Cutwork (13 page)

He’d talked to Pam McFey when he’d called, but the door was answered by a very handsome young man in preppie clothes: chinos, penny loafers, light blue longsleeved shirt. His hair was bleached blond, but was dark close to the roots. “Hello, I’m Coyne McFey,” he said. “My mother is expecting you.” His expression was a polite blank, and he showed them into the beautiful living room, where Pam waited with an equally bland, polite face.

The girl, Skye, was not in evidence.

“How do you do, Sergeant Malloy?” said Pam McFey from her seat in a high-backed wing chair, offering a slim, cool hand. She wore a simple navy dress and an elaborate necklace of silver and turquoise. “And Sergeant Cross.” She gave a little nod of recognition. “Won’t you sit down? May I offer you coffee?” There was a magnificent antique silver coffee service on a tray on the coffee table, with four paper-thin porcelain cups and saucers.

“No, thanks,” said Malloy, so it sat there unused the whole interview. But the display, and the throne-like chair Pam sat on, did what they were designed to do: Malloy was, if not deferential, polite. Or perhaps it was not the powerful show of wealth; perhaps he, like Jill, sensed the advice of a good attorney at work. And good attorneys, even more than money, can make a cop wary.

“I’m glad to have this opportunity to clear up any questions you might have,” said Pam. “I want very badly to see the person who murdered my husband caught and punished.”

“I appreciate that,” said Mike, reaching into an inside pocket for a notebook and pen. “Do either of you have any idea who might have wanted your husband dead?”

Pam’s eyes widened at this directness. “No, of course not. Rob was a good man, well liked by his many friends.”

Coyne nodded and seconded his mother. “Everyone liked Dad.”

The two were tense, Jill noticed. Which was understandable; people of this class were rarely of professional interest to a homicide investigator. The boy was more tightly wound than his mother. He looked at Pam only in the briefest of glances, keeping his eyes on Malloy, trying to read Malloy’s receptiveness to their answers.

No, Coy said, he was not home when the bad news came. He had gone to talk to the sales manager at Prestige Auto in Saint Louis Park. He was there a little ahead of the appointed time, ten-thirty, but they’d let him wait awhile. He also thought the interview had gone well, but—grin—they hadn’t offered him a job on the spot. He’d gone across the freeway afterward to see if they needed someone at Saturn of Golden Valley. Saturn needed a mechanic, but Coy didn’t know anything about repairing cars. Nearby Lupient Cadillac needed someone to wash and vacuum their used cars at base wages, a job he frankly couldn’t afford to take. He’d eaten at the Taco Bell up the frontage road—no, he hadn’t applied for a job there, though they were advertising for counter help—then gone to see some friends, to watch a rental movie with them. Home? Well, probably a little after six, to hear that his mother had been frantic to reach him with the terrible news. “I was just shocked, blown away, to hear it,” he said, and bowed his head.

Malloy, Jill noted, let him have a very brief moment to display his mourning, then asked, “How long did you have to wait at Prestige for that interview?”

“Well, they told me to be there at ten-thirty and talk to a Mr. Allan Silk. I came in, oh, about twenty after, but I didn’t know where Mr. Silk’s office was, so I kind of wandered around for, I don’t know, fifteen minutes, then someone came over and showed me to his office. But Mr. Silk was on the phone, I don’t know with who, but I sat in the customer waiting room for a long time. By the time I was called in for the interview, it was eleven or a little after.”

Coy produced Sales Manager Allan Silk’s business card, and another from the Saturn dealership, from his shirt pocket and held them up. Malloy could call them to confirm he was there, if he liked. But Malloy only nodded and didn’t take them. Coy didn’t know what to do with them, and finally dropped them onto the coffee table, beside the silver tray.

Malloy said, “And how about you, Mrs. McFey? Where were you Sunday morning?”

Pam McFey put on a surprised face. “Me?” She affected a careless little laugh. Coy bumped her arm by reaching to rearrange the business cards. She flinched at his touch, then laughed more naturally. “I’m a little nervous,” she admitted. “I don’t have a, what do you call it, an alibi? I was here at home with Skye part of the morning, dusting and putting things out of sight. Our house is for sale and our realtor said she might bring someone by.”

“Did she?”

“Yes, but not until after two.”

“Was your daughter here all morning?”

“Well, no. She wanted me to take her to Excelsior so she could sit in the booth with her father, but as I said, I couldn’t leave the house. So instead she called one of her friends and they went over to a neighbor’s to swim in their pool.”

“What time was that?”

Pam appeared to think a moment and said, “About nine, I think. Maybe a little later.”

“May I talk with her?”

Pam shrugged. “I’m afraid she’s not here right now. She’s over at the Warners’ pool again. I didn’t think you’d need to talk to her, since Sergeant Cross already has.”

“How old is she?” asked Malloy.

“Fifteen.”

“Did you get an offer for your house?”

That question seemed to surprise her, and Jill saw Malloy make a brief note. “No. Well, yes, but it was a ridiculous offer. It was as if . . .” She cut the rest of that sentence off by pressing her lips closed.

Malloy said, “As if they knew how badly you need the money?”

“We don’t—” began Pam.

“Don’t lie, Mother!” said Coyne sharply. “Especially after you told the truth to Sergeant Cross here.” He said to Malloy, “We do need the money. Father quit earning a decent living at a very bad time. The house isn’t paid for, the car isn’t paid for, I have college tuition, and Skye has Blake School for two more years. Mother isn’t in a position to take up the slack, and it’ll be two more years before I can. It’s not exactly a secret around the neighborhood, but it was stinking of our real estate agent to tell a prospective buyer that we were anxious to sell.”

“Were?” Mike said just as Jill also noted the past tense.

“Well, now there’s life insurance, isn’t there?” Coyne produced that fact with a slightly defiant air, as if he knew the significance of it.

Pam said quietly, “That’s enough, Coy.” She took a breath, gathering her courage, as if at last facing the object of her fears. “Coy is right, however. Now that Rob is . . . dead, there is the matter of life insurance. We will probably still sell the house, but are no longer anxious about it.” Her chin came up. “Yes, I know that means you could consider us suspects, but you see, we both have alibis. Neither of us could possibly have mu-murdered my husband.” She stumbled over the word and pressed the fingertips of one hand to her mouth. But after blinking rapidly a few times, she regained control. The hand came down. “Is there anything else you want to know?”

“Do you know how much life insurance your husband carried?” asked Mike.

“Of course. There are two policies that total something over a million and a half dollars. His company paid the premiums until Rob sold it, but because he thought he had only a short time to live, he kept up the premiums.”

There wasn’t much else to inquire into. Mike got permission to talk with Skye if it proved necessary—in her mother’s presence, of course. “Thank you, I’ll be in touch if anything develops or if I need to talk with you again.”

Mike picked up the cards Coyne had dropped, and they left.

“So,” said Mike on the highway back to Excelsior, “Mrs. McFey and her son Coyne are not exactly iron clad in their, um, what do you call ’em, alibis.”

“I don’t think Coyne could have done it at ten and been in Saint Louis Park by ten-twenty.”

“You’ve never been in a new-car showroom, have you?”

Jill glanced at him. “No.” Her current car was an elderly Buick, inherited from her grandmother, and her previous cars had all been bought used.

“No one ever walks around a new car showroom for more than two minutes before a salesman has him by the elbow. Coyne may have had to cool his heels in the customer service waiting room after he was taken in hand, but he didn’t arrive early. I suspect he arrived a little after his appointed time. I’m going to call Mr. Silk to see if he remembers what time he began that interview, and if anyone else remembers what time young Master McFey actually arrived.”

“What about Mrs. McFey?”

“Well, her alibi isn’t worth spit either, but realtors aren’t reliably tardy. I got the realtor’s name off the for-sale sign. I’ll check to see if she did call Mrs. McFey to say she was bringing a prospective buyer over, and if she gave a time.”

 
Godwin came back from lunch with a cardboard bowl of chicken noodle soup, and half a turkey sandwich on whole wheat bought at the request of his boss. The sandwich had lost its low-calorie status by being spread with cranberry jelly and cream cheese, an Antiquity Rose Tea Room special.

He put the bag of food on the big desk and, after looking around to make sure the two customers in the place were out of earshot, leaned forward to ask in an undertone, “Have you made up your mind about helping Mickey Sinclair?”

“His mother called last night and I said I’d look into it.” She opened the bag, inhaled gently, and smiled. “Yum, thanks.”

“If I know you,” said Godwin slyly, “you’ve already been looking into it, and found out something that got you interested.”

“Let me take care of Mrs. Hamilton, then we’ll talk.”

Mrs. Hamilton wanted a fat quarter of an evenweave plaid in shades of orange, three skeins of black floss, and a card of gold metallic.

The other customer was deeply involved in comparing three knitting pattern booklets at the library table, a heap of knitting yarn in several pastel colors at one elbow.

Godwin came to watch Betsy looking over bills. “All right, what have you found out?”

“I talked to Mickey Sinclair, who seems to be making good time down the road to a life of crime. And his family seems specially designed to encourage that journey. But right at the end of my visit to the juvenile detention center I offered to believe Mickey’s claim that he did not murder Robert McFey, and he looked at me with such gratitude and hope that I felt as if I’d tossed a corner of this sandwich to a stray dog.”

Godwin’s face lit up with amusement. “You should write that down, that’s pretty good.”

“I’ll put it in my journal this evening,” promised Betsy gravely.

“Okay, what else?”

“Not much. A friend of ‘Robbie’s’—he called Mr. McFey ‘Robbie’—stopped in yesterday. This friend is an artist, too; he does those big welded beam things and is apparently becoming an important person in the art world.”

Godwin nodded and said, “John represents a sculptor who works in metal. He earns big bucks at it but he’s kind of a spendthrift.”

“Is his name Ian Masterson?”

Godwin shrugged. “I don’t know. John loves to share juicy tidbits about his clients but won’t name names.”

“Well, Ian said Irene Potter told him that I was investigating and he came by to see if there was anything he could do to help me. He did say one interesting thing: Robbie McFey was supposed to be dying of a liver disease, but was disappointing his wife and son by not getting on with it.”

“I don’t understand,” said Godwin.

“He said that Robbie used to own an ad agency that earned big bucks, but when he found out he was dying, he sold it to follow his dream of being a woodcarver. But it turned out the disease wasn’t going to kill him. And that now he wasn’t earning anything like the money that he used to make in advertising. Ian said he offered to pay Coyne’s college tuition, but Robbie turned him down.”

Godwin’s eyes widened. “So he bought a viatical, didn’t he? Oh, my God, oh, my God, he did!” He twirled around twice and stood with his arms out and a big grin on his face. The woman selecting a knitting pattern looked over to smile at him, then went back to her booklet.

“What?” asked Betsy. “Ian didn’t say anything about a viatical.”

“He didn’t?” It was as if someone let the air out of his balloon.

“What’s a viatical?”

“Excuse me.” It was the customer, ready now to buy two skeins of very pale yellow yarn, three of very pale green, and a pattern for a baby blanket. Godwin, though anxious to see the knitter on her way so he could answer that question, nevertheless took a moment to share a joke: “Do you know why they won’t allow you on an airplane with this?” he asked. When the customer said she didn’t, Godwin said, “Because you’re going to knit an afghan!”

The customer laughed all the way out the door.

The instant the door closed, Godwin said, “I bet Ian is John’s client.”

“You think so? But I didn’t see any signs of big bucks; I mean, he wasn’t wearing fancy clothes or lots of gold jewelry.”

“Yes, but how many rich artists try to help their poor artist friends?”

Betsy raised her eyebrows and one corner of her mouth in a kind of shrug. “Rob McFey wasn’t—well, all right maybe he was. But Ian said Rob turned him down.”

“He didn’t take Ian’s offer to pay for college tuition. But how about a viatical?”

“Wait, wait, I think I remember reading about them.” Betsy thought a bit. “It was a way to invest money, right? Something to do with gay men and AIDS and—and insurance policies? With a high return . . .” She frowned, trying to recall the details.

Godwin nodded. “You start with the news that you have a terminal disease and a hefty life insurance policy. You need money, but suppose there’s not much cash value in the policy. So you find an investor who will take over the premiums. He gives you a lump sum and you change the policy to make him the beneficiary. Gay men with AIDS sold them because they needed the money to pay for medical care. Years ago, they died pretty quick, and the investors made a decent profit. Everyone was happy, in a gruesome sort of way. The gay men got decent medical care in their final days, and the investors made a fast buck or two. It wasn’t like the gay men had wives and babies who needed the money.” His face grew sad briefly.