“Did Iris want something from you, Ms. Barrett?”
14
Kinsley Aspen
July
Tuesday, 3:17 pm
Kinsley capped her water bottle as a police cruiser rolled to a halt behind her Jeep Wrangler. Toby gave a slight wave through the windshield as he shifted the vehicle into park. She’d reached out to him through dispatch to let him know the interview with Darlene had run longer than expected, and that she’d prefer he meet back up with her in front of the Bell mansion.
She set the water bottle in her cup holder and opened the driver’s side door, already replaying the final minutes of the conversation in her mind. She didn’t like how the interview with Darlene Barrett had ended. The woman’s daughter had called at precisely the wrong moment, just as Kinsley had asked whether Iris had attempted to blackmail Darlene herself, and the interruption had been seized upon like a lifeline.
Darlene had answered the phone, murmured something about the granddaughter’s recital costume, and then all butescorted Kinsley to the front door with the phone against her ear.
A follow-up interview was inevitable.
Had Iris attempted to blackmail Darlene Barrett? Kinsley suspected the answer was yes.
The silver lining was that Ginny Kusman would likely offer up specific details on her own once she realized Darlene had revealed her affair. Kinsley wouldn’t disclose where she’d gotten the information, but Ginny didn’t strike her as someone who lacked the intelligence to figure it out, regardless of the image she presented to the world.
“You clean up well, Drewett,” Kinsley remarked as Toby stepped out of the cruiser, his dress shoes clicking against the pavement. He’d traded the patrol uniform for a navy suit that fit well through the shoulders and a tie that was subdued in color but had enough of a stripe pattern to suggest he’d put some thought into the choice. “Very professional.”
The sun had disappeared behind a thickening bank of clouds, as if reminding her about the approaching storm front the forecasters had been warning about. Given the dull ache settling into her right knee, she figured the rain wouldn’t arrive until late Thursday at the earliest. Her knee had always been a more reliable barometer than anything on television.
“I was able to find a home address for Amelia Keery,” Toby reported as he shut his door and took a brief moment to adjust his tie. “As well as her place of employment, which surprisingly turns out to be the junkyard on Route 9. Her family owns it.”
“In all likelihood, her interview will take place first thing in the morning.” Kinsley waited for an elderly man to drive past in a small sedan before crossing the street. Toby fell into step beside her, and she could sense his questioning expression without having to turn her head. “We have no idea how long our interview with Mrs. Kusman will run, and the junkyard is on thesouth side of town. No sense driving out there if we’re going to run out of daylight.”
Unlike the other Victorian homes lining the block with their traditional wraparound porches, the Kusman house featured a distinctive bay-window turret that rose three stories high on its right side. The structure gave the impression of grand stature, even though its actual height matched the neighboring properties. It was the kind of architectural flourish that drew the eye and was probably the point.
“I don’t mind adjusting my schedule if needed,” Toby offered as they came to a stop in front of the door.
“If only that were the reason,” Kinsley said with a brief laugh. She reached out and pressed the ornate doorbell. “With city budget constraints, the only way Captain Thompson is going to approve overtime is if this turns into an active investigation. And by that, I mean someone dying today.”
The public assumed there was some magic stamp that could reopen an investigation with a single press of ink. The reality was far more complicated. Since Grant Tatlock had been found guilty by a jury of his peers, it would take substantial, undeniable proof to challenge his conviction, even posthumously. Kinsley had to build that case one interview at a time, and she had to do it within the boundaries of a budget that didn’t account for cold cases coming back to life.
“When we’re invited inside, follow my lead, but don’t hesitate to ask questions if something occurs to you that I miss.” She turned just in time to catch his eyebrows lift in surprise. “I’m not that harsh. I was a rookie detective under Sam Haugen, you know. His approach was to toss rookies into the deep end and see if they could swim. I’m not that extreme, but I’m also not going to tie your hands the way Detective Dobbs does. He never lets his junior officers do anything but stand in the backgroundand look attentive. How do you think he ended up permanently stuck with Crosby?”
“I guess I assumed they were always partners,” Toby said with a frown as he smoothed his hair back from his forehead.
If he didn’t stop fidgeting, she was going to have no choice but to adopt Sam’s methods after all. She’d learned more from that man in six months than she had during her entire time at the academy. Granted, Sam had grown a bit complacent in the last few years, but that had more to do with being passed over for the sergeant position more than once than with any decline in his abilities.
That thought brought Laura Mitchell to mind.
Laura had gotten the promotion before Sam, a decision that had caused some friction in the department, though Laura’s qualifications had never been the issue. The issue was everything else. Laura hadn’t heeded Kinsley’s warning about Beck Serra, and Kinsley wasn’t going to experience the slightest twinge of sympathy when things eventually went south. And given that Laura had broken Alex’s heart last year, a wound her partner still carried beneath his unflappable exterior, Kinsley wasn’t about to put herself in front of that particular moving train again.
The door swung open, revealing Ginny Kusman in a flowing sundress, her freshly manicured hands and pedicured feet visible in open-toed sandals. The pale pink polish gleamed against her tanned skin, evidence of her earlier appointment. She’d been expecting them, which meant she’d been monitoring the street since her nail appointment ended. The lemonade pitcher visible on the coffee table confirmed it.
“Detective,” Ginny greeted her with a tight smile. Her gaze shifted to Toby, assessment clear in her expression. “Please, come inside.”
“Mrs. Kusman, this is Officer Toby Drewett,” Kinsley introduced as they stepped into the air-conditioned house. The temperature difference was immediate and welcome. “We appreciate you taking time out of your afternoon to speak with us.”
The Kusmans had maintained the Victorian charm of their home by celebrating its historical roots rather than modernizing it. Intricate woodwork adorned the coffered ceilings, and rich, patterned area rugs cushioned their steps, adding warmth to the polished hardwood floors beneath. A hand-painted vase sat on a mahogany side table in the foyer, and the walls were lined with framed portraits and landscapes, each piece reflecting the craftsmanship of what Kinsley assumed were local artisans or antique dealers with expensive taste.
The distinctive bay-window turret offered a panoramic view of the neighborhood from within, almost framing the Bell mansion across the street as though it, too, were an oil painting hung for the Kusmans’ viewing pleasure. The sight line was direct and unobstructed. Anyone standing in this turret on the night of the murder would have had a clear view of the Bell property’s front door.
Ginny led them through the foyer into a formal living room where a collection of family photographs lined the mantle above a marble fireplace. Unlike the candid snapshots that filled the Aspen home, images captured mid-laugh or mid-argument with someone’s thumb half over the lens, the Kusman photographs were professionally staged. Perfect smiles, artful poses, coordinated outfits. The kind of images that projected happiness without necessarily containing it.
