Authors: Dianne Emley
The fireplace was clean of ashes. That was reasonable as it was late
summer, but Kissick wondered if Margaret ever built a fire just for herself. He thought of his own parents, who were both alive. If his father were dead, would his mother continue the simple routines they enjoyed that made the house a home? Would the traditions bring warm memories or would they feel hollow if not shared? Perhaps a fireplace fire made too big a mess at the end of a life in which much time had been devoted to cleaning up messes.
“Can I offer you tea or coffee, Detective?”
“Whatever you’re having would be great.”
“I enjoy English Breakfast tea, even in the afternoon.” Margaret’s voice was evenly modulated and she precisely enunciated her words, reminiscent of the college professor she’d been. “I hope you won’t turn down a slice of my banana nut bread.”
“I wouldn’t consider being so impolite.”
“You’re a fit young man. I’m sure you can handle a little piece of something sweet. Everyone’s so concerned about eating carbohydrates these days. When I grew up, we had dessert after every meal and I did the same in my household. I guess it’s all about staying active. People these days spend too much time indoors, looking at computer screens. Please make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”
She left for the kitchen. Her footsteps in low-heeled shoes were alternately muffled on the area rugs and resonated softly against the hardwood floor.
The silence in the house was broken only by the ticking of a grandfather clock that Kissick spied in the adjoining den. It emitted a firm “tick” followed by a lower-pitched “tock,” and silence in between, like a heartbeat. Kissick found the silence in older homes unique. They didn’t so much exclude sounds, but rather were selective about the ones they embraced. The silence felt rich. It wasn’t missing anything, but rather was full and complete in itself.
He looked at framed photographs that were arrayed on the mantel, end tables, and built-in bookcases beneath the windows. He’d examined many such collections in the homes of murder victims’ families. The photos always made him reflect about that corner turned when murder takes its place at the table, never to leave. For the loved ones left behind, the photographs still provoked happy memories, but the
happiness was forever tarnished. No amount of polishing would restore its prior beauty. He sensed that tainted happiness in the silence of this house.
There were rocks and shells placed around the photographs. Kissick absently picked up one of the stones and carried it as he explored. It was gray and marked with fine, darker gray striations. It was lighter than it looked.
An overweight, orange tabby cat sauntered into the room from the den. The large cat moved straight toward Kissick, delicately placing one paw in front of the other, like a gymnast on a balance beam, her gold eyes fixed upon the intruder. She sniffed Kissick’s outstretched fingers, but reared her head beyond his reach when he attempted to touch her. She minced to the easy chair that was draped with the fur-covered throw, and leaped onto it with ease that belied her girth.
He continued perusing the photos until he saw one that pulled him up short. It was a studio photograph of Margaret and her husband, perhaps taken ten years ago. Margaret’s hair was worn in the same style, but wasn’t as gray. He had on a coat and tie and she was in a pale blue dress. Around her neck was a pearl necklace. It was nearly identical to Vining’s— the same length, the same size pearls, the same pendant surrounded by small stones that glittered like diamonds. The only difference was the gem in the pendant. Vining’s necklace had a pearl. Kissick couldn’t quite make out the stone in the photograph, but it wasn’t a pearl.
Margaret returned, carrying a silver tray laden with a china teapot, sugar bowl, cream pitcher, cups, saucers, and small plates, one holding fanned slices of rich-looking banana nut bread. There were also small, crisp linen napkins with embroidered flowers, and silver teaspoons and dessert forks that looked as if they’d been recently polished.
Kissick returned the photograph to the shelf and realized he was still holding the rock. “I’m sorry. I picked this up and I don’t know where it goes.”
She had set the tray halfway onto the coffee table and was picking up copies of
National Geographic, The Saturday Review,
and
The Economist
with one hand. “Oh, just put it anywhere. Marilu was always giving me rocks and shells. She always brought me shells that were pink and rocks that were heart-shaped.”
Kissick looked at the rock and realized that it indeed resembled a heart. He set it on the mantel.
“That photograph you were looking at was taken on our fortieth anniversary.” She set down the tray. “Harold died a year later. I see Miss Persimmon has deigned to grace us with her presence.” She scratched the cat’s ears. The cat heartily rolled her head against Margaret’s hand as if in ecstasy eyes slit, and began purring robustly.
She stroked the cat once more then patted a wing-backed chair beside the sofa. “Please have a seat, Detective.”
She perched on the sofa and poured tea into a china cup decorated with hand-painted flowers and a gold band around the rim. “Cream? Sugar?”
“Black, please.”
She set a cup and saucer on the coffee table near him and followed with a slice of banana bread on a small plate, tucking a napkin beneath it.
He picked up the delicate napkin. He wouldn’t have dared to soil it, but she wanted him to use it, so he opened it at the first crease and draped it across one leg.
“In your anniversary photo, you’re wearing a pearl necklace. Does it have a history?”
Something about the way she looked deeply into his eyes made him suspect that she had always had a question about the necklace. “Someone gave it to Marilu. She felt it was an extravagant gift and would have refused it, but she couldn’t. It had been left in a bag on the doorknob of the ranger residence where she was living. She asked me if I wanted it.”
“When was this?”
“About nine years ago.” Her spoon tinkled against the china cup as she stirred in cream and sugar.
“Nine years ago. That was around the time Marilu shot Bud Lilly.”
“Yes. Why the interest in the necklace?”
“It’s a lead we’re following.”
“So that’s why you came here. I knew you had something personal to discuss beyond what Zeke could tell you about Marilu’s murder.”
He was about to ask her if she still had the necklace when she took in a breath, as if to speak.
“I believe I was wearing it that Christmas Eve. The one when we waited for Marilu. I wore it to her funeral. It was something beautiful that she’d given to me.”
She paused, holding the cup in mid-air. “Are you suggesting that the person who killed Marilu might have given it to her?”
Kissick sensed the pain she’d endured all those years. It started that Christmas Eve with mild anxiety when Marilu, who was never late without calling, had not shown up. Anxiety turned to fear as time dragged on. She’d probably served the Christmas Eve dinner anyway, lest it completely dry out in the oven, but no one had eaten much. Before long, her worst fears would be confirmed.
He felt it was cruel to stand on protocol about not revealing salient details of the investigation. The forkful of banana bread he was chewing turned to mush in his mouth.
She gently pleaded. “I won’t tell a soul or do anything to jeopardize your work, Detective. I’ve waited a long time. My hope is to see Mar-ilu’s murderer brought to justice before I die. My fear is that I won’t.”
He set down the plate and fork and absently blotted his mouth with the linen napkin, forgetting his intention not to soil it. From his jacket pocket, he took out Vining’s pearl necklace and handed it to her. “A Pasadena police officer was given that under similar circumstances before she was attacked.”
She held it between her hands. “This is the same as Marilu’s, except the pendant in hers has a polished turquoise.”
“It was left at our officer’s home with a handwritten note, congratulating her.”
“Congratulating her?”
Kissick indicated that he also found it bizarre. “Near as we can figure, congratulating her for having killed a bad guy in the line of duty. She was front-page news for a while.”
“Like Marilu with Bud Lilly.”
“Yes.”
Margaret handed the necklace back to Kissick. “Marilu’s necklace was dropped off before she was attacked. That means he’d been stalking her. Her murder wasn’t a random act.” She rubbed her hands over her arms. “That gives me chills.”
From his jacket pocket, Kissick took out the artist’s rendering of Nan’s attacker and the photo of Nitro. “Do you recognize either of these men?”
She closely examined the images. She held up the one of Nitro. “This one looks harmless. This one, though … Is this drawing based upon that police officer’s description of the man who attacked her?”
“Yes.”
“He looks so plain, doesn’t he? He looks like anyone. The political theorist Hannah Arendt wrote about the banality of evil, the interdependence of thoughtlessness and evil. This fellow’s picture certainly brings that phrase to mind.” Finally, she shook her head and sighed. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.” She gave him back the photo and drawing.
“You’ve helped tremendously. Thank you for your time.”
“It’s the least I can do. I’m so grateful for your effort. I have a good feeling about this. I think you’re going to get him. I really do.”
“I’ll do everything in my power. I’ll let you know how things are going.”
The grandfather clock chimed the hour. The light in the room had grown dim and the shadows had lengthened.
Margaret was pensive. “If he’s murdered two, there are probably more. Is that your theory?”
“We are examining that possibility.”
“All females in law enforcement?”
“Perhaps.”
“Makes one wonder who he really seeks to kill. Marilu and your officer attracted his attention. By giving them a necklace, he’s anointed them. In his mind, he’s transformed them into this iconic woman. He murders the stand-in, and for a while, finds release.” She made a face, as if she feared she sounded ridiculous. “Forgive the pop psychology.”
“I’m intrigued. So does he stop after he kills the prototype?”
“He may not be able to kill her. Perhaps he can’t get up his nerve. Perhaps he’s not fully cognizant of his motives and doesn’t realize that
she’s
the one he wants dead. Perhaps she’s already dead. When these warrior women appear, he’s compelled to knock them down.” She shrugged, again dismissing her theory. “But who knows?”
She stood and walked around the room, turning on lamps. “You’ll want Marilu’s necklace. I’ll get it.”
While she was gone, Kissick took a small spiral pad from his jacket breast pocket and made a few notes, including: Turquoise = December? He didn’t broach the death stone issue with Margaret. There was no need for her to know how well-planned the assassination of her daughter had been.
Nan’s attacker was sentimental and romantic, in a twisted way. Thinking of how he’d planned, watched, waited, and then had coolly executed the murders rattled Kissick’s bones. The psycho had given Nan the necklace five years before he’d attacked her.
Five years.
He’d had a romantic relationship with Nan during that time. Had that creep been following them? Watching them? The thought made his blood boil. He finally had to concede the possibility of a criminal mastermind.
Shortly, Margaret returned, dangling the necklace from one hand, holding it away from her body, looking at it like she might a friend who had lied to her. She seemed relieved to give it to him.
He turned to a fresh page on his spiral pad. “I’ll write you a receipt. You’ll likely be able to get it back once things are resolved.”
“I don’t want it back. I don’t want it in my house anymore.”
It was another example of a truth that Kissick knew too well. Death changes everything. Death takes something that was beloved and turns it inside out, rendering it into bloody viscera.
He ran his thumb over the polished turquoise oval surrounded by small diamond-like stones. He dropped it inside the jacket pocket with Vining’s necklace.
He gave Dr. Feathers a warm good-bye and promised to let her know of any developments.
BACK INSIDE HIS CAR, HE RETRACED HIS TRIP ON HIGHWAY 1, HEADING
south. He was looking forward to having a cocktail and a nice dinner at Dorn’s restaurant in Morro Bay, checking into the modest motel he’d selected, and getting to bed after a long couple of days.
While driving back, thinking of the martini glasses shoved into the vat of chipped ice that he remembered on the bar at Dorn’s, and almost
tasting that first martini, he affixed his Bluetooth to his ear to check his cell phone messages.
One was from Nan. It was nice of her to call and check in.
The next message was also from her, but had a decidedly different intent.
I need you tonight.
He pondered what she meant by “need.” That she missed him and wanted to see him? But wouldn’t she have just said that if that was what she’d meant? Her slightly breathy tone suggested another meaning. He played the message again and became convinced that “need” meant
need.
He’d accused her of being tightly wound and not herself, but this sort of craziness he could more than handle.
His martini, seafood dinner, and motel bed lured, yet … He nearly called her back, but decided not to. She had left the message impulsively and he responded in kind. He didn’t stop in Morro Bay but continued to the 101. Maybe she’d have changed her mind by the time he arrived, but maybe not.
TWENTY-FIVE
P
ARKING ON GREEN STREET NEAR TARANTINO’S WAS ALWAYS NEARLY
impossible. Vining could have parked in the red, but there had been a rise in complaints about the local cops violating parking and traffic laws. Even though the Crown Vic was unmarked, many citizens recognized it as a cop car. She circled the block, and on her return, nabbed a spot as someone was leaving.
Inside the shoebox-size restaurant, the handful of tables was full and people were lined up along the wall in back, waiting. It was a late dinner hour for the local crowd who patronized this hole-in-the-wall place, but the too-warm September night was a siren call that awakened the continental spirit in the most stalwart soccer moms and overworked dads who broke the school-night rules for their overscheduled children.