Shaded Light: The Case of the Tactless Trophy Wife: A Paul Manziuk and Jacquie Ryan Mystery (The Manziuk and Ryan Mysteries Book 1) (38 page)

She—” Anne’s face crumpled and Ryan quickly reached to give her a Kleenex. “She said I didn’t deserve him. And she’s right. I don’t do the things I should. I’m not sexy or—” She regained her composure. “We got married because I was stupid enough to get pregnant. It was my fault. I was taking the pill and I forgot. And I didn’t know what to do. My family would have been devastated. It was before abortions became easy. So Douglass married me.”

She paused, her mind wandering back through the years. “I was never good enough for him. I have only one year of college. All his years of university and law school, he had to support us. He had to work part time and he could never enjoy himself like his friends. And then, after, when we didn’t have financial worries—I don’t know, we just don’t seem to have anything in common except the kids, and even there… He works so hard. He never seems to have time for them. And I don’t seem to be doing a very good job of raising them by myself.”

She was crying in earnest by the time she finished. Ryan pushed the box of Kleenex toward her.

“Jillian told you she and Douglass had been having an affair?” Manziuk said.

“Yes.”

“You believed her?”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

“Why?” She seemed puzzled. “Why not? She was young and beautiful—everything I’m not.”

“Why didn’t you tell Peter?”

“She said Peter would never believe me. She dared me to tell him. I couldn’t. She was right. He’d never believe me. And Douglass would have hated me for causing trouble.”

“How much did Jillian want?”

Anne’s voice became a whisper. “Twenty-five thousand.”

“Did you pay?”

“I don’t have any money. I buy the groceries and clothes and things, but that’s out of our account. We keep about a thousand or two in it. I know we have retirement savings and some stocks and bonds, but I wouldn’t have any idea how to get the money out.”

“What were you going to do?”

Her voice was still a whisper. “I don’t know. I really don’t know. I thought of killing myself. I thought if I took the whole bottle of sleeping pills and drank several big glasses of whiskey or something like that, I would just die and I wouldn’t feel anything. And I thought they might believe it was an accident. I wouldn’t want the kids to grow up thinking their mother killed herself. But I didn’t know what else to do. Except let her have him. I guess maybe the kids and I could have managed.” Her voice trailed away. “Though I don’t know how.”

“Did you think of killing her?” Manziuk asked.

“Once. I was cutting up some steaks, and I thought how nice it would be to have her come in and I could let the knife go into her and I could say it was an accident. But I don’t think I could have done that.” Her voice became bitter. “I wouldn’t have the guts to do anything like that.”

“May I suggest that you look into getting some counseling, Mrs. Fischer? And you’d better tell your husband what you’ve told me.”

Her eyes widened in fear. “I couldn’t.”

“You’d be very foolish not to.”

She said nothing, but her lower lip began to tremble. She fled from the room.

“Let’s hope he was telling the truth,” Ryan said dryly.

“Let’s,” Manziuk agreed. He stared at his hands for a moment and then said, “I have a phone call to make. Get Nick Donovan, will you, but don’t rush.”

Nick was playing cards on the patio with Kendall. As Ryan came up, she saw Nick spread his hand on the table and say, “Gin.” His voice was anything but excited.

“Inspector Manziuk would like to speak with you again, Mr. Donovan.”

“Oh, Lord,” Nick complained, “already?”

“Afraid so.”

“Can I grab a drink first? Something to keep my knees from shaking?”

Remembering Manziuk’s suggestion that she could take her time, Ryan nodded. “If you think it will help.”

“You’re wonderful,” Nick declared as he crossed to the bar and poured a drink. “My favorite cop. Usually they just glare at me as they write out the speeding tickets. But I guess you’re way beyond that, aren’t you?”

“You’ve got it,” Ryan replied.

“Aren’t you a bit young to be a detective? You don’t look more than my age.”

“I’ve got a few years on you, but yes, I am young to be a detective, not to mention being a woman.”

“I was careful not to mention that,” Nick said. “I’m well aware of all the politically incorrect things we shouldn’t say. That’s why I haven’t noticed that you’re black, either.”

“Very kind of you, I’m sure,” she said dryly. “Inspector Manziuk is waiting. If you’ve fortified your nerves, Mr. Donovan?

“Mustn’t keep the good inspector waiting.”

Manziuk was still on the phone. “Okay, tell him I’ll try to get over this evening. And tell him not to worry. Sure, I miss him, but he doesn’t need to think I can’t do the job without him to nag at me.… Okay.… Take care, Arlie.”

Ryan wondered why Manziuk had been making what appeared to be a personal call, but decided it was none of her business.

“Here I am,” Nick said cheerfully as he sat in the chair he had used yesterday. “Ready for the third degree.”

Ryan took her place behind the desk and prepared to take notes.

“So, Nick,” Manziuk said as he made himself comfortable in the chair, “how’s it going?”

“I can’t say this has been one of my favorite weekends.”

“Nick, I need to know what clothes you were wearing yesterday.”

“You need to know what clothes I was wearing?”

“Yes.”

“You mean in the afternoon, don’t you? When Jillian was murdered?”

“That’s right.”

“You saw me. I was wearing a pair of white shorts and a red T-shirt.”

“Thank you. Would you mind giving me the clothes before I leave?”

“You can have them.” Nick leaned forward. “Look, Inspector, it doesn’t take a genius to know where your mind is going. But I had no reason to kill her. I hadn’t even seen her for almost four years.”

Manziuk opened his notebook and took out the copy he’d made of the note that had been found taped to the bottom of the drawer in the Fischer’s bedroom. “This looks like a pretty good motive to me.”

Nick read it, then handed it back. “Where did you get this?”

“The question is, did you write it?”

“No.”

“You’ll forgive me if I think it sounds pretty appropriate given the circumstances.”

“Look, I don’t know if somebody is trying to frame me or if this is all a coincidence, but I didn’t write that note and I didn’t kill her.”

“The note was typed in this house on the typewriter right over there.” He pointed to the Selectric typewriter sitting on the small table in the corner.

“Not by me. I told you everything there is to tell.”

“How about last night? Where were you from midnight on?”

“Kendall and I went upstairs at about a quarter past twelve or so. I was awake for a while. Kendall went to sleep right away.”

“How long would you say you were awake?

“I don’t know. ’Till two-thirty at least.”

“Why?”

“Gee, I don’t know. Could it be because I was in a house where there had been a murder? Or maybe it was because I have a lot of other things to think about. Like what I’m going to do with my life.”

“What made you think about the future?” Manziuk asked.

Nick’s voice suddenly became more serious. “Jillian’s death, I guess. I realized you never know when it’ll come. I suppose I started to seriously wonder for the first time if I was making a mistake turning down the job offer. You know the routine: is this how I want to be remembered? Is this my contribution to mankind?”

“Did you see or hear anything that would help us? Crystal Winston died somewhere between midnight and three a.m.

“All I can tell you is that neither Kendall nor I did it.”

“All right, Mr. Donovan. If you could give those clothes to Detective Ryan… and we’ll need your fingerprints, too.”

“Yeah, sure.” He strode out of the room.

As if knowing the timing was perfect, Manziuk’s phone rang. “Munsen,” he said.

While he listened, Ryan paced back and forth around the room.

After five minutes and a couple of questions, he hung up.

“That was the preliminary autopsy report on Jillian Martin. Munsen must have raced back to do it. We won’t have the test results for a while, but there’s no doubt she was strangled. Not with the rope from George Brodie’s robe. Munsen thinks the garden cord looks about right. There were a few fibers on her neck, and some under her nails, too. Other than the bruises on her neck and a crushed hyoid bone, both caused by the cord, there’s nothing of interest.

“There’s not much of anything else. She looks to have showered not long before going out. No foreign hairs. And no fibers, either. It’s as if whoever strangled her did it without actually touching her.”

“Could that have happened?”

“Let’s try it,” Manziuk said.

“What?”

He pushed the chair from the typewriter desk toward her. “Sit down and pretend you’re watching something.”

She looked at him as if he’d lost his mind, but complied.

“I’m not going to actually strangle you,” he said. “Just in case you wondered. Hold up your arms.”

She did as he asked, now totally puzzled.

Manziuk slipped a piece of rope around her chest, just under the armpits. “Okay, put your arms down.” He pulled the two ends of the cord together and twisted.

“Ouch!”

“See. I’m not touching you at all. The chair back holds you in place. I’ve got the ends twisted around each other, and that gives me all the leverage I need. I can just tighten the rope and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“How nice.”

“It could have been forethought,” he said, “or it could have been luck. I guess we’ll know which when we find out who did it.” He released the rope and she rubbed the area under her arms.

“I think it was Nick Donovan,” she said.

“Maybe.”

“You’re not convinced?”

“I don’t like it when things fall into place. Nick Donovan isn’t stupid. Why would he write a note that we could find?”

“Everyone makes a mistake.”

“I know. But one unsigned note that sounds as though it might have come from a certain person isn’t exactly admissible evidence. Not all alone, anyway.”

“But if he is guilty…”

“Crystal Winston’s death becomes my fault. Is that what you’re thinking? Because I had the note yesterday and I chose not to act on it?”

“It’s possible.”

“You’re right. It is possible. And that’s one of the things that makes this job difficult. Second guessing. Never knowing if your decision might have saved or taken a life.”

“Could you have arrested him yesterday?”

“I didn’t have the autopsy results. He denies writing the note. We don’t have the murder weapon. Nothing concrete.”

“If he is the murderer, he might give you the wrong clothes.”

“Then get the clothes from him. Put them in plastic bags. And get a couple of people to identify them. Douglass Fischer. George Brodie. Somebody objective. And tell Lorry Preston I want to talk to her. I want an impartial observer. She’s about the only one who I’m reasonably sure didn’t do it.”

As Ryan moved toward the door, he said, “What really bothers me is that there was no trace of the killer on her dress. Our serial killer strangles people without leaving anything of himself. No traceable fibers, no hairs, nothing. I don’t like this. It muddies everything up.”

“You think there might be a connection?”

“Frankly, I don’t know what to think.”

Ryan couldn’t find Lorry downstairs. Finally, she went to the patio, where Kendall was sitting alone.

“Where’s Nick?” he asked when he saw her.

“Do you know where Lorry Preston is?” she countered.

“Likely in her room. She and Shauna have been there most of the day.”

“Could you show me?”