K is for Killer (21 page)

“Like what?”

“I don't know. Like, why was she so picky about people dropping in? What's the big deal? She didn't have to worry about us. We're her
sisters
.”

“Did you ever find out where she went at night?”

“Nuh-uhn. Probably wasn't any place special. After a while, I more or less accepted her for what she was. She wasn't sociable, like us. Berlyn and me are buddies. We like to pal around and double-date and stuff like that? Right now, like, neither of us has a boyfriend, so we see movies and go out dancing on the weekends. Lorna never did the first nice thing for either one of us. Well, she did now and then, but you practically had to lay down and beg.”

“How'd you find out about her death?”

“The police stopped by the house and asked to speak to Daddy. He was the one who told Mom, and she told us. It was kind of creepy. I mean, we thought Lorna was out of town. Off on vacation, is what Mom said. So we didn't think anything about it when we didn't hear from her. We just figured she'd give us a call when she got back. It's horrible to think she was just laying there, moldering.”

“It must have been awful.”

“Oh, God. I started screaming, and Berl got white as a ghost. Daddy was like in
shock.
Mother took it the worst. She still isn't over it. She was staggering around shrieking and crying, practically tearing her hair out. I've never seen
her like that. She's usually the one holds the rest of us together. Like when Grandma died? This was her own
mother
. She kept real calm, made airline reservations, packed our bags so we could go back to Iowa to the funeral. We were all young kids, acting dumb, boo-hooing real pitiful. She got everything all organized, as cool as you please. When we found out about Lorna, she just fell to pieces.”

“Most parents don't expect to outlive their kids,” I said.

“That's what everybody says. It doesn't help that the police think she was murdered and all.”

“What's your opinion?”

Trinny made a mute shrug with her mouth. “I guess she could have died from her allergies. I don't like to think about it. Too icky for my taste.”

I shifted the subject. “Were you the one who went to San Francisco with Lorna last year?”

“That was Berlyn,” she said. “Who told you about that?”

“I met the guy on the tape.”

She glanced up from her work with interest. “Which one?”

S
he had the good grace to blush. Despite the dark brown hair, she was fair-complected, and the tint hit her cheeks like a heat rash. She dropped her gaze to the work in front of her, suddenly much busier than she'd been before. I could tell she was casting about for a way to change the subject. She bent over her work. I guess it was important to get the paint dots just right.

“Trinny?”

“What?”

“How'd you happen to see the tape? And don't say ‘which tape' because you know exactly which tape I'm talking about.”

“I didn't see the tape.”

“Oh, come on. Of course you did. If you didn't, how'd you know there was more than one guy?”

“I don't even know what you're talking about,” she said with pious irritation.

“I'm talking about the porno tape in which Lorna appeared. Remember? Your mother told you.”

“Maybe Mom told us that, too. About the other guy, more than one.”

I said, “Uhn-hun,” in my most skeptical tone. “What happened, did Lorna give you a copy?”

“Nooo,” she said, giving it two sliding syllables, high note to low, offended by the notion.

“Then how'd you know there was more than one man?”

“I
guessed
. What do you care?”

I stared at her. The obvious conclusion leapt to mind. “Were
you
the one who wrapped it and put it out in the mailbox?”

“No. And anyway, I don't have to answer.” This time the tone was sullen, but the blush came up again. This was better than a polygraph.

“Who did?”

“I don't know anything about anything, so you might as well change the subject. This is not a court of law, you know. I'm not under oath.”

An attorney in the making. For a moment I thought she'd put her fingers in her ears and start humming, just to shut me out. I cocked my head, trying to catch her eye. “Trinny,” I sang. She was studiously engaged in the T-shirt in front of her, adding a gaudy orange spiral of puff paint. I said, “Come on. I don't
care
what you did, and I swear I will never say a word to your parents. I've been wondering who sent the tape to them, and now I know. In a way, you did us all a favor. If your mother hadn't been upset about it, she wouldn't have come to me, and the whole investigation might have died where it was.” I waited and then gave her a line prompt. “Was it Berlyn's idea or yours?”

“I don't have to answer.”

“How about a nod if I guess right?”

Trinny added some lime-green stars to the T-shirt. It
was getting tackier by the minute, but I felt as though we were getting someplace.

“I'll bet it was Berlyn.”

Silence.

“Am I right?”

Trinny lifted one shoulder, still without making eye contact.

“Ah. I'm assuming that little gesture means ‘yes.' So Berlyn sent the tape. Now the question is, how'd she get it?”

More silence.

“Come on, Trinny. Please, please, please?” I learned this interrogation method back in grade school, and it's particularly effective when the subject matter is a cross-your-heart-type secret just between us girls. I could see her softening. whatever our confidences, we're usually
dying
to tell, especially if the confession involves the condemnation of someone else.

Her tongue moved across her teeth as though she were testing for fuzz. Finally she said, “Swear you won't tell?”

I held up my hand as if taking an oath. “I won't say a word to another soul. I won't even mention that you
mentioned
it.”

“We just got sick of hearing how wonderful she was. Because she wasn't all that great. She was pretty and she had a great bod, but big deal, you know?”

“Really,” I said.

“Plus, she took money for
sex
. I mean, Berlyn or me would
never
have done that. So how come Lorna got elevated to the stars? She wasn't pure. She wasn't even
good
.”

“Human nature, I guess. Your mother doesn't get to have Lorna in her life, but she keeps that perfect picture in her heart,” I said. “It's hard to let go when that's all you have.”

Her voice had begun to rise. “But Lorna was a bitch. All she thought about was
herself.
She hardly gave Mom and Daddy the time of day. I'm the one helps out, for all the good it does. I'm as sweet as I know how, and it doesn't make any difference. Lorna's the one Mom loves. Berlyn and me are just bullshit.” Emotion was causing her skin to change colors, chameleonlike. Tears rose like water suddenly coming to the boil. She put a hand to her face, which twisted as a sob broke through.

I reached out and touched her hand. “Trinny, that's just not true. Your mother loves you very much. The night she came to my office, she talked about you and Berlyn, all the fun you have, all the help around the house. You're a treasure to her. Honestly.”

She was crying by then, her voice high-pitched and pinched. “Then why doesn't she tell us? She never says a word.”

“Maybe she's afraid to. Or maybe she doesn't know how anymore, but that doesn't mean she isn't crazy about you.”

“I can't stand it. I can't.” She sobbed like a child, giving rein to her grief. I sat and let her work it through on her own. Finally the tears subsided and she sighed heavily. She fumbled in the pocket of her cutoffs, pulling out a ratty hankie, which she pressed against her eyes. “Oh, God,” she said. She propped her elbows on the table and then blew her nose. She looked down, realizing she'd picked up the imprint of wet paint on her forearm. “Well, shit. Look at that,” she said. A bubble of laughter came up like a burp escaping.

“What's going on?” Berlyn was standing at the front door, her expression blank with suspicion.

Both of us jumped, and Trinny let out a gasp. “Berl! You
scared me half to
death
,” she said. “Where did you come from?” She wiped her eyes in haste, trying to cover up the fact that she'd been crying.

Berlyn had a plastic carryall of groceries in one hand, her key ring in the other. She fixed Trinny with a look. “Pardon me for sneaking. I didn't know I was interrupting. I parked in the driveway big as life.” Her gaze jumped to mine. “What's the matter with you?”

“Nothing,” I said. “We were talking about Lorna, and Trinny got upset.”

“Just what I need. I've heard enough about her. Daddy's got it right. Let's just drop the subject and get on to something else. Where's Mom? Is she up yet?”

“I think she's in the shower,” Trinny said.

Belatedly, I became aware of water running somewhere.

Berlyn dumped her purse on a chair and moved over to the counter, where she began to unload grocery items. Like Trinny, she wore cutoffs, a T-shirt, and flip-flops, professional attire for the working plumber's helper. The roots on her blond hair were showing through. Despite the four-year age difference, her face was a projection of Lorna's in middle age. Maybe young death isn't bad, perfect beauty suspended in the amber of time.

Berlyn turned to Trinny. “Could you give me a hand?” she said, aggrieved. “How long has she been here?”

Trinny shot me a pleading look and went over to help her sister.

“Ten minutes,” I supplied, though I hadn't been asked. “I just stopped by for the stuff your mother left. Trinny was showing me how to make T-shirts, and then we got talking about Lorna's death.” I reached for the box, thinking to flee the premises before Janice emerged.

Berlyn studied me with interest. “So you said.”

“Ah. Well. Fun as this is, I better be on my way.” I got up, slung the strap of my handbag over my shoulder, and picked up the box, ignoring Berlyn. “Thanks for the painting lesson,” I said to Trinny. “I'm sorry about Lorna. I know you loved her.”

Her smile was pained. She said, “Bye,” and gave me a half-hearted wave. Berlyn went into the den without a backward look, closing the door behind her with a decided snap. I stuck my tongue out at her and crossed my eyes, which made Trinny laugh. I mouthed, “Thank you,” to Trinny and took my leave.

 

I
t was nearly six o'clock when I unlocked my office door and put the box of Lorna's files on my desk. Everybody else in the firm was gone. Even Lonnie, who usually works late, had packed it in for the day. All my tax forms and receipts were still sitting where I'd left them. I was disappointed the elves and fairies hadn't come along to finish up my work. I gathered all the bits and pieces and tucked them in a drawer, clearing space. I doubted Lorna's papers would yield any information, but I needed to take a look. I put some coffee on and sat down, set the lid of the box aside, and began to work my way through the manila folders. It looked as if someone had lifted Lorna's files directly from a desk drawer and placed them in the banker's box. Each file was labeled neatly. Tucked in the front were copies of various probate forms that Janice must have picked up from the attorney. It looked as though she were doing the preliminary work of culling and assembling, making penciled notes. I studied each sheet, trying to form a picture of Lorna Kepler's financial status.

An accountant could probably have made quick work of this stuff. I, on the other hand, having made a C minus in high school math, had to frown and sigh and chew my pencil. Janice had filled out a schedule of Lorna's assets, listing the cash in her possession at the time of her death, uncashed checks payable to her, bank accounts, stocks, bonds, Treasury bills, mutual funds. Lorna had no pension plan and no life insurance. She did have a small insurance policy for the jewelry she'd acquired. She hadn't owned any real property, but her liquid assets came to a little under five hundred thousand dollars. Not bad for a part-time clerk-harlot. Janice had included a copy of Lorna's will, which seemed clear enough. She'd left all her valuables, including jewelry, cash, stocks, bonds, and other financial assets, to her parents. Attached to the will was a copy of the completed “Proof of Holographic Instrument” that Janice had filed. In it, she attested that she was acquainted with the decedent for twenty-five years, had personal knowledge of her handwriting, that she had “examined the will and determined that its handwritten provisions were written by and the instrument signed by the hand of the decedent.”

Danielle had speculated that Lorna wouldn't have a will, but the document seemed consistent with Lorna's systematic nature. Neither Berlyn nor Trinny had been left any money, but that didn't seem unusual. Two thousand bucks apiece might have gone a long way toward softening their attitudes, but she might not have understood the animosity they harbored. Or maybe she knew and felt the same about them. At any rate, the estate wasn't complicated. I didn't think it necessitated the services of an attorney, but the Keplers might have been intimidated by all the official paperwork.

I checked back through the last few years of Lorna's income tax. Her only W-2's were from the water treatment plant. Under “Your Occupation,” she had listed herself as “secretary” and “mental health consultant.” I had to smile at that. She'd been meticulous in reporting income, taking only standard deductions. She'd never donated a dime to charity, but she'd been (largely) honest with the government. To the recipient, I suppose the services of a prostitute might be classified under mental health. As for the payments themselves, I guess no one at the IRS had ever wondered why the bulk of her “consulting fees” were paid to her in cash.