Death Gets a Time-Out (19 page)

“I’m not saying she would have been convicted in court, or even that she would have understood what she did. I’m just saying, maybe she wasn’t just playing around, and the gun went off. Maybe she meant for it to go off, and that’s what she’s afraid Chloe would tell people.”

I shook my head firmly. “I still can’t imagine Lilly killing anyone. I mean, honestly, can you?”

“Sure.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah, sure. People are capable of pretty much anything to protect themselves. Lilly Green is no exception.”

Is that what being a cop does to you? For a moment, I felt sorry for Al. I felt bad that his years on the job had made him so cynical, had made him so willing to believe all people capable of that kind of violent self-interest. Then I shivered as a thought occurred to me. Maybe Al’s experiences had served not to blind him, but to open his eyes to a fundamental truth: that all people possess the germ of violence.
Perhaps I was the one with the twisted perception. Perhaps my belief that most of us are simply incapable of murder was just naïve.

I forced myself to consider the possibility that Lilly had murdered Chloe. I tried to imagine the scene. But I couldn’t. It just felt wrong.

“Even if that’s true, even if Lilly is capable of murder, she wouldn’t have done it herself. She would have hired someone to do it for her,” I said. We looked at each other for a moment as we considered that possibility.

“So, you think she hired someone?” Al said.

“No! That’s not what I said. I just said that if she
did
want Chloe dead, she’s more likely to have hired someone. I didn’t mean that that’s what she actually did.”

“It’s possible, though, isn’t it?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to.

Then I had an idea. “It could have been Archer!” I said.

Al nodded. “Maybe. He’s clean, by the way.”

“Really?” I was terribly disappointed. It would have been so convenient if he’d had a criminal record.

“So you’re going to Wasserman,” Al said.

“Yeah. But not just yet. I’m going to poke around a little more, see what I find out. Maybe I won’t
have
to tell him, after all.” Both Al and I knew just how unlikely that was, however. If there was even a shade of a chance that Lilly had committed the murder, either by doing it herself, or by hiring someone to do it for her, I had to alert Jupiter’s attorney. Even if everything happened just as Lilly said—if she had asked Jupiter for help, and he had killed Chloe only to protect her—I still owed it to Jupiter to make Wasserman aware of all the facts. Jupiter’s relationship with Lilly, his actions on her behalf, would be important to the defense’s theory of the case. A jury might be less likely to recommend the death penalty for a murder motivated by chivalry. The fact that he had had sex with the victim before killing her made Jupiter seem less of a white knight perhaps, and more of a knave, but figuring out how to present that to the jury was Wasserman’s problem, not mine.

“Poke around a little more where?” Al asked.

“Around Polaris, I guess. And Jupiter. I’ve still got to continue with the regular investigation, too. Follow up on the child abuse allegation, talk to his teachers from elementary school. Old friends. It wouldn’t hurt to talk to people who knew Chloe, too. You never know what I might turn up.”

Al got to his feet with an old man’s creaking groan. “Lucky you. I’m off to sit on my butt growing piles in the course of what promises to be a very long and tedious surveillance.” He sucked loudly on his teeth and shook his head. “Maybe we should rethink our policy about divorce cases. They’ve got to be more interesting than this worker fraud crap.”

I smiled. “More dangerous, too. Aren’t you the one who told me that the most dangerous calls for police officers are the ones for domestic disturbances?” I said.

He grunted. “True. It’s like I always say, nobody hates you like the people who are supposed to love you.”

On that cheerful note, Al grabbed the check and headed off to the cash register, pushing away my hand as I tried to give him some money for my meal.

I
didn’t have it in me that morning to face the county jail. I just couldn’t handle the smell of that place. Even in the visiting room there’s a faint odor of disinfectant overlying something dank and horrible—sweat, or worse. My stomach roiled at the thought. I decided to save Jupiter for another day and called Polaris’s office instead. I got stuck at the receptionist. Or maybe at the receptionist’s receptionist. At any rate, I didn’t get close to reaching Polaris Jones on the telephone. Finally, after a frustrating twenty minutes of talking to cheerfully unhelpful assistant after cheerfully unhelpful assistant, all of whom seemed incredulous at my assumption that I was good enough to engage in a conversation with the Very Reverend himself, I lost my temper.

“Listen,” I said to the most recent of minions who had refused my request to speak to the man. “You tell the Very Reverend that I very much want to talk to him about Trudy-Ann’s very fatal shooting.”

“The Very Reverend’s transitioned wife was named Chloe.”

There was that word again. Transitioned from what to
what? I was pretty sure they didn’t mean from flesh to worm-riddled dust. “You just pass that message on exactly as I gave it to you.” I gave her my cell phone number. I said I was pretty sure her boss would want to get back to me immediately upon hearing the message. Then, while I waited, I stopped in at Whole Foods and loaded up my basket with every item that I’d ever heard could alleviate nausea, including gingersnaps, Japanese pickled ginger, lemons, citrus lozenges, herbal Dramamine, watermelon, lemonade, potato chips, and a pair of wristbands that were supposed to help with seasickness. I was snapping the wristbands in place, sniffing the lemon, and sucking on the candy, when my cell phone rang.

“This is Hyades Goldblum,” the caller said.

“Excuse me?”

“Reverend Hyades, of the Church of Cosmological Unity. We met when you interviewed the Very Reverend Polaris.”

The bearded, less agitated assistant. “Of course. I’ve been trying to reach Polaris . . . er, the Very Reverend Polaris.”

“He is unavailable at present,” Hyades said, his voice so smooth it was almost oily. “But I may be able to assist you. I understand you have some questions regarding the first Mrs. Jones?”

“Yes. I’d like to talk to him about how she died.”

“Ah. I believe I might be able to spare a few moments for you, Ms. Applebaum.”

“You? Do you know anything about her death?”

“Of course. I knew Trudy-Ann quite well. I was, in fact, living in the house in San Miguel when she transitioned to the next astral plane.”

T
HE
underground parking lot of the CCU campus had an entrance so discreet that it was virtually invisible from the street, and was crammed with some of the most expensive cars I’d ever seen. I slotted my beater between a gold Bentley and some silver thing with wings that looked like
it
had undergone the transition to the next astral plane. I banged
my rather corpulent behind on the door of the silver car while I was trying to squeeze out, and had to rush out of the lot to the tone of a wailing alarm that sounded less like a siren and more like an aging soprano’s rendition of “Dido’s Lament.”

An elevator took me directly from the parking lot into the main building, and when I walked out of the elevator, it was hard to believe I was in the same antebellum mansion I’d seen from the outside. The interior of the building had been wiped clean of any trace of Tara. Instead of the elaborate moldings and the sweeping wooden staircase that must have once graced the entry hall, I found myself facing a huge, almost empty space that looked like a set from
Star Trek
—the later series, when the production values were better. The room had been painted a kind of silvery white, and the walls seemed to sparkle. The floor was white marble, polished to an intense shine. Instead of a staircase, there were two escalators leading to the second floor. The ceiling was dark blue, and sprinkled with luminous stars, and a massive silver model of the solar system dwarfed the hall. As I watched, it rotated, each orb spinning at a different speed. Some of the smaller moons were moving so fast they were almost a blur. At the far end of the hall, three young women in white robes sat talking into telephone headsets behind a long metal counter that seemed to hover in midair. As I peered at the counter, I realized that the effect was created by a clear, glass base.

I skirted the orbiting planets and went up to the counter. I stood in front of one of the women, waiting for her to finish her telephone conversation. She smiled at me and held up a finger, indicating that she’d be done in a minute. Her nails were polished in gleaming silver. I looked over at the other two receptionists. They all wore the same shining nail polish. Their hair was tucked up into silver mesh snoods and they were wearing makeup with a touch of glitter.

“Welcome to the Church of Cosmological Unity. May I help you?” the young woman asked, her smile wide and gracious.

“I’m here to see Hyades Goldblum,” I said.

“Of course. Ms. Applebaum.
Reverend
Hyades is expecting you.” Her voice held just the slightest hint of rebuke at my failure to include the honorific. “His assistant will meet you on the second floor.” She pointed to the escalator. Another young woman in an identical white robe and silver snood was waiting for me at the top. I followed her down another gleaming marble-floored hallway, past closed doors, all of which were painted glossy blue. The walls were painted the same silvery white as the downstairs entryway, and again the hallway ceiling was covered in thousands upon thousands of twinkling lights. The shimmering light reflecting off all the brilliant surfaces was beautiful, but it was starting to give me a headache, and I wondered how the CCU staff could stand it.

The windows in Hyades’s office were covered with linen draperies, the lights were dim, and the walls were paneled in deep brown mahogany. I sat, as instructed by the assistant, in a plain oak Morris chair in front of a massive oak desk. Hyades’s Arts and Crafts furniture couldn’t have been more different from the space-age décor outside the closed office door. I wondered if it was designed to be a statement, or if he just shared my discomfort with the constant sparkle of the outer rooms and halls.

The assistant stood at attention next to the desk, and we waited in silence. Within a moment or two, a door to the left of the desk opened, and the man I remembered from my initial meeting with Polaris walked in. He was slightly taller than average, with close-cropped gray hair that contrasted with his pure white beard, and a sharp-pointed nose. His eyes were gray, and in his white robe he looked like a black-and-white photograph of himself. He was wiping his hands on a small yellow towel, which stood out against his white-clad body like a splotch of sunlight. He handed the towel to the assistant, and she carried it reverently out of the room, as though it were made of porcelain rather than terry cloth. He lowered himself into a tall leather and wood executive chair, leaned his elbows on its arms, and tented his fingers in front of his chest.

“Tell me, Ms. Applebaum, what is it that you’d like to know about Trudy-Ann?”

I looked at him appraisingly, wondering whether he knew as much as I about the circumstances of her death. Rather than give anything away, I merely sat down opposite him and said, “I’m exploring the possibility that her death might shed some light on the recent tragic events.”

“Ah.” He tapped his lips with the tent he’d made of his fingers. “Why? If I might ask? What would a death that happened nearly thirty years ago have to do with . . . what did you call it? The ‘recent tragic events’?” The quotation marks were audible. Did he not consider Chloe’s death tragic?

“I don’t know. I was hoping that Very Reverend Jones could help me figure that out.”

“The Very Reverend is far too distraught about the violent death of
this
wife to bring his thoughts to bear on that of the previous one.”

I was puzzled for a moment, trying to figure out just how much more he knew, and how to get him to talk to me about it. I decided to play dumb. “How did Trudy-Ann die?” I asked.

“Don’t you know?” He stretched his thin lips into a smile.

I said nothing, just looked blandly back at him.

“Yes, of course you do,” he said. “She was shot by her little girl, Lilly. You know Lilly Green, of course. She is, after all, paying your bill. Curious, that. Don’t you think? That the famous Lilly Green is paying for the defense of the murderer Jupiter Jones? Of course you’re good friends with Lilly, aren’t you? Through your husband, isn’t it? Peter Wyeth. He wrote that appalling cannibal movie Lilly starred in. Dreadful stuff your husband writes. Although I suppose it pays for your children’s education.”

It wouldn’t have been that hard to find any of it out. The press kits for Peter’s movies listed his marriage to me. Lilly’s past as a B-movie actress was obviously well known. It would have taken only a bit of research to put it all together. As for the fact that Lilly was paying for Jupiter’s attorneys, well, I didn’t know how he knew that. Maybe Lilly herself had said something when she’d come to see Polaris. Maybe Hyades
had just put two and two together. He knew Jupiter had no money of his own, and he knew Wasserman didn’t come cheap. One thing was certain—the reason he’d made me aware of the breadth of his knowledge was in order to intimidate me. And I suppose if I were honest with myself, I would admit that it had worked. But if I have one great gift, it’s for denial.