What the Widow Knew Read online

  “That’s only natural.” I wanted to assure her that everything would be okay but I knew it might not be. “Tell me again what happened the night your husband died. Every detail you remember. Your story has got to hold up in court if it goes that far.”

  “Hold up?”

  “The prosecutor will try to poke holes in your account. He’ll try to trip you up, to get you to contradict yourself. So it’s important to get the facts straight.”

  She took another sip of tea and set her mug on the table. “I went to a movie. Warren was watching the ballgame on TV when I left. Sitting in that chair I showed you before.”

  “With a glass of scotch?”

  “Right.”

  “What theater did you go to?”

  “The Cinema in Walnut Creek.”

  “You stayed through the whole movie?”

  “Of course. It was good.”

  She went through the account she’d given me before. She’d gone to the movie alone and hadn’t talked to anyone there. When she’d come home, Warren was in bed. So she closed up the house and went to bed herself. The movie started a little after eight and she was home before midnight.

  “And nothing looked out of place when you got home?”

  “Nothing that I noticed, but I wasn’t really looking. If anything, the kitchen was neater than usual. Warren actually put his glass in the dishwasher.”

  “That was unusual?”

  She smiled a sad smile, and nodded. “For a smart man, he never managed to figure out how dishes got from the counter to the dishwasher.”

  “What about the next morning?”

  “Warren was still asleep when I left for the gym.”

  “What time did you leave?”

  “Probably a little after nine. I got back around eleven. I remember that because the top of the hour news was on the radio.”

  “What gym do you go to?”

  Ariel gave me a quizzical look. “Fully Fit. It’s about ten minutes from here.”

  “Can you prove you were there that morning? Maybe you talked to someone?”

  “I signed in with my membership ID, but I also talked to the Pilates instructor before class.”

  At least that part of the story could be verified. “Go on.”

  “When I couldn’t wake Warren, I called 911. I was half hysterical so I can’t remember exactly what happened. But at some point I realized he was dead.”

  “Did the police question you when they arrived?”

  “A little. Just stuff about health conditions, doctors, that sort of thing. They were nice to me, like they understood I was upset. Then the next morning they showed up and started grilling me.”

  “That’s when they searched the house?”

  “Right. They looked around, checked the doors and windows and stuff, then took our computer.”

  “What about the codeine and Valium? Have you examined the pill bottles?”

  “The cops took them, too.”

  “Do you have any idea how many pills were left in each?”

  “The codeine, probably about ten. The valium, only a couple.”

  I had no idea what the lethal dose was, or the effect of the combination of the two, but combined with alcohol it might not take all that much. “Okay, let’s assume you had nothing to do with your husband’s death—“

  Ariel rocked forward. “Assume? You still don’t believe me?”

  “Play along, okay. If not you, who? It will help your case if you can come up with another possible suspect. Or two.”

  “I don’t know.” She looked around the kitchen as though she might find a likely killer hidden there. “People liked Warren. He may not have been super outgoing but he got along with most everyone.”

  I tried a different tack. “Who has a key to your house?”

  “The cleaning lady. And we leave one with the Homeowners Association—you know, in case of emergency. Most everyone here does.”

  “Do you also have a spare hidden somewhere?”

  She nodded. “In the gas grill out back.”

  We checked. It was still there, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t been used in the interim.

  We moved back inside. “How long has your cleaning lady worked for you?”

  “A couple of years. She works for several people in the neighborhood.”

  “What about her family. Is she married? Kids?” She wouldn’t have been the first service person to inadvertently provide access to a key.

  “Her kids are young. Five and eight maybe. Her husband drives for UPS.”

  I’d been looking around, mentally going over the layout of the house. I turned to face her.

  “Is Fully Fit the gym where Steve Abbott works?”

  Ariel gave a start of surprise. “He has some clients there but he has other clients who belong to other gyms, too. He’s independent.”

  I stepped forward. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “You don’t believe me? I thought you were on my side.”

  “My job is to offer you the best defense I can. What I believe is irrelevant.”

  “But you have to believe me,” she said emphatically. “I didn’t kill my husband.”

  “Are you involved with Steve? Or anyone else? Romantically, I mean.”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “One I’d like an answer to.”

  She took in a breath then looked at her hands. “No, I’m not.” Decidedly less emphatic.

  “But?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You need to level with me, Ariel, or I can’t help you. If there’s anything negative out there the DA will find it and exploit it. We need to be prepared.”

  “Nothing happened, I swear.”

  “But?”

  “I thought about it, all right? Steve is a sexy guy, and I could tell he was interested in me. It’s only natural I’d be attracted to him, right?”

  “Interested in you how?”

  “You know, being playful, giving me the look, telling me how beautiful I was, how he wished we’d met when I was single.”

  “Did anything physical happen?”

  She looked away. “We never had sex if that’s what you mean.”

  We could have parsed the definition of “sex” all evening but I wasn’t in the mood. For now I’d take her at her word. “Have you seen him since your husband died?”

  “Of course. He’s a friend.”

  And now Ariel was single again. I wondered if Steve’s definition of friend was the same as Ariel’s.

  “It doesn’t look good, does it?” she asked.

  “I’ll talk to the DA, see what I can learn.”

  “Okay.” She seemed suddenly flustered. “I’m sorry, I need some time alone right now.”

  She practically pushed me out the door.

  EIGHT

  I called the DA’s office first thing the next morning but the prosecutor assigned to the matter couldn’t meet with me until the following week. It was probably just as well since that gave me time to follow up on a few things first.

  To that end, I headed back to Glenwood, hoping to speak to Sheri Carter, the neighbor woman who was seemingly closest to Ariel. She answered the door with a whining toddler clinging to her leg.

  “I don’t sign petitions or give money at the door,” she said.

  “That’s not why I’m here.” I introduced myself and explained the reason for my visit. “Have I got you at a bad time?” Stupid question—it was obvious the poor woman had her hands full with an unhappy kid.

  “You’re working for Ariel?” Sheri asked.

  “I am.”

  “She told me she’d hired an attorney.” Sheri stepped back. “Now’s as good a time as any. Come on in.”

  The house had a more lived-in feel to it than the Larsons’, due largely to the clutter of baby toys and paraphernalia. But like theirs, the furnishings appeared top of the line.

  “Watch your step,” Sheri said as she led me toward the rear
of the house. “Who would think a single two-year-old could systematically turn our house into a minefield in one morning? I work four days a week so this is supposed to be my quality mommy time. Mostly I run around cleaning up.” She laughed sardonically. “Let me turn on the TV for Dakota and maybe we’ll be able to catch a few minutes’ peace.”

  Sheri was a few years older than Ariel, slender and sleek. She was wearing jeans and an oversized sweatshirt, but I could see from the framed photo on the credenza that she could be polished and sophisticated when she wasn’t in mommy mode.

  “What is it you do?” I asked.

  “Sales, pharmaceutical sales. The job pays well but it takes its toll.”

  Once she’d settled her child in the large family room, she showed me to a table in the adjacent eating area.

  “Ariel told me what happened—and how she might be arrested for Warren’s murder. I feel so bad for her. This whole thing is a nightmare.”

  “Do you think she might have done it?”

  “Killed him? No way. A lot of women complain about their husbands, although usually with humor, I grant you. Are you married?”

  “No.” I hesitated, then hoping to establish a bond, added, “but my boyfriend and I are talking about it.”

  “It’s a big step,” Sheri agreed. “It may not be your experience then, but comparing husbands’ annoying habits is often a topic of conversation among my friends. But not Ariel. With her, it was always how sweet and thoughtful Warren was. How lucky she was to be married to him.”

  “Was he?”

  “You’re asking what I thought of Warren?” She brushed a wisp of ash blond hair from her eyes. “Well, first off, I have to say Ariel believed what she said. She wasn’t trying to gloss anything over. And I think Warren was basically a really nice guy. He kept to himself a lot. Sort of socially awkward. Very bright but he had a hard time connecting with people.”

  “A couple of your neighbors mentioned arguments they’d overheard between Ariel and her husband.”

  “One of them would be Mrs. Boyd, I bet. She’s the neighborhood busybody.”

  So Mrs. Boyd had a reputation. I smiled. “Did they fight a lot?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. I know they were at odds about the baby, at least in the beginning. But I happened to say something to Warren about a week or so ago—my daughter was in one of her meltdown moods—and I joked, ‘See what you’re in for.’ I regretted it immediately, but Warren just laughed and said he’d have to learn to deal with it.”

  “So you never actually heard them arguing?”

  She hesitated. “Just once. I think it was when Ariel was hormonal with the pregnancy and upset that Warren wasn’t more excited. She screamed something like he’d had his life and he had no right to deny her hers. She kept saying ‘you can’t stop me.’ It’s the only time I ever heard her stand up to him.”

  “Stand up?” That got my attention. “Was Warren controlling?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that. Just that Ariel usually agreed with him about everything. I think she’s just someone who’s happy to go along with the flow.”

  Unlike me, who’s a contrarian at heart. In fact, neither Bryce nor I were the sort to go along with the flow. I wondered if that was part of the problem.

  Or maybe Ariel merely suppressed her true feelings. Repressed anger could be a mighty motive for murder.

  “Do you have any idea who might have killed him?” I asked. “Maybe Ariel mentioned disputes he’d had or people he’d crossed?”

  She raised her shoulder in a shrug. “Warren wasn’t the sort to anger people. It sounds mean to say, but he was just, I don’t know, too much of a nonentity to get worked up over.”

  “How about the night he was killed? Did you see anything?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “What about a van? Mrs. Boyd mentioned that she’d seen one that night.”

  Sheri chuckled and shook her head. “That’s Mrs. Boyd for you. I imagine what she saw was one of the workmen for the house a couple down from the Larsons. It’s vacant now but they’re rehabbing it to get it ready to put on the market.”

  “They work at night?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Sheri got up and checked on her daughter, then returned to her seat. “I don’t know how much you know about Ariel’s life, and I certainly don’t want to speak out of turn, but it might help if you knew a bit about her background. She didn’t have an easy life growing up.”

  “Not easy how?”

  “She doesn’t talk about it much, but I know she was raised by a single mom. Her dad left them when she was a baby, married some other woman and raised a family with her.”

  “That’s got to hurt.”

  “Yeah. A shrink might say that explains why she was attracted to an older man like Warren. Ariel was on her own at seventeen. Made some bad decisions along the way and got involved with some shady characters.”

  “What sort of shady?”

  “I’m not sure. Probably drugs. She only mentioned it to me once, but I think it played a big part in who she is today—someone who is grateful that she ended up on her feet instead of dead or in prison.”

  And now there was a chance she’d end up there yet.

  Sheri’s daughter was no longer paying attention to the television but was instead teetering dangerously on the back of the sofa.

  “Dakota,” Sheri sputtered, jumping to her feet. “What are you doing?”

  Sheri grabbed her daughter and set her on the floor. “No climbing, honey. Remember?”

  “I’ll be going,” I told her over Dakota’s screams. “Sorry to have taken so much of your time.”

  “I’m happy to help Ariel. If the cops think she killed Warren, they’re missing the mark by a mile.”

  “Can you think of anyone else I should talk to?”

  “I know Ariel has other friends but I’m really the only one in the neighborhood. Although if you haven’t already, you might try Juliet.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “Warren’s stepdaughter. She’d be able to tell you more about him than I can.”

  This was the first I’d heard about Warren’s step-daughter and I wanted to know more. But now was clearly not the time to ask.

  NINE

  From Sheri’s, I headed to the Glenwood Country Club. Although one of the fairways was directly behind the Larsons’ house, the entrance to the club was a winding half mile away.

  The manager of the golf course, a tanned and sporty-looking gentleman in his forties, was immune to my friendly smile. “I’m sorry,” he told me in clipped tones, “we don’t discuss our members.”

  I reminded him that Warren Larson was dead.

  “Doesn’t matter. He was one of our members. An upstanding member, I might add.” As if I’d impugned his reputation by noting he was deceased.

  The manager might have had me confused with someone from the press, although I’d clearly introduced myself as an attorney. Or maybe he lumped us all into the same pot of unsavory characters. In any case, he was adamant, and I’d pushed as hard as I dared.

  I was on my way to the car when I noticed a sign pointing to the club bistro and bar. I don’t play golf myself, but people I know who do invariably mention something about an icy beer or vodka tonic as part of the discussion of their game. In truth, the post-game refreshment was the only thing about golf that appealed to me.

  If Warren partook of an after-dinner scotch, chances were he occasionally frequented the club bar, too.

  It was ten-thirty on a weekday morning so the place was empty except for one table of four men guffawing over some shared adventure. I headed to the bar.

  “What can I get you?” the bartender asked.

  “I’m an attorney looking into the death of one of your members.” Sufficiently vague to be true. “Warren Larson. Did you know him?”

  “Died in his sleep, I heard. He wasn’t all that old, either. Sure took me by surprise.”

  “There seem
to be some questions surrounding how he died,” I explained, and hoped to heck the bartender wasn’t the stickler for rules the manager was. “What can you tell me about him?”

  “Nice guy. Wasn’t one of the regulars but he’d stop by now and then with the other guys in his foursome.”

  “Always the same men?”

  “Not always.” He cut up limes as he spoke. “There were six or seven of them who played together. Different combos on different days. Nice guys, all of them. Didn’t seem to take their game too seriously. They were in it to have a good time.”

  “Can you give me their names?”

  “Some of them.” He set the knife down. “Let’s see, Carl Pickett was one. Lou Channing another.”

  He came up with two more names and I wrote them all down. “Anyone else?”

  “No one whose name I can recall. Oh, and there was a younger man here a week or so ago. He wasn’t part of the foursome on the course but he caught up with Warren here after the game.”

  “You don’t have a name, do you?”

  “Afraid not. A well-built guy. Dark hair. I didn’t pay a lot of attention. He wasn’t interesting in eating or drinking.”

  Steve Abbott? A possibility, but there was no shortage of well-built young men with dark hair.

  “So Warren didn’t die in his sleep?” the bartender asked.

  “The cause of death hasn’t been determined.”

  Thankfully, two new patrons arrived at the bar just then and saved me from having to dodge further questions. “Thanks for your time. I appreciate it.”

  ~*~

  Back at the office I pulled out the phone book to see if I could track down any of Warren’s buddies. Two of them were listed with address and phone number—earmarks of the older generation. I gave the other two names to Jared to see what he could dig up.

  I was able to reach Carl Pickett by phone, and went through my standard introduction.

  He interrupted me midsentence. “Are you with the police?”

  “I’m working with Warren’s wife.”

  “She’s already hired an attorney, huh? Is she that eager to get her hands on his money?”

  “It’s not about money,” I said, and wondered at his assumption that it was. “There are questions about Warren’s death.”