Shaded Light: The Case of the Tactless Trophy Wife: A Paul Manziuk and Jacquie Ryan Mystery (The Manziuk and Ryan Mysteries Book 1) (18 page)

Unspoken words fought to escape her lips, but Lorry made herself pick up a book and walk out.

Overlooking the staircase and front hallway was a small sitting area marked by a beautiful Persian carpet. On it were two love seats and a couple of tables covered with magazines. Lorry sat on one of the love seats and began to pray silently.

In the bedroom, Jillian was looking at herself in the mirror while she addressed Shauna. “I just finished talking to you after lunch, and I turn around and see you with Bart again. I didn’t realize you were that desperate for a man.”

Shauna sat on the edge of her bed with her hands in her skirt pockets and her eyes glued to the floor.

“I suppose you could use ignorance as an excuse,” Jillian continued. “I don’t expect you’ve run across anyone like Bart before.” She adjusted the bodice of her dress. “But I thought you’d learned your lesson.” She turned to look at Shauna. “Just see that you stay clear of him the rest of the weekend if you don’t want him to make an even bigger fool of you, because that’s all he’s doing.”

Inside the right pocket of her skirt, the comb Shauna was holding suddenly snapped.

Jillian ended her lecture. “If he tries to talk to you again, tell him to butt out. Or I will.” She walked out.

Shauna stared at the closed door for a full minute. She used a word she’d never used before. Then, with a firm jut to her jaw, she ran to the closet and pulled out the suitcase containing her own clothes. Pulling off her skirt and blouse in such haste that she tore off a button, she changed into faded denim shorts, a white T-shirt, and a worn pair of running shoes before racing downstairs past a startled Lorry, who had been coming back into the room to make sure Shauna was okay.

The afternoon slipped forward. The hot sun poured down, proving once again its mastery over man as by ones and twos most of the guests sought the coolness of their air-conditioned rooms.

Inside the Japanese garden, where Jillian was sitting in the shade on a rustic bench at the edge of a clearing of soft grass, the only sound was the soft gurgling of water. Jillian’s eyes were focused on a unique waterfall, but her eyes were unseeing, her mind indifferent to her surroundings. Despite the beauty of the setting, she was annoyed. He should have been here before her. If he thought she would wait at his beck and call, he could think again.

She would give him five minutes, and then she had other fish to fry. Stupid expression, she thought. Her mother’s, no doubt. Her mother’s words were a parade of trite expressions, one after the other, and no matter how she tried to keep down that part of her life, it kept popping up, usually in the form of some stupid saying.

She held up the floral chain she had made in the first few minutes while she was waiting. She didn’t know what the flowers were. They looked like daisies, but daisies were white. Roses and orchids and gardenias were the only flowers she was interested in. Hot house flowers arranged in expensive bouquets. Not flowers that grew like weeds in the outdoors. But they were a pretty yellow. And she had done a good job of making the chain.

When she had seen the flowers at the entrance to the garden, she had suddenly remembered being taught how to make a daisy chain. Seemed like ages ago. It was fortunate she’d had a nail file in her pocket. It had slit the stems very well. She pictured her former teacher coming up the path. She would surprise him with the chain—throw it over his head. And let him try to get away! She laughed.

Then she felt anger. Why was he so late? Even if he’d had trouble getting away unnoticed, he should have been here by now. Why was there no sign of him coming up the path?

While there may have been no sign of anyone on the path, Jillian wasn’t alone in the garden. The other person, the one who was watching so as not to step on any fallen leaves or twigs that would crackle, ignoring the well-manicured grass where a footprint might remain, sticking to the hard cobblestone walk that meandered through the delightful Japanese garden, was moving closer, now leaving the walk, but very carefully. Stepping only where no footprint would remain.

The scattering of birds in nearby trees saw, and they flew away. Instinct, perhaps. A primitive sensing of danger.

Jillian had no such sense. Would have laughed at the very idea. So she sat unmoving, thinking how wonderful it was to be free of her family, to be a woman who could do whatever she wanted. With no one to stop her. Laughter bubbled up in her throat. But even as she began to laugh, a gloved hand passed a cord around her neck, and she tensed with sudden panic. The laughter died unborn as the cord tightened. The floral chain dropped from her fingers.

Her lips were open, but no sound escaped. Eyes wide in disbelief, she arched her back and shoulders and flailed her arms in an attempt to pull away. The cord continued to tighten. She twisted and fought to escape.

Her hands clutched at the cord, but it had dug into her skin and there was nothing she could do to loosen it. Her lungs screamed for air. None came. A short gasp, the rattle of death, escaped her open mouth and she slumped forward, her face an expression of sudden horror.

The murderer twisted the rope tighter and held it long enough to make certain she was dead, then casually loosened it. The limp body slid forward and collapsed in a heap on the grass.

The sunlight could reach her now, touching her bare arms and legs. She hadn’t put on sunscreen, but the danger of the ultraviolet rays was no longer something she needed to worry about.

In a few moments the scene had reverted to nature.

The fountain, a deerscarer which consisted of a remarkable piece of bamboo and string architecture, was a conversation piece designed by an American from Sweden who had been brought in to do the gardens three years before. The fountain calmly continued its endless work, filling a large bamboo spout with water, dumping it out, filling it, and dumping the water over and over and over again.

The gurgle of the water every few minutes and the rustle of the leaves were the only noises discernible in the tiny copse. The birds had not yet returned.

Part II

A very great part of the mischiefs

that vex this world arise from words.

—BURKE

SEVEN

At 4:30 on Sunday afternoon, Paul Manziuk was in the back yard of his house lounging on a white molded plastic chair set on the eight-foot slab of concrete which passed for a patio. In one hand, he held a half-full glass; in the other, a Dick Francis novel he’d been wanting to read for at least four months.

In the background, the phone rang.

On the sixth ring, Manziuk heaved his bulk out of the chair and lumbered to the patio door. His large bare feet made flapping noises.

On the eighth ring, he answered it.

He listened for a moment, then grunted. “Oh, sure. Tell that to somebody who’ll believe you.” More listening. “She’s young, is she?” The answer coming in the affirmative, he swore. “Oh, you know I’ll come. But I really didn’t—Oh, forget it! Who’s available for second?… Where’s Woody? No, don’t bother him. He needs some rest. Not as young as he used to be. Who else is available?… No way. Not on your life!… Do I have a choice?… No, don’t bother him.… Oh, all right, give me Ryan and blast you all!” He slammed the receiver down and stared at it for a minute. “I knew I should have left town!” he muttered. But his wife Loretta was out shopping and there was no one to hear.

Loretta. The supper they were having tonight! It was the first time in months they’d been able to plan an evening with friends.

And now this! Not only did he have a murderer to catch, but his second was a green cop, brand new on the job, and a woman to boot! Maybe he was an old-fashioned chauvinist like his daughter said. Okay, he knew he was. But having women on homicide just didn’t seem right.

Not his business, though. The directive from city hall said the force had to be half female in twenty years. Same as the population.

As if the criminals would follow the same directives.

But it wasn’t his problem. Except for the fact that he had to go out there with an inexperienced partner. No, not just inexperienced. He could handle that. What bothered him most was the very real fear Ryan had been promoted solely because of her race and gender, and not her skill. To meet the numbers, play the political game. That scared him. He sure hoped the boys—and girls—in their ivory towers knew what they were doing.

But he didn’t have time to worry about politics. A murder scene was calling him, and his thoughts were already racing.

He lumbered back to the patio and picked up his glass and the book. Shutting the patio door with a thump, he dumped the remains of his drink down the sink and found a marker for the book. He sighed as he put it back on a shelf. Little chance he’d get to it again before he had forgotten what he’d already read.

Then he headed for the bedroom. Couldn’t go to see a lady wearing plaid shorts and nothing else. Not even a murdered lady.

Thirty minutes later, Manziuk was driving on a paved side road past some rather enormous and obviously expensive houses. He turned in at an impressive gate that was the only apparent opening in an eight-foot stone wall that extended as far as he could see on either side. The gate was opened by an unsmiling police officer who carefully checked his ID. Once inside the gate, he found himself entering a circular drive which extended the full length of an immense brick house. In the center of the drive was a grassy oval highlighted by a large fountain with water cascading down. Beds of massed red and yellow flowers teamed with small green evergreens circled the fountain and softened the front of the house.

White police cars dotted the driveway, looking grossly out of place. Manziuk parked his battered Chevy near the entrance to the house. It looked every bit as out of place as the squad cars.

An officer in uniform was talking on his car radio. When he saw Manziuk, he finished his conversation and hurried over. “Afternoon, sir. I’m Constable Waite. The body is in the garden. Forensics is here. They’ve done a preliminary search and taken pictures of the scene. They’re ready for you.”

“Is Dr. Weaver here?”

“No, sir, he’s on a fishing trip. Dr. Munsen is here.”

A fishing trip. That’s what he should have done. Only he didn’t like fishing. Seemed too much like his job. Besides, the fish hadn’t broken the law, so why should he catch them?

Munsen was an adequate pathologist. Not as experienced as Weaver. More emotional, too. Likely you got less emotional with more experience. Besides, bad enough to have to look at a body without having to examine it minutely.

Aloud, he asked, “Witnesses?”

“No, sir. Constable Carnaby has the people from the house all in one room, sir. There’s a weekend house party, so there are a number of guests.”

“I understand the victim is the wife of a prominent lawyer.”

“Yes, sir, that’s what we were told.”

“You took the call?”

“Yes, sir. Carnaby was right behind me. The body was found just after four by a group of three who were walking in the garden.”

“Garden?”

“A rather spectacular garden, sir. Not your vegetable kind.”

“All right. Area sealed off?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fine. Is Detective Constable Ryan here yet?”

“No, sir, I don’t think so. But there’s a car coming now.”

Manziuk turned to watch as a small red Toyota daintily threaded its way through the cars in the driveway and found a small spot to ease itself into. A young woman got out of the driver’s side. She was wearing a short-sleeved navy pantsuit with a light pink blouse. She stopped for a second to arrange the strap of her navy purse over her shoulder. The purse, which was plain and square and medium in size, matched her navy low-heeled shoes.

Business-like, Manziuk thought. For some reason, that annoyed him. He watched her striding purposefully toward them, and the resentment he felt against her presence threatened to surface. Stupid of him not to call Woody. Only—the truth was, he was worried about the older man. Looked a bit gray around the mouth a few times this past week. No, Woody needed time off even if it did mean his having to work with a green female.

The woman stopped a few feet in front of him, planting her feet about eighteen inches apart, knees flexed, like an outfielder ready to go either way the ball was hit. She was taller than average for a woman—maybe five foot nine. Sturdy—no, muscular. Manziuk suspected there wasn’t an ounce of fat on her. Her hair was black and cut very short—maybe an inch long—with tight curls all around. Like she’d had a buzz cut a month before.