Paper, Scissors, Death (3 page)

“My husband is dead? Are you sure? Sure it’s George? I mean, you could have made a mistake. Right?” I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard.

Detective Chad Detweiler of the St. Louis County Police Department shook his head solemnly. “No, Mrs. Lowenstein. I’m sorry. There’s no mistake. A housekeeper found his body in a room at the Ritz-Carlton. We’re sure it is—was—your husband. His clothes were hanging over a chair, and his wallet was in his pants pocket.”

I swallowed hard. I’d managed to keep calm on the ride to the police station. I kept reassuring my daughter there must have been a misunderstanding. Now I felt like I was coming apart at the seams. I couldn’t focus. I kept repeating, “Dead? My husband is dead? There must be some mistake.”

“No, ma’am.”

The room swam and turned flips. I tried to process what the detective told me. In my struggle, I focused on the trivial. It seemed more manageable than the big picture. “I, uh, don’t understand. Why were his clothes over a chair? You mean he … he didn’t have them on? Did he … uh … have on
any
of his clothes?”

The detective shook his head, his eyes never leaving my face. He seemed to be taking my measure, sizing me up.

The large mirror on the adjacent wall of the interview room bounced my image back to me. My hair was always curly, but today it had turned into ringlets. My skin looked blotchy from the cold. And I’d chewed my lips until I could taste the blood in my mouth.

I took tiny sips from the glass of water the detective had offered and swallowed repeatedly to dislodge the lump in my throat. I tried to focus on a far-off object, as I blinked back tears. There were so many questions. Part of me didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to know. But a voice inside reasoned it was better to hear the worst of it here, from an impartial officer of the law, than in a public place from a “friend.” I thought about the mothers I’d left at the scrapbook store and shuddered.

Detweiler sat across from me patiently, silently.

Obviously, someone had made a mistake. That was all there was to it. This man couldn’t be talking about George. Not
my
George.

“How can you be so sure? I mean … don’t you need someone to identify the body? You probably just think it’s George. As soon as he answers my call, we’ll get this straightened out.” I reached for my cell phone and punched in his number one more time.

The phone rang and rang.

Suddenly, my whole body grew heavy, and I was incredibly tired. All I wanted was to go home and sleep for a million years. Maybe this had all been a bad dream.

Detweiler sighed. “We got hold of your husband’s business partner, Mr. Ballard. I was there when he made the ID. If you’d like to see the body …”

I shook my head vehemently.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Lowenstein.” He didn’t press the issue. He could tell I was queasy. Or maybe he worried I’d make a scene.

Poor Bill. A part of me felt guilty that I hadn’t been the one to take on this intimate and final task of marital life. It seemed, in some way, the least I could have done for George. And Bill had done it for him. For me. For us. It seemed wrong. It felt like one more failure. I put a hand to my stomach and pressed hard to control the revolt within.

A strand of chestnut hair fell over Detweiler’s eyebrow, a dark accent mark to his unwavering gaze. “There’ll have to be an autopsy. The law requires one in these circumstances.” Detweiler took a sip of his coffee and set the mug down gently on the battered Formica tabletop. A circle of brown indicated the depleted level of the liquid. It reminded me of George’s wedding ring.

I fingered my own gold band. I was trying desperately to take in what the detective was saying. George. Was. Dead. What was I going to tell Sheila, my mother-in-law?

“Does George’s mother know?”

I did not want to be the one to tell Sheila her son was dead.

“Mr. Lowenstein’s mother has been notified.” The detective cleared his throat. “Evidently our police chief is an old friend.”

Thank God, I thought. She didn’t have to hear the news from a stranger.

“A woman at your house,” he turned to a page in his steno pad, “a Mert Chambers, told us where to find you.”

A thought flittered across the tickertape of my mind and fell on the floor in a pile of other ideas. How could we have Thanksgiving? George always carved the turkey. And what about Hanukkah? He loved shopping for his daughter. How would Anya learn about her Jewish heritage? Who would teach her golf? Take her to Cardinal baseball games? Help her cheer on the Rams on Monday Night Football?

An endless stream of problems presented themselves.

“And you brought us here? Rather than talking to me at home? Why?”

“We have a few questions.”

I was afraid to guess what that might mean. Time stood still. I was at the top of the roller coaster looking down, suspended, waiting.

In my peripheral vision, I saw Detweiler rub his mouth. He was struggling, trying to decide what to say. I did not look up. I was bracing myself for what was to come.

But I got it wrong.

“Mrs. Lowenstein, did your husband’s partner tell you money was missing from the business?”

My head snapped up. “What?” Stars danced in my field of vision.

Saliva flooded my mouth. I struggled not to bolt from my seat. I looked around desperately for the nearest trash can. Any second now, I’d heave my guts all over the floor. Where was the ladies’ restroom? I swallowed hard.

“Money? Missing? How much?”

“A half a million dollars.”

I jumped up and ran, praying I’d make it to the john.

Mert drove Anya and me home from the station. She sent her son Roger and one of his friends to pick up my car from the scrapbook store.

After Anya cried herself to sleep, Mert and I sat in my kitchen and talked.

“It don’t make sense. George was in good health, wasn’t he?” Mert asked.

“He had a complete checkup not six months ago.”

“Why you suppose he was there? And naked? You said it was the Adams Mark?” Under stress, Mert’s diction emphasized her hardscrabble background.

“Ritz-Carlton,” I corrected. I stared at the big silver Viking refrigerator, noting our wavy reflections. It’s like my life is happening in a carnival fun house, I thought, and nothing seems real. My husband is dead. And money is missing. None of this made sense.

I needed to talk to George.

But he was gone.

And only this morning everything was fine.

I was dumbstruck by the magnitude of the situation.

Mert’s calloused hand reached over to squeeze mine. “When you want to talk, and if you do, I’m here.”

We sat quietly, listening to the ticking of the wall clock. She still wore her work clothes, tight black jeans and a rhinestone studded T-shirt, plus five pairs of silver hoop earrings.

Sheila tells me you aren’t supposed to pal around with the hired help. My Ladue neighbors would have been shocked to see me and my cleaning lady giggling over margaritas at El Maguey’s Mexican restaurant. Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a hoot. I liked Mert from the moment I met her in the cleaning product aisle at Lowe’s. “Black marks on your porcelain sink? You need Zud. Comet’ll make your sink white, ’cause it’s got bleach and such, but those black marks from your pots and pans won’t ever come out unless you rub a quarter-sized glob of Zud on them.”

I do so admire professional excellence.

Mert handed me her card, “Got Dirt? Get Mert! Housecleaner Extraordinaire at a Price That’s Fair.” It understated her abilities. Mert was also an expert organizer, and a woman of many talents, most too bizarre and unusual to come to light until you desperately needed them.

Best of all, for the past six years she had been my uncritical friend, my go-to gal who is always there for me. If she hadn’t been such a terrific cleaning lady, she could have been a very successful therapist. Mert had a way of helping you see things, getting you to cut through messy emotions and move on. Now she asked gently, “Could someone have been there with him? In that hotel room?”

“Maybe.”

“You know her name?”

I shook my head. “Over the years there was this sort of on-again, off-again feeling that he was … you know. But I never wanted to ask. And I couldn’t be sure. See, I’ve always felt guilty about how I got pregnant in college. Deep down, I guess I’ve always felt like I tricked him into marrying me.”

Mert changed the subject. “And who found him?”

“A housekeeper.”

“I wonder if it was anybody I know. Us folks in the cleaning industry stay right tight.”

The autopsy was postponed until after the Thanksgiving holiday. Anya and I lived in a suspended state, a twilight of grief, waiting for the funeral service. Five days passed before we could bury George. Sheila raged at the delay, but Missouri law took precedence over the Jewish custom of burial within twenty-four hours.

A few days after the burial, I opened the front door to Detweiler in a suit instead of the khakis and blazer he’d worn at the station. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. His eyes darted from his oversized gold police-issue Impala to my oversized marble foyer. He took in the spiraling staircase of oak with its coiled banisters, the large mahogany table with a graceful vase of fresh flowers, the wide crown molding around the ceiling.

Yeah, our house was a real show place. It just wasn’t much of a home. Especially now that George was gone.

He cleared his throat. “May I come in?”

I settled him on an overstuffed sofa and brought him a cup of instant coffee, before pouring a glass of ice water for myself.

“The autopsy says your husband died of natural causes. Looks like he had a heart attack.”

I squinted at him. “That makes no sense at all.”

“Things like this happen. Maybe he had a heart abnormality. I know it’s hard to accept—”

“No. Not hard to accept. Impossible to accept. George had a heart scan and a stress test six months ago. He insisted his doctor do a complete workup after one of his friends had a scan, and they found an aneurism.”

“Yes, well, the autopsy was quite thorough. He had a heart attack.”

I jumped up and scribbled on a piece of paper. “Here. This is George’s doctor. Call him.”

Detweiler nodded and tucked the paper in his pocket. “Right. But he had a heart attack.”

“How? He was in perfect health.”

The detective shook his head. His hands sat loosely on his knees. “We found no signs of foul play.”

I gritted my teeth. I’d practiced this next question. I knew I could spit it out. “Were there any signs of sexual activity?”

“No.”

“Then explain to me what he was doing alone and naked in a hotel room.”

“I have no idea.”

“Doesn’t that seem awfully suspicious to you? It sure does to me!”

“It doesn’t make much sense, but sometimes there just aren’t any answers. We’re still doing interviews. So far everyone we’ve talked to says Mr. Lowenstein was alone.”

It was my turn to shake my head. “That can’t be right. Why was he there? What was he doing? Why would he have taken off his clothes?”

Detweiler cleared his throat. “Could he have been despondent?”

“He’d just broken par on St. Louis Country Club’s golf course. The man was ecstatic. Not despondent. All his dreams had come true. In fact, he was talking about flying down to Florida to play during the holidays.”

“Really? And this doc will say his health was good?” The detective rubbed his chin thoughtfully. I could see him thinking, puzzling over these pieces that didn’t quite match up.

“Absolutely. Are you sure you aren’t missing something? You personally talked to everyone at the hotel?”

“Here’s how this works. The housekeeper found the body and called her manager. He called us. An officer secured the scene and phoned in a report. Another detective and I interviewed hotel personnel. So, no, I didn’t talk to everyone myself.”

“Well, somebody has to know something. I mean, isn’t this odd? Have you ever had a case like this before?”

Now his hands were tense, and they gripped his knees. I felt mesmerized by his gorgeous green eyes with their dancing gold flecks. I gave myself a hard mental shake. What was I, nuts? This was hardly the time to be distracted by a good-looking man.

“Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll check with the other officers. I’ll tell them about Mr. Lowenstein’s recent clean bill of health and state of mind. I’ll go back over everything we’ve got.”

“And could I see the police report? I know it probably won’t make much sense to me, but I want to. I feel like I should.” I knew my own copy of the autopsy was probably sitting in that official envelope at the bottom of a pile of mail I was too cowardly to open.

“Look,” Detweiler spoke in a controlled voice, his eyes locked onto mine, “is there something you aren’t telling me? Any reason to think someone might want your husband dead?”

“No,” I said softly. I noticed he hadn’t answered my question about seeing the police report. “I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt George. And with that missing money, I’d think there was a good reason to keep George alive. But I might be overlooking something. George and I …” I searched for the words. “We sort of led separate lives. I mean, we had our own friends and interests.”

I couldn’t go on.

“I see.” Detweiler’s eyes were piercing. I could tell he was thinking hard, processing all I’d said. And he knew I wasn’t going to say more.

We walked to my front door.

Pausing on the threshold, Detweiler ran a finger around his collar, clearly feeling choked by his tie. He turned to me with a pitying expression on his face. I swallowed hard and focused on an imaginary spot on my lawn which was splotchy brown and pale yellow from the cold weather. A thick rim of dark clouds hung low in a sky as heavy and wet as fresh concrete. Soon it would snow, a soggy blanketing of flakes, a final tucking in for the earth and all its life forms.

“I’ll talk to the officer who secured the scene.” His voice was low and firm, his hands jammed deep into his pockets. “But you call me if anything comes to mind. And I mean anything. If I don’t have something to go on, a line of questioning to pursue, there’s not a lot I can do.”

I nodded. We stood, caught up in our individual thoughts, unable to communicate further.

___

I sat in the empty living room and watched droplets run like tears down the side of my half-empty water glass. Not for one moment did I think my husband had died of natural causes.

Someone had planned this. Someone had murdered George.

And I wasn’t about to let his killer get away with it.