Then why now? Why all of a sudden? What have I done to deserve this?”

“Nothing. You are a dear, dear, brilliant man, but the thing is…” Smartie tried to shape some kind of story with her hands on the kitchen counter. “You see, I’m trying to gather some information about this law firm, and the only way for me to really get inside is to become a client.”

“You’re divorcing me for
research
?” Herrick’s face flushed pink. “You granite-breasted hex.”

“Herrick,” Casilda chided evenly.

“I knew you were pathologically detached,” he said bitterly, “but what kind of depthless shoal—”

“
Herrick
.” Casilda’s serene expression tensed momentarily. “You’re being ridiculous. It’s a formality. It’s paperwork. Nothing’s changed. And don’t worry, darling,” she added with a gentle touch under his chin, “I wouldn’t marry you if you begged me.”

Herrick whisked his tweed jacket from the back of a kitchen chair, swept it around his shoulders and stalked out with an abrupt aside to Casilda.

“I’ll be in the car.”

Casilda waited for the door to slam before she said, “That went well.”

“Thank you for staying,” said Smartie. “I was afraid he’d take it badly.”

“He tipped a few too many this evening. Luckily, he set Thursdays aside for hangovers this semester. Not to worry,” Casilda smiled. “Time and tomato juice heal all wounds.”

“I’m terrible with confrontations.” Smartie lit a cigarette and realized her hands were trembling. “But you’re absolutely right, Casilda. Nothing’s changed. Y’all two are my dear friends always, and of course, you’re welcome to have critique here for—”

A harsh horn blast from the driveway made them both wince.

“Casilda, I’m so sorry if I made things awkward for you.”

“Don’t you dare apologize.” Casilda squeezed Smartie’s hand. “You have to do what’s right for you. For heaven’s sake, eight years? I never have been able to figure out what it is with you two.”

“It doesn’t seem to make sense out loud,” said Smartie. “I honestly don’t know why he wanted to marry me. He was never the slightest bit attracted to me or my books.”

Casilda sighed and bummed a cigarette from the pack on the counter.

“He says he had the silly dream that you and he would be this literary golden couple. Like Didion and Dunne. Hellman and Hammett. The ironic thing is…” She hitched the lighter, cupping her palm around the flame. “I’ve always had that silly dream for him and me.”

\\\ ///

8

C
harlie was working on walking, gripping two fingers on Shep’s left hand to pull himself up, grinning a great, toothless hillbilly grin of accomplishment, but Shep was focused on the well-worn
Gray’s Anatomy
spread open on Libby’s kitchen table.

“It looked like a dozen or so pronounced puncture wounds from here to here,” he said, pointing to a posterior view of a skeleton with clear overlays of circulatory system and musculature. “A screwdriver, I’m guessing from the diameter. Maybe an ice pick.”

“Not an ice pick,” said Libby. “That would have been deep enough to do major trauma to several vital organs. Very doubtful she could have survived that.”

He moved his index finger to the shoulder. “Also up along here is sort of an irregular pattern of some kind.”

“Burns, maybe. Possibly a deep abrasion.” Libby scanned the index of another text book and laid it open in front of him. “Or did it look more like this? This would be left by a gangrenous infection of a relatively minor scrape.”

“Except it’s not discolored like that. It’s mostly white.”

“That means the scar tissue is several years old,” said Libby.

“The cigarette burns were clearly identifiable.” Shep indicated the chest on the anterior view. “Both sides of the chest. And around the, um… that area.” He moved his index finger to the place he’d kissed with the most particular care and gentleness.

“I know this sounds terrible in this context,” Libby said, “but I’m thrilled that you were in a woman’s area.”

“Lib.”

“I’m just saying. As a medical professional. It’s healthy.”

“Obviously, we’re looking at evidence of a sexual assault, which means her identity would have been shielded from the media.”

“Or some kind of systematic torture. Child abuse. Or spousal.”

“In any case, the stab wounds had to be a life-threatening injury. I can’t imagine how a violent crime like that could have been kept out of the public record. There has to be a police report. Something in the media about a Jane Doe. I ran the best set of specifics I could put together and came up with no matching criterion in the state of Texas in the last twenty years. ”

“Well, you’re assuming that it happened here,” said Libby. “And that it was less than twenty years ago.”

“She’s thirty-six. If it was more than twenty years ago, she’d have been a kid.”

“You can’t assume that it all happened at the same time. You don’t know that.”

“No, but it’s reasonable to assume.”

“Why? Because it’s less painful for you to think about?”

Shep hated how surgically right Libby could be sometimes.

“Seeing something like that in the ER, we used to automatically think child abuse,” she said. “With this generation of women—and I’m not making any assumptions here—there’s been a weird increase in self-harming. Cutting. Cigarette burns. Point bruising.”

“There’s no way she could have damaged herself like that.”

“In the case of a young woman subjected to domestic violence, sometimes the response is internal self-harm. Self-destructive behaviors. Substance abuse. Promiscuity. Risk-taking. Inappropriate wardrobe choices. Does this woman seem psychologically stable?”

Shep pondered that. “I wouldn’t say she’s
un
stable exactly, but she’s creative.”

“Like Janny?”

“Like Cirque du Soleil.”

“Oh, dear.” Libby bit her bottom lip.

“She said her late husband specialized in counseling torture victims.”

“Shep, is this the right person for you to be involved with right now?”

“I’m not involved.” Shep closed the book on the exposed body. “She was hoping I’d reopen a case. Now she’s not returning my calls.”

“I’m sorry, big bro, but that might be for the best.” Libby kissed the top of his head like she would Charlie’s. “Coffee?”

“Always.” Shep steadied Charlie who’d begun to teeter.

While Libby assembled the coffee and placed sugar cookies on a plate, she whistled a little tune and then mentioned with utmost nonchalance, “I had lunch with Claire yesterday.”

Shep didn’t answer, but Charlie guffawed and slapped his hands on Shep’s knee, enjoying a moment of schadenfreude at his uncle’s expense.

“She always asks about you,” said Libby. “She said if you feel like giving her a call sometime—”

“Libby. She set my car on fire.”

“That was six years ago. Let bygones be bygones, for Pete’s sake.”

“She set it. On fire,” said Shep. “My car.”

“It was a difficult time for everyone involved. You did some things you regret, too, big brother.”

“And I paid for it. You’ll notice, she’s still a cop, and I’m not.”

“You can’t blame that on Claire.”

“Oh,” Shep huffed. “Can’t I?”

“She doesn’t blame you for the fact that she’s never made detective.” She went to the sink and made herself busy with cups and saucers, her back to her brother. “She’s still in love with you, Shep.”

“Drop it, Libby.”

“Hobbit, Yibbee,” Charlie crowed an imitation of Shep’s raised voice and cackled with delight at his own cleverness.

“I’m sorry if I made it awkward for you,” Shep said carefully. “You and Claire have been friends for a lot of years, and I respect—whoa. Libby. Lib, look! Here he goes.”

“
Oh! Oh!
” Libby gasped. “
Camera!
Camera!
”

Charlie had let go of Shep’s leg, and wavered now, freestanding but uncertain as Shep eased back and drew a small digital surveillance cam from his pocket.

“You’re good, Scout. You got it,” Shep said low and even. “C’mon, Ponch.”

“C’mon, Charlie.” Libby opened her arms. “Come to Mommy.”

Leering like an ax murderer, Charlie tottered across the kitchen to his mother, off on the journey of a thousand miles.

Later Shep that night watched the brief video no less than forty times, sitting low in the driver’s seat of his Range Rover. Waiting. Shep did a lot of waiting in his line of work. Drinking coffee in restaurants. Hunkering down in his Range Rover on quiet streets. Pretending to read newspapers in hotel lobbies. Waiting was something he did particularly well because he was neither bored nor troubled by it. He did not wait passively or impatiently. Waiting, for Shep, was like the white space on a page, the black keys on a piano.

There was a shiver of light between the crepe myrtles down the boulevard.

Shep thumbed the record button on his little digital video camera. A silver Lincoln SUV emerged from the night-shaded neighborhood and looped into the circular drive in front of the McMansion across the street.

“Time is 11:27 p.m. Subject previously identified as the client’s spouse, Mr. Kevin Van Reuse, exiting the vehicle at the shared residence. Client, Mrs. Van Reuse, exits the vehicle from passenger side. Client and spouse enter via the front door.”

Shep thumbed the pause button and steadied his elbow on the car door. After a time, a door opened at the side of the house and light spilled into the driveway. Shep cued the camcorder.

“Time is 11:42 PM. Subject previously identified as Kevin Van Reuse exits the shared residence via the side door, enters the Lincoln Navigator registered to the client. Subject enters vehicle on the driver’s side. Unknown party exits from the side door. Appears to be a white female. Late teens. Approximately five-five to five-seven, 130 pounds give or take. Enters the vehicle on the passenger side. And we’re off.”

Without turning on his headlights, Shep eased down the street, keeping the dark green Range Rover close to the palmy shadows near the curb.

“Following subject south on Shattuck. Cross street, Parma Grove. Turning left on Filbert. Unknown female subject is below line of vision periodically. Movement in the vehicle would suggest oral copulation, Mr. Van Reuse being the recipient thereof.”

The Lincoln stopped at a red light that beaconed the border of the subdivision. Shep waited, hanging back, headlights off. The light turned green, but the Lincoln didn’t move.

“Okay. We got him.”

Shep stepped on the gas, swinging his Range Rover up alongside the Lincoln’s passenger side, situating the nose just close enough that the Lincoln couldn’t pull forward without hitting him.