The Devil's Interval (41 page)

I looked at Lulu. She seemed very serious. I couldn't actually visualize her lying sleepless in bed. I would have assumed she'd get up and mill flaxseed for homemade bread or balance the federal budget or something.

Before I could say anything, Lulu continued briskly, “I bet I know what
you're
thinking about when you can't sleep in the middle of the night,” she said, stopping a moment to count stitches. I braced myself, wondering what piece of trivia, or worse yet, deep remorse Lulu thought occupied my middle-of-the-night thoughts. “I bet you're working on your case.”

“My case?” I said, puzzled.

She shot a sideways glance at me, and then returned to her knitting, her eyes on the field. “You're investigating what happened in Ivory's son's case, I imagine,” she said.

“Well, not exactly,” I said. Lulu turned her bright blue eyes on me.

“Oh, really? I remember reading all about your last case in the paper. You figured out who murdered your boss, right? Well, it's none of my business…”

“Okay,” I interrupted. “You're right. I'm not exactly investigating, but we're doing a story for the magazine on the woman who was murdered, and it's turned up lots of interesting angles.”

“Goody!” she said. “I hoped you were. You're so smart, Maggie, and it seems so unbelievable to me that Ivory's son could have done such a thing.”

I was astonished. Lulu, the perfect, the brilliant, the accomplished, thought
I
was smart. And more important, believed that Travis was innocent. Suddenly, it seemed like an inspired idea to tell her everything. Fresh eyes, fresh ears—powered by a formidable mind. And unlike me, she didn't appear to be sleep-deprived or wallowing in marital challenges.

“Lulu,” I began, “are you really interested in this? I would love to be able to talk it through with someone.”

“Sure,” she said. “Is that okay? It's not breaking confidentiality or anything?”

“I don't think so,” I said. “I've got a couple colleagues at work who are working on the story, and I need to call the guy over at SFPD who knows about the case. But, I don't really want to do it from here, it's just that…” I trailed off.

“What?” she prodded, her knitting now in her lap, those perfectly manicured hands still, not moving at all.

“I think we may have figured something out last night, but I'm so sleep-deprived, nothing is making sense.”

“I'm listening,” she said. “Tell me the whole thing, beginning to end. They used to call me the deal-breaker at the investment bank where I worked before my kids were born, because I could always find the flaws. I was hell on wheels during due diligence.”

She reached into her handbag and pulled out a note pad and a mechanical pencil. “Start talking,” she said. “It's going to be snack time pretty soon, and I know you're on duty.”

I blinked. And in ten minutes, sketched out the highlights of the story, what we knew, what we thought we knew, what we didn't know. Lulu listened intently and jotted notes on her pad.

Just as I finished, I heard shouts from the field and watched as Josh gave me the high sign for break.

“Gotta refresh the hordes,” I said, scrambling to my feet. Lulu carefully tucked her pencil and pad into her purse and rose in one elegant, effortless motion.

“I'll help,” she said. “We'll get done faster. And I think better when I'm working.”

Together we moved the cooler closer to the playing field, distributed water and Gatorade, and portioned out orange quarters to the sweaty, pink-cheeked boys. “Having fun, honey?” I asked Josh.

He glared at me, “Mom, are you even watching the game? We're getting killed.”

“We're watching,” said Lulu kindly. “Those Hobos are pretty good, but you guys work together as a team.

And that was a great block you did a few minutes ago.”

I was dumbfounded. How could she knit, listen to me, and pay attention not just to her kid but mine as well?

After snack, Michael showed up to take Zach home.

Lulu and I pulled the cooler back to our post, settled in, and resumed our conversation. Lulu dug in her pink Prada and pulled out a Three Musketeers candy bar and a Swiss Army knife. She sliced it in two and handed half to me. “These are disgusting,” she said, “but we need some energy.” She peeled back the paper, took a bite, and consulted her notepad again.

“I think there are too many people with alibis,” she said. “And that seems pretty unusual to me. I mean, except for moms, who else is always, always, always surrounded by people who know where they are every minute of every day?”

“Just a coincidence,” I offered.

“I don't think so,” she said. “I think somebody's lying. Maybe two somebodies.”

“Who are your candidates?”

She wrinkled her nose. It was like watching a very elegant bunny consider the merits of conflicting bunches of carrots. She
tapped her pen on the pad.

“Ivory, Ginger's husband (the guy who looks like an anorexic dog), Carol Ann, and Ivory's friend, Gus.”

I shook my head. “You think they're all lying?”

“No,” she said. “That would be improbable. Unless they're in cahoots, and that, all by itself, seems improbable. But anyone in that bunch could be telling a big, fat whopper.”

“So, the task is…”

“To figure out which one of those alibis is full of holes. And, figure out who had a reason to kill Grace and blame the whole thing on Travis.”

She looked thoughtful. “You told me that Gus and that woman who runs the shelter for young moms and their kids have both been accused of violent crimes?”

I frowned. “I read a little more about both of those ‘crimes.' Purity went after some vicious jackass who showed up to threaten his ex-girlfriend. He was trying to push his way in, and Purity took him on with a baseball bat, before he got off the front porch. Seemed pretty idiosyncratic to me.”

“Justified, too,” said Lulu. “But still, we know she can be provoked to violence. What about Gus?”

“That one's harder to pin down. Apparently Gus and one of his army buddies accosted a young woman on a deserted stretch of road leading out of Ho Chi Minh City. She'd apparently rebuffed their advances in a bar, where she was just trying to wash and dry glasses. They ran into her later and supposedly kidnapped her briefly to ‘teach her a lesson,' or at least that's what the charges said.”

“Did they rape her?” asked Lulu in disgust.

“Not according to the report. They just restrained her for a while and let her go. Scared her senseless, of course. But no witnesses, and they covered each other, insisting it had been a practical joke.”

Lulu shook her head. “Lovely joke,” she said. “Wonder how Gus would like it if some creep went after his daughter like that?”

The Hallelujah Chorus went off next to my knee. I rummaged in my own, nonlabel purse, and fished out the phone. It was Michael. How was the second half of the game going? Did Josh score? Had I called Lt. Moon yet? And should he and Zach stop at the store to get stuff to barbecue for dinner?

“Game's fine. Josh doesn't seem very happy about it, though. Haven't called Moon yet. It's too noisy here. Get some fish to barbecue, the kids have been eating too much meat, meat, meat, meat,” I said.

“Red meat and when they grow up, brown drinks,” said Michael. “They'll be manly men.”

Lulu had been making notes on her pad while I talked. She looked at what she'd written, put the pen and pad down, and picked up her knitting again. The blue and gold was emerging quickly, in between flashes of needles.

As soon as I snapped my phone shut and tossed it back in my bag, she picked up our conversation, as if we'd never been interrupted. “Who had a reason?” she persisted. “Who benefited from Grace's death?”

“We went through the usual motives,” I said. “Money. There were a couple of people Grace had put in her will, for small bequests—Purity, over at A Mom's Place, and Carol Ann.”

“Did they know that?” countered Lulu. “Doesn't mean much if they didn't know.”

I shrugged, “I don't know.”

“And then there's jealousy,” said Lulu. “And, oh my, wouldn't we have a whole trailer-truck full of that stuff—Frederick's jealous of Travis and what he's up to. Ivory could be jealous of her son's beautiful, high-society sweetheart. Or maybe Bill Brand thought Grace was corrupting his sweet, innocent wife. Or Ivory thought Grace was corrupting Travis.”

“You haven't met Travis,” I said. “He's very, very charming, but I wouldn't put any good money on who's doing the corrupting in any relationship that he's involved in.”

“That's plenty of negativity,” said Lulu briskly. “If you're going
to be negative, you have to have a purpose—like ruling people out. That's the principle of due diligence. So, here's my list.” She ripped a sheet from her pad and handed it to me.

Gun owners? Will beneficiaries? Who knew where Travis lived?

Lulu had returned to her knitting, fingers moving swiftly, while she scanned the field.

“That little Tran boy ought to play more,” she said firmly. I squinted at the kid under discussion. Skinny, fidgety, never seemed too interested in the game.

“What makes you say that?” I asked.

She shrugged. “He's awkward but he's focused and really moves the ball.” She glanced over at me. “Sometimes you can't tell how someone's going to perform until you let them show you their stuff.”

I looked away. “Good point,” I murmured. I tucked the paper in my bag. “I don't know why I never thought about that last question,” I said. “Of course, if someone framed Travis, it would have to be someone who knew where he lived.”

“Unless he's listed in the phone book, that limits the field a bit,” said Lulu. She rolled her knitting up into a tidy ball, and tucked it away in her bag. “I'm going to go collect my kids,” she said. “Don't forget to let me know what Ivory can use. Nice hanging out with you, Maggie.”

“Better than nice for me,” I said. “Thanks for your help.”

Lulu collapsed her sand chair, tucked it under her arm, and set off down the hill. She gave me a little backward wave as she left. And another snap judgment about a fellow being needs reevaluating. “Boy, I hate having to change my mind,” I said aloud.

I
f Ivory and Gus owned the obscure movie that had provided their alibi, what did that mean? It could, as Michael pointed out, simply mean they enjoyed it so much they'd purchased a copy. Or, it could mean that was why they both had recall about the plot, whether or not they'd seen it that night. And, of course, Ivory knew where Travis lived. But why would she frame her own son?

Later that evening, after soccer debrief, after dinner, after bedtime for Zach, I got Moon on his cell phone. He sounded more exhausted than I felt.

He listened to my report on the burned-up video, the theories about who might be lying, and Lulu's observation that the killer had to know where Travis lived.

“We did actually think about that, Maggie,” said Moon. “Not that your friend isn't a crackerjack detective. But once there seemed to be enough evidence to convict Travis, we stopped knocking ourselves out to look for the mysterious Mr. or Ms. X who could have planted the body. And, of course, now we know it could have been Mr. and Ms. X, or Mr. X and a small guy friend.”

“Could it have been a Ms. X?” I asked. “Grace couldn't have weighed more than 110, but I don't think a woman would have been much help moving Grace's body into Travis's car.”

“Good guesser,” said Moon. “Grace weighed 108. We know that from the autopsy. But sure, if it's a good-size man, a reasonably
fit woman could have been plenty of help moving the body. But again, we stopped looking for Mr. or Ms. X, because the DA was simply building his case around Travis.”

“Bad idea,” I said, “very, very bad idea.”

Moon sighed. “So you say, Maggie, but that's just your idea, which could be good, bad, indifferent, or just wrong.”

Before we hung up, Moon agreed to track down some answers. “We can easily find out if Purity's registered for a gun and double check Bill Brand's whereabouts once again.”

“I still don't know how you do that,” I said. “I couldn't possibly remember what I did a few months ago, never mind years.”

“Fortunately,” said Moon dryly, “people like Brand and or his assistant keep datebooks or very detailed data in some other format. Enables them to maximize their productivity and identify tax deductions.”

“Lucky for us,” I observed.

T
ravis held a photo in his hand. It was Ivory, dressed in a deep-purple dress, sitting on the piano bench at the club. He turned it over and read the back. “Do I look like I'm in mourning?” asked the note. He turned it back to the image again. “Not mourning, Mom,” he said. “Just suffering.”