Countdown (17 page)

I frowned. ‘What other plans?’ I asked.

‘I came to this conclusion pretty late – only yesterday – when I should have seen the signs years ago. But Paula was very promiscuous sexually, and estranged from her family. I think she might have been sexually abused as a child, possibly by a family member,’ my wife the doctor said.

‘I’m sorry to hear that, honey,’ I said. ‘But I’m not following here.’

‘I’m going to find out who abused her, and I’m going to out them to one and all—’ she started, her voice steely and determined, but I quickly interrupted.

‘Oh, no you’re not!’ I said, sitting up in the bed and looking down on her. ‘I almost just lost you and now you wanna go stirring up a mess of snakes—’

‘I have to do this, Milt. I have to,’ she said, not looking at me.

‘Call the police—’

‘Even if I knew who to tell them did it, the statute of limitations on child abuse is way past. They couldn’t and wouldn’t do a thing.’

I just kept shaking my head. ‘I won’t allow it!’

My wife finally looked at me. ‘You what?’ she demanded.

I had to rethink my words fast. ‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ I said.

‘I can’t believe you said you wouldn’t
allow
me! Who are you to
allow
me anything?’ She sat up in bed and stared daggers at me.

‘Dammit, I’m your husband, that’s who. The one who’s gonna be left alone to raise our child when you go gallivanting off on your high horse to piss off some baby-raper in Yankee-land!’

‘Could you
be
more insulting?’

‘Sure. Do we have time?’

My wife just looked at me, then burst out laughing and threw her pillow at me.

I pulled her close. ‘Honey, I’m serious. I’m so sorry this happened to Paula, and I know how upset you are, but just let the body go up there on its own. You don’t have to go with it. Paula’s gone. You finding out who messed with her when she was a kid won’t change anything—’

‘What if that person is still abusing children?’

I just shook my head and held her tight. She was right. Once a child sexual abuser, always a child sexual abuser. And if that’s what happened to Paula, then the chances were good it was still going on. ‘OK,’ I said, ‘on one condition—’

She pulled away. ‘I don’t do conditions!’

‘OK, one favor then. Take Jasmine with you. She’s a deputy and she can have your back—’

‘Oh, for crying out loud, Milt! I don’t need back-up!’ she said.

‘You don’t know that!’ I insisted.

‘Shit, can you imagine Jasmine tangling with Vivian Carmichael?’ said my wife, who rarely swears. ‘I’d rather take your sister.’

I thought about it for a split second. ‘Deal,’ I said.

J
ean made all the necessary arrangements to ship the body to Kansas City and on Friday, nearly a week after the incident in suite 214, she and Jewel boarded an American Airlines flight, accompanying Paula’s body home.

Jewel, who was still somewhat shaken up from her experiences during the tornado, was more than happy to take a vacation. ‘They have a great shopping center – Village West – in Kansas City!’ she told Jean. ‘Wonderful little boutiques, and God knows I need new everything!’

Jean didn’t mention that there wouldn’t be a lot of time for shopping. As a matter of fact, she thought having Jewel off at the stores would be a good way for Jean to get done what she was going there to do – namely to find out whether Paula had been victim to an abuser; if she had then Jean wanted to know whether they were still active and have them arrested if they were or out them if they weren’t. Jean didn’t tell Jewel what she planned on doing; she felt it was safer for Jewel if she had no idea of Jean’s real mission.

They were a curious couple, these two women of a certain age. Jean was tall at five feet ten inches, a healthy one hundred and fifty pounds, dark hair – that which hadn’t already turned gray – freckled skin and always accompanied by her crutches and the one brace on her left leg. And then there was Jewel: petite at five feet two inches, weighing in at one-twenty at the most, with blonde hair (helped along lately), blue eyes like her mama’s and a cute little overbite that still made Harmon swoon.

A hearse from the funeral home came to pick up the remains from the airport, and one of their limos had been assigned by Mrs Carmichael to bring Jean and her guest to her home. Although Jean had already secured two rooms at a nearby hotel, Mrs Carmichael had taken the liberty of canceling them and insisting that the two women stay with the family. Knowing what she intended to do, Jean wasn’t pleased with the arrangement, nor was she pleased with Mrs Carmichael’s controlling nature. Even without the abuse, Jean felt Paula would have had a rough upbringing.

The limo driver took them to one of the older, statelier sections of the city, on the Kansas side, where the rich derived their wealth from granddaddies who made a killing off Kansas City beef – by the hoof. When the driver finally made a left into a driveway, both women were somewhat taken aback.

‘I thought Harmon’s house was big when I first saw it,’ Jewel said, ‘but this is amazing.’

‘I had no idea,’ Jean said. Paula had never said, implied or acted like she came from serious money, but the house before them was definitely what one would call a mansion, with large and beautifully cultivated grounds.

The driver took the limo through a break in the tall evergreens that faced the street and then wound through large trees and beautiful gardens until it reached the circle in front of the entry to the home. The house itself looked for all the world like an English country manor house. It appeared to spread over at least a couple of acres, the grounds – in front, anyway – adding another three to four acres.

The limo driver stopped the car and opened the doors for the two women. Jean and Jewel headed up the steps while the driver brought their bags. When Jean attempted to tip him, he said, ‘No, thank you, ma’am – Mrs Carmichael has been more than generous.’ He tipped his hat as the front door opened and headed down the steps to the waiting car.

The woman standing at the door was obviously not Mrs Carmichael. She was way too young, and Jean doubted that Mrs Carmichael would be caught dead in a polyester maid’s uniform.

‘Doctor McDonnell?’ the young woman asked.

‘Yes, and this is Mrs Monk,’ Jean said.

The young woman smiled and bowed ever so slightly. ‘This way please. I’ll have someone bring your bags.’

They followed her into an enormous foyer with a mosaic tile floor in a bursting star pattern, at the center of which sat a large brass filigreed table, upon which was an old Asian-style vase filled with freshly cut flowers. Could it be Ming? Jean wondered. Then she wondered what Paula must have thought about Jean’s parents’ home with its Norman Rockwell framed prints, it’s early American furniture and the plain brown carpet that had been in the house when they’d bought it shortly after Jean was born.

The foyer was lit by a large skylight in the domed ceiling. There were four doors, two on each side of the foyer. At the back was a carved mahogany staircase and there were two sets of stairs on either end of the foyer, meeting halfway up at a convex railing where Jean could easily see someone standing and belting out, ‘Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina.’ A wide single staircase went up from there to the higher floor or floors. She wasn’t sure, but from the outside it looked as if the place was at least three stories.

Two of the four doors in the foyer were open, the first on both sides. The one on the right appeared to be a living room, or lounge, salon, parlor – whatever someone in this tax bracket called such a room – and on the left she could see an enormous room with a dining table that could seat at least fifty comfortably. The young woman dressed in the maid’s uniform passed both these rooms and stopped in front of the second door on the right. She opened it, stepped inside and announced them.

‘Ma’am, Doctor McDonnell and her guest, Mrs Monk, are here.’ With that she stepped out of the room, closing the door behind her.

The room was obviously a library, with a large fireplace burning brightly – although it was already fairly warm in the house. It was two stories with a catwalk around the second floor which could be reached by a spiral staircase. The entire second floor was filled with wall-to-wall bookcases. The fireplace wall was flanked on both sides by tall bookcases. Two other walls of the room were also covered with bookcases, while the outside wall consisted of two sets of French windows that looked out on a veranda separating the library and the room on the other side – whatever that might be. Jean couldn’t help hoping it was the guest room, because as beautiful as the staircase was she wasn’t looking forward to traversing it several times a day.

There were three occupants in the room. An older man, an older woman and a younger woman, at least Jean’s age if not a little bit older. She was the one who stood up first.

‘Doctor McDonnell,’ she said, offering her hand. ‘I’m Constance Carmichael Mills, Paula’s sister.’ She turned, her hand languidly posed toward the older woman. ‘This is my mother, Vivian. I believe you met by phone.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Jean said, stepping closer to the sofa on which the older couple sat and extending her hand. The older woman, Mrs Carmichael, touched Jean’s hand briefly then pulled hers away.

Jean knew Constance was older than Paula, but didn’t know by how much. Whatever her age, Constance Carmichael Mills was trying desperately to hide it. Slightly overweight, her Laura Ashley-style dress clung a little too tightly, her blonde hair was a little too yellow and her makeup a smidge overdone. Even as bad as Paula had looked when Jean first saw her at the airport, it was still obvious that she had been the ‘pretty’ sister.

Their mother, on the other hand, was the epitomy of a well-heeled dowager. White hair touched her ears in a smart but mature fashion, her dress had a high neck, reducing the risk of seeing a waddle, and she wore expensive but flat shoes. Her makeup was understated.

‘And I’d like all of you to meet my sister-in-law, Jewel Monk,’ Jean said as Jewel simply nodded her head at the two women.

‘And this is my father, Walter Carmichael,’ Constance said, indicating the older man who sat hunched over, his eyes never leaving the leaping flames in the fireplace.

Jean extended her hand, but the old lady said, ‘Don’t bother. He wouldn’t know what to do with it. Alzheimer’s, you know.’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ Jean said.

‘Don’t be,’ Vivian Carmichael said. ‘He’s much more pleasant now than he’s ever been. Wouldn’t you agree, Constance?’

‘Mother’s kidding,’ Constance said. ‘Please, won’t you both have a seat.’

Jean and Jewel sat down on the brocade love seat Constance had indicated.

‘Penny will be bringing in some refreshments shortly,’ Constance said, taking a seat in a matching brocade armchair.

‘Has Nicholas taken their things upstairs?’ Vivian asked her daughter.

‘I’m sure he has, Mother,’ Constance said.

Turning to Jean, Vivian said, ‘Don’t worry. That staircase is just for show. There’s an elevator behind it that we use to get up and down. You look like you’d have as much trouble as me.’

For the first time Jean noticed that there was a wheelchair next to the sofa. ‘That’s good,’ Jean said and smiled.

‘I talked to the person you call a coroner in your little town,’ Vivian said. ‘He told me Paula was shot in the back, so I saw no reason to have a closed casket. We’ll also have a viewing tonight. The funeral director has assured me his people will have her ready in plenty of time.’

Jean nodded, wondering if all of Paula’s acting out could be laid at the feet of this cold mother of hers.

‘Please don’t think harsh thoughts of me,’ Vivian said as if reading Jean’s mind. ‘I just see no reason to pussyfoot around. Paula is dead and it is my duty to see that she is properly sent on her way to the hereafter – whatever the hell that might be—’

‘Mother,’ Constance said, giving her a chastising look.

Vivian Carmichael laughed. ‘Don’t mind her!’ she said, waving a dismissive hand toward her daughter. ‘She used to be married to a preacher man and unfortunately some of that rubbed off on her, right, darling?’

‘He was the bishop of the Anglican church of Kansas City, Mother, not a “preacher man,” as you are so fond of calling him!’ Constance said, with just a little heat.

‘Where did he go?’ Walter Carmichael broke in.

Vivian patted his hand. ‘He died, Walter. Remember? And he left poor Constance with that brood of rug rats.’

‘Who?’ Walter said, then proceeded to pick his nose.

‘Oh, for God’s sake! Constance, call Ingrid!’ Vivian said, shying away from her husband.

Constance stood up and pulled a bell by the fireplace. There were several there, each labeled. Jean craned her neck as inconspicuously as possible and thought she read ‘nurse’ in big, black, bold handwriting.

A woman appeared almost immediately, dressed in –
ta-da
– a nurse’s scrubs.

‘Get him out!’ Vivian said, enraged. ‘He’s doing it again! Can’t you get him to stop that? It’s disgusting!’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ the nurse, Ingrid, said. ‘Please, Mr Walter, you come with me, now. We go upstairs, OK? We watch a show, OK?’

After the nurse had walked Walter Carmichael out of the library, Vivian said, ‘He may have been hard to live with before but this nose picking of his is purely disgusting! I may have to have him confined!’

‘Mother!’ Constance said, still standing by the fireplace.

‘Well,’ Vivian said, obviously beginning to back down. ‘Maybe we could put a muzzle on his nose?’

Constance looked at her mother for a moment, then both women burst out laughing.

OK, so maybe motive
was
an issue. Why would a guy who’d just moved to Longbranch less than six months ago kill a guy who lived all the way out in Blantonville? Nobody went to Blantonville if they could help it. Maybe Drew Gleeson just tripped and fell in, or didn’t know where he was going and stumbled in. And Darrell Blanton saw him and didn’t like a stranger intruding in his little township, and beat him up. The killing was payback.