The Fine Art of Murder (12 page)

Sunday afternoon at the county morgue—not exactly my idea of a good time. Barbara wore a white lab jacket over her pastel dress. She looked like a forensic church lady. “Prance on in here,” she said when she saw me standing outside her office.

Born and raised on a ranch outside Dallas, she claimed that everything she knew about people had come from living around horses all her life. She had a theory that there were two kinds of body types in the world: racehorses and workhorses.

“Now, those models with their elongated necks and legs that go on for miles, they’re racehorses. They’re skittish and have to be handled with care. But workhorses are low to the ground and strong, determined hard workers. I’m a workhorse. What you see is what you get.”

After reading her first two books on forensic techniques, I’d gone to a signing she was doing for her third. Before joining the force, I’d thought about being a forensics sketch artist and was eager to meet the intelligent, opinionated woman who had made such a name for herself in the male-dominated field.

We hit it off immediately. She, along with Sully, encouraged me to join the force. And when I surprised everyone, mostly myself, with my interviewing technique, she told me to go that route instead of sketching. She’d started off as my mentor, and our friendship evolved from there. But we’d never visited each other’s homes or celebrated one single holiday together. And after hundreds of coffee breaks and lunches shared in an office discussing a case, we agreed that keeping family separate from work was best for both of us.

“I got the report right here,” she said, sitting behind her desk. “I just made a fresh pot of coffee. Want a cup?”

“No, I’m good.”

“Well, I’m not. Would you pour me some?”

I walked to a small table where the coffee pot and cups were. A plate of shortbread cookies was next to the sugar.

“Can I have one of these?” I asked.

“Help yourself, darlin’.”

I put her cup down in front of her and the cookie on the opposite side of her desk. Then I sat down.

“So fill me in on what y’all have so far,” she said and leaned back to get comfortable.

I started from the beginning and didn’t leave out a single detail. I ended by telling her about my conversation with Dean Bostwick in front of the mansion. As I rattled on, she sat stone-faced, listening intently, throwing in a nod here and there. When I was finally finished, she nodded some more.

Then she said, “You certainly have been a busy girl, haven’t you?”

“I sure have.”

“So tell me, how well did you know Stacey?”

“I know she worked for Randolph Pierce at his gallery and with Antoine Rousseau at the estate. She had an art degree. I only met her once but remember she was pretty and intelligent. But I’ll tell you, Barb, everyday seems to bring more surprises to this case. I was hoping you’d have some information that might help me.”

Barbara opened the white manila file. “Well, here’s what I know: Stacey Jordan, Caucasian female, twenty-eight years of age. Five feet, six inches tall, one hundred and ten pounds. Healthy, no diseases, no scars, no evidence of ever giving birth. From the ID police found in her wallet, she lived in Minneapolis at five-oh-six Walnut.”

“And what was the official cause of death?” I asked.

“Blunt force trauma. A pattern mark in the center of the back of her skull suggested a heavy round object was used, approximately the size of a tennis ball. She was struck three times. The first blow didn’t kill her, probably just knocked her unconscious. This caused her to fall forward, hitting her forehead pretty good but not hard enough to kill her. The second strike did the trick. I picked out some metallic flecks from the wound, which, when tested, turned out to be a gold overlay of some sort. There was no DNA or skin in the wound other than Stacey’s. Nothing was found under her fingernails. She couldn’t have put up a fight—”

“—because she was attacked from behind,” I finished. “Can you tell the approximate height of the killer from the angle of the blows?”

“If there had been only one, I could. But the other two strikes opened up the area more.”

“How many assailants do you think there were?”

“Only one. I’m positive about that.”

“And what do you make of those scratches along her arms?”

“I’d say that whoever killed her tried to move the body, probably to hide it. She was dead when she was scratched.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Barbara put the file down. “Such a shame. From what I heard, Stacey’s only relative was her mother. But the poor woman’s very ill—cancer. And we can’t release the body to her until we’re finished with the case.”

All I could do was shake my head. Then I remembered something. “Could the metallic head of a walking stick be the murder weapon?”

“Well, theoretically, anything can be a murder weapon. It all depends upon the force of the blow. Why?”

“Someone I know carries a cane with a head about that size,” I said.

“If you bring it in, I can examine it for trace evidence.”

“Thanks so much. And how long ago did Bostwick receive your report?” I asked.

Barbara leaned forward, making her chair squeak. “Oh, he hasn’t gotten it yet.”

I stopped wiping cookie crumbs off my fingers. “You mean . . . ?”

“Y’all are the first to see this report, besides me, of course.”

I tried, but I couldn’t keep the corners of my mouth from curling up into a big grin.

“This paperwork gets sent to his office tomorrow. So let’s keep this between us fillies for now.”

“Of course. But how did you know I’d want to see your report in the first place?”

“Oh, I wasn’t sure. But when I heard you were investigating the murder, I had a good hunch. You know, Katie, ever since you left the force, I’ve become Bostwick’s target. I can’t, for the life of me, figure out why he has it in for us old broads. Maybe it’s a mother issue or some such nonsense as that. But whatever it is, I just wanted to make his job a little bit more . . . challenging. Know what I mean?”

I knew exactly what she meant.

When I got back in the jeep, I called Nathan and told him what I had learned from Barbara. I’d been thinking that a background check on Stacey would be helpful. He said Polly was the one to go to and that she was planning to paint her kitchen and would be home all weekend. He gave me her number. I called her and she said she was ready for a break, so I headed right over.

***

Before ringing the bell, I noticed the name above it read Pauline Mercer. Somehow, not knowing Polly’s real name made me feel embarrassed that I had come to her home needing a favor. I wondered what I should call her. Polly or Pauline?

People have always told me I think too much. How can that be? Isn’t thinking a good thing? Isn’t that what separates us from trees . . . and rocks? But maybe in this case, they were
right. After a moment, I decided that if she was good with her nickname, then so was I.

She buzzed me up to the third floor and was standing, holding the door of her apartment open, when I arrived.

“Hey, Katherine.”

“Hey, Polly, sorry to bother you on a Sunday.”

“No biggie.”

She let me into the apartment and my nose was immediately hit with the smell of paint fumes.

“I turned on a fan; hope it helps.” She was wearing ripped jeans and a black smock, both spattered with the dark purple she was painting the kitchen. An interesting choice, I thought.

“It’s fine.” Truth is I like the smell of paint.

Her living room had been turned into an office. Four computers sat on four separate tables, which had been pushed up against their own wall. Each had a chair in front of it.

“Sorry there’s no comfortable place to sit. I don’t usually have guests.”

“A chair is fine.”

“So Nathan called after he hung up with you. He said something about doing a background check on Stacey Jordan?”

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble?”

“No trouble. It shouldn’t take that long.”

She walked to the largest computer, sat down, and started typing. Her fingers ran across the keyboard gracefully. After asking for the correct spelling of Stacey’s name and a current address, the only sound in the room was the clicking of the keyboard.

It only took about ten minutes. And then she said, “Here it is. Pull your chair closer.”

“Wow. Are those all her debts?” I asked.

“Thirteen whole pages of ’em,” she said. “Twenty thousand in student loans. A car loan from three years ago. Jewelry and looks like . . . about thirty thousand in credit cards.”

“So we can rule out anyone killing her for her money.”

Polly chuckled. “For sure. No insurance policies either.”

“What about relatives or a husband?” I asked.

“No husband, no divorces, no children. One sister, deceased two years ago. Nothing here about a father. But her mother’s alive and . . . not well.”

“Yeah, I think she has cancer.”

“That would explain all the doctor bills. She owes two oncologists big time.”

“Was she ever arrested?” I asked.

A few more clicks of the keyboard. “Once for shoplifting. But that was years ago. Nothing since.”

“So the only other name I’ve added to my list is her mother, who would be . . . how old?”

It was miraculous how quickly Polly was able to come up with the information. Miraculous and a little scary. Knowing that my personal information was out there like Ms. Jordan’s was made me feel vulnerable.

“Her mother, Nancy Jordan, is . . . fifty-three.”

I tried not thinking about how much older I was than the poor woman or how devastated I’d be if anything ever happened to my daughter.

“Want a peek at her bank records?” Polly asked.

“You can get to them? I thought there were all sorts of safeguards.”

“Here we go. The Mercantile in Minneapolis.” Polly scrolled down, looking at monthly balances. “Nothing unusual. Two insufficient fund notices last year but she worked consistently. Wow, look at this.” She pointed to the screen.

I scooched closer, promising myself to buy an extra pair of reading glasses.

“Look at this deposit,” she said. “For months it’s always the same. Every Friday, she takes her paycheck from the art museum where she works and deposits it into her account. Seven hundred and fifty dollars deposited like clockwork. And then this.”

I squinted. “Five thousand from . . .”

Polly clicked onto Stacey’s balance and brought up a direct deposit from the L’Etoile du Nord Foundation. “There’s another one a month later for seven thousand, five hundred, and just before she died, ten thousand, three hundred. All from this foundation.”

“Is there an address on the checks?” I asked.

“No, it just says: L’Etoile du Nord. Huh, wonder what that means.”

“The Star of the North,” I said. “It’s the state motto of Minnesota.”

“Why’s it in French?” Polly asked.

“Something about the French explorers . . . I forget exactly. We had to learn all that in school. And that was a long time
ago.” French made me think of Antoine Rousseau. Could he be involved in Stacey’s murder?

“So now what?” Polly asked.

“I think I’m going to Minneapolis,” I said, still unsure what was going on.

“You better not go alone. If I was you, I’d take Brock with me. You’ll have to feed him, but he’s as tough as they come. He’ll keep you safe.”

“Why do you think I need protection?”

“Come on, Kate, we’re talking murder here.” She looked at me like I wasn’t understanding the situation fully. “I know you were a police chief and all that. You’ve had some training and can handle yourself. But it never hurts to bring along some backup, right?”

“Right.”

When I stood to leave, a little dog came around the corner from what I assumed was a bedroom. He looked like a cross between cocker spaniel and poodle. After sniffing my shoes, he jumped up on Polly’s lap.

“This is Herbie,” she said, petting the animal. “I grabbed him during a raid we did on a testing lab.”

Herbie licked Polly’s face. For a minute, the two seemed oblivious that I was there. Nathan told me once that Polly wasn’t big on people and preferred being alone with her machines and animals. It sure looked like that was true.

“Well, I’ll let you get back to your painting. I’ve bothered you enough for one day.” Leaning over, I scratched the dog behind his ear.

Showing his teeth, he growled.

“Strangers still scare him. It’ll take a while until he trusts people again.”

“But he sure loves you.” I walked to the door. “Thanks again, Polly.”

She didn’t get up, just waved. “Anytime.”

After visiting Polly, I went back to the house. Lizzie was setting the table. Sunday dinner was the one meal a week she always made a point of fussing over. I went to help her.

Conversation around the table was lively. Yesterday’s walkathon had been a big success. Lizzie was bursting to tell me about all the money they’d raised and how it would be distributed. Chloe couldn’t stop talking about a boy in her class who happened to turn up at the event.

“All the girls like him but I think he likes me best. Can you believe it? He’s got blond hair and these deep dimples in his cheeks.” She hesitated to smile. “Wouldn’t it be cray-cray if I got a real boyfriend this semester?”

Lizzie and I didn’t discourage her by saying she was too young for a boyfriend. Or explain that maybe she was reading him wrong. We both understood her feelings and just enjoyed the moment, watching her be so happy.

Cam sat quietly, eating his pot roast, content. I’ve learned a lot about the value of quiet observation from my grandson.
The ability to absorb my surroundings instead of gloss over small details has helped me in my work and art.

Then it was my turn. All of them wanted to know what I’d done that day. Where had I gone? Who had I seen?

I talked in generalizations. Told the kids about my illustrious friend, Barbara, and how I’d gone to her office just to say hi. I went out of my way not to mention that her office was in the morgue. I told them we had fun catching up. But I never threw in the fact that we’d been discussing a murder. For good measure, I told them about visiting Nathan’s friend, Polly. The three of them listened politely but never asked a single question—until I mentioned Herbie. Of course, I didn’t tell them how Polly came to have Herbie.

While the kids begged their mother for a dog, which they did weekly, I noticed how Lizzie avoided making eye contact with me. We hadn’t had time alone to discuss my last visit to the jail. She knew I’d left the building hurt and angry. And we both knew we’d make the time to talk things out later.

***

Chloe and Cam had been in bed about an hour when Lizzie and I gravitated to the comfortable sofa in the family room, on the other side of the house.

She rubbed her palms together, a nervous habit she seemed to have acquired since quitting the law firm. It became more pronounced when she was frustrated. I really hadn’t noticed it until recently.

“I am so sorry, Mother. About everything. I never set out to intentionally lie to you. Randy and I were still so new, just trying to figure out how we felt about each other that night. It was private, just between the two of us. Then Stacey got murdered, and Randy was hauled in for questioning. He was only trying to protect me, but when he got thrown in jail . . . everything got so complicated and we didn’t know how to get out of the lie.”

“So you hired me to prove him innocent.”

“Yes.”

“Well. I’m still angry about the whole thing. And you being a lawyer should have known better. I hate that you’re involved in this.”

“I know, I know. I should have said something right away.”

“You both should have,” I said.

She looked at me, then really looked at me, and asked, “Do you know how much longer you’ll be mad at me?”

At that moment, my forgiveness was the only thing that could make her feel better. And how often can a problem be solved with just a hug? So I moved closer. She cried into my shoulder when we made contact.

“Until . . . tomorrow. I’m going to be mad at you until breakfast tomorrow. That’s the best I can do.”

That made her laugh. She sat up and wiped at her tears with both hands. “I’ll take it.”

After we both calmed down, I asked, “So, what about Randolph giving up his DNA and taking the polygraph?” I knew there was no DNA left at the scene, but I didn’t want to tell her that until Randolph gave his sample.

“I’m going down there tomorrow to arrange everything,” she said. “Randolph agreed to tell the truth about where he was that night.”

“Good. And you?”

“I’ll take a polygraph, too. When Dean sees that my test corroborates Randolph’s alibi, he’ll have to release him.”

“Then you’ll have no reason to represent him. And when Bostwick asks why the change of heart, you’ll have to come up with something that’ll satisfy him.”

“I think the truth should do it. He has to understand we were both concerned with our professional reputations.”

“What about your personal one?”

She shrugged off my question. “Oh, who cares about that anymore?”

“You’re being a little naïve here, Lizzie. You were born and raised in this town. You’ve set up practice here; your children go to school here.”

“Maybe there’ll be talk for a while—until people get bored and move on to another scandal.”

My beautiful daughter lived by the rules and it had always paid off for her. She’d married well, bought a home in an upscale neighborhood. She paid her taxes on time, never jaywalked, and gave to charity. But working as a criminal defense attorney had brought death threats in the mail. She’d gotten up close and personal with far too many bad guys. And when Cam was born with Asperger’s, she’d watched him being bullied and stared at. So how then could she not understand the repercussions of her actions? I was dumbfounded.

“It’s human nature to gossip; people relish knowing that their neighbor is more miserable than they are. And if you think the Internet is bad, you should have been a mother before PCs. We didn’t have Facebook or Twitter, but we had backyard fences and the grocery store. Not to mention good old-fashioned phones in our house where we could have a private conversation—in private—not out on the street for every pedestrian to hear. It was just as bad back then, believe me.”

“Don’t worry, Mother. I’ll watch myself.”

“So if Randolph’s released and you no longer represent him, I guess there’s no reason for me to continue my investigation,” I said.

“He’ll need a lawyer until this is all over. We’ve both seen cases where the accused passes the lie detector and still ends up in jail. So please—for me—stay and find the real killer so we can all get back to normal.”

“All right, I’ll stay . . . but I’m not sure about the normal part.” I laughed, but I wasn’t kidding.

Without the kids around, I was able to fill her in on the details of my day, especially what I’d learned about Stacey’s finances.

“So what’s your next move?” Lizzie asked.

“I think I’m going to Minneapolis.”