Leave No Stone Unturned (A Lexie Starr Mystery, Book 1) (3 page)

I was relieved by my daughter's last remarks. She'd been such a softhearted, gentle
little girl. I would regret seeing her adopt a dispassionate attitude now. It was
difficult enough to accept the thought of my only child choosing such a depressing,
gruesome occupation. But I realized I had to let her make her own decisions. I prayed
the consequences of some of her decisions wouldn't be too harsh. And perhaps she'd
have to develop that kind of hardened attitude not to be emotionally ravaged by every
"stiff" that passed through her office. I can remember attending tearful funerals
Wendy had staged as a child. I would try to console her while she sobbed over a dead
butterfly, or field mouse, as she buried it in our backyard.

One day, during her final year in medical school, Wendy called. "I have good news
and bad news for you, Mom. Which would you like to hear first?"

After I told her I'd rather get the bad news over with first, she told me she'd lost
her golden charm bracelet. She'd looked everywhere, searched her dorm room from top
to bottom, scoured every place she could remember being, and it was just nowhere to
be found. She was devastated about it, and so was I.

"Now how will anyone know where I've been?" she asked me over the phone, with an odd
mixture of sadness and laughter in her voice. She was choked up and sounded as if
she were on the verge of tears. Like me, Wendy often laughed to keep from crying.
I was keenly aware of how sentimental Wendy was about the bracelet, so I vowed to
myself that I'd replace the bracelet and as many of the charms as I could. It would
make a wonderful Christmas present later on.

Then Wendy's tone brightened considerably as she told me she'd also met the man she
was going to marry. She'd actually first met him about a year ago in a trendy little
coffee shop on campus called Java Joe's. They'd visited over a cup of coffee occasionally
in the following months, but had been officially dating for only a few weeks. Wendy
declared he was everything she'd ever wanted in a husband. He didn't know it yet,
she said, but she was going to make him see he couldn't live without her.

He was a few years older than Wendy, and after taking a hiatus following a four-year
stint in the Navy, to work in one dead-end job after another, he'd eventually returned
to college to pursue a degree in criminology. He stayed with a friend in Boston during
the week in order to attend the academy, and returned home to New York on weekends.

It wasn't the kind of good news I'd hoped for. Losing her bracelet now seemed better
in comparison. I'd hoped that Wendy would get settled into a rewarding career (working
with children, not "stiffs") before she settled down with a husband and family. I
wanted her to take time to sow her oats, and then have the confidence that she was
making the right decision about sharing her life with someone. It was the most important
decision she'd ever make, and I wanted it to be a wise one. I felt as if she were
rushing headlong into this relationship. I tried to sound happy about the news, but
I didn't know whether to be elated for Wendy or pray that, like all other things,
"this too shall pass."

I opted to pray, but my prayers apparently fell on deaf ears. Or, perhaps my prayers
were answered, but in a way I have yet to understand. A few months later, Wendy returned
to the Midwest with her fiancé on her arm, the arm that once held her charm bracelet.
I met the two of them at my front door the afternoon they arrived home to Kansas.
Her fiancé looked straight at me with unwavering eyes as he held Wendy's arm in a
possessive manner. His demeanor made me uncomfortable. It was as if he were daring
me not to accept him as my future son-in-law. I wouldn't give him that satisfaction.
I did my best to return the young man's stare.

"Mom, I'd like you to meet my fiancé, Clay Pitt."

* * *

Clay Pitt? Who would name their child Clay Pitt? Of course, not too many people can
pull off any name that ends in "Pitt" unless their first name happens to be Brad.
And technically, it was Clayton Oliver Pitt. Surely his parents realized other people
would shorten his name to Clay, either out of convenience or spite.

But then, who am I to judge others on their name-picking abilities? A woman who named
her own daughter Wendy, after a
Peter Pan
character, is now casting stones? Well, yes, but I had a very good excuse. After
a long Tuesday, in excruciatingly painful labor, I finally delivered my daughter early
on a Wednesday morning. I was exhausted and not feeling too creative when somebody
wandered into the room with a birth certificate and asked me what I wanted to call
the new baby girl. Call her a cab, I need a nap, I wanted to say. Chester was outside
passing out cigars. Wendy sounded like Wednesday but was easier to spell, and made
more sense than naming her February, so she was named Wendy Starr. I think any woman
who's ever given birth can relate.

My thoughts soon drifted back to Clay. Or Clayton Oliver Pitt, I should say. His preppy
monogrammed golf shirts would read COP. How fitting that he would grow up to be a
police officer! I despised him on sight. His condescending voice grated on my nerves.
He had a look about him that said: I'm the toughest, most self-possessed guy you'll
ever meet, and don't you forget it.

Clay was a nice-looking man, however. I had to give credit where it was due. He was
about six feet tall, brown-haired, green-eyed, and had a slim-hipped, broad-shouldered,
muscular build. Clay was definitely easy on the eyes. But he was arrogant and overbearing,
and had a chip on his shoulder the size of Ayers Rock. He wasn't at all the type of
man I'd expect Wendy to find attractive.

My opinion of Clay didn't improve much, but I soon became adept at hiding my true
feelings from Wendy. There was something about Clay that I didn't trust, but I couldn't
quite put my finger on it in those early days. Even now, I have no concrete reason
to distrust him, although suspected murder is a good start.

It was difficult for me to believe that Clay could kill his wife, a young woman who
was expecting his child. In fact, it was hard for me to believe that any human being
could be capable of this kind of atrocious behavior. For anybody to take another human's
life was incomprehensible to me. Except possibly in the rare circumstance of self-defense,
where a person's life was being threatened and killing an attacker was the only option.

But Clay was intolerant and quick-tempered. I'd observed him losing his cool over
a very insignificant matter on a couple of occasions. I had once watched him snap
at Wendy for not leaving steaks on the grill long enough, and then complain throughout
the meal about the toughness of the meat. As Wendy would say, "He went ballistic."

Knowing what I know now, I think who'd know better than a cop, someone training as
a homicide detective, no less, how to commit the perfect crime and get away with it?

Chapter 3

This whole ordeal started at the small, local library where I volunteer as an assistant
librarian two days a week. I was helping a young man research who'd won the men's
Boston Marathon in 2001. The winner was Lee Bong-Ju, but that's beside the point.

We were searching through newspaper databases on microfilm because the small local
library has not yet added Internet access to their program. (A wealthy citizen had
pledged three complete computer systems, so the old-fashioned library would soon be
reluctantly dragged, kicking and screaming, into the twenty-first century.)

The library also didn't keep the
Boston Globe
in their archives, so we chose to search through the April 2001 editions of the
New York Times,
hoping to find the news from the day after the marathon. Justin, the young man I
was assisting, knew only that the race was held yearly in the month of April. He was
considering the idea of writing a freelance article on the 2001 men's champion because
Bong-Ju was the only competitor to win the annual event in thirteen years who wasn't
from Kenya. Justin knew the man was from Korea, but couldn't recall his name. I can
see where a name like Lee Bong-Ju wouldn't stick in your mind forever.

While the two of us were looking through microfilm clips, a headline leaped off the
page at me: Clayton Pitt Under Cloud of Suspicion. It was a short article at the bottom
of the fourth page. I nearly fell off the chair. Justin was eyeing me with concern,
having noted my sudden odd behavior. I removed the film with jerky, spastic motions,
and stammered, "Thought I recognized that name for a second, but I'm probably mistaken.
I'll read it more thoroughly later."

My pathetic attempt at appearing nonchalant failed, but Justin had too many other
things on his mind to dwell on my silliness for long. We quickly scanned through articles
until we found the one we were searching for. I was never so happy to see someone's
name as I was to see Lee Bong-Ju's. I'd lost interest in the runner from Korea and
was itching to get back to the microfilm on the desk beside me.

After Justin had thanked me and strolled away, I reinserted the microfilm into the
viewing machine with trembling fingers. I was so engrossed in this effort that an
explosion could have leveled the building and left it in piles of rubble all around
me, and I wouldn't have noticed. I shook my head as if I thought that would help clear
it and give a chance for reality to set back in. I slowly read the article again.

Boston police academy standout, Clayton "Clay" Pitt, is being questioned due to the
recent disappearance of his wife, Eliza Pitt, who was last seen in the parking lot
of Schenectady's Food Pantry grocery store on Fourteenth Street early in the afternoon
on April 12. Mr. Pitt has been unable to provide an adequate explanation to authorities
regarding his whereabouts on that day. Chief investigator, Detective Ron Glick, stated
Mr. Pitt has not officially been named as a suspect, but he is under a "cloud of suspicion"
at this time. Pitt has been staying at a Boston motel during the week while attending
the police academy. He spends weekends at his home in Schenectady, New York, where
he and Eliza have resided since their 1996 marriage. The Pitts, both thirty, celebrated
their fifth anniversary in March and are expecting their first child in July.

I had to read it again, and then one more time. I couldn't believe what I was seeing.
Could this be a different Clay Pitt? Obviously there were a lot of clay pits, but
how many human Clay Pitts could there be? How many Clayton "Clay" Pitts lived in New
York, were thirty years old, and were enrolled in the police academy in Boston? Not
many I presumed.

I was nearly bowled over by the thought that my new son-in-law was a potential killer,
a sadistic murderer who could kill one spouse and replace her with another two years
later. I sat back in my chair as questions zipped through my mind. Was Clay guilty
or not? Was Wendy in mortal danger? Could another raw T-bone push her husband over
the edge? What if Clay went really "ballistic"? Could a little marital spat escalate
to the point of murder? I needed to find out the truth, one way or the other, or I'd
never get another good night's sleep again.

I read the short article one last time, hopeful it was only a matter of needing stronger
reading glasses. No such luck, I soon discovered. My vision had not deteriorated.
The part about Clay staying at a Boston motel confused me a bit. I could've sworn
that Wendy had told me he'd been staying with a friend there during the week. Perhaps
he'd moved in with a friend following the disappearance of his wife.

I looked stealthily around the room and thrust the microfilm down into my pocket,
as nervously as if shoplifting a diamond-studded watch. I knew there was a good possibility
that I'd need to refer to the article again. I also snatched up films covering the
following several weeks of the New York Times in case there were subsequent articles
about the case. What were the chances anyone else would need to research those exact
dates in the near future? Slim to none. I would return the films at a later date,
when I no longer had a need for them.

What to do now? Wendy had to be warned that her husband could be a homicidal maniac,
didn't she? Would warning her place my own life in peril? Worse yet, would it jeopardize
my daughter's life? Would Wendy accept my news as a mother's attempt to protect her
own flesh and blood, or would she view it as a mother's attempt to stick her nose
in where it didn't belong? I didn't want to appear as if I were trying to come between
Wendy and her new husband, as satisfying as that'd be. It would be no easy task to
make Wendy see that the man she felt the sun rose and set on was not as flawless as
she perceived him to be. I didn't want to take a chance of alienating my daughter
in the process of trying to protect her. It seemed a no-win situation.