A Killer's Kiss Read online

  “More freshly whipped cream?”

  “Yes, please. The pie is too rich without it.”

  “That’s the way I make it,” she said. “That’s the way my mother made it, and she taught me how. Right away I called the police. They came quick, but even so it was too horrible being in the house. I waited outside for them to come.”

  “I understand completely. Where was Julia?”

  “She was gone. They were arguing when I left. I had dinner plans. Norman buys me dinner every Sunday night. So I left them to their argument. It’s not like it was a startling event, the two of them going at it.”

  “What were they arguing about?”

  “Something personal to them. But, to be truthful, they didn’t need an excuse.”

  “Who was usually right?”

  “Now you’re going to get me in trouble. More tea?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “The doctor was…well, you know, being old friends, like you are.”

  “He was prickly, even in college,” I guessed.

  “That he was. He wrestled all through prep school and college, as I’m sure you know. He told me once that wrestling was the truest expression of his inner nature. All that twisting and violence, the domination by the man on top. And I don’t think he changed much over the years.”

  “What about Julia?”

  “The missus is a little more complicated. But she is a kind soul, a sweet woman who I took to right away. We have a special bond. It might not seem it, but she needs taking care of, and in her own way she lets me do just that. The poor missus didn’t understand what she was getting into when she married the doctor.”

  “What was she getting into, Gwen?”

  Gwen lifted up her teacup, took a sip. “It was a marriage, Mr. Taylor. And, if I can confide—”

  “Of course you can.”

  “Some loves die hard and some never die at all.”

  “Are you talking about Julia’s love for Dr. Denniston?”

  “No, dear, I’m not.”

  I turned my head to hide the emotions that must have flitted across my face. Was ours the old love that had never died in Julia? Of course it was, and it was indescribably sweet to hear how she had described it to someone else. And if I were to be true to myself, I had to admit that our love held the very same place in my heart. So maybe my foolish hopes from the night before had not been so foolish after all. Suddenly, in the midst of the current darkness, there seemed to be something bright over the horizon, if I could only steer us past the shoals. I looked around at the richness of the furnishings, the sturdy bones of the manse, the housekeeper who seemed to come along with the deed. Julia, my darling Julia.

  “Where’s Julia now?” I said with complete disingenuousness.

  “She’s still being held by the police. But we expect her back home tomorrow.”

  “We?”

  “I and her lawyer. Clarence Swift.” She sniffed a bit, as if at a peculiar smell. “Do you want to see where it happened?”

  “I don’t know. Do I?”

  “He was your friend. You should see it, as a memorial, don’t you think? Maybe leave a token like they do at those street-corner shrines whenever a child gets shot in the city.”

  “Could I finish up my pie first?”

  “Of course, dear. Do you have enough whipped cream with that?”

  After putting down my fork and smacking my lips—I hadn’t been lying, about the pecan pie at least—I followed Gwen out of the living room into the wide central hall. Toward the rear of the house, there was a pair of closed double doors on the other side of the hallway and a piece of yellow tape wrapped around the door handles.

  “The police told me not to go into this room,” she said.

  “Then maybe we should stay out.”

  “No, thank you,” she said, unwrapping the tape. “I’ve lived in this house for more than thirty years. I won’t have anyone telling me where I can and can’t go. This way.”

  She pushed open the doors, turned on the lights, led me into a spacious den with wood-paneled walls and beamed ceilings. It smelled a little damp, and a little rusty, and a little ill, like a sickness had come over the place. A large mahogany desk was set by the windows, a round green-felt poker table stood in the corner, and a huge flat-screen television hung over the marble fireplace. Surrounding the fireplace was a wall of bookshelves, covered with trophies on which little wrestlers were posed like bullies with back conditions, ready to strike. The walls and furniture were so highly polished the whole room gleamed. It would have been a room fit for Architectural Digest if it weren’t for the patches of dark powder over the walls and windows or the sprawled squat figure outlined on the bloodstained carpet.

  “That’s where I found the doctor,” said Gwen. “Just like that. I wanted to clean up the blood, but they wouldn’t let me. I’m not going to wait much longer.”

  “Where was he shot from?”

  “Over there,” said Gwen, pointing to the end of the bookshelf in the rear corner of the room.

  One of the wooden panels beneath the books in that corner was slightly off kilter. I stepped over to it, gently pulled. The false panel swung open to reveal a gray metal safe.

  “They got that open this morning,” said Gwen. “Brought a man in from Ohio to do it. There were some papers, some baseball cards, stuff. But no money, when there was always money. Everyone’s wondering where the money got off to. And then, of course, the gun.”

  “What gun?”

  “He kept a gun in the safe, but that was gone, too.”

  “Was that the gun that killed him?”

  “That’s what they think.”

  “And they really think that Julia killed him?”

  “They do.”

  “What do you think, Gwen? Did she?”

  “Course she didn’t. Why on earth do you think I let you in here and stuffed you full of pecan pie?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I made that one for Norman. With the last of the pecans, too, so he’ll be eating apple until I get a new batch. But when I saw you at the door, I knew right away the last pecan pie was going to you.”

  “I’m missing something here.”

  “I remember seeing Tony Taylor play at Shibe Park,” said Gwen. “Lithe and handsome, skin like polished ebony. He was dreamy. You, sir, are no Tony Taylor. But I knew who you were as soon as I opened the door, Mr. Carl. The missus had tracked your adventures in the paper over the years. We used to laugh at the stories. And then she mentioned you more recently. In fact, you were being discussed in the argument last night before Dr. Denniston was killed.”

  I looked at the figure outline on the carpet. “Really? That’s not good.”

  “Not for you, and I guess not for the doctor neither, the way it turned out. I figured you were here to help Mrs. Denniston, and so I decided to help you. You don’t think I thought you were an old friend from Princeton, did you?”

  “Yes, actually.”

  “My mama didn’t raise no fool, Mr. Carl.”

  “Mine obviously did.”

  “Princeton.” She shook her head. “But the missus called when they first took her to the police station and said that you were going to help her, and so I decided to help you.”

  “With the pie.”

  “There’s not much a dose of Karo and molasses can’t help. So, Mr. Carl, is there anything else you want to know?”

  I looked around the room, thought about it for a moment. “I heard the alarm was activated when you came back last night.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Who knew the code?”

  “The doctor and the missus. Me, of course. A few others. That Mr. Swift. A couple handymen that worked on the house. It wasn’t a well-kept secret.”

  “Clarence Swift had the code?”

  “Mr. Swift was almost family to the doctor. It was like he lived his life through the doctor and the missus. Mr. Swift was here almost as much as I was.” />
  “How about a guy named Miles Cave?”

  “I never met him, but I think he was an old school friend of the doctor’s,” she said. “I told the police about him. Recently I had heard his name being discussed by the doctor over the phone. Something about money, I could tell. A lot of the doctor’s calls at the end were about money. The calls involving that Cave fellow seemed to be more heated than most. I’m no detective, Mr. Carl, but I told the police and I’m telling you: I believe this Miles Cave has more to do with what happened than the missus. You want to find out what happened, you ought to start by finding him.”

  I looked at the safe, at the figure sprawled on the bloodstained carpet, at the big-screen television. I tried to figure out the scene the instant before the violence, the shooter there, the dead man standing there, the safe open.

  “Is this just the way the room was when you found it?”

  “Yes, sir. The police haven’t let me touch much of anything.”

  “No struggle, then, no bashed pottery or books thrown?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What did the police take with them?”

  “They cut some stuff off the carpet, they dusted the whole place.”

  “Tell me about Julia. How has she been doing lately?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Carl. She seemed distracted the last few weeks. It’s always tough to get a grip on the missus. She keeps a lot to herself.”

  “How about her health?”

  “The same as ever, I guess.”

  “Is she on any medications?”

  “How would I know?”

  “Oh, Gwen, my guess is there isn’t much you don’t know. I suppose you’ve cleaned up her medicine cabinet now and then.”

  “There are some pills prescribed by the doctor. Women’s stuff, I think. And some Valium. For muscle pain.”

  “I bet. Does she drink much?”

  “Not as much as the doctor, but she has a glass or two now and then.”

  “Anything more serious?”

  “What are you getting at, Mr. Carl?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Is that her car in front?”

  “That’s right. She called from jail and told me where she left it. I had Norman drive me over to pick it up.”

  “Anything interesting inside?”

  “No, sir. And the police went through it as soon as I brought it back.”

  “I figured. Can you do me a favor? Can you call me when she returns home?”

  “Sure I can. Anything else?”

  “Only whether or not I can take the rest of that pie home.”

  “I’ll box it up for you.”

  “Why, thank you, Gwen.”

  “You going to save her?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “If she deserves to be saved.”

  “We all deserve that, Mr. Carl.”

  9

  TUESDAY

  He was waiting for me in my outer office when I came to work the next morning, a slight, dome-headed man with outsize shoes and a striped bow tie. He leaned forward in his chair, his small mouth pursed with worry, his long, pale hands wringing one the other. He might have been my age, or he might have been fifty, it was hard to tell with his wispy red hair and wide forehead. When he saw me, he lifted his chin.

  “Victor Carl, is it?” he said.

  “That’s right,” I said.

  He rocked to his feet, still bowed forward at the waist, as if in a perpetual cringe. His hands continued to rub each other strangely. It was an insectile gesture, calculating and submissive at the same time, like a male praying mantis wringing his hands before sex.

  “Mr. Carl, hello. Yes. It is an honor to meet you, indeed. An honor.” His voice was whiny and dispirited, and the way he enunciated “honor,” he might as well have been telling me what a burden it was to be in my presence. “I apologize for dropping in unannounced like this. You can be assured that I wouldn’t bother a personage of your high status and accomplishment if it weren’t so vital. But could you possibly, perhaps, spare a moment in your busy day for me? If it is in any way inconvenient, we could do it at another time, certainly. Everything at your convenience, of course.”

  I stared at him and then at my secretary, Ellie, who had an amused expression on her face. She subtly pushed forward a card on her desk.

  I looked at the card, swiveled my head to look at the man and then back at the card. swift & son, it read. real estate management. title insurance. mortgage brokerage. life and disability insurance. And then, in the corner, in tiny print: clarence swift, attorney-at-law.

  “Mr. Swift?”

  “Clarence, please,” he said, interrupting me. “Call me Clarence. There is no reason for you to be so formal with the likes of me.”

  “Fine, Clarence. You were Wren Denniston’s lawyer?”

  “More than that, sir. We were friends, the best of friends. We spoke constantly, hatched plots together. His father did business with my father, and that was a bond that kept us together. I still can’t believe he’s gone. Not an hour goes by where I don’t start to pick up the phone and only then remember.”

  He pulled a giant handkerchief from his inside jacket pocket, wiped the shine off his wide forehead, blew his pointed nose.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said.

  “Yes, thank you,” he said as he flicked the handkerchief back into his jacket. “It’s been a most traumatic couple of days. I am at sea, Mr. Carl, marooned on a floating piece of flotsam. Not even jetsam, sir, but flotsam.”

  “Very understandable. Why don’t you step into my office?”

  “Oh, thank you, sir, thank you. That is quite extraordinary of you to make the time to see me on such short notice.”

  “Think nothing of it,” I said as I gestured to the hallway.

  When he was situated in a client chair across from my desk, I stepped out of the office for a moment and returned to Ellie.

  “Any calls?” I said.

  “A few,” she said, handing me my messages.

  “I need to talk to Derek Moats, the defendant I represented yesterday. Can you try to find him for me?”

  “I have his cell-phone number. Do you want me to set up an appointment for him here?”

  “No,” I said quickly. “Not here. Just find out where he’ll be tonight. Tell him I have a job for him, if he’s willing.”

  “Fine.”

  I glanced down the hallway. “What do you think of our Mr. Swift?”

  “Peculiar, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. How would you feel if your life was in his hands?”

  “Concerned.”

  “I suppose you should hold all my calls.”

  When I returned to my office, Clarence Swift was just closing the briefcase on his lap and locking it shut.

  “Looking for something?” I said.

  “Just consulting my scheduler to see what is next. A man of business must always keep himself busy, my father used to say.”

  I sat behind my desk and stared for a moment at the strange-looking man before me. His chin was pointy, his pursed mouth was just the right size for his thumb. And his philtrum was extraordinarily deep. You know what a philtrum is, it’s that groove that runs from your nose to your mouth, that thing we never think about, but it was hard not to think about it with Clarence Swift. It was so deep he could have stored his loose change in there.

  “I so appreciate your seeing me unawares like this, Mr. Carl,” he said. “I’ve heard much about you, in both the papers and from Wren. Poor old Wren was quite the raconteur, always quick with the telling jab and the illuminating tale. He’ll be so missed. And you’ll be gratified to learn, I am sure, that you were often a favorite subject.”

  “Oh, I bet I was.”

  “It is from my bond with Wren that rises my commitment toward Julia,” said Swift. “You must believe that I would do whatever is humanly possible for her. She is a fabulous woman.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “Truly extraordinary.”


  “I agree.”

  “Wondrous in oh-so-many ways.”

  I eyed him for a long moment. “Are you married, Clarence?”

  “Engaged.”

  “Good for you.”

  “My fiancée, Margaret.”

  He pulled out his wallet, opened it, dug deep until he pulled out a bent and spindled photograph of a large woman holding a gray cat. The woman was stout and hardy, with big-knuckled hands and floppy ears. Ouch.

  “We often had dinner together with the Dennistons,” said Clarence, looking at the photograph with a depressed gaze before sticking it back into his wallet. “We were all so close.”

  “So tell me, how is Julia holding up?”

  “Hanging on as best she can, under the circumstances,” he said. “I think she has a slight cold.”

  “A cold, huh?”

  “Yes. It’s understandable, the tragedy weakening her defenses.”

  “I’m sure that’s it.”

  “It has rocked us all. But this is no time to be paralyzed by grief. We must put away our own personal anguish and sally forth. And so here I am, thrust into the role of defender, determined to do my best for poor Julia. Though, of course, I don’t expect my meager experience in such matters can compare with the achievements of your brilliant career.”

  “It hasn’t been that brilliant,” I said.

  “You’re being modest, but I would expect no less. It is a certified truth that the greater the man, the greater the humility. And you, Mr. Carl, are living proof.”

  “I’m not that humble either.”

  “Still, Mr. Carl. Still.”

  “Call me Victor,” I said.

  “That would be a privilege.” He bowed his head in gratitude, as if I were a lord granting some great favor to a serf. “One of the reasons I have come today, Victor, is that I am trying to understand all that Mrs. Denniston was doing on the night of the murder. A timeline, so to speak. That is what they always do in the television shows, is it not? And so I am quite interested in what she was doing at your apartment when the police finally found her. The police detective has already given me your statement. The handsome one—”

  “Sims.”

  “Right, Detective Sims. I much prefer him to the other one, the big Irish one, who comes off as quite a brute. But Detective Sims seems much more reasonable.”