Claws for Alarm (13 page)

I glanced at my watch. There was still an hour and a half before the proposed meeting. Enough time for me to pay a little call on Mrs. Pitt the second and find out just how airtight that alibi of hers really was.

I
ran a Google search on Giselle Pitt on my iPhone and got an address in the more exclusive section of Carmel. About twenty minutes later I pulled into a gated drive on a quiet, tree-lined street. I rolled my window down as the intercom just beyond it started to squawk. I announced myself saying, “Nora Charles. I'm associated with the SFPD,” and a minute later the gates parted, revealing a winding circular driveway lined with overhanging elms and dogwood trees. At the very end was an exquisite English Tudor residence, flanked on one side by a spacious side-by-side garage. One of the doors was open, and I caught a glimpse of a candy apple red Mercedes Benz, black convertible top down, before the door shuddered and began its descent. I couldn't help but notice the license plate:
TRPHYWF
. I wondered if it had been Pitt's idea. I parked over to the side, got out, and stood for a moment admiring the house.

It was well built, featuring a high-peaked slate roof with a façade of half timbers and cross-hatching, symmetrically paned picture windows, and leaded glass sidelights. Handsome herringbone brickwork on the elegantly landscaped walkway led up to the entryway, where a pair of tall hammered columns rose to a balcony/flower box high overhead. The setting reminded me of formal English gardens I'd seen in magazines, the front garden boasting colorful blooms, lush greenery, and sculpted boxwoods. All in all, it was a feast for the eyes. I was halfway up the cobblestone walkway when the front door suddenly swung open.

The woman who stood framed there looked anything but grief stricken. Giselle Pitt was even more striking in person than in her photographs. Long straight hair cascaded around her slim shoulders like a golden waterfall. Her skin, tanned to a golden honey brown, looked to be unlined, smooth and creamy as a baby's bottom. I judged her height to be about five-six or five-seven, even without the benefit of the spiky-heeled black Manolo Blahniks gracing her tiny feet. She couldn't have weighed more than a hundred pounds soaking wet, but it was a curvaceous hundred, shown off to perfection in her formfitting Isaac Mizrahi sheath—in black, of course. Eyes the color of a Tahitian sky fixed on me, the stare steady and unblinking. She extended a perfectly manicured hand. “Nora Charles? I'm Giselle Pitt. Do come in.”

I followed her into a vestibule fairly reeking of elegance and money, with a cross barrel vault ceiling and arched leaded glass sidelight. She caught me gaping and smiled. “Beautiful, isn't it? My husband lived for art in any form, Ms. Charles. He knew what he was doing when he purchased this,” she said with a nod. “This house was designed by a
popular interior design group in collaboration with the previous owner, who was also an artist. It's been published in architectural periodicals.”

I took in the deep crown molding, polished hardwood floors, and expansive picture windows and nodded. “I'm sure. It's . . .” I struggled to find an appropriate word. “Magnificent.”

“There's custom lighting throughout every room of this place. It was designed specifically to focus on art and objects d'art for its owners, who were not only artists, but well-known collectors, much like my husband. There are five bedrooms, four deluxe baths and two half baths, a living room with a fireplace and den alcove, a formal dining room, a library, a custom kitchen, a media room . . .” She waved her hand in the air. “Before I married Teddy I came from a rather modest circumstance. I worked in a restaurant, and I lived in a two-room apartment. To go from that to this, well, it was quite a change. Quite.”

“I can imagine. It certainly takes one's breath away.”

“Yes.” Her lips twisted into a wistful expression. “Quite a lot for a simple girl from Kansas City to take in, but you get used to it. If I wanted to stay married to Teddy, I had to.” Her arm swept out in an encompassing gesture. “Please, let's talk in the living room. It's cozier in there. Sometimes the rest of the house—well, without Teddy around, it just feels like an empty museum.” She sucked in a breath. “I do miss him—more than I ever thought I would, actually.”

She led me into a room that did indeed seem both warm and inviting. A classic white marble fireplace graced one end of the room, set against walls that appeared to be beautifully hand painted in a soft rose color. The furniture
consisted of a sofa and love seat combo upholstered in an expensive-looking beige velvet and a cherrywood mission-style coffee table positioned between them. A high-backed Queen Anne chair in a rich brown of the same material was just off to the left. A lighted display case near the large bar area held several pieces of modern sculpture, similar to the ones I'd seen in Pitt's office.

“Sit anywhere,” Giselle said with a brisk wave. “Can I get you anything? Tea, coffee, a soft drink?”

I shook my head as I eased myself onto the sofa. “No, I'm fine.”

She sat down on the love seat opposite me and picked up a gold cigarette case from the coffee table, shook out a cigarette, put it between her lips, then fumbled in the pocket of her dress and withdrew a gold lighter. She lit the cigarette, took a deep drag, and then leaned back, eyes slitted, studying me for a moment. “You said you were with the police?”

“Yes. I'm—ah—I'm helping them with the investigation into your husband's murder.”

“That's still going on?” She took another drag on the cigarette. “I was under the impression the murder had been solved and the culprit apprehended, and at the scene of the crime no less. One of Teddy's students.”

I had to agree with Althea—the nickname sounded way too syrupy. “We just want to be certain all the possibilities have been explored. The accused is pleading not guilty, you know.”

Her eyes rolled. “She was caught holding the knife. Goodness, why bother pleading not guilty. Unless she plans to add by reason of temporary insanity.” She flicked an ash into an expensive marble ashtray on the coffee table. “Now
that
I
could understand. Teddy didn't exactly endear himself to his students. I'm sure more than one harbored thoughts of murder at one point or another. And he certainly knew how to push people's buttons. I could easily see someone flying off the handle, perhaps stabbing him in a fit of rage . . .” Her voice trailed off and she glanced over at me. “I can understand it, but it doesn't mean they should go unpunished. She took a human life. There's a price to pay.”

I reached into my shoulder bag and removed my notebook and pen. I opened it and balanced it on my knee. “If you don't mind, I have just a few questions.”

Her sigh was audible. “Go ahead. Of course, I want to cooperate in any way I can to ensure Teddy's killer is brought to justice.”

God, stop calling the deceased Teddy or I might kill you myself.
I smiled and asked, “So, would you mind telling me where you were the night of the fifth between nine and eleven p.m.?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don't you have this information already? I told all this to the detective who came around the next day—Samms, I think his name is. Can't you get this from him?”

“Detective Samms is working another matter right now,” I said, thinking fast, “and the DA wants to bring this to trial as quickly as possible, so we need to make sure our facts are accurate. So, if you don't mind . . .”

“No, of course not. It just seems like a lot of wasted energy, but if you think it's important.” She waved a heavily jeweled hand. “I was at a party in Sea Cliff. The VanBlandts'. It was a post-fund-raiser celebration. I helped them raise some money for a children's charity, and we exceeded
our goal by ten thousand dollars. Lina VanBlandt sits on the charity board, and this was their way of showing appreciation for all our hard work. Lina and her husband footed the bill, of course. And added another ten thousand to what we'd already raised.”

“I see.” I scribbled in my notebook. “And of course, you have witnesses who can testify you were there at the time of the murder?”

“Of course. I was there the entire evening. Wait.” She rose, crossed to a rolltop desk in the far corner of the room, and returned a few moments later, a small photo album in hand. She handed it to me. “I showed this to Detective Samms. A friend of mine took photos, gave each of the board members that book as a souvenir. There are date and time stamps on them.”

I set my notebook aside and opened the album. The very first photo was of Giselle, wearing a skintight red cocktail dress, hair done in a French twist, holding a flute of champagne and standing between two other women in what appeared to be a very elegant foyer with a winding staircase as the backdrop.

She tapped the picture with a bright red nail. “That's me, flanked by Dorothy McCambridge and Mercedes LeBon. They co-chaired the fund-raiser with me.” Her nail skimmed the edge of the photo. “Note the date and time.”

I looked in the bottom right-hand corner. The photo was dated the fifth of this month, and the time was 9 p.m.

I raised my head and stared into those brilliant blue eyes. “Your husband was murdered sometime between nine thirty and ten p.m.”

She sighed. “Look at the other photographs.”

I flipped through the album. Giselle was in practically every photograph, some candid, some posed. The times of the photographs were varied, but all were between 9:30 and 11 p.m. I flipped to the last page, and suddenly my heart did a double flip-flop.

This photo depicted Giselle seated on a leather sofa in what appeared to be a den, with dark wood walls and soft lighting. She was seated facing a man wearing a shirt open at the collar. His dark hair was mussed, and he clutched a flute of champagne in one hand, the look of adoration on his face unmistakable as he gazed into her eyes. A portrait of a setting sun hung just over their slightly lowered heads.

With a jolt, I realized where I'd seen a setting very similar to this before. Taft Michaels's Facebook page. And no wonder, since Giselle's companion was none other than Taft Michaels. And just like that, I realized what it was that had bothered me ever since I'd seen that photograph of Giselle at Althea's.

Giselle was the blonde Taft Michaels was kissing in his Facebook photo. Which to my mind, could mean only one thing. Taft was, in all probability, Giselle's lover. I looked at the date stamp in the corner of the photo. It had been taken on the fifth, at 9:30 p.m.

My head jerked up sharply. “Who is in this photo?”

She leaned over and shrugged. “A friend.”

I tapped at the photo with my own nail. “This is Taft Michaels. He's a model at your husband's school. Apparently you're friendly enough with him to ask him to accompany you to a fund-raiser in your husband's place?”

She jerked her fingers down on the necklace, so hard I thought it might break and pearls scatter over the hardwood
floor. “He didn't accompany me. Taft also worked on the fund-raiser. I happened to meet him there. I went alone, because Teddy said he had to work late that night, but you already know all this. It should all be in the statement I gave Detective Samms.”

“To be honest, I haven't read your statement, so if you don't mind going over it once more?”

“Oh, for pity's sake.” Eyes flashing, she jumped up from the couch. “Why are you treating me as if I'm a suspect in my husband's murder?” She reached down and tapped at the photographs. “I never left the party. You can ask anyone who was there.” She paused. “You can ask Taft, if you must. We were together the entire time between nine and eleven.”

“I see. He'll swear to that?” At her nod I said, “That's rather . . . convenient. You give each other a perfect alibi.”

The look she shot me was blacker than a thundercloud. “I'm not certain I like your line of questioning, Ms. Charles. It almost sounds as if you're trying to pin my husband's murder on me.”

“I'm just trying to make sure justice prevails, Mrs. Pitt. Do you want to see an innocent woman convicted?”

Her lips pursed in a pout. “Heavens no—
if
she is innocent. However, the DA has assured me all the evidence points to the fact the right person is in custody.”

“Evidence can be interpreted many ways.”

“It's hard to misinterpret catching one standing over the body with the murder weapon.” She took another drag of the cigarette, exhaled, and looked me up and down. “You
did
say you were working with the police, didn't you? Because you act as if you're on the defense team.”

I blew out a breath. “Was your husband aware you and Taft Michaels were lovers?”

Her gaze flickered but didn't waver. “I didn't say we were lovers.”

“You don't have to. If one can't tell from the way he's ogling you in this picture, then they can check out his Facebook page. He's practically got his tongue shoved down your throat in quite a few pictures.”

“Damn fool.” She swore softly under her breath before turning back to me. “Teddy was hardly in a position to throw stones.”