HardScape (13 page)

“I don't think he's playing a game. Or at least he doesn't think he's playing one. He thinks that if there's a trial it will help your defense if I testify that you and Ron appeared to be a gentle, loving couple. That's what he wants you to talk to me about. The lawyers intend to challenge the prosecutor's lovers' quarrel motivation.”

“They want to indict me.”

“So I hear. It's a thin case though.”

“It's unbelievable. …Would you go now?”

“Would you answer a question first?”

“Just go. I hate what you did to us.”

“Where's the drawing you drew that night? The picture of Ron?”

“You saw that—Of course you did. Get out of here.”

“Where did it go?”

“It didn't go anyplace. It's in my studio.”

“Have you seen it there since Ron was killed?”

“No.”

“Would you check?”

“What for?”

“Rose says it's not there and that the cops didn't take it. Would you check?”

“All right.”

“May I come with you?”

“No.”

She ran up the steps and banged the door behind her. I heard her pound up the central staircase to the second floor. She came back, looking wary. “It's not there.”

“Was it there when I came to appraise the house?”

“I don't know.”

“But you ran ahead into the studio to cover it.”

“No. I always cover my work. I just went to make sure I hadn't left my panties lying around.”

“So the easel was covered when you ran ahead?”

“Yes.”

“But now you found a landscape of a pond and a fence?”

“How'd you know?”

“Rose told me. So where's your picture of Ron?”

“I don't know.”

“Somebody took it. Who could get into the house? When you were at the cookout maybe.”

“Just Ron, when he came back.”

“What about your husband?”

“He was in Washington.”

“No one else has a key?”

“We changed the locks when construction was done.”

That was common practice, when a homeowner had allowed keys to the subcontractors. “What about a housekeeper?”

“I don't have one yet.”

“Rita? Can I ask why you drew the skull?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, that picture could give jurors in a trial an impression of…strangeness.”

“For chrissake, it's a foundation technique. You start with the bones and add muscle and flesh and skin. No big deal.”

“I see.”

“Any art teacher could explain it,” she added impatiently, as if the skull was the least of her problems. Perhaps it was, but I couldn't help feeling that jurors might wonder, like I did, what else was in her head the night before her boyfriend was murdered.

“When I came over to appraise the house, where did you think Ron was?”

“He said he was going to drive to New York and come back late. But when I got home from the mall the Jag was in the garage. He would use my Jag, which I don't usually drive up here. I had the Land Rover.” I had seen her get into it at the cookout—a genuine British Land Rover, roughneck daddy to the wimpified Range Rover.

“So where did you think Ron was?”

“I couldn't find him in the house. I supposed he had gone running, and I knew that if he came back and saw your car he would come quietly. It's a big house.”

“And that's what you told the police?”

“Would you please go away now?”

“I'm sorry for what I did.”

“You've got to live with it,” she said. “I've got my own problems.”

“Would you answer one more question?”

“I'm going in.” She turned and headed up the steps.

“But they don't believe you,” I called after her. She kept going. When she reached the door I ran up behind her. “Could your husband have killed Ron?”

“Jack was in Washington.”

“I know. But if he weren't, could he?”

I thought she was going to tell me to hit the road again. Instead, she answered reflectively. “I asked myself that a thousand times, sitting in that cell.”

“And?”

“Could he pull the trigger? I don't know.”

“Or have hired a killer to shoot Ron?”

“I don't even know the answer to that. I ask these questions and I wonder how well do you know somebody if you can't answer such a question.”

“How long were you married?”

She stood on the door sill, looking down on me, shaking her head. “Nine years. I still can't answer the question.”

“Did your lawyers pose it to the cops?”

“They're Jack's lawyers too.”

“And Rose is his detective.”

“Jack told me he wants to work things out.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“I am numb, Ben. I feel nothing.”

It struck me as a dangerous mood in her position. Before I could voice that caution, however, Rita mused, “The thing I can't understand is, I always had a funny feeling that Jack…” She looked at me and said, “Why am I telling you this? Good night. Goodbye—Oh, and you can take your testimony and shove it.”

She plunged inside, slamming the door.

I walked down to my car and called her on the phone. On the fourth ring the machine picked up. I said, “It's Ben Abbott.”

She broke in. “What?”

“What were you saying a minute ago? The thing you couldn't understand? A funny feeling that Jack…something?”

“I was just thinking about how Ron and I met.”

“How'd you meet?”

I figured she'd hang up on me. Instead she groaned, aloud, then sighed. “Do you want some more tea?”

“Thanks.”

I walked back to the house.

“This has got to be the weirdest relationship,” she said. “Voyeur and object.”

“I'm not a voyeur. You are not an object. And this is not a relationship.”

I followed her into her beautiful kitchen. She looked around like a stranger. “Are you hungry, by any chance?” I asked.

“Suddenly. Maybe there's some cheese.”

I opened the refrigerator. She gaped at the interior, bright with greens and meat packages. “What's this?”

“Groceries. They sell them in the Grand Union. The receipt is on the counter.”

She picked it up and read the printout.

“What about the wine?”

“On me. How about a veal burger?”

***

I had noticed the day Ron was shot that someone—possibly her architect—had installed a splendid spice rack beside the refrigerator. I worked tarragon, anise, caraway, parsley, and a little salt, pepper, and garlic into the ground veal, formed patties, and let them sit while I washed the arugula, cross-cut the endive, and threw some garlic into a lean oil-and- vinegar mix.

“Exhaust fan?”

Rita turned it on. It had the fan outside the house, silent but powerful enough to vent a burning oil well. I had seen the switch myself, but I wanted her involved. I heated the smallest pan I could find—just big enough for the two thick patties—salted the bottom, and tossed them in.

“Don't you want oil?” she asked.

“The salt keeps them from sticking.”

I seared both sides, turned the heat down, and let them cook a moment longer. Rita wanted to know how I had learned to cook. “Living alone, it was that or starve.”

I opened the wine and we sat on stools across the kitchen worktable and ate. “God, that's good,” she said.

“Compared to the Plainfield County hoosegow?”

“Compared to anything. You just buy veal and do that?”

“Your spice rack gets the credit.”

“Thanks.”

“You can do something similar with the chicken breast I left you. Just lightly coat the pan with butter or oil first.”

“Yeah, right.”

“You never cook?”

“We have a cook in New York. I just haven't decided if I want one living in the house up here. I was enjoying my privacy,” she added with a thin smile.

“Did you have one in Greenwich?”

“Oh yes. We did a lot of entertaining. With Stamford and New York so close, we did business in Greenwich.”

She finished her salad. I passed her the Grand Union French bread and refilled her wineglass. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine.”

I was surprised. It wasn't that she looked older. It was just the way she handled herself. “You were twenty when you married Jack?”

“Yes. And I don't want to talk about it.”

“Sorry. You were going to tell me how you met Ron.”

“Yes, I was. Wasn't I? I was thinking about how Jack introduced us. Right after he made his deal to buy Ron's factory, I gave a celebration dinner. Small dinner party, just us and the lawyers and one accountant from each side. Anyway, that afternoon, before the dinner, I was just finishing with the cook and housekeeper, and I was about to do the placecards. I always do them myself. As far as I'm concerned the food can suck, but if you put people in the right seat they'll remember a good time.”

I suddenly felt sympathy for Jack Long. She might have married him at twenty, but she had grown up fast. She'd smooth his hard edges and make up for his busy-businessman bad manners and stroke the people he dealt with.

“Anyway, Jack called from New York. He said Ron had just flown in from Hong Kong and was wiped, so he was sending him on ahead. Could I set up a guest room? A few minutes later the limo arrived. He'd fallen asleep in the car and he got out all woozy, looking about fourteen. I thought, Oh, God, gorgeous…You gotta know, Ben, I did not play around. Ever. But here's this guy who really…Well, you know. Anyway, I knew trouble when I saw it. I sent him upstairs with the housekeeper. And an hour before the guests were to arrive, I told her to bring him some coffee. Ron came down all fresh and clean in a great-looking suit and we just sat and talked.”

“You were already dressed for dinner?” I asked.

“I dressed early. By the time Jack got home, Ron and I were friends. It was a great party. Everyone was pleased with the deal and all.” She fell silent.

“Then what happened?”

“Jack went to Washington. When he left, he invited Ron to stay at the house.”

“When was this?”

“Just last year.”

“You already had this place?”

“We were finishing it. We stayed in the Greenwich house until this was done.”

I nodded. Most of the people I sell houses to are pretty well fixed, but few can afford three places at once. In fact, I see quite a few sales fall through because the buyer can't unload his own house in time for a closing.

“So Ron stayed in Greenwich,” Rita continued. “All very on the up and up. I took him to dinner at the club. And sailing with friends. Jack flew out to Hong Kong. Ron took polo lessons. Broke his hand. That seemed like a reason to stay longer. And one morning we ended up in bed.”

“Morning?”

“I brought him coffee.”

I looked away.

“What?” she asked.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “Sounds like fun.”

“As you saw,” she answered with a bitter smile.

“I didn't see anything. I just imagined.”

Rita reached for the wine bottle. I emptied it into our glasses. She sipped hers and said, “The thing is, looking back, I have the funniest feeling that Jack deliberately threw us together.”

“Deliberately?”

“He made it very easy. Looking back, it was almost like he wanted us to have an affair.”

“Were you getting along?”

“Oh, sure. We always got along. I mean, we didn't fight. We didn't love much either, but we didn't fight. My mother remarked once that we had an old-fashioned 1950s corporate marriage. You know, hubby at the office, wifey holding down the social fort. It worked. For eight years, anyway.”

“Why would Jack throw you together?”

“I don't know. It's driving me crazy.”

“Maybe he's having an affair?”

“I don't think so.”

“Maybe he is and wanted you out of the way. Figured to ease you into an affair with Ron and file for divorce. Possible?”

“I don't think so.”

“You told me you weren't sleeping together.”

“I looked for signs. I didn't see him look suddenly younger or happier. You know what I'm saying?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Maybe I should hire a detective too.”

“But Jack's standing by you. He told you he wants to work things out.”

“Maybe he felt he had to say that before they bailed me out. I mean, he's a decent man. How could he tell me he was divorcing me when I was locked up in a cell?”

“You wouldn't be the first prisoner to get a Dear Jane letter.”

“Maybe so. But when I got out today he still said he was on my side.”

“You said he went to New York to think. What's he thinking about?”

“I don't know.”

“What do you want?”

“I want Ron back alive.” She started crying.

“I'm sorry.”

“Thanks for cooking dinner. I'm tired. I want to go to bed. Thanks for coming over.”

I said, “I will testify for you if you think it will help.”

“I don't want to think about it now.”

“No rush. Maybe you'll get lucky.”

“How?”

“Maybe they won't indict.”

“Maybe raccoons will fly.”

I got up and headed for the door. “That's okay. I'll find my way.”

She tagged along and opened the front door, a massive iron-strapped affair with hobnails. I'd seen a similar one once guarding Edinburgh Castle.

“I'm sorry about telling you to shove your testimony.”

“I'm sorry I did what I did.”

“I was really upset. I know you wouldn't have done it if you'd known me.”

I wished her good luck. I almost bent to kiss her cheek, but she suddenly looked frail and tired and I didn't think it would help.