The Death of an Ambitious Woman (12 page)

“Could be,” McGrath nodded, “but it doesn’t feel like that to me.”

“Do we think these payments have anything to do with the five thousand dollars?” Lawry asked.

“Impossible to know. Certainly none of the bills paid were anywhere close to that amount. It was dribs and drabs. Hundreds, not thousands, of dollars at a time.”

“Different amounts, different patterns. Therefore probably a different source,” Ruth said. “The person making these small, irregularly timed payments was not the person who paid him the lump sum five thousand dollars the day Tracey Kendall died.”

“It could be he was blackmailing someone,” Lawry offered. “That’s what it smells like to me. He taps the source when he’s the most desperate.”

“Or it could be his rich lover was giving him cash to cover his debts,” McGrath said.

“Back to ‘the affair.’ ” Ruth sighed. “Returning to the five thousand dollars, it’s a lot of money to Al Pace, but it isn’t a lot of money to some of the people we’re dealing with. If we follow the money, it could take forever.”

“That’s true. Maybe this will help.” McGrath opened the manila folder again and pulled out a sheaf of invoices. “I finished going through Pace’s invoice file. As expected, I found invoices for Brenda O’Reilly, Kevin Chun, and Adam Bender. I also found invoices for Fran Powell and Susan Gleason, the latter at the Kendalls’ Derby Hills address.”

“You’re saying Al Pace did work at the Kendall house?” Ruth was surprised. “Because that’s definitely not what Stephen Kendall led me to believe.”

“Looks that way,” McGrath confirmed.

“Okay. Detective McGrath, you stay on the paper trail. Moscone’s on his way back from the Suds ’n’ Spuds. He must’ve done well with Brenda O’Reilly. He was there a long time. Lieutenant Lawry, send a uniform to pick Moscone up, then catch him up on what’s going on and have him meet me at the Kendall house.”

Ruth pulled up behind a gray van with “Mo’s Cleaning Services,” stenciled on its sides. All the windows of the Kendall house were open and the mournful drone of a heavy-duty vacuum cleaner emanated from inside. Ruth sighed. This was not the ritual spring cleaning that had been going on at Anna Abbott’s—cleaning that affirmed the certainty of the seasons and the continuity of life. This cleaning was all about death—hasty preparation for Tracey Kendall’s funeral.

Ruth had to bang and hallo at the front door for some time to be heard over the din. Hannah Whiteside finally appeared, looking exhausted and uneasy. “Stephen’s in his studio.” She pointed down the lawn.

At the studio, Susan Gleason opened the door. Her face was flushed, her mouth set in a grim line. “Do you really have to bother him?” she asked in a more clipped version of her cool tones. “He just got back to work early this morning.” Ruth assured her that she did and stepped into the huge studio space.

The dinosaurs loomed in front of her. Susan Gleason was right, Ruth reflected. The first impression was the most powerful. Not that the second look was uninteresting. Ruth stood for a moment and enjoyed the interplay of their facial expressions and body language.

A network of steel pipes, the beginnings of a new sculpture, rose from a plywood stand near the center of the room. Ruth couldn’t tell what it would be. A rolling scaffold stood beside it. Ruth looked up and noticed the elaborate system of ropes and pulleys hanging from the ceiling three stories above. So this was how a single man could move the heavy materials.

Ruth followed Susan Gleason through the maze of sculptures to the office at the back of the converted cottage. The space had been created from a one-story shed. It was small relative to the soaring studio space, but artfully arranged. Despite the presence of several large pieces—a desk, drawing table, two computer workstations and filing cabinets of several sizes—the room wasn’t crowded or disorganized.

Stephen Kendall stood up from his computer as they approached. “Chief,” he said, “what brings you here?” Susan Gleason stood off to the side of the room. There was tension in the air, and Ruth was sure she and Kendall had been arguing.

“We’re still working on the matter of your wife’s death. We have more questions.”

Stephen turned to Susan. “Give us a minute, okay?”

The air crackled with tension. Susan looked like she was about to protest, but then seemed to think better of it and began noisily gathering her things from in front of the second computer. Ruth noticed that Susan carefully shut down the computer itself, erasing from the screen something that seemed very reminiscent of the program Tracey Kendall had used to manage her schedule.

“I didn’t think we would see you again,” Gleason addressed Ruth. “Your district attorney assured me that your investigation was routine and you wouldn’t be bothering Stephen anymore. He is a very busy man.” Giving Kendall a last malevolent look, she said, “I’ll be in my room.”

Ruth waited as Gleason’s footsteps clicked across the studio floor, followed by the bang of the solid front door. She scrutinized Kendall carefully. He didn’t seem angry as Susan Gleason had. He seemed somehow diminished. His eyes were red with fatigue and his body curved inward on itself, as if he was protecting an injury to his chest or abdomen. He no longer radiated the energetic charisma Ruth had felt in their first meeting.

Kendall indicated a chair next to his desk. “Sit down, Chief, please. Did you catch the guy, the mechanic?”

“No, he’s still missing.” Ruth kept her eyes on the sculptor. Did this information make him more tense or less? One brief exhalation was perceptively greater than the rest. Less tense, she decided. “Mr. Kendall, yesterday you told us that you didn’t know Al Pace. Since then, we’ve learned that Pace worked on a car here at the house at least once. Does that help you remember whether you’ve met?”

“Why would it? I don’t know when this was, but I was probably here at the studio or off somewhere. I don’t mean to be snobbish, but I have no interest in car mechanics, or in cars for that matter.”

“Would you say it’s unusual for someone who has no interest in cars to own a high-performance sports car?”

Stephen Kendall shrugged. “The car was a gift from Tracey. Truly, I don’t care about it. Tracey took care of the cars. That’s why she had this ‘arrangement’ you seem to find so suspicious with Mr. Pace at her office. I will say again, I never met the man.”

“Mr. Kendall, you went—”

“Holy shit!” Detective Moscone’s voice echoed through the studio. Evidently, Kendall’s sculptures affected him as well. Ruth waited while Moscone came through to the design space, pulled up a stool, and opened his notebook.

“Mr. Kendall,” Ruth continued, “you went to your wife’s office yesterday and removed some items. What did you take?”

“Just things, you know, personal items, paintings, photos…”

“It seems an odd thing to do so soon after your wife’s death. What are you looking for, Mr. Kendall?”

Stephen Kendall looked away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The first time we came here and went through Tracey’s study, the room had already been searched. What are you looking for?”

Blank stare. No answer.

“We’d like to see what you took from Fiske & Holden.”

Kendall sighed. “Certainly. It’s all in the closet over there.”

Moscone opened the closet and pulled out three boxes. He began removing items while Ruth continued the interview.

“What is your financial situation, Mr. Kendall?” she asked. “Who makes the money? Who spends it? Who benefits from your wife’s death?”

The questions clearly upset Kendall. “My wife was worth much more alive than dead,” he snapped. “Tracey’s job generated a great deal of income both from fees and from the firm’s investments, and that income has been used strategically for my art, yes, so I don’t have to teach or spend time applying for meaningless grants. For materials, and yes, so that we could move in circles with people who have the money to buy art.” Kendall gestured broadly with his hand, indicating the studio, the house, the lawns. “Tracey saw to all of it. She was brilliant with money. But it wasn’t a one-way street. Tracey and I viewed my career as an investment. Tracey was only thirty-nine. She didn’t see herself as a partner at Fiske & Holden for the rest of her life. As soon as my work brought in real money, Tracey planned to leave and build her own fund.” At this, Kendall’s voice caught. “And we were close. So, so close.”

Ruth glanced over at Moscone, who was making a list of the boxes’ contents. He was listening carefully.

“What were the terms of Tracey’s will?” Ruth asked.

Kendall composed himself. “Standard, I guess. She leaves everything to me. There’s some life insurance that goes into a trust for Carson’s education. You won’t find Tracey left any money to this Pace character, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“We’d like you to call your attorney and give permission to verify the terms of your wife’s will.”

Kendall shrugged. “Sure.”

Moscone began to repack the boxes. Ruth glanced at him again. He rolled his shoulders. Nothing.

Ruth thought about Tracey Kendall. Southampton, the Madeira School, Princeton, Harvard Business School. “What about the family money?” Ruth asked, turning back to Kendall. “Who gets that?”

“Why don’t you ask the family?” Stephen’s face wore an expression Ruth couldn’t read. “They’ll be here later this afternoon.”

Ruth and Moscone walked back up the lawn to the main house. The cleaning crew was still busily at work. In the background their industrial vacuum ground away noisily. Just as Ruth raised her hand to knock on the door, the vacuum cut out and the sound of raised voices echoed down the back stairs.

“My God, you stupid cow,” Susan Gleason’s angry yell vibrated through the open windows. “Whatever were you thinking? The police are at the studio now. Everyone knows they always suspect the husband. Yet, neither of you can show any more restraint than a couple of horny teenagers!” Her voice died abruptly, as if she’d just realized the covering sound of the vacuum had halted.

There was a moment of silence followed by the sound of Hannah Whiteside’s great, gasping sobs.

Ruth and Moscone pushed through the unlocked door and followed the escalating sounds of crying up the stairs to a closed door on the second floor. When they burst into the room, Hannah Whiteside looked terrified. Susan Gleason cursed under her breath. Without speaking, Ruth and Moscone moved in unison to separate the women, leaving them no time to calm down or confer.

Moscone looked around. He and Hannah were in a library or den. The room was lined with books. A television sat in a fancy cupboard built into the shelves. Hannah sank into a leather couch.

Moscone was angry with himself. When he’d originally interviewed Hannah, his tone had been big-brotherly. At the time, it had seemed the best tack to take with a young woman who’d just heard her employer killed over the phone. Now, all he had to show for his two earlier conversations was a detailed account of Tracey Kendall’s last words, an account he must now consider suspect.

“It’s illegal to hinder a police investigation,” he snarled, letting her know they weren’t pals anymore.

More sobs. Louder sobs.

“You lied to me about the circumstances of Tracey Kendall’s death, didn’t you?”

Noisy sobs, then a little voice, “No.”

“Didn’t you? It seems like you left something important out. You’re screwing the dead woman’s husband.”

He was shouting now. She answered with a crescendo of wails.

Moscone sat down opposite the sofa. “Hannah, Hannah, Hannah,” he sneered at her, “the nanny and the ‘marster.’ Such an old story. Was it in your job description?”

Hannah rested her forehead in her right hand. She looked up at Moscone through spread fingers. “It wasn’t like that.”

“What was it like, then?”

Hannah snuffled louder, looked around, and then wiped her streaming nose on the back of her hand. “We didn’t mean for it to happen. It just did. Tracey traveled so much. Stephen and I were alone. Day after day, caring for Carson together—”

“Did Tracey know?”

Hannah shook her head miserably. “No.”

“You’re sure of that? Could anyone have told her? What about the boy? Could he have said something inadvertently? Answered the phone and said, ‘Hannah can’t talk now, Mom. She and Daddy are taking a nap?’ ”

Hannah looked horrified. “No! It was never like that. We were discreet. We only—saw each other—at night after Carson was in bed, when Tracey was away.”

“In her bed, Hannah? Did you do it in the woman’s own bed?”

Hannah Whiteside’s face was a map of guilt. “Never. Not even in the house. In the guest suite over the garages.”

“Evidently you weren’t so discreet last night. Susan Gleason found out.”

“I don’t know what happened. Stephen came up to my room. He was crying. He just wanted me to hold him. That’s all. We didn’t go to the guest suite. It seemed unnecessary. The door flew open. It was Susan. Raging. Screaming at Stephen. ‘You stupid, stupid fool!’ Why was she prowling on the third floor at three
A
.
M
.? Her room is on the second.”

Moscone didn’t respond.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Hannah said quietly.

Moscone took out his notebook and led her step by step through the day Tracey Kendall died. Three times. Her story never changed.

After the third time through, he put his notebook away and crept out into the hall. Someone was still vacuuming in a far-off room. Moscone knocked at the closed door to Tracey Kendall’s study. The door opened. Inside, he could see Susan Gleason on the chaise, sitting erect.

“The nanny admits she was sleeping with the husband,” Moscone whispered to the chief. “Ms. Gleason surprised them last night in Ms. Whiteside’s room on the third floor, in flagrante, as it were.”

The chief nodded, hands on hips. “How could she deny it after what we overheard? What did she say about Al Pace working here?”

Moscone swore quietly and hurried back into the library.

Susan Gleason sat rigid throughout the conversation in the doorway. Ruth thought it must take enormous discipline not to even glance at the whisperers. Susan had made it clear that small town civil servants didn’t impress her. She had grudgingly admitted Al Pace had fixed her car once when it had failed to start in the Kendall driveway, but she pooh-poohed the event’s significance. “Oh, was that his name?” she asked. “All I knew was, it was late Thursday afternoon and I had to get back to New York. Tracey said she knew someone who could help out.” No, she didn’t remember if Stephen or Hannah had been home during Al Pace’s house call.

“Ms. Gleason, you were here when I visited on Wednesday. Did you come to be with your client immediately after you heard about the accident?”

For the first time during the interview, Susan looked uneasy. “As a matter of fact, no. I was already in the area.”

“When did you arrive?”

“I left New York early Tuesday morning. I stopped in Connecticut to visit another client, a painter, and then I came on toward Boston.”

“Did you come straight to the Kendalls’?”

“No. I checked in at some galleries on Newbury Street and then treated myself to a late lunch.The Kendalls were expecting me in the early evening, but Hannah called around four o’clock to say that Tracey had been in an accident. Naturally, I came straight here after that call.”

“You seemed very angry with Hannah just now.You came up from the studio and immediately got into a loud argument.”

“I am angry. My God, the man’s wife hasn’t even been buried.You’d think the girl would have more sense.”

“You might think the widower, who is more than fifteen years older, would have some sense.”
Or some decency,
Ruth thought.

“Stephen’s addled by grief. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. I’m angry at him, but I’m furious with her.”

Furious,
Ruth wondered,
on Tracey’s behalf or your own?