Read The Death of an Ambitious Woman Online
Authors: Barbara Ross
“Chief, I can only go with what the car and the scene tell me, and so far neither of them has much to say. Let me do my job, download the data from the black box, rebuild the scene from the photometry.”
“How long will that take?”
“Normal course of things, couple of months.”
Ruth knew what Logan told her was true. All the new tools, especially the photometric cameras, were focused on clearing the scene faster and getting traffic moving again, but they also supplied miles of data that had to be painstakingly analyzed. Like all the state police labs, C.A.R.S. was overworked and undermanned.
“Are you expecting an insurance problem?” Logan asked.
“Not that I know of. But I’ve got an unexplained death, one woman’s shattered husband, another man’s terrified wife, and a total of five grieving children.”
Logan peeled back some of his professional detachment. “I’ll see if I can move some things around to give it a higher priority.” He motioned to the workroom door. “Want to see it?”
Trailed by Moscone, Ruth took a step into the workroom, then stopped abruptly. Tracey’s car was up on blocks in the center of the vast concrete floor. Everything that could be removed had been—seats, wheels, doors, fenders. The front end was pushed upward, sideways, then back. The door frames were buckled, the roof concave. In this skeletal form, the SUV’s damage looked more explicit and cruel than it had in the photos.
Ruth flashed on Tracey Kendall and the order she imposed on her possessions—the organizer, the contents of her pocketbook, the neatly folded old clothes in the gym bag with Tracey’s essence still clinging to them. In spite of it all, chaos had still come roaring in, its violence captured in the twisted frame of the SUV. All of Tracey’s efforts to tame life and ride it had been futile. For one horrible moment, standing on the cement floor of the state police garage, Ruth was overcome with such sadness, she thought she might lose control.
Exerting an effort, Ruth pulled herself together. It wouldn’t do to burst into noisy sobs in front of Sergeant Logan and Carl Moscone. “I thought these big expensive cars weren’t supposed to crumple up like that.”
“There’s only so much airbags, crumple zones and seat belts can do to protect you from physics,” Logan responded. “If this had been a shitbox it would’ve exploded into a thousand pieces.”
Moscone pulled their unmarked car through the gate at the Kendall property and stopped. From the passenger seat, Ruth studied the grounds. An unused guardhouse stood by the gate. In front of them, a wide semi-circular drive of pale, crushed stone surrounded a rich green lawn that rippled seventy-five yards up a hill to the main house. The back and side yards were heavily wooded.There were houses within easy walking distance of the Kendalls’, but even on April’s second warm day, with the buds just appearing on the trees, the neighbors weren’t visible.
To the right of the drive, up near the house, stood a warren of garages, with work or living space above. Further down, to the left of the driveway’s other arc, was a three-story structure with huge windows and attic dormers looking out on the lawn. At the center of the arc was the main house, an edifice of weathered shingles and dark trim. Ruth found it more imposing than attractive. On the front lawn stood enough playground equipment for a preschool.
Moscone parked behind the other cars in the drive, a silver sports car and an older model German sedan. The house seemed unusually quiet. Though the days were long past in New Derby when death inevitably brought a flood of neighbors bearing casseroles, the houses of the newly bereaved were still generally filled with family and friends.
The doorbell was answered by a tall, elegant woman in an expensive caftan. She looked at their badges and admitted them into a two-story entrance hall. “I’m Susan Gleason, Stephen’s dealer.”
Moscone blinked. “Mr. Kendall is an artist,” Ruth reminded him, to clear up any confusion.
Susan Gleason nodded. Earrings dangled against her neck. Her long, gray hair was pulled back and anchored with a silver clasp. “An important artist and a good friend.” She gave them a smile Ruth knew well. The officer-I-had-a-good-reason-to-run-that-red-light smile. “In fact, if I could impose on you. Mr. Kendall has had a ghastly night. He’s recovered a bit, but talking to you could set him back terribly, and no one wants that, so unless this is important—”
Ruth cut her off. “It’s important.”
Ms. Gleason didn’t protest further. She ushered them to the living room and withdrew. Ruth could hear her moving quietly in the entrance hall.
The Kendall living room was lovely, shades of off-white and pale yellow. Everything had been carefully placed, even the books on the shelves and the magazines fanned across the cocktail table. Despite the artifice, Ruth wasn’t as put off by the house as she’d expected.There was something warm, almost homey, about it.
A side table held an assortment of photographs in prettily mismatched frames. Most were casual shots memorializing fun times. Tracey Kendall’s formal wedding portrait was there as well, in a simple silver frame. Her gown had been chosen to emphasize her height. It tapered from her broad shoulders to her slender waist without a bit of lace or froufrou to distract. Tracey gazed out of the photo with intelligent, hazel eyes. She was a smiling, triumphant bride.
Ruth picked up a photo of a handsome man tossing a toddler in the air. The man and the child were laughing, joyous in the release and sensation of flying, anticipating the catch and inevitable hug. The child was a toddler version of the boy in the locket.
“Chief Murphy, Detective Moscone.” The man from the photo entered the living room, right hand outstretched. He was trailed by a fresh-faced woman in her early twenties whom he introduced as the nanny, Hannah Whiteside.
“Please, sit down.” Stephen Kendall’s voice was striking—deep and resonant. He guided Ruth and Moscone to a pair of upholstered chairs. The chairs were deep and low, clearly all wrong for the kind of conversation they were about to have, but Ruth decided to take what Stephen Kendall offered. He was the newly bereaved spouse, and Ruth thought it was important for him to sit where he was most comfortable.
The nanny sat down on the couch opposite, looking expectant. It was clear she intended to stay. “Is this about Tracey’s remains?” she asked. “People keep calling, asking about arrangements and we don’t know what to tell them.”
Moscone cleared his throat. “Miss Whiteside, yesterday you offered me coffee. I sure would like some now.” Hannah hesitated for a moment, visibly disappointed at her dismissal, but then headed toward the kitchen. Moscone stayed in the deep chair next to Ruth’s.
Stephen sat on the couch. Ruth moved as far forward as she could in the deep upholstery of the chair and studied Tracey Kendall’s husband. He was tall and muscular, but lean, both in body and in face, pale-skinned, but dark-haired and dark-eyed. She judged him to be younger than his wife, mid-thirties at the most.
“Did you come about Tracey’s—” As he spoke, Stephen Kendall looked straight into Ruth’s eyes, giving her his full attention. The beautiful voice did what looks alone could not. It gave him a magnetic presence. Ruth felt a tug. She shook it off, careful not to be pulled in.
“No, Mr. Kendall, I don’t have that information yet. We’ll notify you as soon as the medical examiner is through. I came to tell you we’re concerned about the circumstances surrounding your wife’s death.”
If Ruth was looking for a reaction, she got one. Stephen Kendall’s jaw dropped open. “What circumstances?”
“Mr. Kendall, do you know a company called Screw Loose?”
Kendall opened his mouth a few times, puffing noisily without forming words. Ruth repeated the question. This time, Kendall’s tongue engaged. “They’re the people who take care of our cars.” His deep voice was shaky.
“Have you ever met Al Pace, the proprietor?”
“No. Never. They do the work at Tracey’s office.”
“Mr. Pace serviced your wife’s car immediately before she died.”
“And you think he had something to do with Tracey’s death?” Kendall seemed truly astonished.
“Mr. Pace has been missing since your wife’s accident,” Moscone told him.
“What are you saying?”
“We don’t know,” Ruth answered truthfully. “It may have been negligence or deliberate tampering. It may have been nothing at all.”
“It would help if we understood the relationship between them,” Moscone added.
“He fixed her car.”
“Yes, but what else?” Moscone pressed. “Pace’s wife says he was in financial difficulty. Could Tracey have lent him money?”
“No. She would never do that. We’ve had our own cash drain lately. The economy has affected Tracey’s earnings at the firm and I have a big show coming up—”
“Could Tracey and Pace have been friends?”
“Friends? No.”
“You knew all your wife’s friends?” Moscone didn’t hide his skepticism.
Kendall understood his meaning. “She was not sleeping with this man.” He said it slowly, definitely, looking directly at Ruth, not Moscone. “This is my wife. Tracey’s no longer here to defend herself, but she cared a great deal how others thought of her. I beg you, please don’t turn this horrible accident into something she would be ashamed of.” Kendall leaned forward on the couch and touched the arm of Ruth’s chair. “Please, Chief Murphy, this is important.”
“Halloo!” The call came from the back of the house. Stephen Kendall blinked and looked away. The calls got louder until a woman stood in the vast entrance hall. “Oh, hello,” she said, spotting them. “I’ve brought Carson back.”
The woman came to the edge of the living room. She looked like the perfect suburban matron—expensive, casual clothes and frosted hair done up in a neat ’do. The boy from the photos held onto her left hand. The woman stared at Ruth and Moscone in frank appraisal. “Fran Powell,” she said.
Ruth stood, as did Moscone. “Ruth Murphy, Acting Chief of Police. This is Detective Moscone.” The boy let go of the woman’s hand, ran around Ruth and lunged toward his father.
“Oooh, sorry.” Fran backed away, as if noticing Ruth’s uniform for the first time. “You want privacy.” She retreated across the entrance hall toward the kitchen. Moscone, reading Ruth’s face at a glance, followed.
Ruth turned back toward the couch to study Stephen Kendall’s reaction to the interruption, but instead saw him angrily shove his son from his lap. “Not now, Carson.”
Carson stood glued to the spot, hand to his mouth.
“Go on,” Kendall directed. The boy looked uncertain. “I said, go on.” Kendall’s voice rose. “Hannah! Come get this boy!”
Hannah was through the swinging kitchen door into the center hall in a flash. She bounded across the big living room, knelt and enveloped the boy in her strong arms. “Come on,” she whispered. “Daddy’s busy.”
Carson, clearly confused, allowed himself to be led away, head down, staring at his feet. From the stairway, he looked at his father, eyes wide with hurt.
Ruth, still standing, digested the scene. Stephen Kendall had rejected his half-orphaned son cleanly and completely. And it was atypical. Carson had been stunned. Ruth tried to imagine the swirl of Kendall’s mind. Wife newly dead, questions raised. Would that cause someone to push away a child in need of comfort?
“Mr. Kendall,” she asked, “where is your family?”
If he thought the question odd, he didn’t show it. He leaned forward and spoke directly to Ruth. “Tracey’s family is in Southampton. They’ll come, of course. They’re just waiting to see when we might… until plans are more definite. On my side, it’s just me and my mother. We haven’t spoken for years. She disapproved of my marriage to Tracey. Since yesterday, one of my thoughts has been whether I should I call her in Florida and give her the satisfaction of knowing she finally got her wish—Tracey and I are no longer together. Funny what goes through your head.”
“Mr. Kendall, would Tracey have receipts or other records from her interactions with Screw Loose? We’d like to look at them.”
“Why?”
“To see if there’s anything to help us understand what’s happened.”
“There won’t be. You can’t understand a senseless tragedy.” Kendall stood to face her. “Besides, don’t you need a warrant?”
“Not if you give me permission.”
Stephen Kendall shrugged. “You’re welcome to look in her study.”
Tracey Kendall’s study was a small room on the second floor, tucked behind the main staircase. It was neat, yet cozy, a muted mauve color with surprising, lacy curtains on the single window. A few envelopes sat in a rosewood in-box on the desk; otherwise everything was buttoned up tight
Ruth moved to the chair between Tracey Kendall’s desk and credenza. Moscone, returned from his conversation with Fran Powell, sat on an upholstered chaise, the only other piece of furniture. The room was too small for two people to search, but Moscone dutifully scanned the built-in bookshelves.
Ruth studied the desk in front of her. A fine film of dust coated the surface. It was easy to tell some items had been recently moved. She opened the drawers of the credenza. They were full of file folders labeled in a neat hand: financial statements, passports, bills for household goods and art supplies. Ruth was struck by the orderliness of the room. In Ruth’s experience, every cop was part voyeur. She certainly was—perhaps that was the elusive link between police work and sociology. There was a certain rush to bursting into other peoples’ lives so unexpectedly. Yet much of what they saw was so disheveled, the home equivalent of dirty underwear in the emergency room. “How do you know your house was ransacked?” She’d asked that a hundred times.
Ruth removed a file marked “Screw Loose,” from the credenza. It held several invoices, all marked “paid.”
“What did you get from the neighbor?” she asked Moscone.
“She lives through the woods in the back. Said she was Tracey Kendall’s best friend. That was as far as I got with Hannah Whiteside hanging around. Mrs. Powell seems like an odd one. We’ll have to go back to her later.”
The contents of Tracey’s desk drawers were as mundane as the credenza. Ruth stood up and crossed over to the bookshelves. At first, she studied the space between the spines of the books and the edge of the shelves, then she examined the books—
Black Beauty, The Wizard of Oz,
the Bronte sisters, complete sets of the Little House books and Nancy Drew, including some first editions.