Authors: Rett MacPherson
“I agree with that. Your angle is completely different than his, and it just may be the angle he needs to solve the case.”
“Oh,” I said.
“I think Sheriff Brooke is very relieved to have stumbled on you in this case. 'Course, he probably rues the day at the same time,” she said. “You have that effect upon people.”
I wasn't insulted. It was the truth. Why get all bent out of shape over something that's so obviously the truth? “I must get that from my father's side of the family.”
She smiled. “So, how was your visit with Eugene Counts?”
“Turned out to be Michael Ortlander.”
“Figured as much.”
“What?” I screamed. “What do you mean you figured as much? Are you saying that you knew Eugene Counts was really Michael Ortlander all along? I find that hard to believe.”
“Well, not that specifically. But I knew something wasn't right. And as soon as you said it, it seemed to make perfect sense.”
“Well move over, Miss Marple,” I said.
Mom was genuinely surprised at my irritation with her. But before she could give me a rebuttal, the phone rang.
I hurried into the kitchen from the porch, expecting the call to be from either Rudy or Sheriff Brooke. I was wrong.
“Mrs. O'Shea?” a voice asked.
“This is she.”
“Hope I'm not disturbing you. This is Harold Zumwalt.” Somebody could have driven a dump truck through my mouth. It was certainly open wide enough.
“Norah's ex-husband⦔
“I know who you are,” I said. “What do you want?” My heart rate doubled, and I tried to sound as normal as I could. I failed miserably.
“I was wondering if I could speak with you,” he said as if this were the most normal of invitations.
“Why me? Why don't you call Sheriff Brooke?” I asked.
“Because you found her. Please, I just want to talk. Can you come to my home? I don't eat in public places.”
“Let me get this straight. You're inviting me to lunch?”
I know, I should have said no. But it was so tempting. I found myself asking for directions. As soon as I had agreed to meet him, I felt funny about it. After all, I really knew nothing about him. What did I really know about any of them? But I'd already told him yes, and I was going.
I took a quick shower, threw on a pair of light cotton dress pants and a shirt, and my brown sandals. Putting on some blush and mascara, I tried to think of what I'd say to him. Should I ask him about the family's therapy sessions? Maybe he'd bring that up on his own. It was doubtful, but I couldn't think of what he wanted to talk to me about.
I brushed my teeth and grabbed my purse, pausing at the stairs. What if he was the person who broke into my house? Maybe he wanted to kill me and shove me down the garbage disposal. Who would ever know?
Finding a piece of paper, I wrote in big black marker: “Went to Harold Zumwalt's. If not back by 5:00, call Brooke.”
Taping it on the screen of my computer, I grabbed my letter opener at the same time and shoved it in my purse. Just in case. I don't own a gun and don't want to. But one would have sure come in handy right about then. No it wouldn't, I told myself. I'd probably shoot myself in the foot. I really wasn't worried for my safety. If I had been truly concerned about it, I wouldn't have gone.
All I told my mother was that I'd be back by five. I kissed the girls and headed out to the car. I was on northbound Highway 55 in no time, waiting anxiously for the exit to 270 West, so that I could find my way to Ladue.
I arrived at his house, completely unprepared for what I saw. His house would sell for a couple of million on the market. This wasn't a house, it was an estate. The grounds were surrounded by a stone fence, and contained many large trees. Wonder what it would be like to have
grounds
instead of a yard. The gate that I passed through even had an attendant on duty.
The house was a massive white structure with pillars in the front, reminding me of what the library at Alexandria would have looked like. Tennis courts were in the back; I caught a peek as I drove up. He had a stable and all sorts of outer buildings that he had to hunt for reasons to use. He probably hired somebody to think of reasons to use things. What would his position be called anyway?
I had no idea where to park, so I just stopped somewhere out front. My very dirty, ten-year-old station wagon was now rubbing bumpers with a blue BMW and a white Stingray.
I got the distinct feeling that I had probably underdressed.
I rang the doorbell and thought of how catastrophic it would be if it quit working. Nobody would ever hear a knock on a door in a place this large.
A butler answered. What else? Did I really expect anything else? He was young and bland. I called him James for lack of anything else to call him, and he didn't find me the least bit amusing.
I was led into the dining room, where I was left for several minutes. The dining room was in a classic baroque style, looking more like a church from the old country. I expected the table to be about forty feet long, but in truth it was only about twenty. There were two places set in an exquisite bone china, trimmed in gold. All of this for lunch. I'd love to see what he did for dinner.
The contrast to what Norah Zumwalt had lived in was striking. I found it hard to imagine her ever living here. Her home, granted, was no dump, but it paled seriously in comparison.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.”
I spun around to find, I assumed, Harold Zumwalt standing in the entryway. He was in a white suit with a strawberry red tie. He had a heavy but perfectly cut beard. He was average height and weight, but had extraordinary silver eyes surrounded by thick, short lashes.
“No problem,” I said. I didn't mind waiting alone. It gave me a chance to gawk in private.
He never offered to shake my hand. He only waved for me to sit down, and like magic, our soup arrived. I have no idea what kind of soup it was, but it was delicious. I kept waiting for him to make some sort of effort at small talk, but he did not. He said nothing. We ate in silence. I couldn't stand it. I mean, he'd asked me here for a reason, hadn't he? Maybe I should ask him if he had a garbage disposal.
“I don't mean to be rude,” I said, “but I can't believe that Norah ever lived here.”
“She didn't. We had a much smaller home in Webster Groves. She never knew the extent of my wealth.”
“Why did you keep it a secret?” I questioned.
“Because I didn't want her to marry me for the money. If money was the motive, I never could have trusted her. After we were married, I kept it from her because then I would be vulnerable to her. I would have a chink in my armor.” He wiped his mouth with the linen napkin. “I gave her the house, with the agreement that she would not take me to court for any more, and that she would not touch my personal accounts. I paid her alimony, of course.”
“Of course,” I echoed sarcastically. I couldn't help but think that good old-fashioned greed was what drove him to keep his wealth a secret from her. “What a slap in the face that was to her, when she found out,” I said.
“Until you've lived in our world, Mrs. O'Shea, don't be so quick to judge.”
I looked down at my soup, dutifully chastised. Why was it that he and Jeff could make me feel so little? One thing was for sure: The old kill-your-wife-for-the-insurance motive seemed pretty ridiculous at the moment.
Our lunch arrived: veal, which I didn't touch. A pasta with a clam sauce and a steamed vegetable made up the rest of the entrée. I picked at my food, not really eating but a few bites. Zumwalt was upsetting me. The muscles around my stomach were getting tighter and tighter.
I watched Zumwalt as he ate, meticulously raising his fork to his mouth with the greatest concentration. He chewed each bite at least twenty times, and ate with proper etiquette, knife in the right hand, fork in the left and upside down.
This man was, without a doubt, the most anal-retentive human being I had ever met. He probably slept in ironed pajamas, with slippers next to the bed, not one millimeter out of sync with each other.
“So why did you call me here? Surely not to show me how wealthy and influential you are.”
“On the contrary,” he began.
Does anybody ever really say “on the contrary”?
Zumwalt looked to the ceiling for divine guidance. “I invited you over to ask you toâhow do you say it in river languageâlay off?”
River language? “Are you suggesting that I'm from a different social class, Mr. Zumwalt?”
“I just want to make sure that you can understand what I'm about to say. I want no misunderstandings.”
I felt a tingle on the back of my neck. Was he about to threaten me? “What? What do you want me to understand?”
“Your private crusade, Mrs. O'Shea. End it. You and Sheriff Brooke are causing great waves on my peaceful ocean,” he said.
“So get a surfboard. Look, I don't know what kind of game you're playing, but I would say that Sheriff Brooke must be getting close to something or you wouldn't have gone to all of this trouble just to tell me to lay off. What are you hiding?”
“Let us just say that if too much of an investigation was made on my family, we could be severely hurt. And we have a lot to lose.”
I watched him closely as he swirled the wine in his glass as if it were Kool-Aid, and he had to mix the sugar up.
“Who killed her?” I asked.
“I don't know.”
“Then what could be so bad that Sheriff Brooke's investigation could uncover?”
“You're the instigator here. Sheriff Brooke was taken care of until you came along and made him think differently.” He laid his fork and knife across the ends of his plate, and then crossed his hands together. “Several years before our divorce, our family sought counseling.”
Could I really be this lucky?
“I warn you, if any of this leaks out, I will know where it came from,” he said. “I will ruin you,” he said. He smiled at me, cold and calculating. “There were several reasons for the counseling. The main one was the children. Norah was having great difficulty with them in their early teenage years. Rita was jealous of everybody and everything, and Jeff was as obsessive as Rita was jealous.”
Hold everything.
He couldn't possibly be talking about the same Rita and Jeff. They barely acted like they
had
personalities, much less enough of one to be neurotic. Maybe Zumwalt was trying to throw the suspicion off of himself.
Rain began to splatter against the window and he got up to look out. He spoke to the window, not me. “I also had a problem, one that I still indulge in. I like women, Mrs. O'Shea.⦔
“That's great. Most men do.” I was worried. I wasn't prepared to hear his confession. Besides, the bad guy usually confesses to all sorts of dastardly things, right before he kills or attempts to kill whomever it is he's confessing to.
“Yes. I agree,” he said. “But I like mine in unusual ways. Let's say some people wouldn't understand my preferences.”
“Are you a pervert?” I asked. “Is that what you're trying to say to me? What? You like to hurt women, is that it?” I was on my feet now, purse in hand and ready to run.
“You're afraid,” I said. “You're afraid that if somebody finds out that you like to hurt women, they'll think that you killed Norah. Right? By giving her the ultimate pain. Am I right? They'd hang you up. No amount of evidence or lack of it could save you. The press would have a field day.”
He swung around, eyes full of poison. “You don't know what that kind of information could do to me.”
“I understand perfectly well what that kind of information could do to you. I can hear the gas pellets dropping now,” I said. “Or maybe the sizzle of the electric chair.”
“It could destroy my reputation,” he sputtered. “I'd never work again!”
“Good! Good, I'm glad. How come perverts and psychopaths want to inflict pain and suffering, but never think they should have to pay the price? When the tables are turned, it's not very funny, is it?”
I was yelling now, and I could just imagine all the servants piled up on the other side of the door, peeping through the keyhole, trying to hear or see what was going on.
“I'm warning you,” he said.
“Fine, warn me. I don't do very well with overbearing, perverted male authority figures. You know, kind of makes my skin crawl.” I moved to the door. “So this is what money buys. The ability to be a pervert and get by with it. Well, you can keep your demented world, Mr. Zumwalt.”
I was headed for the entryway when he called after me, “You are investigating the wrong family member. Tell Sheriff Brooke to halt or you will both be very sorry.”
All the way out to my car, my only concern was that he had poisoned me. The next thing I knew, I was on Clayton Road headed for Interstate 270, glad to be back in the real world. It was as if I'd been trapped in the Twilight Zone.
Why? Why the confession? Maybe it was to let me know what and who I was dealing with. He had no reason to kill Norah, unless it was the result of an argument that got out of hand. But I found it hard to believe that an argument gone awry would end in several stab wounds. Usually, the victims just get hit over the head, pushed down the steps, or strangled. Believe me, I've been angry enough to want to strangle somebody before. But after stabbing somebody a few times, don't you think you'd stop yourself and go, “Is she dead yet?” Why go any higher?
He had risked a lot by confiding his secret to me. There was the chance that I would run and tell everything that I knew, and he took that chance to clear himself of the murder, no matter how much it implicated him in other things.
I am not a detective, I reminded myself. I wasn't trained to look for lies in every sentence. Could Zumwalt be using my naïveté to throw the suspicion elsewhere? Sheriff Brooke would not take this the same way that I had.