The Fine Art of Murder (10 page)

I rushed out of the jail needing to hear a friendly voice and see an honest face. So I called Nathan.

“Can you meet me at the diner for lunch? I really need to talk.”

“Are you okay, Kathy?” His concern almost made me go weepy but I fought the urge.

“I’m at the jail. I had a few things to run by Randolph. Imagine my surprise when I walked in and found him holding hands with my daughter.”

“Lizzie and Pierce? Are you sure?”

“Lizzie told me days ago that she’s always had feelings for him. And later he told me he felt the same. But I guess I thought she was just feeling sorry for him. Maybe I’d hoped it would just all go away.”

“You weren’t ready to hear them. And now they’re up in your face and you can’t look away,” he said. “That had to be tough. But why were you there in the first place?”

I sat in the jeep, still parked in front of the jail, and unloaded all the facts and my frustrations on my best friend. I told Nathan my suspicions about Jackie, about Randolph’s real alibi and my daughter’s involvement in a murder investigation.

When I was finished, he said, “You’ll have to give me a minute to digest all this.”

“Imagine how I feel! Both of them lying to me like that. I feel so stupid.”

“Hold up! You have nothing to feel stupid about, Kathy. You’re out there just trying to help them and they lie to you. What are you supposed to do with that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Look, I just had a meeting with my crew. I think you’ll be happy with the progress they’ve made. Why don’t the six of us all meet around one? We can talk more about Lizzie and—”

“No! This part is personal. I don’t want your people to know anything about it. What my daughter and her client do is none of their business. It has nothing to do with our case.”

After a moment, he agreed. “You’re right. It’s none of their business.”

“Thanks, Nathan. I knew I could count on you.”

“Always, Kathy.”

***

I got to the Twelfth before any of the others arrived. The diner was crowded and noisy. The same tall man who had been there last time greeted me.

“Will there be just one for lunch today?” he asked.

“No, there’ll be six of us. And would it be possible to have that large booth in the corner?” I pointed.

“Sure. But you’ll have to give us about ten minutes to clear it off.”

“That’s fine.”

According to my watch, it was 12:35. I had just enough time for a quick trip to the ladies room to make sure I didn’t look as frazzled as I felt. When I came out, the booth was ready; menus and silverware had been arranged at three places on each side of the table.

I scooted across the long bench seat so I could be next to the window and ordered an iced tea—no lemon.

The waitress nodded, knowingly. “You saw
60 Minutes
, too, huh?”

We exchanged a look as if we belonged to a secret club. And then she left to get my drink.

There had been so many reports lately about bar fruit being contaminated. According to the last health update, orange slices, lemon wedges, and cherries were almost lethal. I never paid much attention, though, because next week the experts would change their collective minds and urge everyone to slice citrus fruits and leave them out in the open for at least a day. They’d swear that if all good citizens complied, they’d never get diabetes or maybe add five years to their lives. But it didn’t matter what any expert said; I’d just never liked lemons.

A loud roar made me look out the window. Rosie sat on a motorcycle, taking off her helmet. I watched as she ran a
few fingers through her hair and got off the bike. Then she snapped to attention and walked toward the diner.

When she came through the door, I waved so she’d see me in the corner.

“Hey, Katie,” she said. “How’s it hangin’?”

I looked down at myself. “So far, so good. How about yourself?”

“Can’t complain.” Then she flagged the waitress down and ordered a diet Coke.

“We’re the first ones here,” I told her.

“So we are.” She seemed uncomfortable with me, and I hoped that maybe by the end of lunch, we’d get past that.

Then I saw Polly enter the diner.

“Hey, Pol!” Rosie shouted across the room.

Polly turned heads as she hurried toward our corner. A tight, leather micro-miniskirt showed off her great legs, which were covered to the knees by black leather boots. She had a cropped T-shirt, and when she moved, her bare midriff peeked through. On top of that was a faded jean jacket.

“Hey.” She sat next to Rosie—across from me. “The guys are going to be late. Nathan said we should go ahead and eat; they’ll be here in about an hour,” she told me. Then, to Rosie, she said, “In the meantime we can fill Katherine in on what we’ve been doing.”

“Good deal,” Rosie said. “But let’s order first; I’m starving big time.”

The three of us talked about food while looking over the menu. It really seemed to be the perfect icebreaker as
we compared likes and dislikes, all-time favorite meals, and restaurants.

When the waitress finally came, Polly ordered a small salad because she was on a diet and water with three lemon wedges. The waitress raised her eyebrows and glanced over at me as if to say, “She doesn’t know what we do.” Rosie decided on the meatloaf, and I ordered the same.

After the menus had been collected and the three of us were left alone, I said, “I’m glad things worked out this way. Gives us a chance to know each other better.”

Polly smiled. “I’m glad, too.”

“Likewise,” Rosie agreed.

There was an uncomfortable pause before Polly kicked things off. “So I’ve been checking Henry Slater out. There’s a lot out there about this guy. None of it good.”

I thought about the last time I’d seen Hank. It had been outside Pierce Gallery. Or maybe it had been that night at the guesthouse. I still had my suspicions that he’d been the one who clubbed Nathan.

“I’ve only met him a few times; all I really know is he used to play football, lives in Vegas, and sponges off older, rich women,” I told them.

Polly nodded and grinned. “He was third string for the Rams and only played in one game. Can you believe it?”

Rosie laughed. “A real one-hit wonder.”

“Oh, he could have had a successful career but he screwed it all up when he went out with his buddies on a Fourth of July weekend. One of the guys had a boat and they took it out on Lake Havasu—”

“That’s in Arizona, ain’t it?” Rosie asked.

“Yep.” Polly said. “So they’re out on the boat, partying. For two days nothing but booze, women, and drugs. Everything was good . . . until the last day. As they were heading home, Slater’s so drunk that he falls off and gets his foot caught in the boat’s propeller. From the hospital reports I read, he was lucky he survived. But his foot was cut clear down to the bone.”

I was waiting for the part that might make me feel sorry for Hank but so far I hadn’t heard it.

“Geez,” is all Rosie said.

“So there’s operations, which means lots of pain killers. He’s cut from the team, naturally, and along the way gets addicted to his meds.”

“Addiction means money and being desperate for money usually leads to crime,” I said.

Polly nodded in agreement. “You should know, Chief.”

“And Las Vegas is definitely not the best place for an addict to be,” Rosie added. “I’ve seen way too many people end up dead out there.”

“Slater’s like a cockroach,” Polly continued. “He’ll always survive. You should see his arrest records. They go back ten years. Mostly petty stuff—anything to get money for his habits, which now include coke and gambling. He’s been banned from two casinos for trying to steal money from several people at the blackjack table. He’s been to rehab five times. On the third visit, to a place in Malibu, he met a wealthy socialite. When they got out, he moved in with her at her house on the beach.”

“Sounds like a real lowlife,” Rosie said, playing with her fork.

“That seemed to be around the time he started targeting older, lonely, rich women.”

“How many have there been before Jackie?” I asked.

“I’ve found an even dozen so far. He only stays with them until he gets the money. Sometimes he’s working on more than one poor woman at a time. I found two restraining orders issued by judges in two different cities in Nevada. There’s even a complaint filed by the grown children of one of the women, claiming Slater drugged and then coerced their mother into writing a new will, leaving everything to him.”

I was stunned. “I just figured Slater was a dumb jock, but now I’m thinking he’s a dangerous jock.”

“The guy’s on steroids, too,” Polly said. “Which makes him the kind of crazy that’s scary. He can go from zero to a hundred in no time if something sets him off.”

Hank Slater was turning out to be more unstable than I could have ever imagined. “So was Jackie after or before the Malibu lady?”

Polly looked at me through strands of long bangs. “About two months after that poor woman died.”

I leaned in a little closer. “And how did she die?”

“There was a bad storm one night—high winds, power outages. The next day neighbors were out, walking the area to assess property damage, and saw her door had been blown off. They found her lying in the middle of the living room. She’d been hit from behind by a piece of wood. The coroner ruled
it accidental, probably caused by flying debris. But rumors are floating around the Internet that she was murdered.”

“After what you’ve found, I’m sure it was Slater who hit Nathan on the head out at Buckhorn. A muscle-bound coward who strikes from behind. That seems to be his MO.”

“He does love to flex his muscles,” Polly said. “In an interview on YouTube, he claimed to have been a bodyguard for several celebrities. But of course he was unable to name any of them because of confidentiality agreements he’d signed.”

“Translation: ‘I’m lyin’,’” Rosie said.

Polly laughed. “Good one, Roe.”

“I’ve also done some checking on Jacqueline Bannister-Pierce. Now that’s one pitiful woman,” Polly said.

“Having lived here most of my life, I probably know a lot of what you found out.” I went on to fill in some of our local history for the women.

“But did you know that many of her so-called trips to resorts and exclusive spas have actually been to psychiatric hospitals?” Polly asked. “Her last husband had her committed twice.”

Okay, she got me there. “No, I never heard about that. But then we weren’t supposed to, right?”

“Mrs. Bannister-Pierce has spent hundreds of thousands in hush money.”

I couldn’t resist asking, “So how much is she worth now?”

“According to bank statements and investment records, her debt outweighs her worth. She’s managed to stay afloat on Social Security and by selling off some property she inherited, but now she’s out of options. And she’s convinced
there’s some priceless painting at the estate. She’s been contacting experts and dealers regarding a particular one by Gustav Klimt.”

“Which supposedly was destroyed in a fire during the war,” I said.

Polly nodded. “But Mrs. Pierce has been telling everyone that it survived and she can prove it. I found e-mails she sent to an expert at Sotheby’s wanting to know the painting’s value and checking on the possibility of it going to auction.”

“But if the piece was stolen, it would have to be returned to the Austrian government, wouldn’t it?” I asked.

“I guess so,” Polly said.

“Not if you know the right people,” Rosie said. “It can end up in a private collection somewhere and no one’s the wiser.” She rolled her eyes. “Those fancy auction houses get their computers hacked all the time. There’s a whole underground market out there. And when millions are involved, everybody and his brother come out of the woodwork, sniffin’ around. My sources tell me some heavyweights are circling the mansion like vultures. Those stories the old lady tells get around. And crazy or not, people are gonna think it’s worth a look-see. If what I’m hearing is true, something’s going down out there—and soon.”

“Could be Jackie’s bringing all this danger with her and not even knowing it,” I said.

“It’s always about greed, isn’t it?” Polly asked. “Everybody wanting what they don’t have, desperately trying to snatch it away from those who have too much and want something
else. It’s an endless struggle. If only people could just be happy with what they have,” she said wistfully.

I was surprised by how innocent Polly seemed at that moment.

“Well that ain’t never gonna happen,” Rosie said. “Never.”

I had to agree with her.

Nathan, E.T., and Brock arrived when the three of us were almost finished eating.

“That looks good,” Brock said, craning his neck to locate a waitress.

“Sorry we’re late.” Nathan looked at me, concerned. “How you doin’, Kathy?”

“I’m fine. How are you?” I raised my eyebrows, hoping he’d take the hint to keep my personal problems to himself. “Polly and Rosie have been filling me in. Looks like things are heating up about this stolen painting everyone’s so eager to find at the mansion.”

E.T. rearranged his silverware while I spoke. Still not satisfied, he picked up his spoon and started rubbing it with a napkin. “I’ve been out to Buckhorn the last two nights. Security sucks, that’s for sure. I had no problem at all getting into that guesthouse. And I can tell you this: someone’s definitely living there. Maybe as many as three people, but definitely two. One closet was crammed with all sorts of
tacky clothes—women’s clothes. Another had men’s things. It has to be that Pierce woman and Slater.”

“Were you able to figure out who attacked us?” I asked.

“There were three of them that night. I could make out their footprints. The one who hit Nathan was the largest.” E.T. looked over the menu while he spoke. “Do you think they have anything that’s not fried in this place? Something vegetarian?” he asked, looking around the restaurant. “No, I guess not.”

“This guy’s into all that feng shui, Zen, meditation stuff,” Nathan told me. “Can you imagine never eating a thick, juicy steak? You don’t know what you’re missing, man,” he told E.T.

“And you, my friend, don’t know how good you could feel if you stopped filling your body with preservatives and red meat. More energy, clearer head, you’d feel ten years younger, Boss. Trust me.”

“Translation: ‘Don’t trust another word this guy says,’” Rosie shouted.

We all had to laugh, even E.T.

“Where’s that waitress?” Brock asked after we calmed down. “I’m dyin’ here.”

“You guys order,” I told the men. “And I thank you,” I smiled at Polly then Rosie. “You’ve given me a lot to go on.” I grabbed a napkin and wiped my mouth. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go out to Buckhorn—”

“Not by yourself, you won’t,” Nathan said, looking panicked. “I’ve read all the reports and the five of us have had several meetings. Things are heating up out there. No telling who you’ll run into.”

“You of all people know I can handle myself,” I told him.

“You can be as confident as you want, Mrs. Sullivan, but that won’t protect you from a bullet,” Brock said. “Brave men end up just as dead as cowardly ones.”

“Why are you so set on going out there?” Nathan asked. “What do you expect to find that’ll clear Randolph?”

“The only thing Bostwick has so far is Randolph’s lack of an alibi—well and the fact that he rubs everyone in town the wrong way. What could he possibly have to gain from Stacey’s death?” I wondered aloud.

“Oh, it could be a lot of things. Didn’t you tell me she mentioned being able to write a book about what she’d seen and heard at the mansion? Maybe she was blackmailing him or threatening him in some way,” Nathan said.

“Well, you’ve given me a lot to think about on the drive over.” I stood up.

“Do you even care that I’m hungry and would like to eat something before we go chasing around town?”

“Don’t play the guilt card, Nathan. It won’t work. If you’re hungry, stay and eat. If you insist on coming with me—come.”

“You’re one bullheaded woman,” he said. “Scoot over,” he told Brock. “I’ll see all of you at the office tomorrow.”

After saying good-bye to everyone, I headed for the door with Nathan trailing behind.

***

Okay, so I did feel a little guilty and stopped at a drive-thru to get Nathan a burger but mostly to quiet down his
stomach, which had been growling the entire time. It was a half-hour trip to Buckhorn and I couldn’t take the noise any longer. Besides, while he was eating, he’d be unable to scold me anymore.

I switched on the radio. An instrumental version of a Madonna song was playing. Once edgy and controversial, the song had upset parents as well as the Catholic Church. I remembered seeing demonstrations in front of record stores, back in the olden days when there were record stores. But over the years it had made its inevitable journey to easy listening. Born to MTV, it had moved down to VH1, then Muzak. Now it was piped into elevators and waiting rooms. The very same people who had been outraged just a few years previously now listened happily, swaying to the piano and cello arrangement.

People are like that, too, I guess. Their rough edges get smoothed out over time. Jacqueline used to be the talk of the town—literally. Gossiped about, envied, beautiful, and rich. And now, if it wasn’t for her strange appearance, she wouldn’t be noticed at all. But had all her anger and resentment toward her father evened out over time?

And Henry Slater. Once a professional football player, popular and handsome, he had everything going for him. But drugs and alcohol make men mean; I’d seen it hundreds of times. Slater had hit bottom and was running scared. From what I’d heard, he was all rough edges. About the only thing smoothed out on him was his brain.

***

As I drove up to the mansion, I could see several vehicles parked out front. A sleek black rental car was on the far side of the driveway. On the other side were two police cars. I sat there a moment, unsure what to do next.

“So what’s the plan, Chief?” Nathan still seemed a little miffed with me.

Before I had to admit I didn’t really have a plan, Dean Bostwick came walking out the front door. Maybe if I just backed out of the driveway, I thought foolishly, he wouldn’t even know we’d been there. But that was just wishful thinking. As if reading my mind, Bostwick’s head snapped around and his eyes focused in on mine.

“Sullivan!” he shouted, motioning me to pull up and park.

“You’re in trouble now,” Nathan teased. “That man sure doesn’t look happy to see you.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”