Stirred (15 page)

March 31, 4:55 P.M.
Five Minutes Earlier

I
huffed and puffed my way across the parking lot toward a townhouse set off from the others, surrounded by overgrown shrubs that came halfway up the windows.

There was no name on the mail slot, just the number I’d gotten from Cynthia Mathis—813.

“Try not to say anything stupid or offensive,” I said as I rang the doorbell. “Tell you what…just don’t say anything at all. If you have an idea for a question, write it on a piece of paper and I’ll consider it.”

“Sure thing, Mom. Want to hand me my crayons so I can play quietly in the corner?”

“Like I’d trust you with crayons.”

The doorbell didn’t work, so I banged hard on the glass door, almost said “This is the police” out of habit.

I heard a television set blaring on the other side of the door. The rain had begun to pick up again, and I was overcome with a sudden craving for Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Ice Cream, and, incongruously, dill pickles.

I needed to write to Ben & Jerry and ask if they’d make a cookie dough pickle flavor.

“Did your stomach just say something?” McGlade asked.

“Pretend you’re still a cop. Act copish.”

The door creaked slowly open.

Even before I saw her face, I smelled the smoke and nicotine.

I smiled. “Violet King?”

I could only see a thin panel of the woman’s face through the four-inch crack between the door and the doorframe.

“Who’s asking?” Southern drawl—faint but unmistakable. The sour odor of beer mingled with the cigarette stench.

“I’m Jack Daniels. This is my partner, Harry McGlade. We’d like to ask you some questions about Andrew Z. Thomas.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t think so.”

The woman started to close the door, but stopped. She glanced at my baby bump and then back up into my eyes. Her features softened. “Tell you what…you can come in for a minute.”

Violet opened the door, and for a brief moment, the bleak, gray light from outside flooded into the front room of her townhouse. A haze of smoke lay upon everything like mist on the surface of a lake. An old-school tube television droned on from the far side of the room—a soap opera, the characters yelling at each other in a hospital room, debating whether or not to pull the plug on someone.

Violet stood less than five feet tall, but she must have weighed close to three hundred pounds. Her housedress was faded and expansive, and it took Violet more effort to waddle back across the room than it did for me to follow her inside.

“Is this her?” McGlade said from the corner of his mouth. “Or the beast that ate her?”

“Be nice, McGlade.”

The living room was small and cramped and dark. Aside from the illumination of the television, there was only one other light source—a weak lamp on a marble-topped table next to the couch. A cigarette burning in an ashtray sent blue coils up into the dusky light.

Under the eye-watering reek of new and old tobacco smoke, I detected another, more offensive odor—rot. Spoiled vegetables or meat, or possibly both.

As my eyes adjusted to the lowlight, I saw the walls were covered in baby pictures—photographs of a cute little boy. In many of them, a gorgeous, young blonde held the baby, her smile radiating love and joy. Violet’s hair was still blond, but she no longer seemed to be the woman in those pictures. I wondered if it hurt her to look at them.

Violet backed up carefully to the couch, and as she settled her bulk down onto the cushions, the frame creaked.

“Sit down.” Violet motioned to a leather love seat. She lifted a remote control off the sofa cushion and muted the soap opera. The floor at her feet was littered with bags of potato chips and Chex Mix and enough Sam Adams Cherry Wheat bottles to make me wonder if she owned stock in the company. Something crunched under my Keds—mouse droppings.

“You have a lovely home, Miss King,” McGlade said.

“What is it you two want?”

My bare arm touched the couch, layered with so much smoke residue I could practically feel the nicotine buzz seeping in through my pores. I forced a pleasant smile.

“I understand you were a police officer back in North Carolina.”

“Homicide detective. But that was a long time ago.”

“Was there a reason you left?” I asked.

“I’m on disability.”

“Something weight-related?” McGlade chimed in.

Violet gave him a dismissive glance. “Injured on the job.”

On the table, amid the garbage, was a keychain with a Toyota fob.

“Tough to make do on a disability income,” I said. “But then, you have supplemental income as well.”

I kept silent, hoping she’d fill in the details.

She said nothing.

“How do you know Andrew Z. Thomas?” I asked.

“Well, it’s no secret I was involved in an investigation eight years ago.”

“Where he was the subject?”

“Correct.”

“And this investigation took you out to the North Carolina Outer Banks?” I asked, recalling the Wikipedia page.

“Yes.”

“How did that investigation end?”

Violet let out a long sigh. “There’s been a lot written about what happened on Ocracoke Island. I’m sure you can find books and Internet websites to answer all of your questions.”

“I’ve had quite a bit written about me as well.” I smiled. “It doesn’t always tell the whole story. Or even the truth.”

“I don’t talk about that anymore.”

“Have you been in touch with Andrew?”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him.”

I noticed a photograph on the wall.

Grunting, I struggled onto my feet and walked around the couch as Violet tracked my movement with thinly veiled suspicion.

I reached up and lifted the framed photograph off the nail, studied it for a moment, and then showed it to Violet.

“When was this taken?” I asked.

The photograph was of a younger, much thinner, happier Violet, standing arm-in-arm with Andrew Thomas. A snow-covered mountain range loomed in the blurry distance behind them. I could tell this was Violet only by her green eyes. Otherwise, the woman in the photograph and the woman sitting on the couch looked nothing alike.

“That was taken seven years ago,” Violet said. She heaved her bulk forward and snatched a partially full bottle of beer off the table, raising it to her lips.

“You had a relationship with Mr. Thomas.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You look like a couple here.”

“We were close for a little while. That was a long time ago.”

“But still close enough that his agent sends you his royalty checks. From what I understand, his books have become quite popular since the controversy. Lots of money, I hear.”

Violet shrugged. As a former cop, she knew how to play the game, to only offer information that I already knew. She’d be tough to crack.

I asked, “Where was this photograph taken?”

Violet gave the faintest smile. “Paradise.”

“Where’s paradise?”

She shifted her bulk on the couch. “You’re here about the murder, aren’t you? That woman killed on the bridge.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I saw you on the news. Not too many pregnant women go to crime scenes. The TV showed you collapse.” Violet’s eyes lit up. “I hope the baby is okay.”

“Do you know anything about that murder, Violet?”

She shook her head, reached over to the table, and lifted the cigarette which had nearly burned out. Violet brought it to her lips, took a long, hard draw until the ember flared back to life.

“Only what I saw on the news,” Violet said, letting the smoke out through her nose.

I watched her eyes closely. “Have you ever used the screen name ALONEAGAIN?” I asked, referencing those messages I’d seen on Thomas’s website message board.

“Huh?”

The confusion I saw told me she had no idea what I was talking about.

“Are you familiar with a man named Luther Kite?”

Violet’s face hardened. She turned and spit over her shoulder, a glob of mucus running down the wall. She raised her hands and exposed the bare undersides of her flabby arms. The skin resembled spiced ham—mottled and rubbery. Burn scars.

“
I have Luther Kite to thank for this
,” Violet said.

“I don’t remember reading anything about your involvement with Kite.”

“And you won’t.”

“Did that happen after the Kinnakeet massacre?”

“I don’t talk about it.”

“We believe Luther Kite is the one who murdered Jessica Shedd.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it.”

“Any information you give us could be helpful. It could save lives.”

“I’m afraid I’m not going to be helpful.”

McGlade leaned forward. “So you and this writer guy were knocking the boots?”

“Excuse me?”

“Was he parting the pink curtains?”

Violet looked at me for some interpretation, but I could only close my eyes and shake my head.

“Was he slipping you the bloatwurst with the special sauce? Had Captain Wonder Worm invaded Panty Land?”

“Were you sleeping with Andrew Thomas?” I finally translated.

She drained the beer and let the empty drop to the carpet. “That’s none of your business.”

“That means yes,” McGlade said. “And since he’s still giving you money, I bet you probably have some idea where he is.”

“I want him to leave my house right now.” She pointed at McGlade. “Neither of you are cops. You’re here at my invitation.”

McGlade leaned forward, opening his coat, showing Violet the butt of his revolver. “Maybe I’ll just look around anyway.”

She folded her arms. “You won’t find anything. Go ahead.”

“Really?” McGlade said. He apparently hadn’t been expecting that answer any more than I had.

“I’ve got nothing to hide. Andy and Luther were from a lifetime ago. I haven’t seen either of them since I got burned. Just because I don’t like to talk about a terrible part of my past doesn’t mean I’m covering for anyone. You can search wherever you want, waste all the time you’d like. Just try not to mess my house up.”

McGlade and I exchanged a glance, me wondering if it was even worth looking around. But he stood up and immediately began to snoop. I stayed seated. Not because I believed Violet would suddenly open up, but because I wanted to keep an eye on her. She was probably armed, and I didn’t want her doing anything to us or to herself.

McGlade started in the kitchen.

I heard him open the fridge, say, “Mother of God, the smell is unbearable,” and slam the door shut.

I realized he was the wrong person for this job. What was he looking in the fridge for? What clues did he expect to find there? Bologna and Cheez Whiz?

McGlade opened and closed a few kitchen cabinets, making a lot of racket, and then eventually worked his way upstairs.

After ten minutes of me watching Violet light one cigarette after another, McGlade returned, carrying a stack of CDs.

“Where did you get these?” he asked her.

“What are they?” Violet said.

“Bootleg Rolling Stones concerts.”

“I don’t know. I used to be really into music.”

“Can I borrow them?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve been looking for some of these for years. I promise to return them in good condition.”

I rolled my eyes.

“You can keep them,” Violet said. “I already ripped them to my computer.”

“Really? Thanks!”

“That’s all you found?” I asked, incredulous.

“Are you kidding? This is an epic find. You know how rare this one is? From 1997, taken directly from the soundboard.”

“That’s a great concert.” Violet began to beam. “I was at that show. Front row. Jagger actually sweated on me.”

“That’s awesome. So where’s your baby?”

Violet’s expression went from soft to pained.

“There’s a nursery upstairs,” McGlade continued. “It’s the cleanest room in the house. But no baby food in the fridge. No bottles in the cabinets. This house boasts a wide variety of unpleasant odors, but dirty diapers aren’t a part of the bouquet. So where’s the kid?”

Violet said nothing, but her eyes had begun to glaze over.

“Dead?” McGlade asked.

I glared at him. This was taking good cop/bad cop too far. I didn’t feel a threatening vibe from Violet. The only emotion she stirred up in me was pity.

“Now I’m going to
insist
that you leave.”

“Was it the writer’s baby?” McGlade pressed. “Is the royalty thing really child support?”

“The state took my baby, Mr. McGlade. Some neighbors made false accusations. I’ve spent close to a million dollars on lawyers trying to get him back.” Her voice was cracking. “They won’t even let me see him.”

“How old is he now?” I asked gently.

“Almost seven.”

“What’s his name?”

“Max. After his father, my husband, who was murdered by Luther Kite and his family.” Violet gave me an imploring look. “If I knew anything that would hurt Luther, I’d tell you. I swear I would. He destroyed my life. But there’s nothing I can say that will make my situation any better. Not a damn thing.”

“Maybe what you know can help save someone else,” I offered.

Violet sat silent for a moment before answering. “There’s no saving anyone, Jack. I’m surprised you haven’t learned that by now.”

I fished a business card out of my purse and handed it to her. “If you change your mind or think of anything, call me. Anytime.”

“And thanks for the CDs,” McGlade said, smiling and holding them up. “You can also call that number if you find any more Stones bootlegs.”

We let ourselves out. The rain had stopped, and it felt colder than before.

“Well, that was pretty much a waste of time,” I said, heading for the car.

“Are you kidding? I’m going to make a few hundred bucks selling these CDs on eBay.”

I scanned the parked cars, searching for the Monte Carlo.

My iPhone buzzed.

A text from Herb.

Just four words, but they hit me like a slap across the face.

THERE’S BEEN ANOTHER MURDER.