Bad Desire (37 page)

“Yes,” she said. “My husband's told me of your exploits over the years.” She smiled courteously for a moment, waiting for him to state his business.

“We're still investigating the Rachel Buchanan murder,” Reeves told her, “and I've been meaning to talk to you. You might be able to help us, if you would. I promise not to keep you too long.”

“But—I thought those convicts—”

“That's what the murderer wanted us to think,” Reeves said. He watched her eyes, but they told him nothing. “Mrs. Slater,” he said, directly, “did you see or talk to Mrs. Buchanan in the few days preceding her death?”

All at once he saw something flash across her face. But what? What was she thinking? “Oh, but you must forgive me, Mr. Reeves,” she exclaimed. “You've taken me so completely by surprise that I've forgotten my manners.” She went to the door and held it open on the lofty, white living room. “Wouldn't you like to come in?”

“If it's all the same to you,” Reeves said, “I wouldn't mind staying here on the porch. In the fresh air.”

“Then, please … make yourself comfortable. May I get you something to drink?” She continued to look at him with grave curiosity. “Iced tea, perhaps?”

“Yes, something cold would be good, but I don't want to take up too much of your time.”

“Surely you'll stay long enough for a drink,” she said graciously, stepping inside the door and asking Luisa to bring two glasses of iced tea. “Now where were we?” she asked, coming back and taking a place on the wicker settee across from him. She laced her fingers around her crossed knee.

“The last time you talked to Mrs. Buchanan,” he repeated. He settled back into the wicker chair, the file folder on his lap.

Faith paused, staring before her into space. Slowly she shook her head. “I really can't remember. It's been—what?—over a month now since she … I used to see Rachel every so often in town, but … I'm sorry, but I honestly can't recall.”

Some people had trouble looking at him squarely during questioning even if they had nothing to hide; Faith Slater, he thought, was the sort of woman who would look him straight in the eye no matter how innocent or guilty she might be.

“I'm working my way through a list of people who were Rachel's friends,” he explained.

But before anything else could be said, the front door opened and the maid came out, carrying a tray with a pitcher of iced tea and glasses of sparkling ice. She put it down on the wicker table at Faith's side and left. Faith said, “Thank you, Luisa,” then to Reeves, “there's lemon and sugar, if you'd like.” Bracelets clicked on her wrist as she filled the two glasses. Reeves noticed that the hand offering him the glass was not quite steady. She said, “What are you doing to catch the killers? All we ever get in the newspapers is the same old song and dance. Are you on to anything yet?”

“We know quite a lot,” Reeves said. “But it's never enough. For one thing, I'm convinced that Mrs. Buchanan knew her killer. And there was only one assailant—not two or three. A lot of things indicate this. For instance, we've been told that Mrs. Buchanan was upset and despondent—very deeply troubled on the evening before she died. I've been led to believe that such depression was unlike her. Would you agree with that, Mrs. Slater?”

“Yes. Rachel was almost always in good spirits.”

“We looked everywhere—did you know?—for one solid piece of evidence. We searched that property inch by inch.”

“Evidence?” Faith said blankly. “What kind of evidence?”

“Anything—a fingerprint, an article of clothing. Whoever killed Mrs. Buchanan was wearing gloves and they had to have been … well, bloody.” Reeves noted that she didn't change expression. Her control was remarkable. “We believe the gloves were probably hidden or thrown away right after the murder. By the way, did Henry tell you about driving out to the Buchanan house with me?”

“No, I don't think so,” Faith Slater said. She glanced up at him and then away again. “I'm sure he didn't.”

“Well, it's not important,” Reeves told her, lowering his eyes.
He didn't tell you about the diamond?
Although he didn't move, he could feel her cool scrutiny on him. “Then after we were absolutely sure nothing would be found, not a trace—we got lucky.”

He leaned forward, reaching for his glass of iced tea, when the file folder on his knees fell to the floor and a number of black-and-white eight-by-ten glossies spilled across the flagstones of the veranda. “Oh, I'm sorry,” Faith said automatically, reaching for them. “I hope they're not …” Then she blanched, her eyes immersed in the photograph she held in her hand. It was of Rachel—taken, no doubt, moments after the police had arrived at the scene that ghastly morning. Rachel's old eyes were still staring, her bloody hand clutched at her throat.

Faith shivered, now, looking at Reeves. “My God!” she gasped, “My God! Why didn't you tell me what those were? Here! Take them!”

“She died a horrible death, Mrs. Slater. Unbelievable. That's what I think about; it's what I dream about at night. A vicious murder.”

“My God.” She was still visibly shaken. “How could somebody get away with this?”

“It was luck. A run of pure luck.” Reeves took the lump of tissue from the small manila envelope in his pocket, unwrapped it and placed the diamond in Faith's hand, his eyes fixed upon her face.

She blinked and—he was sure—almost shuddered.

Both waited for the other to speak. Faith looked up and saw his cold, steadfast eyes.

Faith turned the diamond over and over in her palm.
It's Henry's
, she thought. She could feel the tiny nick on its back.
I'd know it anywhere
.

“Have you ever seen a diamond like this one before, Mrs. Slater?” He asked, and again waited. “You knew her fairly well. Did you ever see Rachel Buchanan wearing a diamond like this, maybe in a piece of jewelry?”

What does he know? Faith found her voice, or thought she had, and said, “No.” But she hadn't: her response was choked, hardly more than a whisper. “No,” she repeated.

“That's what I thought. A jeweler told me it was most likely a man's diamond.”

She was aware by the nature of his silence that although she had told him nothing at all, she had been understood only too well. In spite of the scare he'd given her, she was determined not to let things deteriorate any further. It's Henry's diamond, she thought, it's from his ring. The police chief had been holding it back all along, waiting to spring it on her after unnerving her with Rachel's photographs. Too late, Faith realized exactly what he had done.
He knows something
.

“Where … did you find it?”

“Do I need to tell you where we found it, Mrs. Slater?”

By the way he phrased it, Faith no longer needed to be told.

“We found it near the place where Rachel was killed.”

Still aware that her face was flushed, she looked hard at the diamond, trying to compose herself.

“Is there anything else you want to say to me, Mrs. Slater?”

“No,” she said, “nothing.”
He's my husband
, she thought, wanting to clutch the diamond even tighter. But she handed it back.

Until these last few minutes, she had appeared to be utterly sure of herself, but as Reeves collected his things, he saw that she could hardly sit still.

“I'll see you out,” Faith said.

He rose from his chair and stood at the railing, a balding, imposing figure. His iced tea sat untouched on the wicker table as they went down the walk. “Sometimes it takes a long time,” Reeves told her. “But sooner or later something breaks and we start getting close to the answer.” He left her by saying, “Take care of yourself, Mrs. Slater. Thanks for making me feel at home.”

Faith smiled bleakly.

Could it be? She went inside, closed the door and stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by the echo of every word that the chief of police had said. Her teeth and her fists were clenched; she had to keep swallowing to hold back the tears or nausea, she hardly knew which. The thought that Henry was involved in this in any way was unbelievable. And yet.

That was Henry's diamond
, she thought,
I know it was
. She took several deep breaths, waiting for the sound of the motor outside to recede.

But he couldn't have. No, my God. It can't be true.

Faith glanced at the clock: four-thirty. When would he be coming home?
I gave him that diamond!

She tore through the house.

I've got to find it. I've got to know for certain.

In his study, she quickly went through his desk starting with the large central drawer and working her way down through the drawers in its stout legs. She sifted through stacks of paper and copies of old correspondence, ran her fingers under things and into the corners, but Henry's ring wasn't there.

She stepped into the middle of the room, looking, searching for a place where he might have put it. But what if he didn't want her to find it, she thought, what if he had hidden it deliberately?

Faith left the study and went through the bedroom, into the bath. It would take forever to search this house and even then there was no guarantee that it was here. She opened the medicine cabinet and examined the shelves. Nothing. She ran her hands through the linen closet, again nothing, and stepped back into the bedroom. She felt the hanging clothes and examined the storage bins in his dressing room. The ring wasn't anywhere.

That diamond was his; I know it was
.

Where could it be?

Faith ran back toward the living room through the kitchen, where Luisa was preparing dinner, and went through the laundry room, opening the door to the garage. She stepped down on the one concrete step, flipped on the light, and the drab gray walls leapt away from her. Through the gloom she saw the rows of tools arranged and gleaming on the pegboard, but if he had hidden the ring out here she knew she would never find it.

Where? Where?

Then somehow it occurred to her. She thought, What's the first thing he does when he comes home in the evening? Where's the first place he goes? Faith walked back into the living room. With the tips of her fingers, she pushed the red leather spine of
David Copperfield
and the hidden bar rose on whirring gears before her. It's here somewhere, she thought. She looked in the obvious places, behind the rows of liquor bottles and in the area around the bucket for the ice maker; then she remembered the small, secret cash drawer, triggered by a sliding panel on the side of the cabinet. With her fingertips, Faith slipped the panel backward, and the shallow drawer, released, sprang forward an inch. Faith pulled it open and looked down through the square, empty hole in the gold setting of his ring.

By the time Slater parked in front of the house, it was nearly six in the evening. He was headed for the front door when his eye caught something familiar on the ground. He leaned over and picked up a toothpick that lay among the bricks of the drive. The end of it had been chewed into a tiny broom.
Reeves
. No doubt about it: Reeves had been here.

But when? And why?

The toothpick wasn't weathered. As far as he could tell, it was new. That meant Reeves had been here sometime today. Or yesterday, at the latest. Then he saw more of them, six or eight toothpicks scattered here and there. How long had Reeves been here? How many times?

What the hell's going on?

Faith met him inside with a cold gin and tonic. But in his left hand, Slater still held the toothpick. He twirled it between his fingers. “Was someone here?” he asked.

“You tell me,” she answered. “You seem to know already.”

“What'd he want?” Slater was watching her carefully, trying to read her expression. But Faith kept her face averted. “It didn't have anything to do with you, Henry. He was making inquiries about Rachel.”

Look at me, Faith. “What kind of inquiries?”

“He mainly wanted to know if I had seen her a day or two before she was killed, which I hadn't.” When Faith lifted her eyes, she looked him square in the face. “I don't like being cross-examined, Henry. Once is quite enough for one day.”

She waited through dinner that evening for Henry to announce that he had to go out. She had a plan in mind for a way she could go about it—the only thing she could conceive of that might reveal to her what she had to know. It would be melodramatic, she knew, but given Rachel's final letter to her, it seemed oddly fitting. At seven-thirty, Henry made his excuses. This time he claimed he had to see the highway commissioner to prepare for tomorrow's budget meeting. Faith walked with him to the edge of the brick drive. She stood alone in the near darkness, watching his taillights disappear.

Back inside the house, she went into the bedroom, picked up the receiver and called the after-hours number at the post office. “If I mailed a card to a local address this evening,” Faith asked the supervisor who answered, “when would it be delivered?” Tomorrow, he replied. She thanked him and hung up.

She found a pad of plain white bond paper in a kitchen drawer and a matching small white business envelope, both of them cheap and nondescript. Using her left hand—she was naturally right-handed—and having to restrain and control the erratic impulses of her untrained fingers, Faith wrote:

YOU MURDERED RACHEL BUCHANAN

She drew back and appraised her work. To her eye, the printing wasn't noticeably feminine, only childlike. In the same crabbed handwriting, she addressed the envelope to Mayor Henry Slater at his home address. It would be a test, she thought. It would be like receiving a letter from a dead woman. He would pass. Or he would fail. Then, without giving herself time to change her mind, Faith drove into town and mailed it.