Black Diamond Death (19 page)

“Why think of Parker at all? He’s dead, and I don’t see too many people unhappy about it.”

She finished the last bite of gelato and set her plastic bowl on the table. It was yellow and reminded me of the set of colorful pastel Tupperware bowls my mother used in the eighties.

The remnants of Maddie’s melted gelato dripped off the side of the cup and onto the table. She didn’t notice. I let it go for a few seconds and then, when I couldn’t sit still and watch it drip any longer, I snatched a napkin and wiped it up.

“It’s just that I remembered something,” I said.

“Do tell.”

“I think Parker was left handed.”

She opened her eyes all the way.

“Fascinating.”

“Okay smart ass,” I said.

“What made you think of that—about him being a leftie?”

“The first time I met him in the lobby downtown he handed me a flower with his left hand. And then later in his apartment he held a glass in his left hand. When he pinned me up against the wall—”

“I get it, left hand.”

“I broke the fingers on his left hand,” I said.

“So what does that mean?”

“The evidence said Parker shot himself with his right hand.”

She slanted her head to the side.

“Maybe he’s ambidextrous. You ever think of that?”

“And maybe I’m the Princess of Wales,” I said.

“What did the coroner’s report say?”

“Nick said the ME results were conclusive, he shot himself. They found no other prints on the gun, and there’s no way I can get access to the report. The chief has me on some type of time-out while Parker’s daddy is in town.”

“What a prick.”

“He’s not such a bad guy, Maddie. He’s just doing what he needs to do. Besides, I don’t know what made him madder, the fact that I broke into Parker’s house, that my prints were all over the crime scene, or that I discovered Parker’s body before they did.”

Maddie walked over to the drinking fountain and slurped some water and then came back and plopped down next to me. She wiped the water that dripped from her face and stuck a piece of purple gum in her mouth and slouched down in her seat.

“Who’s the coroner?”

“Whitley,” I said.

“Stan Whitley?”

“Know him?”

She bobbed her head up and down a couple times and grinned.

“Do I ever.”

“Now it’s your turn to spill,” I said.

“He’s got the hots for me.”

“Who doesn’t?” I said.

“Don’t I know it.”

She twisted a finger around a piece of her hair.

“It’s hard being me.”

I took my cup and hers and threw them into the trash receptacle.

“I imagine so.”

“Oh give me a break,” she said. “You can have any guy you want.”

“And I do,” I said.

“The having isn’t the problem though, is it? It’s the holding.”

“It makes me feel—”

“Trapped.”

“Something like that,” I said.

“You’re just scared.”

“And you aren’t?”

“Hell no. I’m not the marrying kind. I don’t need a man to tie me down so that I can sit at home and pop out babies every other year for the next ten years of my life.”

“I don’t think it works like that,” I said.

“Oh no, what about Ben?”

I almost forgot about Ben whose fondest wish was for them to wed. And she almost did until he told her about his plan for her to stay at home and make a tribe of little Ben’s. He made it clear he wanted no less than six of them. Maddie, on the other hand, wanted a career so that was a deal breaker.

“I ran into him a few months ago.”

“How did that go over?” I said.

“He was with his pregnant wife and four or five other bundles of joy. They ran wild all over the place like the kids in
Children of the Corn
.”

“How long have they been married?” I said.

“About five years now I guess.”

Maddie swore off kids in college. After she helped her single mother raise seven younger brothers and sisters she had no intentions of being responsible for anybody but herself.

“Nick wants to move forward. He wants to make it official,” I said.

“He said that?”

“He wants us to move in together although I’m unclear whether he meant his place or mine,” I said.

“You can’t blame him for that sweetie.”

“Right now our life together is simple and uncomplicated. I have my space and he has his. Why can’t it remain like that?”

“Depends on how long you plan to stay that way. What are you on, your second year together?”

I nodded.

“We just hit the two year mark,” I said.

“No wonder he wants to settle. If you two were both in your twenties, it would be different.”

“I thought you of all people would understand,” I said.

“Just because I don’t plan to walk down the aisle doesn’t mean you shouldn’t. Nick’s the first guy I’ve seen you with who makes you happy. I can’t imagine you with anyone else.”

“What if he moves in and it isn’t what he thought?” I said. “Then what?”

“You could get trampled by a herd of buffalo in some field tomorrow and end up dead anyway.”

“Nice,” I said.

“My point is you don’t know what’s going to happen in life. How do you know moving in together won’t make life even sweeter than it already is—did you ever think of it like that?”

She leaned over and gave me a hug and whispered in my ear.

“You get one shot at life, don’t waste it.”

The door swung open and a group of teenagers strolled in. They laughed and talked to one another at such a high decibel I thought for sure I would rupture an eardrum. Maddie looked at me and we both reached for our coats.

“Thanks for the gelato,” I said.

“Anytime.”

Maddie pushed the front door open and we walked out.

“Headed back to your office?” I said.

She shook her head.

“I’m off to play catch up with my old friend Whitley.”

When I was a young girl I had a master plan, a vision board that I kept locked away in a safe place inside my head, and whenever I took out my key and visited I planned out my life. Grow up, get married, and raise kids—four of them to be exact. Two boys, two girls. At twelve I wanted their names to be Piper, Kelly, Rhys, and Peter. Problem was no one ever told me what to do when my master plan failed, and I was too headstrong to believe it could be anything less than what I imagined. I would have a perfect husband, raise four perfect children, and live a perfect life. But then I grew up. Marriage came and then divorce. And my dream of four kids—I wasn’t fortuitous enough to produce one. My body and its natural form of birth control made sure of that. Plan A didn’t work out, and I never thought I needed a Plan B.

Maybe Charlotte felt that way. On her vision board she aspired to greatness. She was a professional skier and then a real estate agent, and a good one at that. She met and fell in love with a man who she thought she could trust, and at some point along the way she became cognizant enough to see that he did not have her best interests at heart. I wondered if she was at a good place in her life when she died. She paid the ultimate price, and it didn’t seem fair.

By the time I reached Charlotte’s office the closed sign dangled from the front door. No key for Vicki tonight. I assumed she wouldn’t mind, but I gave her a call anyway. Much to my chagrin, she gave me her address and asked me to stop by. She had a client anxious to see the place and she wanted to do a walkthrough beforehand. So much had changed in so little time. One day Charlotte was alive in her condo, and the next it was up for sale to the highest bidder.

I arrived at the house around dinnertime. Vicki stood at her front door with a wine glass in one hand and a remote control in the other. A silk robe was draped around her body and her legs were exposed which led me to wonder why she didn’t invest in a treadmill and a longer robe.

“Nice house,” I said.

“I figure I work hard enough,” she said. “I deserve to come home to this.”

“Are you married?”

“I was. My husband and I divorced a couple of years ago. He lives in Florida now on his yacht with a woman half his age.”

“Sorry to hear it,” I said.

She shook her head.

“Don’t be. I got the house, and he got the tramp.”

I remained quiet. The plight of a woman scorned didn’t need more fuel to its fire.

“How’s life at the office these days?” I said.

“Almost back to normal, if you can call it that. Jack is back to his old self again—sell, sell, sell.”

A cold wind crossed my body. I zipped up my jacket and reached in the car for my scarf.

“I’m sorry. How rude of me,” Vicki said. “Why don’t you come in for a minute and get out of this horrid weather?”

“I can’t stay,” I said.

I reached for the key in my purse.

“I bet you’re glad this whole Parker mess is all over.”

“I guess so,” I said.

“Aren’t you?”

“Audrey is satisfied, and everyone wants to move on with their lives,” I said.

“And you?”

“Of course I want to, but—”

“Parker made it easy on you when he keeled over, don’t you agree? Poor guy couldn’t live with himself after what he’d done. If you ask me, the world is better off without him.”

I hadn’t asked her.

“Maybe,” I said.

“You don’t agree?”

“It’s convenient for everyone to assume Parker killed Charlotte and then himself when he couldn’t live with the guilt.”

“You want my advice? Rejoice. It’s over and you don’t have to deal with it anymore. It won’t do you any good to stew over it.”

I ran my hands up and down my arms.

“You sure you don’t want to come in?”

If going inside meant more of her so-called advice, it was time to leave.

I walked toward her and produced the key.

“I better go,” I said.

“Well, alright then, if you’re sure.”

She flipped the key over and over in her hand.

“Thanks for this.”

The next day my phone rang. It was Maddie.

“How’s Whitley?” I said.

“Much improved.”

“Did you get anything out of him?”

“Really Sloane, what do
you
think?”

“Should I ask what you did to get it?” I said.

“Probably best if you didn’t.”

Something crunched in the background.

“Care to know what’s in my hot little hand right at this moment?”

“Not Whitley, I hope.”

She laughed.

“And people don’t think you’re funny.”

“Do you have something for me?” I said.

“Indeed I do. Can we meet at your office?”

“I’ll see you there,” I said, and hung up the phone.

Thirty minutes later I pulled into the parking lot. Maddie, who knew where to find the hidden key, opened the door and greeted me with the file in hand.

“Merry early Christmas or a merry late one,” she said.

“And a Happy New Year to Whitley,” I said.

“Don’t shake your head at me Sloane; I know all about what you’ve had to do for information.”

I ignored her statement and sat down.

“Did Whitley give you this file?” I said.

“Copy machines are so much better these days, so quiet.”

I shook my head.

“You got any drinks around this place?”

“There’s a bottle of pinot in the cupboard,” I said.

She raised her left nostril and rifled around for another viable option.

“What the mother lode, you think you got enough tea in here? Because I’m sure there’s a village in some third-world country that could survive at least a month on all this stuff.”

“Not funny,” I said.

“Alright, alright, don’t mess with a woman and her tea. I got it.”

I nudged her out of the way.

“Here, let me look,” I said.

I moved all the tea to the side and pulled out a bottle from the back.

“Bailey’s?” I said.

“That will do just fine.”

I poured her a glass and we both sat down.

“Have you looked the file over yet?” I said.

She nodded.

“And?” I said.

She took a few sips of her drink and set her glass down on the corner of my desk. She leaned in toward me and I did the same.

“It doesn’t add up,” she said.

“What?” I said.

“Any of it.”

“I see,” I said. “And why are we whispering?”

Maddie grabbed her glass and sat back in my chair.

“Good point. Here’s the thing. On paper, the report would hold up to snuff for anyone who looked it over and didn’t know any better. The way it reads Parker shot himself, end of story.” Maddie lifted her thumb and pressed her pointer finger against her right temple and pulled the trigger. “Bang,” she shouted. She slumped down in my chair. A flare for the dramatic was one of her many charms.

“But you just said—”

“The report is conclusive, he killed himself alright.”

“I guess that’s it then,” I said.

She took another sip from her glass and handed me the report.

“If you read through that, you’ll be convinced that Parker shot himself. But that’s what they want you to believe.”

“You’ve lost me. Who wants me to believe that?” I said.

“I can’t say for sure.”

She got up and walked over to my curio cabinet and poured herself another glass of Bailey’s.

“So did he or didn’t he?” I said.

She held up one finger in the air.

“I have a theory.”

I hoped at some point she started making some sense or any sense at all. She walked back over to the chair and leaned forward and we were back to whispering again.

“I don’t think Parker killed himself, but I believe someone wants you and everyone else to think he did. It took a few glasses of brandy, but I got him to talk, at least enough to get one thing out of him.”

“Maddie, out with it already,” I said.

“It seems our esteemed Whitley is on somebody’s payroll.”

It turned out Whitley spilled a lot more than a little brandy on the rug. He confessed to Maddie that Parker didn’t kill himself and that it was set up to look that way. Maddie, in her role as the desirable temptress, tried to talk him into giving up the person behind it all, but it was to no avail.