Act of Betrayal (21 page)

She pulled off the highway to take a break and buy herself a pack of M&M’s. Using her cell phone, she contacted Dave. He had discovered that Jeremiah Ramsey hadn’t had a girlfriend—or boyfriend—during his stay on death row. She knew from the case file that there hadn’t been a significant other on the scene before the murder, either, so that path was ruled out.

She went over the Ramsey case in her mind, trying to fit the pieces together and tie them to the recent killings: Rick Schultz, four-year-old Caroline Bussman, prosecutor Victor Rheinhardt. Elijah Ramsey was a man trained to kill in the military, one who had probably continued to practice that art as a mercenary. He had the ability to carry out the murders, including the expert knife attack on Rheinhardt. The photo of him in the case file showed a lean, hard-looking man. It didn’t take much imagination to cast him as a killer. But she had been led down the easy path before, where assumptions outpaced facts.

It all came down to motive. Was Elijah a bitter man, as well as a violent one?

She wondered if it was correct to lump Caroline Bussman in with the other victims. What evidence did she actually have that the hit-and-run was an attempt to frame Schultz? What she had was Schultz’s word, his ex-wife’s alibi for him, and an unexplained missing answering machine tape that might or might not support it.

And the principle of innocent until proven guilty.

She had raised the alarm and sent people scurrying off in all directions, based on the seed of an idea Merlin planted in her mind. Based on—
admit it
—a hunch. Maybe based on wishful thinking about Schultz.

If nothing came of it, she was going to look foolish. She smiled grimly to herself. It wouldn’t be the first time, or the last.

Thinking about looking foolish, PJ remembered the day she had discovered her husband, Stephen, wanted a divorce so he could marry Carla. The affair had been going on right under her nose for months, and she hadn’t noticed. Her relationship with Stephen had been so distant by then she probably wouldn’t have noticed if he’d moved Carla into the guest bedroom. Her cheeks burned at the memory, made especially painful by her more recent realization that the divorce hadn’t been entirely Stephen’s fault. It had taken PJ some time to come to the conclusion that she hadn’t worked as hard on the marriage as she could have. And the only reason she could muster to hold up to the cold light of analysis was that she had loved her job more than she loved Stephen. She’d had an affair too—with her career.

Since that time she’d examined her priorities, and taken a giant step away from her all-consuming, high-powered position in state-of-the-art market research. Her work with the St. Louis Police Department was demanding, and she was deeply committed to it, but there were short lulls when she could recharge her batteries and spend time with her son.

The turnoff to Jefferson City on Highway 54 came up, and PJ almost missed it. Putting aside her doubts about wild-goose chases, she focused on what information she wanted to learn from Libby. The Missouri River bridge came into view a half hour later. The dome of the Missouri State Capitol Building, an impressive sight from the bridge, glinted in the sun. It was a little before 11:00 A.M., too early for lunch, so she decided to check out Libby’s address. PJ got off Highway 54 and asked for directions at a gas station.

It took one more stop for directions before she located Libby’s street. It was an area of small homes, little brick boxes with awnings. About one out of four had a detached garage in the back of the lot. Most of the houses were festooned with several window air-conditioners, keeping individual rooms cool for owners who were at work. What was the sense in that? PJ rolled down her window and discovered that the air-conditioning units actually gave the neighborhood an audible hum. She drove a few blocks and circled back. She had seen only a couple of children outdoors, and they were taking turns with a hose, squirting each other and giggling. There were few cars in the driveways.

Libby’s house was tan brick with a concrete front porch edged with wrought-iron railings. The lawn was small and well-kept, but there were no flowers or bushes, just a single oak tree in the center of the yard that looked as if it might predate the housing development. There was no obvious sign that anyone was home.

PJ parked a couple of houses down and across the street. After just a few minutes without air-conditioning, the car got hot and stuffy, so she rolled down the front windows on both the driver’s and passenger’s side in the hopes of getting a breeze going. Yesterday’s rain hadn’t had any effect on the temperature, which she was sure was in the nineties. She sat and sweated, and thought about her options.

They were pitifully few. She didn’t know where Libby worked, if she did work outside the home. It was important to learn as much as she could about the family dynamics, particularly the attitudes of Elijah Ramsey, and she wasn’t getting that done while roasting in her car. Frustrated and hot, PJ decided to try the direct approach. She rummaged around in the backseat for the notebook she always kept there, slung her purse over her shoulder, then got out of her car and strode up the concrete steps as if she had every right to do so. She rang the doorbell. Just in case she actually found her target, PJ reached inside her purse and pressed the RECORD button on the small tape recorder she had hidden there.

A long minute later the door opened slightly. There was a security chain, and the person who opened the door stayed out of sight.

“Yes?” It was a woman’s voice. She was cautious but not totally unfriendly.

“I’m looking for Elizabeth Ramsey,” PJ said. “I understand she lives here.”

“Who wants to know?”

“I’m Roberta Lakeland, a reporter for the
St. Louis Post.
I’d like to interview Mrs. Ramsey. The
Post
is doing an article on how the death penalty affects the families of the prisoners.” PJ hadn’t known she was going to say that until the words were actually out. She thought it sounded pretty good. Mrs. Ramsey had been outspoken at the time of the trial. Perhaps she couldn’t resist the opportunity to get her side of the story out years later.

PJ wondered how Bill Lakeland would feel if he knew she had taken on his last name. And she wondered why she didn’t have the confidence to simply identify her association with the police department and ask questions directly. She couldn’t imagine Schultz taking such a roundabout way to get information.

“Ramsey doesn’t live here anymore.”

PJ was almost sure her quarry was right behind that door. If she had Schultz with her, she wouldn’t have any trouble getting in. Either he’d think of something compelling or he’d bully his way in. She searched for inspiration.

“Sorry to bother you,” PJ said. “Mrs. Ramsey was first on my list, and I was really interested in what she had to say. But I guess I’ll just have to use my second choice in Springfield. If I leave right away, I still might be able to get an interview this afternoon.”

There was no reaction. PJ assumed she’d played it wrong. “Bye now,” she said. The disappointment in her voice was real. The door closed.

And opened again, without the security chain.

PJ recognized Libby from her case file photo, although the intervening years hadn’t been gentle. Libby was shorter than PJ, which put her at about five-foot-two. She was wiry, not a term often used to describe women, but that’s what came into PJ’s mind. She had short, curly, white hair that showed no sign of thinning, and clear gray eyes that shone with friendliness on the surface but held shadows in their depths. Her face was wrinkled as if from a lifetime of outdoor living, and reminded PJ of a jack-o’-lantern that was past its prime. She was wearing a sleeveless blouse and shorts, and the arms and legs that were revealed showed good muscle tone. She was probably a loyal mall walker, following the lines on the tile floor and daring any loiterers to get in her way.

“Come in out of the heat,” she said. “Would you like some ice tea?”

PJ sidled past her. “Are you Mrs. Ramsey?”

“Can’t be too careful these days,” Libby said.

“Oh, I agree,” PJ said. She hoped she wasn’t going to be asked for press identification. “I’d love some tea.”

The living room was small but pleasantly furnished. The wood floor gleamed, and there was a faint scent of pine cleaner that called up images of shining tubs and toilets. The air-conditioning was set frigidly low. Sitting on the couch, which took up one whole wall of the room, PJ felt the sweat starting to evaporate on her back. Libby disappeared, presumably into the kitchen to prepare tea. PJ put her purse on the floor at her feet and propped it open enough to see the tape recorder inside. She wondered if the microphone was sensitive enough to pick up their conversation.

PJ spotted some family pictures hanging on the wall opposite the couch. She got up and took a closer look, matching the faces to the pictures in the case file. Eleanor looked a lot better than she did in the crime scene shots. She was a blossoming teenager, with a glow in her cheeks and her mother’s intriguing gray, almost colorless, eyes. PJ narrowed her eyes. She thought she recognized that glow. Eleanor might have been pregnant when the picture was taken.

“Pretty, isn’t she? It’s a terrible tragedy. I don’t know why God saw fit to visit this hardship on us.” Libby was at her elbow.

“You must have been very proud of her,” PJ said.

“Smart, too. Just like my son Jeremiah.” Libby reached out her finger and touched Jeremiah’s photo lovingly.

PJ resettled herself on the couch, with a glass of ice tea on a coaster on the coffee table. She opened her notebook.

“I thought all you reporters used tape recorders,” Libby said. There was the slightest twinge of suspicion in it.

“I found that it makes people nervous sometimes. They start talking to the tape recorder and not to me.”

Libby nodded. “I hate ’em. I’m one of those people who would clam right up.”

PJ kept her eyes on Libby’s face, resisting the impulse to cast a guilty glance at the purse at her feet.

“So you want to know what effect Jeremiah’s execution had on us,” Libby said. “I don’t mind talking about that, and I’ll tell you right out. It was devastating, and it still is. My son was innocent.”

“I understand you believe another man was guilty”—PJ pretended to consult her notes—“Clarence Richman, Eleanor’s boyfriend.”

Libby’s face hardened. “He was more than just her boyfriend. He was the father of her child. And him twenty-two years old, taking advantage of a teenage girl like that. A minor. He killed her, all right. The police just didn’t look hard enough.”

PJ jotted notes. “Why do you think they didn’t, Mrs. Ramsey? Did they have it in for your son, somehow?”

“The boy confessed. The fool thought he could protect his little sister’s reputation, or something. Who knows what was in his mind, but as soon as the police got that confession they didn’t let up on him. Even after he took back every word he said.”

“Speaking of little sister, I’ve noticed a big age difference in your children, Mrs. Ramsey. Eleanor was the baby of the family by quite a few years. Why did you and Elijah have a daughter after your other children were grown?”

Unexpectedly, Libby laughed. “You’re too damn nosy,” she said. “Now I know you’re really a reporter.”

“You mean you had doubts?” PJ said innocently.

“Honey, a lot of people have wanted to talk to me about our family’s tragedy. Not all of them had good intentions.” Libby left unfinished what those bad intentions were, such as putting her son on trial for murder and executing him years after a conviction.

“Elijah and I got married when I was fifteen years old. I had Darla six months later, if you catch my drift. Then Jeremiah right after that. Got pregnant as soon as I took Darla off the breast. Hormones or something. I worked my tail off with those kids. Never had much of a childhood of my own, you know. Never got to enjoy the time when I had a good figure and the boys wanted to put their hands on me every chance they got. And I’d give ’em plenty of chances.” Libby smiled, remembering. “You got any kids?”

“One. A boy, thirteen.”

“Something special about a son, isn’t there? Just looking at my boy positively filled up my heart. You should get yourself some more kids, though. Isn’t natural to raise an only child. You’re not too old.”

PJ felt the tips of her ears burning. She hadn’t expected to become the interviewee. She lowered her eyes to her notepad, absorbed in the squiggles she was making there. “I’m divorced.”

“So?”

PJ cleared her throat. “Getting back to the question about Eleanor, Mrs. Ramsey. Was she a welcome addition to the family?”

“Holy shit, you got nerve,” Libby said, ignoring the fact that she had just questioned PJ’s sex life. “You’ll go far as a reporter, you’ll see. The only reason I’m going to answer that is I like a woman who goes after what she wants. Of course she was welcome. I was only thirty-three. My own mother had kids up until she was forty-four.”

“So you’d describe her as your midlife treasure? Just trying to get quotes for the article.”

“You could say that. Sure, that sounds good.” Libby seemed amused, but the joke was a private one.

Libby was answering questions easily enough, but PJ had the strong sense that the woman was in charge of the conversation even though PJ was asking the questions. PJ wasn’t getting the insight she needed, and she couldn’t seem to read the woman as she could other people after a brief conversation. Libby’s body language gave away nothing. PJ would have to knuckle down and dig for both information and attitudes. There was no telling how much longer she’d be allowed to stay in Libby’s small living room. PJ shuffled her feet on the wooden floor and kept up her side of the interview.

“How did the other children react?”

“Darla, I don’t think she was thrilled. Always wanted the spotlight, that one. She didn’t take to having a baby in the house when she was already high-and-mighty eighteen years old. She moved out right after that, come to think of it. Jeremiah, he was excited. Took to the baby from the start. Diapered her and everything. He said he was practicing for when he got married.”