Power (2 page)

Only the rich and self-proclaimed fabulous would display the pedigree of the guy who cut the grass and watered the roses. Where Jess lived she was lucky if the guys who wielded the lawn mowers and weed whackers spoke English much less shared their pedigrees. That information would likely get them deported. Not that Jess minded one way or the other as long as the job was done properly. Considering she spent the better part of her formative years in a carousel of foster homes, she wasn’t one to judge.

Sergeant Chet Harper met Jess just outside the grand doors. “I don’t know how much longer Lieutenant Prescott can keep the girls calm and their mothers compliant. One’s already demanded to know if they’re suspects.”

Jess resisted the urge to groan. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

Prescott, the girls, and their mothers were seated in the butterfly garden. As soon as Harper had called, Jess had instructed him to see that the girls did not discuss the incident among themselves or with anyone else. Not an easy task. Particularly once the mothers had started to arrive and to demand to see their children. The girls all had cell phones and had called their mothers while the assistant teacher called 911.

Guess who showed up first? Not the police or EMS. Which guaranteed the scene had been contaminated repeatedly by little fingers and feet as well as curious and horrified mothers.

God, she didn’t want to think about it. Whether a murder had occurred or not, the scene should be handled with the same vigilant protocol.

“FYI,” Harper added with a knowing glance above his stylish Ray-Bans, “Andrea insisted on calling the chief.”

Jess did groan this time. Andrea Denton, Chief of Police Daniel Burnett’s stepdaughter from his last failed marriage and a survivor from the first case Jess had worked with the Birmingham Police Department scarcely two weeks ago. Funny, this was the third case Jess had supported since returning to her hometown and Andrea had been a part of all three. The poor girl apparently had a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“I suppose he’s coming,” Jess commented, trying valiantly not to show her disappointment. There was nothing like having the boss watching over her shoulder on her first official case as a deputy chief. Even if the boss was Dan—a man with whom she had a difficult-to-define off-duty relationship. Leaving the bureau and returning to her hometown was supposed to have uncomplicated her life.
Not
.

Clearly she had been delusional to believe for one second that she could exist in the same city, much less department, with Dan and avoid complications.

“He is.”

Marvelous. “Any luck locating the husband?” Darcy Chandler, the one and only daughter of one of the city’s most noteworthy families, was married to some apparently equally famous Russian dancer, now retired and teaching ballet classes to the children of Birmingham’s who’s who. “What’s his name again?”

“Alexander Mayakovsky,” Harper reminded her. “Haven’t located him yet. His cell still goes straight to voice mail.”

“Since this is where he works, he’s obviously not at work.” Frustration and impatience creased Jess’s brow. She consciously forced the lines away. She had enough wrinkles, all of which had taken up residence in all the wrong places on her face.
Not that there was a right place,
she amended. What she didn’t have was the vic’s husband. The worst part of working an unattended death, whether accidental, suicide, or homicide, was informing the next of kin.

“Go to the vic’s parents. Maybe they’ll have some idea where he is. Get as much information as you can before you give them the bad news.” As coldhearted as that tactic sounded, it was the only way to glean coherent information in a timely manner. And when a person died some way other than by natural causes, he or she deserved a timely investigation. Since Darcy’s parents hadn’t shown up, there was reason to believe unofficial word hadn’t reached them yet.

That would change very soon.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Harper went on his way and Jess steeled herself for entering foreign territory. “You can do this,” she murmured.

As she approached the mothers, their prepubescent daughters clinging to their bosoms, all six women started talking at once.

Jess had interviewed every manner of witness and person of interest, including more than her share of sociopaths and a handful of psychopaths, but she’d never dreaded conducting interviews more than she did at this very moment.

Children absolutely, completely, and utterly unnerved her. Give her a run-of-the-mill serial killer any day of the week.

It was true. Though Jess loved her niece and nephew, she had no children of her own and there was a good reason for that. She lacked patience and all those other soft and earthy motherly skills. And at forty-something-or-other she had no desire to deal with the issue.

As if the good Lord wanted to remind her that going against the natural scheme of things made Him less than happy, the children all started whining at once.

Simultaneously, only in louder voices, the mothers wanted to know why they were being detained like suspects. Did they need to provide their fingerprints? Where was Alex, Darcy’s husband?

Jess wouldn’t mind knowing the answer to that last question herself.

“I know this is difficult,” she said above their escalating demands. “But it’s imperative that we all stay as calm as possible.” Thankfully the whole frazzled entourage fell silent. “My name is Deputy Chief Jess Harris. At this time it won’t be necessary to take any fingerprints, but I will be interviewing each of you, along with your daughters.”

Evidently finding her announcement utterly disagreeable or somehow debatable, the women launched more questions.

“As I said,” Jess cut them off firmly, “I know this is very difficult, but I need your patience and your cooperation. Ms. Chandler is counting on us to do this right.”

The suggestion seemed to calm the mothers. Unfortunately it had a different effect on the daughters. A fresh wave of tears commenced. Jess cringed inwardly at the idea that she’d made the little girls cry again. She really was no good at this.

“Lieutenant Prescott, if you would keep these ladies comfortable while they wait for their turns, we’ll get this done.”

“Whatever you say,
Chief
.”

Prescott’s tone was pleasant enough but the irritation simmering in her gaze didn’t quite rise to the challenge. She was not any happier now than she’d been a week ago when word that Jess had gotten the position of deputy chief had flowed along the BPD grapevine like a bad Chianti.

Prescott’s subsequent assignment to Jess’s unit just seemed like bad karma for them both. Case in point, Prescott had wanted to start the interviews with the daughters before Jess even arrived at the scene.

No, the woman was not happy.

Jess shifted her attention to Andrea, the chief’s stepdaughter and the assistant teacher at this ballet school while she was home from college for the summer. “Andrea, if you would come with me to the conservatory, please.”

Relieved to escape the mayhem that would no doubt descend as soon as she was out of hearing range, Jess marched toward the conservatory. Andrea followed, still dressed in her black leotard and dance slippers.

The conservatory was a massive addition to the back of the house that had likely been used at one time as a sunroom and a place for entertaining. For the past thirty or so years it had served as a dance studio. First by Darcy Chandler’s nationally celebrated grandmother, then, more recently, by her and her famous husband whose name Jess still couldn’t pronounce properly no matter that Harper had repeated it to her three times.

When the door was closed, Jess took a moment to survey the space. Gleaming wood floors had replaced what had likely once been tile or stone. A soaring ceiling was surrounded by towering glass walls that allowed sunlight to fill the room. The view of the gardens was nothing short of spectacular. Talk about living like royalty.

With a gesture toward the one table surrounded by chairs near the garden entrance, Jess asked, “Why don’t we sit here?”

Visibly shaken, Andrea wilted into a chair. The nineteen-year-old dragged in a halting breath. “I can’t believe Ms. Darcy is dead.” She shook her head. “Every time I try to get on with my life something else happens.”

Jess had to give her that. The poor girl had been abducted by a couple who’d gone around the bend. Then, only last week, a serial killer had used her to get at Dan in an attempt to bait Jess. Now this. She imagined Andrea was ready to put this summer behind her. Returning to college for her sophomore year was likely looking better every day.

“I can certainly understand how you would feel that way.” Jess sat down on the opposite side of the table so she could keep an eye on the garden and any new arrivals. “Why don’t you tell me what happened here this morning? Start with when you arrived and go from there.”

Andrea moistened her lips and visibly braced herself. “I came at ten this morning and worked with the competition team. Then at noon we broke for lunch.” She glanced beyond the glass walls of the conservatory toward the French doors that led from the terrace into the main house. “That’s when Ms. Darcy went inside to make some calls.”

Jess fished for her pad and pencil to make a few notes. “How long have you known Darcy?”

“Her grandmother was my ballet teacher until I was ten. By then Ms. Darcy and her husband, Alex, had taken over the school. I was on the competition team until I left for college. Ms. Darcy offered me a position as assistant teacher when I came home in May for the summer.”

“Is Darcy’s grandmother still involved with the studio?” The Chandlers were one of Birmingham’s most prominent families, but between college and working for the Federal Bureau of Investigation at Quantico, Jess had lived away for the past two decades. She’d never been very good at keeping up with the city’s elite anyway. But you couldn’t grow up in Birmingham and not know who the Chandlers were.

“She lives at Southern Plantation. Even at eighty she attends all the local competitions.”

Jess knew the place. High-end, exclusive senior living for those with the proper bank balance and no desire to be troubled with overseeing a grand home. “Was the vic—Darcy—with you and the students most of the morning?”

Andrea nodded. “Except for going in the house to make phone calls, but she came back out a few minutes after that.”

“The six girls waiting on the terrace have been here since ten as well?”

She nodded again. “There were eight others but they left at lunch.” Andrea shifted her gaze back to Jess then. “There are fourteen girls on the Alabama Belles competition team. The ones still here compete as the international team. They stay for lunch and then we rehearse until three when their mothers pick them up.”

“There was no one else here?”

“I didn’t see anyone. But I didn’t go back in the house until… Katrina found her… like that.”

“So Darcy served lunch to you and the girls after the others were gone?” At some point the vic was separated from her students for the last time. For how long? With whom, if anyone? Those were the answers Jess needed. Seemed simple enough, but getting straight answers from the witnesses after a tragedy like this was more often than not painstaking and complicated.

“We had a picnic,” Andrea explained. “We do that a couple of times a week. Usually on Mondays and Fridays. The mothers take turns bringing the food. Today it was Ms. Dresher’s turn. She dropped off the food just before noon. The girls and I brought everything outside for the picnic while Ms. Darcy saw her out.”

Jess jotted down the Dresher name and the fact that she’d delivered lunch. “Did Darcy join your picnic after seeing Ms. Dresher to the door?”

“She stayed in the house.” Andrea looked around the room as if maintaining eye contact was too uncomfortable. “She was still busy with phone calls. We had lunch and then came back in here to begin rehearsal.”

“What time did you become aware that there had been an accident?” The call had come into 911 about one fifteen. Judging by the ME’s estimation of time of death, Chandler may not have been dead very long when her body was discovered.

“We were about to start rehearsal but we needed the boas for our routine and I sent Katrina inside to get them,” Andrea explained, sadness clouding her face. “The girls had been playing upstairs earlier, before rehearsals began this morning, and two of them had left their boas up there. Some of the moms have appointments or whatever and drop their girls off a little early. Ms. Darcy lets them play in the upstairs den.” She chewed her lower lip a moment or two before continuing. “A few minutes after going for the boas Katrina came rushing back. She was in tears and shouting that something was wrong with Ms. Darcy.”

“When you say a few minutes, do you mean ten or fifteen? Five?”

Andrea shrugged. “I don’t know. The other girls and I were doing warm-ups and talking. I really didn’t pay attention.”

That was as good as Jess was going to get on the timing. “So you didn’t see Darcy alive again after she went inside the house with Ms. Dresher?”

“The next time I saw her she was… dead.”

Jess surveyed the girls waiting somberly with their mothers. All six wore hot pink leotards. Four had their boas hanging around their shoulders. Her interest lingered on the Dresher woman and her daughter Katrina. Harper had given Jess a who’s who rundown.

“Did anything out of the ordinary happen this morning?” Jess asked, focusing on Andrea once more. “Did Darcy seem upset about anything?”

Andrea shrugged again. “No more than usual.” She twisted her fingers together. “She and Mr. Alex are separated and things have been awkward.”

Instincts on point, Jess rephrased a pivotal question. “Did you see Alex today?”

“Not today. He…” Andrea fell silent.

Jess leaned forward a fraction. “It’s very important that we know as many details as possible if we’re going to understand what happened.”

“Ms. Darcy filed for divorce. They’ve been fighting for weeks.” Her slender shoulders slumped with defeat and disloyalty. “The rumor is he’s cheating on her with one of the moms.”