By Roberta Isleib, first published in SEASMOKE: Crime Stories by New England Writers from Level Best Books (November 2006.)

SYNOPSIS: When clinical psychologist Dr. Rebecca Butterman is invited to ride along on a murder investigation, she wonders what could have gone so wrong in this posh waterfront Shangri-la. After interviewing the dead woman's husband and neighbor and observing the path of the victim's final gruesome drag to her bedroom, Dr. Butterman reaches a clever conclusion with methods no self-respecting cop would employ.

The blood had soaked into each nubby crevice of the white carpet, leaving the loops standing at attention, stiff with dried brown. I grimaced. It would be hell to remove the stain.

Over time, I’ve learned how my mind handles physical trauma and the ensuing gore: I focus on housekeeping details. Not that I’m a clean freak, but thinking about cleansers and enzymes keeps me from puking on the crime scene.

“Apparently the vic was whacked here.”

Detective Meigs gestured toward the stain. Vic, perp, floater, whack—Meigs and his buddies handle trauma with cop language, a not-so-secret code that tries to blur the hard truth: A woman died here.

“Her husband called 911 about four hours ago,” Meigs continued. “Told us he’d been in the shower. Thought he maybe heard a banging or popping noise, maybe he didn’t. The window was open, which the husband says isn’t status quo.” He waved at the fluttering chintz, then steered me around the stain and out into the hall.

“Don’t touch anything.”

I rolled my eyes. “Duh.”

“I posted an officer in the kitchen with Mr. Harrison after our interview this morning. There’s a neighbor waiting with him too.” Meigs brows arched, thicker and darker than the reddish curls on his head.

“Did she arrive with a casserole? They say single women have gotten very aggressive these days.” I’m single but Meigs isn’t. And I’m not—aggressive, that is.

He grinned. “Nah, I kind of suggested she hang around to hold his hand. He acted all broken up when they came for the body.”

“Acted?” I still couldn’t quite figure out why he’d asked me to ride along on this case. I pulled my elbow from his grip. “What direction are we facing?”

“I don’t know. North? Northwest? What the hell difference does that make?”

I tapped a finger on my lower lip. “So wait. The woman was found here?”

“Oddly enough,” Meigs’s Adam’s apple dropped an inch, then bobbed back into place, “after she was shot, she appears to have pulled herself down this hall, across the vestibule, and into their bedroom.” His eyes darted away then back to my face. “I’ll show you.”

We traced the path the injured woman had taken, hugging the walls to avoid contaminating the blood smears that marked the victim’s travel. A small crew of crime scene technicians was packing up after a morning scraping samples and spreading fingerprint dust. The chi-chi décor would never be the same.

“So the husband found her in the bedroom when he got out of the shower?” I asked.

“No. He was using the facilities in the guest room on the far side of the house.” Meigs’s eyebrows peaked a second time. “Then he claims he came to the master to get fresh clothes and voi-la—his dead wife. I’ll give you a few minutes to look around, then come on down to the kitchen. Don’t touch anything,” he said again.

How many times would he ask me to consult before trusting me not to muck up the evidence? Well, I call it consultation. He doesn’t seem to go for the idea of publicly asking a clinical psychologist—a woman at that—for her intuition. So he calls it: “Let’s grab a bite for lunch but I have to make a stop first and you can ride along if you like but stay the f*** out of the way.”

I moved around the perimeter of the room, building a mental picture of the woman who had lived here. And died here too. Only later, at home, over a glass of my best Fume Blanc, would I allow myself to think about that final gruesome drag.

A king-sized bed draped with a hand-stitched gold quilt dominated the room. I’d seen the same coverlet in a high-end bedding catalog last month. Unless the woman had lucked out in a major January white sale, the quilt cost almost my weekly income. Hard-earned blood money in some cases, I mused, thinking of the hours I spent listening, listening, listening—searching for loose threads in a patient’s narrative that when tugged gently, would advance the slow process of introspection.

Half a dozen pillows had been plumped at the head of the bed. A person reclining here would have a primo view of the backyard garden. The flowers all bloomed white—roses, daisies, carnations, baby’s breath, and some I didn’t recognize—pinwheeling out from a marble torso of a nude and muscular man. The ground around the plantings had been freshly buried under dark mulch. A hundred yards or so behind the garden stretched Long Island Sound.

I studied the second, smaller bloodstain on the carpet beside the bed. Why would a woman with a lethal injury drag herself the length of the house to her bedroom to call for help? Surely in a home that bordered on opulent, there would have been a closer phone. Maybe she realized that her husband was busy elsewhere and would never hear her cries. Or maybe there was no point in looking for a savior in the man who’d shot you. I folded the underside of the quilt back, knelt down, and peered under the bed—nothing out of place except for a stub of red cord protruding between the mattress and box spring.

I poked my head into the master bath—a large whirlpool tub, his and hers sinks—blue pottery bowls set into white limestone, a separate shower big enough for two, even a bidet. With a bathroom like this, why would Mr. Harrison have showered in the guest quarters?

His and hers walk-in closets were immaculate. The dead woman’s clothing hung on padded hangers, arranged by color. And every garment was appropriate to the season—no wool jackets or trousers mixed in with the summer things the way they are in my closet. A bright red silk blouse launched a sweeping u-turn that ended with a pair of white linen pants. Above the clothes were rows of handbags and matching shoes. This was not a woman who would have left a bloodstain the entire length of her carpeted hallway without a damn good reason.

I stepped back out into the bedroom and walked to the gleaming cherry wood bureau. A black scarf had been draped over the mirror, flanked by two delicate ceramic swans. The couple’s wedding photo was propped in the middle of the polished surface. I leaned in for a closer look. They appeared happy—though most couples manage that in front of a wedding photographer. She had been a petite woman with black curls and elfin dimples. Mr. Harrison’s smile was more reserved. Wide shoulders strained at the seams of his tuxedo.

I left the room to join the detective in the kitchen with the new widower.

“Mr. Harrison, I’m so sorry for your loss.” I laid a quick, comforting hand on his shoulder and noticed that the muscular hunk from the wedding picture had grown rounded and soft.

“Gary,” he said.

“This is Dr. Butterman,” Detective Meigs said tersely. “She’s a doctor.”

Not technically true, but maybe Meigs found it easier to explain why he’d bring a medical doctor to a crime scene than a shrink. Besides, he looked crabby and grim. So I let it slide.

“Mr. Harrison and I were reviewing the list of suspects we developed this morning,” Meigs said, emphasizing “list” and “developed.” He pushed a small, yellow-lined pad across the table.

“Pilates instructor” were the only words on it.

“Was your wife having a problem with her exercise teacher?”

Mr. Harrison’s face caved. “I think, no, I’m almost sure she was having an affair.” He ran his hands through his thinning hair, which stuck out in disordered tufts, as though he’d forgotten to comb it once he’d gotten out of the shower. Finding one’s wife murdered would render the finer points of grooming obsolete.

“What were the signs of that?” I asked.

“She was paying a lot of attention to her dress and hygiene,” he reported, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “And our neighbor told me she saw him over here all the time.”

“Your wife was generally sloppy?” I asked. This did not fit with what I’d seen in the bedroom.

“Not sloppy exactly. You know how it is when you’ve been married a while. You just don’t take the same care you did when you were dating.”

“Those early courtship days are special times,” I said.

Meigs snorted softly and raised a finger: He wanted in.

I ignored him. “How often did the trainer come?”

“I paid for twice a week.” Mr. Harrison scowled. “Our neighbor thinks he was throwing in freebies.”

“So your wife was taking care of herself that way,” said Meigs.

“Very good care,” grunted Mr. Harrison.

“Did you ever run into this man outside of their sessions?”

He shook his head. “Never met the asshole.”

“What happened to your neighbor?” I asked. “Wasn’t she here earlier?”

“I sent her home,” said Meigs, frowning furiously. Then he turned to Mr. Harrison. “Let’s go over your morning again.”

“I had an early business meeting—a tennis game and breakfast at the club with one of our customers,” Mr. Harrison explained. “I forgot to bring pants to change for the office so I figured I’d come home to shower and go to work from here.”

“Why shower in the guest room?” asked Meigs.

Mr. Harrison twisted his hands and shrugged. “No reason, really.”

“Have you and your wife been experiencing marital difficulties?” Meigs inquired.

“No! Goddammit, I didn’t kill my own wife.” His fist crashed down onto the kitchen table and tears filled his eyes.

I leaned forward and touched his hand. “Was your wife interested in decorating or did she hire someone for that kind of thing?”

“She did it herself. In fact, she just finished redoing the bedroom. Which looked fine before she went and tore it all out, thank you very much. We had a hell of a fight over that one. You can’t imagine the charge card bills the past few months.” He seemed to realize what he’d said. “I don’t mean a knock-down, drag-out,” he winced, “I just complained about the American Express, that’s all.”

“And did she enjoy gardening?”

“She designed all that, too. But she hired some Mexicans to help with the heavy lifting.” He fitted his hand to his lumbar spine. “I have a bad back.”

Detective Meigs stood up. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Harrison. Please stick around. We’ll want to touch base with you later on. Meantime, call me if you think of anything else that might be helpful.” Meigs scribbled down his cell phone number and handed him the card.

We left the house and paused on the front porch. Veranda was more like it. I inhaled a double lungful of salt air and tilted my face up to the sun.

“Were you going to ask him for his wife’s recipe collection next?” said Meigs.

“Just wanted to get a picture of her life here.” I turned to him and smiled. “Isn’t that why you pay me the big bucks?”

“What the hell is Pilates anyway?” Meigs asked.

“You need to get out more often, Detective. Everybody’s doing Pilates now. It’s about strengthening your core abdominal and back muscles. And lengthening your spine—even men get osteoporosis. You should try it.”

He grunted, but straightened his shoulders.

“What did you think?” I asked. “Mr. Harrison seemed genuinely upset to me. They may have had some problems, but I get the feeling that he really loved her.”

Meigs rolled his eyes. “I like him for it. He shot her and then took a shower to eliminate any physical evidence. Guy who’s loaded like that, gonna cost a fortune to legally dump a wife he’s tired of. He’s upset, sure he is—who’d want to trade this mansion for a cellblock?”

“But?” I asked.

“But something stinks,” he admitted. “Let’s have a chat with the neighbor. Then we’ll head into town and check out the trainer. Michelson will pick him up at the gym and bring him to the station.”

We crossed a carefully tended expanse of lawn, my heels sinking into the soft dirt with each step. Two enormous marble lions guarded the front door of the brick colonial next door. The face of the lion on the left had been broken off, leaving just the mane and the enormous paws. The choppy waves of the sound glinted in the distance. Not quite the view the Harrisons had, but stunning all the same.

A worried-looking woman with white-blond hair opened the door before Meigs’s finger made contact with the bell. The heavy layer of eyeliner below her left eye had blurred as though she’d been crying. Her voice was shaky.

“Thank God you’re on the case, Detective. I feel so frightened. I can’t believe this is happening. I saw Vivian in the garden just this morning.”

“May we sit down a minute? This is Dr. Butterman. She’s a psychologist.”

Why was I a psychologist, rather than a doctor, for the neighbor?

“Liza Renquist.” The woman perched her moist hand in mine briefly, then turned toward the living room. Everything in the room was white.

“Take your shoes off,” I hissed, but Meigs just glared. I stepped out of my pumps, leaving them on a mat next to a pair of silver sandals and some pruning shears.

“Sorry for the mess.” Mrs. Renquist waved at a few scattered shreds of mulch that definitely wouldn’t qualify as a “mess” in my home. “I was working in the yard when Gary ran over with this awful news.” She began to weep and sank into the couch.

I brushed off the seat of my pants before sitting—just my luck to transfer some glop from Meigs’s unmarked to this woman’s pristine upholstery.

“Take us through what happened this morning, all the details you can remember,” Meigs told her.

“There’s nothing to tell, really. I didn’t hear anything. Like I said, I waved at Vivian in the garden. I like to do my work early”—she patted her cheek and glanced at me—“sun damage, you know? Anyway, Vivian seemed just fine. Then a couple hours ago, Gary ran over and—“ her voice broke—“told me Vivian had been shot.” She crossed her arms over her chest and clutched her thin shoulders with both hands. “I don’t know how I’ll ever sleep tonight—my husband’s on the road until Friday.”

“Did you notice anything unusual in the neighborhood this morning, Mrs. Renquist?” asked Meigs. “Cars you didn’t recognize? Visitors? Anything like that?”

She shook her head. “Well, I was a little surprised to see her in exercise clothes so early.”

Meigs blinked. “Vivian?”

Mrs. Renquist nodded slowly.

“What do you know about the Harrisons’ marriage?” he asked. “Don’t hold back, Mrs. Renquist. We need to know the honest truth.”

“Honestly? I don’t think they’ve been getting along.” Liza wiped her eyes, angled her head toward her neighbor’s estate, and dropped her voice to a whisper. “I’m pretty sure she was doing it with the Pilates instructor.” A small smile played across her lips. “He is a very nice looking man. Middle-aged husbands tend to get a little flabby.” Her gaze raked the detective’s small potbelly, then she looked at me again and smiled.

“Be sure and lock your doors, M’am, and call us if there’s any trouble.” Meigs placed his card on the coffee table and got to his feet. “We may need to talk with you again.”

“Any time. Can I get you some tea or a sandwich? Oh my goodness, my manners have gone all to heck.” She began to cry again.

“Thanks, no.”

“Your roses are stunning,” I said, motioning to a crystal vase filled with white buds.

“Thanks,” she snuffled.

I slipped back into my shoes and followed Meigs out the door and across the lawn.

“Whaddya think?” he asked, pausing just outside the Harrison mansion.

“The honest truth?” I teased. “Come. Interviewing the Pilates instructor will be a waste of time.” I led Meigs down the hallway to the bedroom and pointed to the wedding photo displayed on the cherry bureau and then a smaller headshot of the bridal couple on the bedside table. “I believe Vivian was looking for this picture when she made that trip along the hall.”

“Aha,” said Meigs, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “She was going to implicate her husband by marking his likeness with her blood.” He snorted. “You’re losing it. Why didn’t she just call the cops and tell us straight out?”

“May I?” I gestured to the phone. He nodded, and I picked it off the receiver, pressed “call”, and handed it over to him. “No dial tone.”

Meigs squatted and ran his hand along the cord until he discovered a cut in the line. He looked annoyed. One of his men should have picked this up.

“She probably tried to call you. Then, knowing she was dying, she left a clue.”

“A clue,” he said flatly. His knees cracked as he stood.

I pushed on. “This is the room of a woman who’s committed to working on her marriage. I do not believe she was having an affair with the Pilates instructor. She was using the principles of Feng Shui to put her relationship with her husband back together. I think it was starting to work, too. You saw how grief-stricken he was.”

“Fung schway?” said Meigs. “What the hell?”

“It’s the ancient Chinese art of placement to allow optimal movement of chi or natural energy in your home.” I folded the golden quilt back away from the sheets and knelt to touch the end of the red cord sandwiched between the box spring and the mattress. “The rope represents a loving tie.”

“So now we’re solving murders according to some Oriental fruitcake philosophy?” The detective’s voice brimmed with disgust.

“Asian. Asian is for people, Oriental for carpets.” I smiled calmly and got back to my feet. “It’s not just the rope,” I added. “The signs are everywhere—the wedding photos, the sensuous bedspread, the white garden, even the swan statues. If you’re working on a stronger marriage, they suggest you decorate with pairs of animals that mate for life.”

Meigs scowled. “Where in the name of Christ do you get this stuff?”

“And the cloth over the mirror,” I added. “She covered it because a mirror facing a bed invites failure in the marriage due to infidelity with a third party.” I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and stared at the point just below his Adam’s apple. He’d loosened his tie just enough to expose a sprig of red hair. “May I make a suggestion?”

“Since when do you ask permission?”

I smiled sweetly. “Find out whether the Harrisons made love today. If so, I think it will be worth your while to check Mrs. Renquist’s hands for gunshot residue. Here’s my theory: she came over to cut some roses and saw more than she bargained for—the Harrisons having sex. Gary was the one having the affair, not Vivian. And the affair was with our friend Liza. She saw them having marital relations, was overcome with jealousy, took the roses home, and marched back over with a gun to confront Vivian once Gary left for work. You saw the outcome.”

Meigs twisted his head to meet one shoulder, then the other. “And you based this theory on home decorating?”

“And the mulch on her sandals. The mulch in the Renquist garden is red, not black. And the roses in her living room. Did you notice? They came from Vivian’s garden.” I pointed out the window to the dead woman’s white flowers. “The Renquists have hydrangeas, day lilies, and rosa rugosa—nothing manicured and nothing white.”

Forty-five minutes later, we watched two uniformed cops lead the handcuffed Liza Renquist down the front walk to a waiting patrol car. She was growling like a nasty little dog.

“Solving murders through Fung schway,” said Meigs. “What a crock. How the hell do I explain this one to my supervisor?”

“Did the job, right? You go ahead and explain it however you like,” I said graciously. “But I would like to hear why you brought me over.”

Meigs sighed. “You have a doctorate in clinical psychology and what—twenty years of practice dealing with kooks? I thought you might apply some of that expertise while interviewing Harrison.”

“I don’t think so.” I waggled my finger. “You felt the disturbance in the energy field as soon as you entered the living room—same as I did. And you remembered, subconsciously perhaps, the discussion we had last week about my Feng Shui consultation.”

“Baloney. Wait a minute, though.” Meigs placed two fingers from each hand on his forehead. “I’m receiving a message now. Wait…wait…it’s about Kung Pao.”

He massaged his temples. “Kung Pao chicken to be exact. And a Tsingtao beer. Shall we take out or eat in?”

First published in Seasmoke: Crime Stories by New England Writers,
Level Best Books, November 2006 www.levelbestbooks.com
Copyright by Roberta Isleib