Mad Max: Unintended Consequences (19 page)

My feet hurt all the way to my butt!

I'd hiked up and down Broad Street, in and out of antique and jewelry shops all afternoon. In high heels, no less. Of all the stupid pet tricks.

I was in my best Lauren Bacall form. She was my image of what a lady of means should look like—tall, slender, elegantly dressed. I couldn't do tall at just under five foot four, but nothing else was wrong with my Bacall impersonation. Hiding behind her was a harmless enough affectation. Besides, I loved her style. I just couldn't complete the image. I was allergic to cigarette smoke.

Since I was asking about multi-carat diamond rings and earrings, I wanted to look like I could write a check for thirty thousand dollars without blinking. In reality, I was a woman of means in any attire. I could write a check for more than thirty thousand any day of the week.

I didn't look like anyone else in the upscale shops, however. None “looked the part,” yet many tried on rings and necklaces pricey enough to keep a junkie in crack for a year.

In Barney's, a permanent fixture on Cary Street for over a century and the finest jeweler in the city, I waited for the senior clerk. I looked around the shop at the lighted counters glittering with precious stones, gold, and silver. The rosewood and glass displays were far removed from John Smith's pawn shop but were every bit as polished.

I was perturbed when the clerk I wanted to speak with pulled necklace after necklace out of a case for a jeans-wearing, booted and belted urban cowboy leaning on the glass counter. I struggled to keep a straight face when he decided on a two thousand dollar diamond and pearl drop and pulled out a wad of cash. He took his gift away in a pretty brown box tied with a yellow ribbon, as much of a local trademark as Tiffany's pale blue box and white ribbon were in New York.

So much for “looking the part.” I could have dispensed with my men's cut silk trousers, my fedora, my cashmere sweater, and my three-inch pumps and not had sore feet, but I wouldn't have felt right. Lesson learned.

The senior clerk smiled her welcome and moved to the counter where I stood.

“I understand you've been waiting for me. How may I help you?”

“Well, you can start by reminding me not to judge people by looks alone.”

The clerk chuckled. “We get all kinds. Until Tex pulled out his money, I had no idea he could afford anything. He fooled me too.”

“At least it wasn't a waste of your time.”

“Now, let's not waste any more of yours. You're looking for something special?”

“I'm Mrs. Davies.” I held out my hand.

“I'm Mrs. Evans.”

For some reason, I felt it proper to introduce myself, even though I held no fantasy anyone would connect me with my departed husband. Mrs. Evans shook my hand. Without further preamble, I pulled a glossy color photo from my tote and laid it on the counter. “I'm looking for this ring.”

“Yes, Mrs. Davies, it's one of ours.”

“One of yours? You mean you have it here?” I felt my heart give a little hip hop. Would I soon hold the ring Whip gave Merry for their tenth anniversary?

“I mean, it's our design. We made six before we retired it.” Mrs. Evans waved her hand toward a display of rings. “We sell only our own designs in this case. The other cases hold commercially manufactured, albeit high-end, pieces.”

“Why would you stop making such a stunning ring?”

“At the time, we were in a dreadful recession and the demand for stones as large and perfect as this was not high on most people's priority lists.”

“I see.”

“Our master designer wouldn't modify the setting for a smaller stone, so we retired it.”

“Have you seen one like this recently?”

“It's funny you should ask. Mr. Barney said a gentleman tried to sell one to us a few weeks ago.”

My heart was on a racetrack. My pulse pounded in my throat.

“But Mr. Barney didn't buy the ring?”

“No. He keeps records of who buys the originals. The man presenting it for sale wasn't one of them.”

“Do you know if he called the police?”

“You'd have to ask him. Generally, he reports such incidents.”

“If you wouldn't buy the ring, where might the man go?”

“I'd try Heirlooms over on Broad. George buys jewelry and doesn't ask as many questions as we do.”

I nodded and put the photo back in my purse.

“One more question. Were you here when the gentleman came in with the ring?”

“No. I'd just returned from lunch and wasn't behind the counter.”

My face registered my disappointment.
Crap
!

“I did get a good look at him, though. Will that help?”

I held up the grainy photo of Hunter.

“No, the gentleman was black.”

“Thank you. Thank you very much.” I took Mrs. Evans's hand in both of mine.

I left and walked four blocks to Heirlooms. The shop wasn't as upscale as Barney's, but its display cabinets contained many expensive pieces. I went to the back of the empty shop where a white-haired jeweler kept watch from a high stool. It didn't take long to spot the ring and earrings, since both were in a locked wall case behind the counter. I could see them from where I stood.

Being tired, footsore, and cranky, I dispensed with all but the basic formalities. I laid my photos on the counter and told the jeweler I reported the items stolen to both the police and my insurance company. I implied with no guilty conscience they were stolen as part of a brutal crime.

The last point got the jeweler's attention. He stammered and bumbled and dithered, before admitting he didn't ask for proof of ownership. He bought them for thirty-five percent of their value.

“Let me guess. The seller was a well-dressed black man with excellent manners and a triangular scar on his cheek.” I was confident, if not cocky.

“No. He was white.”

“Is this him?” I held up the same photo I'd shown at every other shop.

Squinting at the grainy photo, the jeweler turned it toward the sunlight streaming through the front window. “Could be. He spun a tale about his wife having cancer and needing the money for her treatment. I didn't believe it for a second.”

“Why?”

“Ma'am, I've heard every tale of woe in my forty years in business. I don't care why someone wants to sell jewelry, but I've developed strong radar for lies. Like Pinocchio, he could have grown a very long nose.”

This fit what we were putting together about Hunter's lying psychopathy. I wanted to kill him, but that would lower me to his level. I'd be happy to trap him and let justice prevail.

I lay in my chaise. Fading daylight danced across the pool. A light breeze rippled the surface and lifted the barest hint of chlorine into the air. I reached for my glass of Pinot Grigio.

I was alone. Alex was at a pizza and computer game party at a neighbor's house with five other boys. He wouldn't be back until ten-ish. Emilie went to a movie with friends; she, too, was due back around ten. Curfew time. Whip was still in jail. Merry was still dead.

I was too tired to think about the black doctor. I needed to find him, but he could wait. My brain was as dull as the pain in my feet was sharp. We'd made significant progress, though. I wanted to write up my notes and give them to Vince for his records. I didn't care if the attorney pooh-poohed our amateur efforts; he was going to get everything we learned as fast as we learned it.

I stared at the pool as it darkened with evening. What was I doing back in Riverbend? I left the South two husbands ago for a life of glamour and excitement. When Merry was hurt, I came back to take care of her until she was on her feet. Months later I was still here, raising two children and trying to get my son-in-law out of jail.

I'd practically lived in Europe with my second husband, Frank, in and out of museums, historical sites, and antique shops. Reggie, my last husband, was unconventional. We went on safari in Tanzania, watched sunsets over Cape Elizabeth, relaxed on our sailboat off Key West, snorkeled on the Great Barrier Reef, and sipped Singapore Slings on the veranda of the Raffles Hotel. We indulged in global adventures all the time.

Now I was once more in the South, too far from an ocean or a mountain or a savannah for comfort. A soccer mom. Or, rather, soccer grandmom. Too far in spirit from adventure.

If the district attorney convicted Whip, I'd be raising kids for another decade alone. Even when we got Whip out of jail, free of all charges, I'd more than likely still be raising kids. I could no more abandon them than I could fly. Nope, I was in for the count.

“Can't tell you how fuckin’ bored I am. Every day's the same—dull, mind-numbing, no stimulation. Feeling more and more helpless. More and more like a caged animal. Less and less hopeful. Plus I'm pissed. So little I can do to help myself.”

This was the longest speech Whip had made in weeks, a sure sign of his state of mind. He rattled on about the dirty walls, the tasteless food, and the lack of good conversation. Except for what he had with Vince and me, he had no one else to talk to. On the positive side, his body was rock hard. He couldn't do much in a standard-sized cell, but hundreds of push-ups, crunches, and other exercises kept him toned.

“I'd give my left nut to get out of here. Back out in the open.”

I couldn't imagine what it was like for a man who came alive in the dust from a construction site, who hoisted heavy rolls of cables onto trucks and slept in a trailer or tent on a job site, to be locked in a claustrophobic cell.

“I'm so homesick to get outside. Get some fresh air. I can almost smell the dust and hot diesel fumes of earthmoving equipment.”

“Are you as homesick to get home? To be with your children?”

“What do you think?”

“I don't know.”

The job came first; the family second. Months ago, I accepted Whip's priorities. It was a mountain I wasn't willing to die on, as the Marines said. Whip was what he was. Only he could change himself. I couldn't.

As had become a habit, I waited in the interview room with Whip for Vince who was two hours overdue. Whip had run out of things to complain about and lapsed into despair-tinged silence. When the door opened, I thought we'd both pounce on Vince. Or rip into him for causing even more anxiety.

“Sorry. I got tied up in court. The judge read us the riot act. He loves to hear himself talk and talk and talk. I felt sorry for the court clerk. Her fingers were down to bare bone after the tirade.”

“Glad he's not my judge. If he doesn't like you, the mud might splatter on me.”

“He's fine.” Vince waved aside Whip's concern. “He doesn't carry a grudge from case to case. He takes each on its merits and is fair. We'd do well to draw him.”

“You mean I won't have the same judge as before?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. It depends on docket congestion and who's next when we get a trial date. We may have an evidentiary hearing with the first judge, but she may not be the trial judge.”

“I didn't like her. She thinks I'm guilty as sin.”

“That's not true. She heard the district attorney say he had enough evidence to bind you over for trial. That's all she needed.”

“Did you file another bond petition?” Whip would lose his mind if he didn't feel sunshine on his face soon.

“Yes, but don't get your hopes up. With nothing new, no judge will grant bail.”

“Christ!” Whip sighed. “So, what's up today?”

“A shred more evidence from the district attorney. They're very slow to show their hand. Eventually, we'll get everything.”

“How long is ‘eventually’?” I, too, was angst-filled because of the endless stalling by the district attorney.

“Very soon.”

“Is that why you want to push for the, um, evidentiary hearing?” This bad case of political gamesmanship took away Whip's freedom. “I wouldn't need a hearing if you could prove Hunter killed Merry.”

Vince frowned and reached into his briefcase for his stack of colored folders.
Gun Permits, Autopsy Report, Restraining Orders
, and
Glove
were written on various tabs.

Vince opened the autopsy report folder first. “Did you know your wife drank heavily? She had a high level of alcohol in her system, well above the legal limit.”

“Doesn't surprise me. Hit the bottle hard before she left. Drunk most of the time until she met Hunter.”

“What about drug use?”

“Lots of painkillers and antidepressants after the accident. Why?”

“She tested positive for cocaine and other opiates. Heroin too.”

“Opiates I can understand. Took Oxycontin for months after the accident. But cocaine or heroin? Must have been recreational.”

“She had four times the normal Oxycontin dosage in her system.”

“Cumulative?”

“I don't think so. It could be she took too much or someone gave her too much either the night she died or over a longer period of time.” Vince glanced at the autopsy report again.

That shook me. Was Hunter drugging Merry without her knowledge? I had one more reason to get even. Whip already wanted Hunter's reputation; I wanted his soul. I was glad Whip kept silent. Making a threat probably wasn't a good idea when he was sitting in jail. I didn't think prim-and-proper Vince would approve.

“There was a fresh bruise on the left side of her neck just under the chin, but no defensive wounds on her hands. She could have been partly or mostly incapacitated when she was shot.”

“If she knew her killer, why would you expect defensive wounds?” I had difficulty following Vince's line of thinking.

“Knowing your killer doesn't prevent you from defending yourself. Merry should have had some marks, at least a broken fingernail or skin under her nails. There's nothing else in the autopsy and toxicology report.”

“Except Hunter shot her behind her right ear.”

“We don't know that, Whip.” Vince seemed weary of this discussion.

“You said there was a bruise on the left side of Merry's neck.”

I had been thinking about the autopsy while Whip and Vince argued. Emilie, too, felt something hard under her mother's chin.

Vince flipped to the second page of the autopsy report. “Yes. A fairly large one.”

“Not post mortem?”

“No. Is this important?”

“Hunter had a cast on his left wrist the last time I saw him.” I was relieved Vince stared at the report when he made a note on his legal pad. I physically crossed my fingers in my lap.

“That's interesting. I'll check it out.” Vince folded his hands on the table. “Now, what can you tell me about the threats against your wife?”

“What threats?” Although Whip promised Hunter he'd be on his ass every step of the way if he got anywhere near his family, he'd never threatened Merry.

“According to this deposition, Darlene Livingston told the district attorney Merry said you threatened to hurt her because of her affair.”

“That's crap! I was furious with Merry's actions, but I just wanted her to get the hell out of my life.”

“We'll have the deposition thrown out, of course. It's hearsay and can't be corroborated.”

“Why would Darla testify against Whip? She and Merry had a major league fight over Merry's affair. As far as I know, they never spoke again.” Darla became a crusader for marital rights after her husband's infidelity. She wouldn't tolerate any of her friends screwing around on a spouse.

With nothing else new, Vince straightened his files and put them back in his briefcase.

“Hold it, Vince.” Whip grabbed the folder marked “restraining order” and flipped it open. It was empty. “Why's the TRO still here?”

“The assistant district attorney said it has bearing on your trial.”

“I don't get it. Were there two restraining orders? One I don't know about. How would the one I took out help their case?”

“Restraining orders carry a lot of weight with most judges.”

How does Whip's taking out a restraining order on Merry help the prosecution? She attacked him. He has the scars to prove it. I was getting dull-witted with all the time I spent in this place of last resort. Someone was confused. It wasn't me.

“Yes, but the only TRO I know about is one I took out on Merry to keep her away from me and the kids. I told you about it earlier.”

“Don't you have a copy?”

“No. I was waiting to get it from the district attorney.”

“I'll bring it tomorrow,” I said.

“It's beginning to look like Mr. District Attorney Weed is putting together another sloppy case.”

Vince stood and signaled the guard. Pete escorted Whip back to his cell.