And Leave Her Lay Dying (9 page)

“Something like that.”

“Mind telling me what it was about?”

“The usual stuff. Greed. Lust. Lies.” Fleckstone's grin widened. “Her greed. My lust. And both of us lied.”

“You were using her.”

“Routine as old as show business. And hey, she earned a few bucks in the process.” Fleckstone jabbed a finger at McGuire. “Look, she wouldn't have gotten any work without me. I mean, she could act, but like I kept telling her, she was no Meryl Streep. So who was using who?”

“What was she like?”

“Jennifer? A little desperate. She could be calm, pleasant. And funny in a raunchy sort of way. Other times . . . hell, I guess it depended on what prescription bottle she grabbed when she got up in the morning. I see a lot of women like that her age. They dabble in acting or modelling or something, doing amateur theatre work, telling themselves their break is just around the next corner. Then one day they wake up and realize they've turned too many corners. They have no family, no career hopes, nothing. But they can't let go of that dream. So they get a little desperate. Do weird things.” Fleckstone swung his feet off his desk and studied his fingernails as he spoke. “I heard, after that fight we had at her apartment, she tried to change her looks. Tried to look younger, take some years off by changing her hairstyle, buying a new wardrobe. Kind of sad, I guess.”

“Was she difficult to get along with?”

“You mean bitchy? Jennifer was born bitchy. But like I said, she could be funny too. And she was bright. And I'll admit it, she had some talent.” He grinned up at McGuire. “Even did a great impersonation of Richard Nixon.”

“Did you ever meet her brother? Andrew?”

Fleckstone snorted. “No, he phoned here a couple of times. She even called me, pleading with me to audition him. Said she knew we were finished but that Andrew had just come to Boston and was looking for a break.” He shrugged. “Whole damn family was nuts. Couple of days later I get another phone call and it's this Andrew Cornell. Before I can say anything he starts tearing into me about the way I treated his sister. Said he was coming over to have it out with me. I hung up on the yo-yo. Then, maybe a couple of days later, he calls again and apologizes. Says he has a comp sheet, a sample reel—”

“What are those?”

Fleckstone sighed. “Comp sheet, that's what models use to show how they can look in different scenes. Bunch of pictures they get taken by professional photographers. Sample reels have actors' roles on them, from commercials or films. When you call on a producer, you'd better take your comp sheets and sample reels with you or you don't even get considered. Anyway, I thought, ‘What the hell is this? First the guy wants to pick a fight with me, then he wants an audition?' Well, you never know. I told him, you want to fight, you want to act, come on over. Do either one, I don't care. But he never showed.”

“Think you frightened him away?”

“No idea. Anything else?” Fleckstone's eyes scanned the monitors on the wall.

“You ever hear about Frances O'Neil? Or Gerry Milburn?” Fleckstone closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. McGuire stood up, scribbled his telephone number on a sheet of paper from his notebook and handed it to Fleckstone. “You think of anything else, you let me know. Okay?”

Fleckstone rose and nodded silently.

“I'll bet you remember where you were the night Jennifer was killed,” McGuire said. He was looking down at Fleckstone's desk.

“Sure do,” the other man replied. “I was in New York for the weekend. Left Friday night, came back Sunday afternoon. Still have the receipts, if you want to see them.”

“Business?”

Fleckstone smiled. “Pleasure. Lots of pleasure.”

“Who are all these women?” McGuire asked, waving his hand over the stack of photographs.

“Actresses. Models. Women who want to be actresses and models.”

“These are comp sheets?”

“That's what they are. I use them when I'm casting a shoot. If I like what I see, I might find something for them.”

“Like TV commercials for rugs and cars?”

Fleckstone's face crinkled in laughter. “You got it. I might even take one down to New York for a weekend, introduce her to a few friends, you know? Hell of a job. Doubt if I can keep doing it for more than another thirty, forty years.”

He escorted McGuire to the door and watched the detective walk down the long hall and through the reception room before crumpling the paper with McGuire's telephone number into a ball and tossing it in his wastebasket.

Driving beyond the exit to Logan Airport, McGuire turned south on Bennington and into the town of Winthrop. Tall wooden houses lined the narrow streets, forming corridors which revealed tantalizing glimpses of the sea in one direction and dramatic views of Boston Harbour in the other.

It seemed like an idyllic place to live, a residential area on a finger of land offering vistas of both the city and the ocean. But its location also meant much of Winthrop lay directly beneath the landing approach to the airport. Throughout the day and much of the night, aircraft skimmed the tops of trees, the deep roar and angry whine of their engines disturbing the tranquil neighbourhood.

At the tip of the peninsula, like a brooding menace, sat the fortress-like structure and stone guard towers of Deer Island jail.

Outside of Winthrop and before Deer Island, McGuire entered Cottage Hill and quickly found the address of Frances O'Neil, a three-storey house on the harbour side of the peninsula.

With the exception of its size and location, the building was undistinguished, even dull in appearance, constructed in a perfect cube shape as deep and high as it was wide. White shutters gleamed against the chocolate-brown siding; brass light fixtures added in an attempt to create character only drew attention to the practical, unimaginative lines of the house.

McGuire stepped out of his car, ducking instinctively at the roar of a jumbo jet passing low overhead, and walked up the concrete steps to the front door.

At the sound of the bell, a large dog barked inside and the door opened just wide enough to reveal a weary-eyed woman in her mid-thirties clutching a robe around her body.

“Yes?” she asked McGuire. Her eyes flew from him to his car, then up and down the street before alighting on McGuire again. A black Labrador retriever stood behind her, watching McGuire carefully.

He asked to see Frances O'Neil.

“She's not here. She's out.” The woman's eyes darted past him again, confirming that he was alone.

“When do you expect her home?” McGuire asked.

“Can you tell me what this is about?”

He showed her his badge and identification. “I just have a few questions for her, that's all,” he said soothingly.

Her eyes widened and searched the street once more. “Is Frannie in trouble?” She bit her lower lip.

“No, ma'am. Not at all, “ McGuire replied. “I'm just cleaning up some routine work before closing a case. Thought she might be able to remember something that could help me.”

“She's . . . Frannie looks after my little girl, Kelly. She's gone down to meet Kelly at the school bus and bring her home. It's not due for another ten minutes but Frannie's always afraid it might arrive early and she won't be there to meet her. Frannie's like that.”

“Where is she meeting the bus?”

The woman opened the door wider and leaned out, pointing down the road. “It stops around the corner, where this street curves at the sea wall. She'll be waiting there. She's wearing a blue quilted jacket.”

McGuire thanked her and turned away.

“Just a minute,” the woman said from the door. “Can you wait just a minute, please?” Closing the door, she disappeared inside, returning a few seconds later and thrusting a woollen scarf towards him. “Would you give this to her, please? Frannie never dresses warmly enough and there's a terrible wind off the harbour today.” She smiled for the first time, a smile that brought warmth to her face but did not disguise the concern in her eyes. “You're sure Frannie's not in any trouble?”

McGuire assured her she wasn't and turned again to walk down the steps. From the corner of his eye he saw the woman watching him from a window.

The street curved left, making a switchback that led back towards Boston via Winthrop Shore Drive. On the outer edge of the curve a low stone wall separated the road from the waters of the harbour.

Another aircraft passed overhead, its engines screaming and its landing gear extended. McGuire grew convinced that views of the city skyline and the sea, no matter how spectacular, could never compensate for the noise from the busy airport flight path.

The woman was sitting on the low wall, her back to him, wearing loose woollen slacks, a tattered ski jacket and a thin kerchief on her head. She was staring not at the city skyline but at the grim black towers of Deer Island jail down the peninsula. The wind tugged at her clothing and danced with a wisp of hair dangling from under her kerchief.

At the sound of McGuire's footsteps she turned to look at him, then quickly away.

“Miss O'Neil?” he asked, stopping beside her. “Frances O'Neil?”

She looked up at him again and forced a smile across her face. Her soft attractive features seemed to be heavily weighed by life and her eyes were dark and melancholy, the eyes of a saddened child.

“Lieutenant Joe McGuire,” he said, showing his identification.

She looked at the badge without interest before turning to face the harbour.

“Are you Frances O'Neil?” he asked.

Leaning forward, she held her head on her hand and said something McGuire was unable to hear.

“I'm sorry. Would you repeat that, please?” McGuire sat on the wall with his back to the harbour and leaned to look at her.

“Yes,” she said in a small voice. “Yes, I am.”

“I was asked to bring you this.” He handed her the scarf. “I think it's from your sister. Back at the house.”

She smiled, avoiding McGuire's eyes, and accepted the scarf. “Thank you,” she said, wrapping the scarf around her neck and tucking it into the ski jacket with her thin, delicate hands. “Yes, that's my sister. My older sister. Older sisters think they're mothers to the rest of the world.”

He showed her his badge and introduced himself. “Did you know Jennifer Cornell?”

Frances O'Neil continued to smile sadly and nodded. “I knew it would be about Jennifer.”

“Why did you know that?”

“Because she was murdered. And because you haven't found the killer yet.”

“How did you meet her? When you worked at Pour Richards?”

She moved her head up and down in short, jerky motions. “I worked there as a waitress for over a year. But I guess you know all that. I told some police officers all about it after Jennifer . . . after the murder.”

“What kind of person was she?”

Frances looked directly into McGuire's eyes. “She was mean. Terribly mean. And ambitious. And sexy to men in her own way, I guess.”

“Did you ever meet Richard Fleckstone?”

“Who?”

McGuire repeated the name and Frances shook her head.

“How about Gerry Milburn?”

The smile returned and she turned away to stare out at the harbour, her chin on her hand. “Gerry thought Jennifer was wonderful. And she could be wonderful, too, when she wanted something from somebody. She took him home with her once and I guess he thought it was love or something. But not Jennifer. For Jennifer it was just recreation.”

“Would you say Milburn was in love with her?”

“Smitten.”

“Pardon?”

She looked back at him, one hand toying with a wisp of hair that had fallen out from under her kerchief. “He was smitten with her. Nice word, isn't it? Comes from the word smite. ‘She smote him a heavy blow.'” She tucked the errant hair back under the kerchief. “Sorry, I used to be a teacher. Sometimes I miss it.”

“You went from being a teacher to a barmaid?”

“With a few stops in between. Now I'm just a babysitter. So in a way I've come full circle.”

A 727 roared overhead, drowning out her last few words. McGuire glared up at it, but Frances O'Neil didn't seem to notice.

“This Milburn,” McGuire began, watching the aircraft drift lower towards the runway across the water. “Do you think he was jealous enough to kill Jennifer?”

“He wasn't jealous,” she replied. “He was shattered.”

“But could he have killed her out of anger or revenge?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Who knows what people can do?” she asked. “You must know that better than me. In your line of work.” She stiffened, looking over McGuire's shoulder towards Winthrop. “Here comes my baby,” she said, her face brightening. “Here comes my angel.”

McGuire turned to see a yellow school bus winding its way around the curve. “How about Jennifer's brother, Andy?” McGuire asked. “I understand you knew him.”

“Yes.” She stood as the bus approached. “Oh yes, I knew Andy.”

“What was he like?”

“Beautiful. Sensitive.” She waved at the bus and walked to the curb. “Everything Jennifer wasn't.”

The bus stopped at the curb and an overweight woman in a heavy woollen coat stepped out to help three young children down the steps. The last child to emerge was a girl about five years old. Her round face, framed in tight blond curls, shone as she reached her arms out to Frances O'Neil. “Fanny! Fanny!” she cried. Frances swept her up, and the child's tiny arms wrapped tightly around her neck.

“This is Kelly,” Frances said, turning to face McGuire. “Kelly, say hello to . . . I'm sorry.”

“Joe,” McGuire smiled. “Just call me Joe,” and he offered his hand to the little girl.

“Hi, Joe!” Kelly smiled, and Frances lowered her to the sidewalk.

The bus pulled away as the three, Kelly clinging tightly to Frances's hand, began walking around the curve of the sea wall back to the house.

“Tell me about Jennifer and her brother,” McGuire said.

“What do you want to know?” They were moving slowly, matching their pace to the child's short methodical steps.

“How did they get along?”

“Wonderfully,” Frances replied. “They loved each other. Everyone could see that. They absolutely loved each other.”

“Did that include physically?”

“I beg your pardon?” She looked at him, shocked. “Do you mean . . . the two of them . . . ?” Looking away towards the harbour, her shoulders began shaking.

McGuire reached to touch her, but when she turned he saw that she was laughing, not sobbing as he expected. “Sorry,” she said. “It just struck me funny, what you said.”

“I don't understand. You think incest between a brother and sister is funny?”

Her demeanour changed abruptly. “No,” she said quietly. “No, that's not what I meant at all.”

“What did you mean?”

Kelly asked to be carried and Frances lifted her again and kissed the child gently on the cheek. “You had to see them together,” she said, quickening her pace. “You couldn't understand unless you saw them side by side. Jennifer so independent and tough, yet so talented. And Andy the opposite: kind, gentle, sensitive.” She blinked back tears. “And ethics. Andy had very high ethics.”

“Were you attracted to Andy?” McGuire asked. They had reached the house and he could see the sister standing behind the aluminum storm door watching them, her arms folded across her chest.

“Yes, I was.” Frances lowered Kelly to the ground. “Go to Mommy,” she instructed. “Tell her I'm coming.” They watched the little girl scamper up the steps.

“Where is he?” McGuire asked.

“Gone.”

“Gone where?”

She looked at him, her expression saying nothing. “Gone. Disappeared. Just gone, that's all.”

“Do you have any idea where?”

She shook her head. Tears flooded her eyes.

“Do you think Andy was responsible for his sister's death?” McGuire asked.

“Oh yes.” Frances dabbed at her nose with a torn tissue. “Oh, I'm sure of that.”

“And he's never tried to contact you?”

“No, and he never will,” she said, biting her lip. “Sometimes I dream he will, but he won't. I'm sure if it.” She wiped the tears from her face. “Is there anything else?”

“You'll call us if he ever does, won't you?” She nodded silently. “Here's my card. If he tries to reach you or you think of anything else, call me right away.”

She took his card and turned without a word to walk up the steps. Kelly, her jacket removed and a cookie in her hand, waved merrily at him from behind the picture window.

McGuire smiled and raised his hand to return the greeting before getting into his car.

“You here for chili or to arrest me for serving you the last bowl?” Marlene Richards threw her head back and laughed, a sailor's laugh, coarse and vulgar. “What can I get you, McGuire?” she asked, after leaning towards him, her arms on the counter. “We've got clam chowder today. Shucked the clams myself last night.”

“Just bring me the kettle and a long spoon,” McGuire replied. He sat on the same bar stool as before. The noon-hour crowd had dispersed, leaving most of the tables empty.

“And a frog beer to go with it?”

McGuire smiled. “And a frog beer.”

She brought him a cold Kronenbourg and a thick china bowl spilling over with chowder, a pat of butter floating in its own golden puddle on top.

“Well?” she asked after he sampled his first spoonful.

“Good,” he said. “Damn good,” and he meant it.

“Jesus, I used to look forward to hearing that in bed. Now I only hear it in my bar.”

“I just talked to Frances O'Neil,” McGuire said after another spoonful of chowder.

Marlene's smile faded and a look of concern flooded her face. “How is poor Frannie?”

“All right, I guess. Is she always so tense?”

“Frannie? Yeah, she's always been wound up like an eight-day clock on Sunday morning. She tell you she used to teach school?”

McGuire took a long pull on his Kronenbourg and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yeah, she told me that. Told me a few things about Andrew Cornell too.”

“You think he killed Jennifer?”

“He had something to do with it. Shows up suddenly, then drops out of sight as soon as she's killed. All his belongings were gone. Not a thing in her apartment except his fingerprints.” McGuire looked up at her, his spoon poised over the bowl of chowder. “Tell me more about him. How often was he in here?”