The Old Deep and Dark (24 page)

“
Jordan
had the most to lose,” said Kit.

Leaning back in his chair, DePetro studied her for a few seconds. “We were able to track your cell phone on Sunday morning. Assuming you had it with you, you left the house around seven and didn't return until close to nine. Is that true?”

“I—”

“You don't have to answer that,” said Ray.

“I'm happy to answer. I have nothing to hide.” She rearranged her sweater, retied the belt. “I did leave. I thought I'd spend some quiet time in the sanctuary at my church before mass began at nine. But when I got there, I saw that there must have been an early mass scheduled, so I left and drove around.”

“You drove to Bayview Park.”

“No, I did not.”

“We have records of your cell phone pinging off a cell phone tower not two miles from there.”

“Our house isn't more than four miles from the park. I wanted to be alone, to have some time to think, so I drove out to Bay Point Ridge, high above the park, and sat watching the waves.”

“At the very least, you cannot state unequivocally that nobody in your family left your house that morning if you weren't even home.”

“I
can
state that,” she said, raising her voice for the first time. “I know because nobody in my family murdered Jordan. It's not possible.”

“It's not possible because
you
murdered him.”

The words felt like darts hitting her skin. “I didn't.”

DePetro allowed himself a small smile. Paging through the papers in front of him, he stopped when he found the one he was looking for. “Mrs. Deere, I wonder if you could tell me if you know any of these people. First, Dr. Daniel Woodson.”

“Never heard of him. Who is he?”

“Charles A. Nash.”

Kit was momentarily thrown. “Yes,” she said carefully. “I know him.”

“In what capacity.”

“He was a friend. Many years ago.”

“A lover?”

“That's right. Jordan and I, for obvious reasons, didn't have an exclusive relationship.”

DePetro returned to the page. “Samuel L. Burke?”

“Another friend.”

“And lover?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Donald P. Greer. Arturo Young. John D. Flemming. William Timothy Hudson. Alvin Bates. Kyle Todd.” He looked up. “All men you slept with?”

The smug look on his face caused her throat to tighten. “Yes.”

“Shall I go on?”

“What's your point?” asked Ray, his tone a mixture of disgust and impatience. “As Kit just said, she wasn't in a monogamous relationship with Jordan Deere. Nor was Jordan with her.”

“Tell me who Myron Oliver is,” said DePetro, his voice uncharacteristically mild.

Kit bristled. “Another man I slept with.”

“Where did you meet?”

“New Orleans.”

“So this man was a recent … admirer.”

“I suppose. Yes.”

“What did you two talk about?”

“Could you be more specific?” asked Ray.

“Mrs. Deere, did you ever tell Mr. Oliver that you were so angry at your husband that the only solution left to you was murder?”

“Absolutely not,” said Kit, sitting up straight. “I never said that.”

“What did you say?”

“That I was angry, sure. Maybe I said something like, ‘I'm so furious I could kill him.'”

“And the difference between those two statements is?”

“You have to understand the context. I was at Myron's house. It was late and we'd been drinking. I was confiding my feelings to him, telling him about my frustrations with Jordan. It's just … something people say when they're angry, when they've had too much to drink. I didn't mean that I was planning to murder Jordan. That's just crazy.”

“And Myron never said to you that he could help. All you had to do was say the word.”

Kit blinked. “He didn't mean that, any more than I meant what I said.”

“You didn't tell him that you'd think about it?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“And you never lie, Mrs. Deere, so we can rely on your word.”

The room began to tilt.

“During our search of your house on Sunday afternoon,” continued DePetro, abruptly changing topics, “we found your husband's laptop. We took it with us and had some of our technicians examine it. It seems the laptop is missing its hard drive. Care to comment on why that is?”

Her eyes jittered into focus. “I have no idea. You'd have to ask my husband about that.”

“Which we obviously can't do.”

“No,” she agreed.

“Was there something on that laptop that you, or someone in your family, didn't want us to know about?”

“Now you're fishing,” interjected Ray. “Kit, don't answer that.”

“You lie so easily and so often that you wouldn't know the truth if it bit you in the ass,” said DePetro.

“That's it,” said Ray. “Unless you're arresting my client—”

DePetro closed his file folder.

Kit held her breath.

“No, I'm not arresting her. Not yet. But cooperation goes a long way,” he said, directing the comment to Kit. “Sometimes lawyers don't help you, they hurt you.”

“Kit,” said Ray, rising from his chair. “We're done.”

 

27

“Just the woman I wanted to see,” said Archibald as Cordelia sauntered into one of the conference rooms on the second floor of the theater's east building late Wednesday morning. “You're never going to guess what I found.” He'd been itching to show her.

“I'm not sure I can take any more surprises,” she said, groaning.

“Don't be silly. You're going to love this.” He swiveled his chair around and flipped through several badly framed oil paintings. Selecting the smallest first, he held it up. “Know who that is?”

She leaned forward to get a better look. “Someone historic. The painting looks old.”

“It's Elijah Samuelson, the man who built the main theater building.”

“Ah,” said Cordelia. “Love the bowler. Might have to get one of those myself.”

“And this,” said Archibald, setting another, larger painting on his knees. “Guess who.”

“No idea.”

“Gilbert and Hilda King.”

Cordelia squinted. “You've got to be kidding.”

“Why?”

“Gilbert looks like Elton John during his straw-hat period. And Hilda is the spitting image of Eleanor Roosevelt.” She leaned halfway across the table. “Hmm. That's quite a dress. And I've never seen a turban like that before. Black sequins, with that silver star on the forehead and a single feather erupting from the top. Hilda was a real fashion plate. I think I know what I'm going to wear to our grand opening.”

The idea failed to impress Archibald, but then clothes had never been his thing. “There's one more,” he said, lifting up the largest canvas. “This is Albert Manly Parker, the architect of the building. He was quite famous in his day. I think you should redo all of these oil paintings in elaborate gilt frames and hang them in the lobby. A way to honor the history of the theater.”

“This isn't a theater, it's a charnel house.”

“Pardon me?”

She pulled out a chair and sat down. “You haven't heard the latest. The cold case detective who came out yesterday afternoon to examine the skeleton Red found in that hidden room—”

“Wait, wait,” he said, holding up a hand. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

He listened closely as she explained, in mind-numbing detail, what had happened yesterday. “I had no idea,” he said when she finally stopped talking.

“And then,” she said, revving up for part two of her rant, “they asked if I'd allow them to bring in a team to look through the entire building.
For freakin' dead bodies!
They arrived around five and worked all night. I mean, I didn't want any more surprises, so it was all good, but
heavens.
As soon as I walked in this morning, I was met with the search report.” Her eyes nearly bugged out of their sockets. “They found
another
skeleton. That makes three. And that doesn't even count the gangland hits, Gilbert and Hilda. Five dead bodies in the Thorn Lester Ossuary. Think I should change the name of the theater? Has a certain dramatic ring, don't you think? Especially if we end up doing a lot of Shakespeare.”

“You mustn't hyperventilate.”

“If there ever was a time to hyperventilate, it's now. The cops think there's a serial killer out there using my theater as his own personal mausoleum.”

“Serial killer? That's a little strong.”

“Look up the definition. A serial killer is generally a man who has killed at least three people over an extended period of time, someone who does the killing within a defined geographical area—a comfort zone, otherwise known as
this freakin' theater
—and generally uses the same method.” She drew her arms wide. “Check, check, check, and check.”

“Will you let me make a comment longer than two words?”

“What? Oh. Go ahead. Happy to have you put this into perspective for me.”

“Don't be snide.”

“My sister certainly isn't around to do it. I hate her, sometimes, you know? She's off in Europe having herself a grand old time while I'm back here dealing with Jack the Ripper.”

Archibald wasn't in the mood to make any more attempts to calm her down. He wasn't particularly calm himself. He decided to ask a few leading questions and then shovel her out the door. “Have the police been able to find out anything on the last two skeletons?”

“Not much.” She unwrapped a lump of bubble gum and popped it into her mouth. Chewing like a madwoman, she said, “What amazed me is that Kit knew the first guy, the one Jane and I found in the speakeasy buried behind the wall.”

“Kit … knew him? You spoke to her about it?”

“Sure. Why not? She dated the guy. Even Beverly remembered him. They said he just disappeared one day. Poof. Gone.”

“Cordelia, you have to listen to me.”

She unwrapped another lump of gum. “What?”

“This is important. Leave Kit out of your theater problems.”

“Why?”

“She already has so much on her plate that she's nearly drowning. Cut her some slack. Do you realize she was interrogated again this morning? She thinks she's about to be arrested. She's so stressed that I fear for her health. Her sanity. FYI, I don't think Ray Lawless is providing her with the best counsel. If it were up to me, I'd dump him and hire Mark Geragos. Or Gloria Allred. But back to the subject at hand. Weighing Kit down with your problems at a time like this is unconscionable.”

Cordelia slowed her chewing. “I never thought about it that way. I just saw it as a fascinating coincidence.”

“Fine. That's what it was. And now, if you love Kit as much as you say you do, you'll leave it at that.” When she stopped chewing he could tell his words had finally penetrated.

“The Old Deep and Dark,” she said, blowing a thoughtful bubble. Sucking it back in, she added, “When you think about it, it may be the theater's nickname, but it's also a good description of the human heart.”

*   *   *

Jane had been wondering about Red Clemens since the day she'd first met him. He always seemed to be around, popping up when you least expected, a kind of human jack-in-the-box with his carrot-red hair and the gap in his front tooth. Because he'd worked at the theater on and off for over thirty years, she also figured he would be a source of information. She found him puttering around a room in the basement of the theater—part office, complete with battered oak desk, lamp, and file cabinets, and part workshop, with a heavy worktable along the back wall, an assortment of shop shelving and a pressboard grid full of tools. In the corner, a CD player was blasting out an old Long John Baldry album. “So this is your lair,” called Jane, standing in the doorway and smiling.

Turning down the music, Red smiled back. “Can I interest you in a cup of coffee?”

The smell was tantalizing.

He lifted a stack of old seventy-eight records off a chair. “Cream? Sugar?”

“Black.” She saw that he had a mini-refrigerator behind the desk. “All the comforts of home.”

“Everything I need,” he said, removing two mugs from a cupboard and filling them about two-thirds full. He handed one to Jane, then sat down behind his desk. The wooden chair creaked agreeably under his weight.

“I met your father once,” he said, blowing on his coffee. “Didn't realize he had a daughter.”

“And a son.”

“He's a very successful lawyer. He defended the man who raped my niece.”

She flinched. “I'm sorry. What he does is a necessary part of the justice system.” She knew the comment was true, but it was also too easy.

“Pays well, too.”

“Yes, I suppose it does. Sounds like you're angry at him.”

“Yup. Sure am.”

“You think the man he represented was guilty?”

“He raped three other women, but of course, the judge wouldn't allow that information to be made available to the jury.”

“So he got off?”

“Your father did an admirable job.”

She tried to let his anger slide past her. “Again, I don't know what else to say except I'm sorry.”

“So I guess that means Kit's found herself a real crackerjack attorney.”

“Do you know Kit well?”

“We're friends. Not close.”

Glancing around, Jane saw that the walls were almost entirely covered in yellowed theater posters. A pile of books, all thin, narrow volumes, were stacked at the edge of the desk. Interesting, she thought. Poetry. Attempting to move the subject to something less fraught, she asked, “Do you enjoy poetry?”