A Deadly Wilderness, page 8
Ray forced himself to meet her gaze. “I found him.”
She shook her head in disbelief. Her dark bangs fell over hazel eyes, making him want to brush her hair back from her face as if she were a child. “How? Were you looking for him?”
“No. I went hiking.”
“Oh, oh.” She put one hand over her mouth, the muscles in her throat quivering in a violent effort to swallow. The color of her face reminded Ray of a freshly fallen snow. She lowered a shaking hand. “Was he . . . how did he look?”
Ray’s mind conjured up the image of Joey Doyle’s body: the rusty bloodstains, the tattered blue shirt, the mangled hand. For a second, he could smell the stench of decaying flesh again. He cleared his throat. “The wilderness park is a beautiful place, ma’am, peaceful. It was like he was just resting.”
She breathed in and out, the sound echoing noisily. “Good, that’s good, isn’t it? Thank you. Thank you for finding him.”
“Yes, ma’am.” It had been purely accidental and totally unwelcome, but Ray understood and accepted what she offered. At least her husband wasn’t still lying out there, exposed to the elements and creatures who would tear his flesh from his body. At least she could bury him. “I hate to ask you these kind of questions right now, but we really need your help to find out who did this.”
“You want to know why I said what I said about the Doyles doing it?” Suddenly, she sounded nervous. Ray studied her swollen red eyes and trembling lips. “I was just overcome with emotion, I-I-I didn’t mean it. I was distraught.” Her voice rose with each word.
Not nerves, fear. He heard fear in the tortured stutter.
“Mrs. Doyle, tell me about your husband’s relationship with his family.” Ray kept his voice soft, trying to make her feel more at ease.
“Milt has had a couple heart attacks. They know it won’t be long before he’s gone.” Melody shredded the tissues with shaking fingers and threw them on the table, avoiding his gaze. “They’re sharks. Milt loves it. He plays with them. One day, he’s leaving controlling interest to Kevin; the next day, it’s Elaine. But never Joey. He just teases Joey because everyone knows Joey is—was—cute and sweet, but not much of a businessman. He had all these schemes to create more business, but nothing ever panned out.”
“What kind of schemes, specifically?”
“I don’t know. He just said it was going to be big, very big, that they would see and start taking him more seriously.”
“When was the last time you talked to your husband?”
“Face-to-face? When he left for work after breakfast Tuesday morning.” She looked as if she were replaying that last scene in her mind. Ray hated to make her go through it. She would look back at that shared moment and come to the mind-boggling realization that it would never be repeated. “We ate blueberry muffins and drank orange juice.”
Her voice trailed away, forcing Ray to prompt her again. “What did he talk about? Did he have anything on his mind?”
“Well, he did seem kind of happy, which was unusual, but he didn’t say too much.”
So he was happy. Happy about something that made someone else furious enough to kill him? Ray grasped at straws. “You don’t care for Kevin, do you?”
“Are you kidding? Kevin never stopped riding him. Kevin isn’t very nice.” Melody’s face twisted in a bitter smile. “He never let Joey forget his mistakes.”
“Like the joy riding and the car theft in high school.”
“Exactly. It was fifteen years ago, for crying out loud.”
Since he had been eighteen and considered an adult, his mistake stayed on his record, but Ray didn’t linger on that thought. “What about Elaine?”
“Elaine is Ms. Money Bags. She’s also a bitter old biddy.”
No hard feelings there. “So you don’t care for her?”
“She lives here with her three kids. She’s at the dealership all day, comes home, has a martini or two, and then calls me a freeloader. Who does she think entertains her kids all day?”
“And the other sister.” Ray glanced at his notebook. “Sarah?”
“Sarah’s the only one of the whole bunch worth knowing, and Kevin and Elaine despise her.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s smarter than they are. She’s getting her masters in philosophy. She’s going to teach at some university, and she’s already writing a book.”
“Going back to Tuesday, you said the last time you talked to him face-to-face was at breakfast. Did you talk to him again after that?”
“On my cell. He called me about eleven thirty, I guess. I was on my way to the Junior League luncheon.”
“What did he say, exactly?”
“Well . . .” She hesitated, as if trying to remember—exactly. “He said things were coming together.”
“What things?”
“I don’t know what things. He didn’t say what things. Just things.” Her tone took on a hysterical edge. “He didn’t tell me about business stuff. I was just the wife. I’m supposed to look pretty at cocktail parties, produce offspring, and be ready to perform when he comes home at night.”
Ray kept his opinion of that statement to himself. “What else did he say?”
“That he was going to a lunch meeting, then to do some hiking. He said he would probably be a little late.”
“I need to know something else, Mrs. Doyle.” The question had to be asked. He’d put it off long enough. “Did your husband wear a wedding ring?”
“Yes, why?” She looked puzzled, then anger bloomed. “Are you telling me he didn’t have it on? He took it off for some reason—to mess around, maybe.”
She’d immediately gone there. What that did that say about her relationship with her husband? If she knew for a fact he was cheating, maybe murder had crossed her mind. Maybe she’d even done something about it. “We don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know? He either had it on, or he didn’t.”
“The ring finger on his left hand was missing.”
“The killer mutilated my husband’s body?” She whispered the question.
“Yes.” He’d gutted the man, but Ray didn’t elaborate. He needed to keep her moving, not let her dwell on the image. “So what did you do all afternoon on Tuesday?”
Her face white with horror, she stared into space for a minute as if reliving the day. “After the luncheon, I had an appointment for a manicure and pedicure. I did some shopping at North Star. It was about four when I got home. I sat around waiting for Joey to come home. He never did.”
Tears trickled down her face. She covered her mouth with her hands. Her eyes squeezed shut as a strangled sob escaped, a tiny sound that made Ray stare at the floor. She stood up, teetering for a second, then stumbled away. She stopped at the door, her back to him. Her shoulders shook.
“Just one more question, Mrs. Doyle, and we’re done.” Ray wanted to let her walk away. He wanted this to be over, but he couldn’t let her go until he knew everything she knew. “Who was here when you got home?”
“You think one of them did it?” She looked back at him, her eyes dark with emotion. Wrapping her bare arms around her middle, she shuffled back and slid into her chair again. The emotion shimmering in her eyes wasn’t grief. It was fear. Something or somebody scared Melody Doyle.
“You said they did. Why?” He wanted to probe, but lightly, not scaring her away.
“I said they probably did it. I was just lashing out. They’re such creeps. I don’t have any proof. And they would never cut his fing—they’re not monsters.” Was she trying to convince him or herself?
“If you could, please just tell me who was here when you got home.”
“Elaine wasn’t here. I don’t know where she was. Maybe a date or something. Sarah was in Austin. I didn’t see her boyfriend. He was probably working. Kevin came in about six, six thirty. I remember because he and Milt were in the living room, watching something on the big-screen.”
“Mrs. Doyle, here’s my card.” He wrote his home number on the back and handed it to her. “Call me if you think of anything that might help us find your husband’s killer.”
She turned the card over and over between her hands, not looking at it. “I have to make some arrangements, don’t I? Do I make arrangements for the . . . for his . . . for Joey?”
“I’m sure your in-laws will help. It may be a few days before we can release your husband’s body.”
Her face crumpled. Ray rose. She did the same, then her legs gave out, and she sank back into her chair. “How will I tell the children? Do you think a five-year-old understands death?”
“I’m sure you’ll find the words. Just take your time.”
“Mommy?” Melody turned at the same time as Ray. A small, blond boy clad in Superman pajamas stood in the doorway.
“Ethan, what are you doing down here? Why haven’t you gotten dressed?” Melody darted across the room. The boy buried his head in her stomach as she clutched him to her body.
“Grandma was crying. Why am I a poor boy, Mommy?”
* * *
Cynthia Doyle had aged ten years in the hour it took Ray to do his other interviews. When he walked into an enormous kitchen filled with shiny stainless steel appliances and the faint aroma of fresh bread, she was standing at the stove, pouring hot water from a teakettle into a cup. She stared at him for a second as if trying to figure out how he’d gotten into her house.
“Care for some green tea?” She looked vaguely out of place, like someone unaccustomed to serving herself—or others. “The cook is distraught. I told her to lie down, but I’m sure I can manage to fix you a cup of tea.”
“No, thank you, ma’am.”
“Sit down, Detective. We might as well talk here. No one will bother us. My children can’t find the kitchen, let alone cook.”
Ray took a seat on one of the bar stools around a rectangular island. Mrs. Doyle took another one. An acre of blue, purple and white checkered tile separated them.
“Were you proud of your son?” He lobbed the first volley.
“Joey?” She stared into a fragile china cup.
As if she didn’t know which son he meant. “Yes.”
“Joey was my problem child, I admit, but I loved him. He needed me more than the others. I had to watch out for him. Then I turn my back for a second, and look what happens.” The timbre of her voice reminded him of a thin sheet of glass. Tap too hard, and it would shatter into a million fragments.
“Did your son have any enemies? Anyone who might hold a grudge against him?”
“How should I know? You’re the detective. My tax dollars pay your salary so you can solve murders like this one.” The grieving mother metamorphosed into an aristocrat accustomed to servants doing her bidding. “You’re wasting time—mine and yours.”
Ray couldn’t tell whether she was just irritated at being questioned by a minion or if she had something to hide. “I need to ask you a few questions to establish Joey’s state of mind and his normal routine. If we can figure out if he deviated from that, it’ll help.”
“His state of mind? Did you ask Melody about his state of mind? She contributed plenty to his state of turmoil. I heard them in their suite, arguing all the time. My poor grandchildren were growing up in the middle of a war.”
Now there was a different take on things. “Do you know what they argued about?”
“The woman’s paranoid. She’s convinced Joey was cheating. She harangued him if he was five minutes late, sure he’d been with some other woman.”
“You don’t believe he cheated?”
“He may have, early in their marriage, but not since he had children to think about. She’s delusional.” Mrs. Doyle smacked the cup down on the saucer. A diamond tennis bracelet clinked against the china. “I never understood what he saw in her. When he brought her home the first time, I told him it was a mistake. It’s always a mistake to marry out of your class.”
Ray kept his face neutral. “Are you telling me you think your daughter-in-law is capable of murder?”
Mrs. Doyle gave a short, mirthless laugh. “You saw her performance in the living room. From the screaming fury I heard when I passed their room at night, she sounded perfectly capable of killing.”
“Joey never mentioned any problems at work or outside the house to you?”
Something—fear maybe—flitted across her face, but it was gone before Ray could analyze it. “Nothing out of the ordinary. The usual, harmless sibling rivalry. Joey got frustrated with Kevin and Elaine because they didn’t give him more responsibility. But he couldn’t handle more. I told him as much.”
Nice. “Did he ever mention a big business deal?”
“Joey?” This time the laugh was outright. “He was always coming up with these whoppers. Kept his dad and me in stitches. Llamas. Ostriches. Soybean sprout farming. Some invention that was supposed to keep facial hair from growing on women’s upper lips. Ridiculous ventures.”
“Nothing related to the car dealerships?”
Her smile died and her answer seemed too long in coming. “No. Joey sold cars. He was a good salesman. Very charming. And he had good manners. People like that when they’re spending thirty or forty thousand on a car.”
“Where were you Tuesday afternoon?”
Her eyebrows popped up. Then her features froze in outrage. “What are you implying, Detective?”
“Nothing, ma’am. It’s just a routine question to establish everyone’s whereabouts.”
“There’s nothing routine about losing a son to a murder. Get out there and find the monster who did this now before I call Phil Whittaker. I have his number on speed dial. He’s Sarah’s godfather.”
Phil Whittaker was a banker and owner of two sports team franchises. He was also the mayor.
“I plan to, ma’am, but I still need an answer.”
She slid from her stool and stalked to the door, pausing with her hand on the frame. “Here, Detective. I was here all day with my grandchildren. I had my interior decorator come in. I’m redoing the living room. Now get out.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He slid past her, taking the time to meet her gaze directly before turning his back.
“Detective.”
“Yes, ma’am?” He glanced back. Stark anger distorted her features, giving her face a horror-flick visage. Too much mascara and botox.
“Don’t mess this up. I don’t want this criminal walking away on some technicality. I’d rip his heart out myself, if I could. I expect nothing less from you.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Ray went in search of his partner.
Grieving mother or liar? Grieving wife or liar? One of them was lying.
The question was, which one? And more importantly, why?
Chapter Eleven
“Mom. Mom!”
Susana looked up from the stack of bills she was sorting to see Marco standing in the kitchen doorway. With what was left of the insurance money, Javier’s Social Security, and the firefighters’ fund, she was keeping their heads above water. Barely. She should pay bills when she was more rested, but when would that be?
From Marco’s tone, he’d been trying to get her attention for a while. He’d retreated to his bedroom to play video games the second they’d arrived home from Benny’s basketball game. Taxi, a Jack Russell terrier who adored her son, nuzzled at his leg before giving her a mournful stare. Neither dog nor boy looked happy.
“Sorry, sweetie, you know how it is when I’m doing high math.” She tried for a comical grin. Marco had been morose at the game, not bothering to cheer for Benny even when he made his first basket of the season. She didn’t know whether to be angry at Marco’s lack of support for his foster cousin or worried about her son’s state of mind—or both. “Need something? Some Tylenol for your wrist?”
“How come Ray wasn’t at the game?”
So that was it. “He’s working the case—you know the body y’all found in the ravine.”
“He came to all my games last season.” Taxi whined and Marco stroked the dog’s head. “He knew Benny was playing his first game, and he didn’t show up. Benny felt bad. Did you tell Ray he couldn’t come because you were mad about me falling?”
“No. No, I didn’t tell him that.” Not in so many words.
“How come he hasn’t called me? To ask if I’m okay?”
“He’s just busy, Marco. I’m sure he’ll call soon. Why don’t you get out the ice cream—I think we both could use a bowl of chocolate chip.” It was his favorite. Maybe she’d get a smile out of him yet. “We can sit out on the step and watch for fireflies while we eat. Taxi can even have a treat.”
Marco didn’t budge from the doorway. “I have to ask you something.” His tone had gone from accusing to belligerent, the one he used when he knew she would say no to something he wanted.
“Sure, go ahead.” She dropped her pen and rubbed her forehead, hoping her headache would kick back a notch.
“Do you think maybe we could go home—just for a visit?”
“Honey, we are home.” She pretended to misunderstand.
“To Corpus. I wanna go to the beach and Jet Ski and go fishing like me and dad used to.” Marco’s face brightened. “It’d be fun.”
For once, Susana didn’t have the heart to correct his grammar. Her pain was almost physical as she contemplated how much an eight-year-old boy must miss his daddy. The longing in his voice wrapped itself around her heart so tight her pulse pounded in her ears. She had her memories, too. Clear blue skies, the smell of saltwater, gulls cackling as they soared overhead, the rough sand caught between her toes.
Except she’d sold the Jet Ski to the couple who had bought the house. “I’m sorry, but we don’t have a house there anymore, so we’d have to stay in a hotel and rent the Jet Ski. We can’t afford it right now. Maybe when I finish school.”
