E is for Evidence (14 page)

“I haven't seen you for ten years. What have you been up to?”

“Setting up my own agency,” I said.

“Married? Kids?”

“No, on both counts. You have kids?”

She laughed. “God forbid.”

The bedroom we entered was spacious. Beamed ceiling, big stone fireplace, French doors opening onto a walled-in patio where a small deck had been added on. I could see a round two-person hot tub, surrounded by ferns. A white Persian cat was curled up on a chaise, its face tucked into the circling plume of its tail.

The bedroom floor was polished teak with area rugs of a long white wool that probably came from yaks. The entire wall behind the bed was mirrored and I flashed on an image of Terry Kohler's sexual performances. What did Olive stare at, I wondered, while he watched himself? I glanced at the ceiling, checking to see if there was a cartoon tacked up there, like the one in my gynecologist's examining room: “Smile. It gives your face something to do!” This does not amuse.

I eased into an easy chair and watched while Olive moved into a walk-in closet the size of a two-car garage. Quickly she began to sort through a rack of evening clothes, rejecting sequined outfits, floor-length organza gowns, beaded jackets with long, matching skirts. I could see an assortment of shoes stacked in clear plastic boxes on the shelf overhead, and at one end of the rack, several fur coats of various
lengths and types. She selected a knee-length cocktail dress with spaghetti straps and returned to the bedroom where she scrutinized her reflection. The dress was avocado green, infusing her skin with sallow undertones.

“What do you think?” she said, eyes still pinned to her own image in the glass.

“Makes you look green.”

She stared at herself, squinting critically. “You're right. Here. You take this. I never liked it anyway.” She tossed the dress on the bed.

“I don't wear clothes like that,” I said uncomfortably.

“Take it. We'll have a New Year's Eve party and you can wear it then.” She pulled out a black taffeta dress cut straight across the front. She stepped into it, then zipped it up the back in a motion that snapped everything into place. She was so slender I didn't see how the globelike breasts could possibly be hers. She looked like she'd had softballs surgically implanted on her chest. Hug a woman like that and she was bound to leave dents.

She sat down on the dressing-table bench and pulled on black panty hose, then slipped her feet into four-inch black spike heels. She looked gorgeous, all curves and flawless skin, the pale-blond hair brushing against her bare shoulders. She sorted through her
jewelry box and selected clip-on diamond earrings shaped like delicate silver branches hung with sparkling fruit.

She returned to the closet and emerged in a soft, white fur coat the same length as the dress. When she pulled the coat around her, she looked like a flasher decked out in white fox.

She half-smiled when she caught my look. “I know what you're thinking, sweetie, but they were already dead when I got to the furrier's. Whether or not I bought the coat had no effect on their fates.”

“If women didn't wear them, they wouldn't be killed in the first place,” I said.

“Oh, bullshit. Don't kid yourself. In the wild, these animals get torn to shreds every day. Why not preserve the beauty, like a piece of art? The world's a vicious place. I don't pretend otherwise. And don't argue with me,” she said, firmly. She pointed a finger. “You came to talk, so talk.” She slipped the coat off and tossed it on the bed, then sat down on the bench and crossed her legs. She eased off one high heel and let her shoe flap against the bottom of her foot.

I said, “How much do you know about the situation at Wood/Warren?”

She gestured impatiently. “Business is a bore. I use that section of the paper to line the cat box.”

“You have no interest in the family split?”

“What split? You mean with Lance? I have nothing
invested one way or the other. He and Ebony disagree. She wants me to vote with her. The way she explains it, it's to my advantage. Lance will have a fit, of course, but who gives a shit? He's had his chance.”

“You're siding with her?”

“Who knows? Probably. She's smarter than he is and it's time for new blood. He's got his head in the toilet half the time.”

“Meaning what?”

“Let me give you the lowdown on my brother, honey-bun. He's a salesman at heart. He can charm your socks off when it suits him. He's enthusiastic about anything that interests him, which isn't much. He has no head for figures. Absolutely none. He hates sitting in an office and he can't stand routine. He's good at generating business and lousy at follow-through. End transmission.”

“You've seen this firsthand or is this Ebony's claim?”

“I hear about what happens at the plant every day. Terry's a workaholic and most of what he talks about is business.”

“How do he and Lance get along?”

“They knock heads all the time. Terry's obsessive. It drives him crazy when people fuck up. Excuse the scientific term. Lance has poor judgment. Everyone knows that. Meet the woman he married if you have any doubts.”

“What about the rest of the family? Can't they vote him out?”

“Nope. The rest of us combined only own forty-nine percent of the stock. Ebony wants to put the squeeze on him, but she can't actually force him out. She can bring him to heel, which I suspect is what she wants.”

“I take it Bass isn't involved since he lives in New York.”

“He shows up for board meetings occasionally. He enjoys playing mogul, but he's harmless enough. He and Lance are usually thick.”

“Who will Ashley side with?”

“She could go either way. Obviously, Ebony's hoping she can persuade us all to mutiny.”

“How does your mother feel? This couldn't sit well with her.”

“She hates it. She wants Lance in charge. Not because he's good, but because it's less hassle.”

“Do you think he's honest?”

“Lance? Are you kidding? No way.”

“How do you and he get along?”

“I can't stand him. He's a very tense person and he's soooo paranoid. I hate to be around him. He gets on my nerves. He's my brother and I love him, don't get me wrong. I just don't like him much.” She wrinkled her nose. “He always smells like garlic and sweat and
that nasty Brut cologne. I don't know why men wear it. Such a turnoff.”

“Have you heard any gossip about the warehouse blaze?”

“Just what Terry's told me. You know Lance borrowed money against the company two years ago and now he's losing his shirt. He'd love half a million bucks.”

“Oh really. That's the first I heard of it.”

She shrugged carelessly. “He went into the printing business, which is foolish in itself. I've heard printing and restaurants are the quickest way to go broke. He's lucky the warehouse burned down. Or is that the point?”

“Why don't you tell me?”

She rested her elbow on her knee and propped her chin up on her fist. “If you're looking for answers, I've just run out. I don't care about Lance. I don't care about Wood/Warren, to tell you the truth. Sometimes the politics amuse me in a soap-opera kind of way, like
Dynasty
, but it's still boring stuff.”

“What
do
you care about?”

“Tennis. Travel. Clothes. Golf. What else is there?”

“Sounds like a fun life.”

“Actually, it is. I entertain. I do charity work when I have the time. There are people who think I'm a
spoiled, lazy bitch, but I have what I want. That's more than most can say. It's the have-nots who wreak havoc. I'm a real pussycat.”

“You're fortunate.”

“Like they say, there's no such thing as a free ride. I pay a price, believe me.”

I could see what an exhausting proposition that must be.

We heard someone at the entrance, then footsteps along the hall. By the time Terry Kohler reached the bedroom door, he was already in the process of removing his coat and tie.

“Hello, Kinsey. Olive mentioned you'd be stopping by. Let me grab a quick shower and then we can talk.” He looked at Olive. “Could you fetch us a drink?” he said, his tone peremptory.

She didn't exactly perk up and pant, but that's the impression she gave. Maybe her job was harder than I thought. I wouldn't do that for anyone.

 

 

 

 

 

I waited in the living room while Olive stepped into the kitchen. The place was handsome; beveled windowpanes, pecan paneling, a fieldstone fireplace, traditional furniture in damask and mahogany. Everything was rose and dusty pink. The room smelled faintly spicy, like carnations. I couldn't imagine the two of them sitting here doing anything. Aside from the conventional good taste, there was no indication that they listened to music or read books. No evidence of shared interests. There was a current copy of
Architectural Digest
on the coffee table, but it looked like a prop. I've never known rich people to read
Popular Mechanics, Family Circle
, or
Road & Track
. Come to think of it, I have no idea what they do at night.

Olive returned in ten minutes with a tray of hors d'oeuvres and a silver cooler with a wine bottle nestled
in ice. Her entire manner had changed since Terry walked in the door. She still had an air of elegance, but her manner was tinged now with servitude. She fussed with small linen cocktail napkins, arranging them in a pattern near the serving plate she'd placed at one end of the coffee table. She'd prepared ripe figs stuffed with mascarpone cheese, triangles of phyllo, and chilled new potato halves topped with sour cream and caviar. If I called this my dinner, would all of my nutritional needs be met?

Olive crossed briskly to a sideboard and set out liquor bottles so we'd have a choice of drinks. The room was beginning to darken and she turned on two table lamps. The panels of her taffeta skirt made a silky scritching sound every time she moved. Her legs were well muscled and the spike heels threw her calves into high relief.

I glanced over to see Terry standing in the doorway, freshly showered and dressed, his gaze lingering on the picture she presented. He caught my eye, smiling with the barest suggestion of proprietorship. He didn't look like an easy man to please.

“Gorgeous house,” I said.

Olive looked over with a rare smile. “Thanks,” she said.

“Have a seat,” he said.

“I don't want to hold you up.”

Terry waved dismissively, as if the pending conversation
took precedence. The gesture had the same ingratiating effect as someone who tells his secretary to hold all the calls. It's probably bullshit . . . maybe no one ever calls anyway . . . but it gives the visitor a feeling of importance.

“He'd never pass up a chance to talk business,” Olive said. She handed him a martini and then glanced at me. “What would you like?”

“The white wine, if I may.”

While I looked on, she opened the bottle, pouring a glass for me and then one for herself. She handed me mine and then eased out of her shoes and took a seat on the couch, tucking her feet up under her. She seemed softer, less egotistical. The role of helpmeet suited her, which surprised me, somehow. She was a woman who had no apparent purpose beyond indulging herself and pampering “her man.” The notion seemed outdated in a world of career women and supermoms.

Terry perched on the arm of the couch, staring at me with guarded interest. He took charge of the conversation, a move he must have been accustomed to. His dark eyes gave his narrow face a brooding look, but his manner was pleasant. He made only an occasional digital reference to the fact of his moustache. I've seen men who stroke their facial hair incessantly, as if it were the last remnant of a baby bunting, comforting and soft. “Lance says someone tried to frame
you,” he said. He ate a new-potato half and passed the plate to me.

“Looks that way,” I said. I helped myself to a fig. Heaven on the tongue.

“What do you need from us?”

“For starters, I'm hoping you can fill me in on Ava Daugherty.”

“Ava? Sure. What's she got to do with it?”

“She was there the day I did the fire-scene inspection. She also saw Heather give me the envelope full of inventory sheets, which have since disappeared.”

His gaze shifted and I watched him compose his reply before he spoke. “As far as I know, Ava's straight as an arrow. Hardworking, honest, devoted to the company.”

“What about Lance? How does she get along with him?”

“I've never heard them exchange a cross word. He's the one who hired her, as a matter of fact, when it was clear we needed an office manager.”

“How long ago was that?”

“God, it must be two, three years now,” he said. He looked down at Olive, sitting close by. “What's your impression? Am I reporting accurately?”

Olive shrugged. “Well, I wouldn't say she's crazy about him. She thinks he plays too much when he ought to be getting work done, but I don't think she'd devise any scheme to do him in.” Olive passed the
hors d'oeuvre tray to me. I thought it only gracious to sample something else so I selected a potato half and popped it in my mouth.

“Who might?” I asked, licking sour cream from my thumb. This shit was great. If they'd just leave the room for a minute, I'd have a go at the rest.

Both seemed to come up blank.

“Come on. He must have enemies. Somebody's gone to a lot of trouble over this,” I said.

Terry said, “At the moment, I couldn't name one, but we can give it some thought. Maybe something will occur to us.”

“What can you tell me about the Wood/Warren engineer who killed himself?”

“Hugh Case,” Olive said.