Slow Kill (9 page)

The thought of seeing his family made the day seem much brighter. He smiled as he headed down the road to visit Penelope Parker.

Ms. Parker seemed pleased to see Kerney when he arrived. There was a nervous energy to her greeting that he couldn’t quite decipher. He wondered if it came from spending her days cut off from the world while tending to Alice’s needs. She escorted him to the patio where coffee, juice, and a platter of warm scones were arranged on a table, and seated him so he could have the best view of the city and the bay.

Parker had dressed up for the occasion. She wore a pair of dainty, open-toe shoes, black slacks that accentuated her slender legs, and a short-sleeved, partially unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt that emphasized the curve of her breasts. Without prompting, she told Kerney that Alice still didn’t understand that Clifford was dead.

“I don’t know if she’s able to process it,” Parker said as she leaned over Kerney’s shoulder and poured his coffee. “She may never be. Her mental capacity is diminishing rapidly.”

The color rose on her cheeks when Kerney looked up and thanked her. He quickly realized Parker was lonely for more than simple companionship.

“Do you have any help to look after her?” he asked.

Parker nodded as she sat and served Kerney a scone. “Trained caregivers are here at night, and I do get an occasional weekend off. But when Alice becomes confused, I’m the only one who can deal with her, so I always try to be fairly close at hand.”

“Where is Alice now?” Kerney asked.

Parker smiled as she stirred cream into her coffee. “She’s in her room. I asked the caregiver to stay over for a while to be with her so we could talk without any interruption.”

“What can you tell me about the origin of Clifford Spalding’s wealth?”

“As I understand it, he owned an old motel in Albuquerque adjacent to a very large shopping mall that wanted the land for expansion. The developer had a pending lease agreement with a national chain to build an upscale motor lodge for vacationers and out-of-town weekend shoppers. Clifford negotiated a deal that gave him some working capital and a minority ownership in the franchise. That’s how it all started.”

“When did this happen?” Kerney asked.

“Long before my time,” Parker replied. “The same year George was killed in Vietnam, or soon thereafter.”

“How did Clifford parlay his profit into a hotel empire?” Kerney asked.

Parker leaned forward, revealing a bit more cleavage. “Another hotel company wanted to establish a presence in Albuquerque and offered an attractive buyout deal for the property after the new motel was up and running. Mr. Spalding retained his minority interest as part of the deal and used his cash-out from the profit he’d made to buy a ninety-nine-year lease on a run-down motel in downtown Santa Fe. He got some investors to put up money for the renovation, and turned the place into a thriving boutique hotel operation.”

“Did he live in Santa Fe?” Kerney asked.

“No, he and Alice had a house in Albuquerque.”

Parker stood and filled Kerney’s juice glass, this time touching him lightly on the shoulder as she poured.

“Why would Alice want Clifford tied to a divorce decree that made him responsible for the continued search for George?” Kerney asked, after Parker, cheeks slightly flushed, returned to her chair.

“Partially out of spite, and partially to use every possible way to hit Clifford in the checkbook,” she said.

Kerney sipped his juice. “Explain that to me.”

“She hates the fact that Clifford never believed George was still alive. It got to the point, just before the divorce, where Mr. Spalding was publicly demeaning her about it to their friends. It was her way of striking back at him.”

“Yet Spalding cooperated in Alice’s hunt for George,” Kerney said. “He hired a private investigator, and stayed in touch with the local police.”

“I always felt he did that more to placate Alice than to really look for George.”

“What about the search for Debbie Calderwood?” Kerney asked.

“George’s personal effects included love letters Debbie had written to him while he was in Vietnam. Those letters convinced Alice that Debbie knew something about George’s military service the Army wasn’t telling her.”

“Like what?”

“That George had some secret duty, a special operation or a hush-hush assignment.”

“Where are the letters?” Kerney asked, remembering Lou Ferry’s story of how Spalding had made him fake a report on Calderwood’s possible whereabouts.

“Alice and Clifford had a big fight just before he walked out on her,” Parker replied. “She came home to find him burning everything about George and Debbie that she’d accumulated over the years. He destroyed all of it.”

“Interesting,” Kerney said. “Did this happen while Clifford had the private investigator working on the case?”

Parker nodded. “Right about then, as I recall.”

“But you never met him, or knew his name,” Kerney said.

“That’s right,” Parker said. “Nor did Alice. Mr. Spalding was something of a control freak. When Alice challenged him about it, he said the man couldn’t possibly remain objective unless he was free to do his job without her interference.”

Kerney folded his napkin, placed it on the table, and stood. The morning haze had lifted and the calm ocean glimmered like a deep blue mirror, reflecting the sunlight. “I’ve taken up enough of your time,” he said.

“Will you be in town long?” Parker asked wistfully.

“Just through today,” Kerney replied.

Parker covered her disappointment with a cheerful smile. “Please come back if you have any more questions. I’ll be here all day.”

“Thank you.”

Parker walked close beside Kerney to the front door and waved good-bye as he left. On the trip down the hill, with the scent of Parker’s perfume still lingering, he decided to pay another visit to Captain Chase. There had to be some documentation about George Spalding on file with the department. He also wanted to probe into what kind of working relationship Clifford Spalding had forged with the good captain.

Ellie Lowrey got to the lab just as it opened and extracted a promise from the supervisor to have Spalding’s toxicology work done and the medication found in the pill box analyzed before the end of the day. Last night’s search of Spalding’s car had turned up nothing. But Bill Price was busy calling every pharmacist in Santa Barbara in an attempt to learn what drugstore in Santa Fe had requested a copy of the prescription.

While Price worked the phones, Ellie drove to Santa Barbara to meet Claudia Spalding, who had called her after arriving in Montecito early in the morning. On the phone, the woman had sounded sincerely grief-stricken. Ellie deliberately played into it, offering Claudia Spalding as much sympathy and understanding as she could muster.

On the freeway, Lowrey pondered possible approaches to take with Mrs. Spalding. Hardball wouldn’t work, not without proof that she had had the opportunity and means to arrange for her husband’s death. Ellie figured the best she could do was to open a few trapdoors for the woman and see if she fell into any of them.

Ellie arrived at the estate and announced herself on the intercom. When the ornate wrought iron gates swung open, she followed the cobblestone driveway up a hill that curved and dropped into a vale. Her mouth almost dropped open at the imposing three-story stone residence that came into view. At one end, a majestic watchtower rose above a long portico with Romanesque columns. It looked like a stage set for a nineteenth-century costume drama.

A labyrinth of boxwood hedges enclosed acres of lawn, ornamental plantings, and gardens. Towering stands of trees covered knolls and filled vales. Ellie half expected to see corseted women with parasols and men in breeches and top hats strolling leisurely through the gardens.

A woman whom Ellie took to be Claudia Spalding stood under the portico. Tallish, with long curly black hair, she hurried forward as Ellie got out of her cruiser.

“What happened to Clifford?” Claudia Spalding asked as she closed in on Lowrey.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Ellie said. “We don’t know yet exactly why he died.”

“Why was he at the ranch?” Spalding asked. “He’s never gone there before.”

“As I understand it, your husband was arranging to purchase a horse for your anniversary.”

Spalding’s hand flitted to her chest. “Oh my.”

“Had your husband been sick recently?” Ellie asked.

Spalding gestured toward the house. “Please come inside. Except for a cold, not at all. He played tennis regularly and swam every day. He had a thyroid condition, but it was controlled by medication.”

“Yes, I know,” Ellie replied. “We found the medication in his belongings.”

Spalding didn’t react one way or the other. Following along behind her, Ellie entered a large room with a vaulted ceiling and an enormous stone fireplace at one end. The floor was antique terra-cotta accented by a big Tibetan rug that would have overwhelmed an ordinary room. A mixture of Italian antique tables, soft leather couches, and upholstered easy chairs done up in subtle Moorish patterns were arranged at either end of the room. Ellie sat with Spalding in front of the fireplace and watched as the woman took a deep breath and composed herself.

“This must be very hard on you,” Ellie said.

Spalding nodded. “Clifford was a special man. Brilliant, worldly, caring. I loved him dearly.”

Ellie studied Spalding’s face. Her large blue-green eyes were attention grabbing. Her thin lips with a hint of small lines at the corners made her appear secretive in a provocative way. Her creamy, flawless skin spoke of expensive spa treatments.

Something about the woman didn’t ring true. Ellie decided to abandon her game plan. “Your neighbor, Nina Deacon, has suggested that you might not have loved your husband as much as you claim,” she said.

“Excuse me?” Spalding said, with a look of haughty surprise.

“I’d like to hear your side of the story regarding your relationship with Kim Dean,” Ellie said.

Spalding’s expression turned cold. “Would you, now. For what reason?”

“To set aside any suspicions I might have about you.”

“My husband died in his sleep.”

“Every unattended death is investigated, Mrs. Spalding, and from what Nina Deacon told a Santa Fe detective, you weren’t as happily married as you’d like me to believe.”

Spalding got to her feet. “There are certain facts you’re not aware of. Wait right here.”

She left the room with her back stiff and her head held high. She returned with a folder, handed it to Ellie, and said, “Read this.”

In it was a legal amendment to the prenuptial agreement specifying that the removal of Clifford Spalding’s prostate had rendered him unable to engage in connubial activity with his wife, and thus she was free to engage in discreet sexual liaisons without suffering any financial loss, as long as such relationships did not occur in Montecito or nearby environs, and that the terms of the amendment remained strictly confidential between the two parties.

It was dated four years ago, signed by both of them, witnessed, and notarized.

In her years as a cop, Ellie had encountered a good many people with unusual private lives. But this definitely was a new wrinkle on matrimonial bliss. “Interesting,” she said.

Spalding looked down at Ellie. “It was Clifford who instigated this agreement. In fact, he had to talk me into it.”

“I see,” Ellie replied, not sure that she did at all.

“What Nina Deacon may have told you about my personal relationship with Kim is true. He is my lover. Nina is a neighbor and close friend, and it would have been impossible for me to hide everything from her. Letting her believe I was trapped in a loveless marriage was preferable to breaking the confidentiality of this agreement with my husband.”

“She said the Santa Fe house was in your husband’s name only.”

“I lied,” Spalding said curtly. “It’s my house free and clear.”

“Did your husband know of your relationship with Dean?”

“No.”

Ellie waved the papers at Spalding and stood. “Does Dean know about this agreement?”

“Heavens, no.”

“I’ll need to keep this document for a time to verify the contents with the lawyer, and I’ll also need to speak to the doctor who removed your husband’s prostate.”

“Of course. Just make sure I get it back. Now, when can I claim my husband’s body?”

“Today,” Ellie replied, handing Spalding her business card. “Once you’ve made arrangements with a funeral home, have them call me.”

“I did not have anything to do with my husband’s death.”

“I never said that you did.”

“I am not a brainless trophy wife, Sergeant,” Claudia Spalding said. “I hold an MBA and a PhD in organizational psychology, and clearly understood the implications of your questions. You’d better be very careful with your investigation, or you may find yourself swimming in deep legal waters.”

“I’ll be in touch,” Ellie said. “One last question: Do you know a man named Kevin Kerney?”

Claudia knitted her brows. “I’ve heard that name before. Who is he?”

“I thought you could tell me.”

She left the mansion convinced that notions of normal behavior-if there was such a thing-simply didn’t apply to the very rich.

Captain Chase was out of the office attending an all-day meeting, but at the front counter a detective who was helping a young Hispanic woman amend a stolen property report from a recent burglary took a moment to buzz Kerney through the door to the restricted area. From there a uniformed officer took him to the cold case office, a windowless room with two desks and a big chart on the wall that tracked the status of the cases under review. George Spalding’s name wasn’t on it.

At one of the desks, a young man sat in front of a computer screen scrolling through a file. A name-plate on the shelf above the desk read DET. JUDE FORESTER.