Price of Innocence Page 9

  “An offer? He’s made almost as many as he’s made on Jamie’s.”

  “Even though it’s diagonal from his house and with the alley in between?”

  “Idiot’s sure he can persuade the county and — and this is where he’s totally off his rocker — the Old Town Committee — to let him connect across the alley. He’s got designs that look like a Rube Goldberg invention. Course he’s planning to fill in the patios — Jamie’s and mine.”

  She raised her voice. “Not that he’ll ever get his way. Did you hear that, Phil Xavier? I’ll never give in to you. And I know you’re probably listening to me. Every word.”

  A sound resembling a window closing came to them. Possibly a coincidence.

  Landis, no believer in coincidence, said, “Let’s go inside to continue this. Unless you’d like to come to the department…?”

  Nothing of threat was in his tone, but he was ready to get on with it.

  “The police department?” Good thing Landis hadn’t been using it as a threat, because Imogen set her head at an angle and looked up at them like a mischievous bird. “The interrogation room? Two-way mirror? Smell of despair and psychopathy?”

  “We call it an interview room. No mirrors needed, because we video and can see the live feed. You’re right about the smell, but it’s more from old socks.”

  She grinned, clearly delighted with Landis’ response. “Way to break an old woman’s heart and shatter her cherished illusions. C’mon inside. I suppose you’re right after all. No sense giving Phil Xavier what he wants, even when it comes to eavesdropping. Besides, sun’s gone in and it would be just like this pack to get pneumonia on me.” Her grumbling did a poor job of masking her concern for the animals, who lumbered ahead of her to be first in the door, a desire she accommodated. “Go on with you, get inside.”

  Waiting for the dog-jam to ease, Belichek looked around at the buildings connected by this alley.

  Jamie’s was significantly wider than this one, so Xavier’s master plan would require complicated angles and offsets.

  It made him wonder how much could be seen of comings and goings in Jamie’s back patio and garage from her neighbors’ second stories.

  As she shooed the dogs inside, Landis turned his head to his left.

  Belichek followed the direction of that look and saw wooden pegs on the wall inside the door, holding an array of keys, each neatly labeled. Below a label reading “Jamie,” a peg stood empty.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Quickly gauging viewing angles, Belichek reckoned the keys would be visible to anyone looking through the back door’s glass panes.

  Once they were all inside, Imogen gestured to the hard chairs around the small table near the back door.

  Landis looked toward the sofa in the front room with a bit of longing, until the still-damp dogs jumped up on it with obvious familiarity. He arranged his long legs the best he could in the small space.

  “My home is earning its spite stripes for this century as it denies Phil Xavier what he thinks he most wants.”

  “Thinks?” Belichek repeated.

  “He’s one of those who’ll never be satisfied. If he got control of these three houses and made the mess of this half of the block that’s his vision, he’d have yet another bigger, more grandiose, and uglier vision. It’s the kind of man he is.”

  “What was Jamison’s reaction to his plans?”

  “Turned him down, of course. Nicely. Time after time, still nice. Not like me. Jamie’s wasn’t built as a spite house, but I sure hope it keeps on spiting Phil Xavier. As long a Jamie was there, I never gave a thought to him getting his way.” She peered at them. “I suppose it’s those two cousins of hers who have inherited it. Or her nice parents? Hope it’s not her brothers — nothing against them, but with them living so far away, they won’t be as familiar with the campaign waged by Phil Xavier.”

  “Do you have the key to Jamison Chancellor’s house, now?” Landis said.

  “No. Had it. That’s how I got in. That policeman took it last night. Actually, one of those tech people. I was still holding it from when I opened the door… Odd, how your mind works at a time like that. Holding onto that key.”

  “Have you ever lost or misplaced it?”

  Whether he’d meant it to or not, Landis’ question irked her.

  Before her lips formed words, Belichek could practically taste the tartness of her intended response.

  Then the snap in her eyes shifted.

  “You know, there was a time, about a week before she left, when I couldn’t find that key to save my soul. Just when I thought I’d have to confess to her that I’d lost it, there it was, in one of my rain boots by the back door, like I’d gone to hang it on its hook and it dropped down into the boot instead.”

  Both men turned and saw how easily that could happen with boots and shoes on a mat directly below the key collection.

  Belichek also saw she’d left the door unlocked. Was the gate to the alley locked?

  “You hadn’t gone into Jamison Chancellor’s house in the weeks before last night?” Landis asked.

  “Just how absentminded would an old lady have to be to fail to notice a corpse in the front hallway?”

  “I didn’t, uh, mean—”

  Belichek bit back a grin at his smooth partner stumbling over his words. “Did you go into Jamison Chancellor’s house by any door any time between seeing her on the Friday before Labor Day and last night?”

  “Now, that’s the way to ask a question.” Looking pointedly at Landis, she simultaneously reproved and teased him. Turning back to Belichek, she rewarded him with a succinct, “No.”

  Landis asked, “Why’d you go in the front door?”

  She nodded that he’d redeemed himself. “Same key opens the front and back doors. Did you know that? Well, it does. And sometimes I do go in the back. Mostly when I don’t care if Mr. Nosy Xavier knows what I’m doing. Anyway, yesterday, I went out and walked around a few blocks, to get some exercise because it had been so hot all day and it wasn’t until that hour that you could even breathe outside. And that brought me by the front of Jamie’s on the way back to my house, so I thought I’d go in and get the next book in the mystery series I’m reading.”

  “When was the previous time you were in the house?”

  “Let’s see … that would have been the Tuesday night before Jamie left. For book club.”

  “Who else is in this book club?”

  “No one.”

  “Just the two of you?”

  “Yes. And we have withstood every effort to change that. Jamie and I share — shared — a penchant for particular kinds of books. Our favorites are strong mysteries with smart-ass humor. Don’t look so appalled young man. I can say assed, just as I can still spot stupid asses.” She paused for a thoughtful beat. “And appreciate good ones.”

  Red showed under Landis’ collar, as if she had commented directly on his butt.

  Possibly she’d eyed that part of his anatomy longer than necessary, but it had been subtle. Apparently, Landis had not missed it.

  Belichek coughed, enjoying the woman and — especially — her effect on Landis. No wonder she and Jamie connected. The reference to appreciating smart-assed humor clicked with an element he’d picked up in the journals that had surprised him. It wasn’t part of her public profile, yet it came through in those pages. Dry, understated, but definitely an appreciation for humor.

  Had she also shared Imogen’s puckish notice of a man’s appeal?

  Her journal writings about the men in her life gave no indication of their physical facets. Caution? Fearing the journals might someday be read? Though she opened up in other areas, including her cousins.

  He jerked his head up, aware of both Imogen and Landis watching him.

  “The book club — that’s why you went to Jamie’s house that Tuesday night?” he asked abruptly.

  “Jamie?” she repeated, and Belichek wondered if the space on the back of his neck above h
is collar had turned red.

  But she didn’t pursue it.

  Instead, she said, “In a way. She’d introduced me to a writer new to me on Tuesday and I’ve begun reading the series in order. After finishing the first book, I went into town and bought what Andersons had of the series, then ordered the rest. But I was ready to start the fourth book and that’s one they didn’t have in stock. I was down to the last chapter of Book Three. Didn’t want to finish it until I knew I had the next one in hand. I knew Jamie had the entire series. I stopped by to get it.”

  “Did you notice anything odd, out of place, or that puzzled you?”

  “That’s your best question yet.”

  Landis tried not to look pleased.

  Her gaze slid up to the crown molding at the juncture of wall and ceiling.

  She blinked and focused back on them.

  “Her clothes were … odd.”

  Frowning, Landis asked evenly, “Last night, you told the responding officers that the clothes were Jamison Chancellor’s. Are you changing your statement?”

  “They were Jamie’s clothes, like I said to that young officer at the scene, Officer Schmidt. I recognized them. But, actually, what I said was I didn’t know how it couldn’t be Jamie, especially since those were her shoes. No doubt about that. There was a red stripe across the bottom of them from when Jamie stepped in some paint.

  “But she never wore that black and off-white windowpane blouse with jeans. Always with a pair of slacks. Cream-colored.”

  Belichek asked, “Did you see any activity at Jamison Chancellor’s property after the time you thought she’d left for the mountains?”

  She raised both brows. “No. Would’ve told you, would’ve told the guys last night.”

  “Can we see the view of the back of Jamie’s house from your upper floors?”

  It was a cumbersome process, with the three dogs winding around their legs as they tried to negotiate the narrow stairs and even narrower paths between furniture upstairs.

  The single back window on each floor showed a slice of the back of Jamie’s house, including the glass-enclosed porch and a patch of patio in front of it. The garage structure blocked the view of the back door.

  It also showed that at least four windows in Phil Xavier’s house would look down into Jamie’s patio and possibly into her house, depending how hard someone wanted to work at it.

  * * * *

  Outside Imogen’s front door, Belichek asked, “Remember the guy at the scene when we walked Mags out? Medium height, well-dressed, lousy skin, receding hairline, compensating beard? That’s Phil Xavier.”

  “Yeah. We’ll check on the guy who lives here — the fourth corner of this quartet — then swing back by the Xavier house. The guy couldn’t use an agent if he wants to buy these houses?”

  “Jamie asked the same question in a journal entry about his, uh, persistence. Said it would make neighborliness much easier, and she wouldn’t feel she was in danger of being pounced on every time.”

  “Pounced on, huh? And what Imogen Wooton said. He wants the house that much?”

  “Seems to. Something happened soon after Xavier moved in that Jamie was vague about in the journal. Indicated she told him no — several times — and she suspected he’s not used to that. At the scene, he emphasized she lived there alone and was real interested in who’d inherit.”

  “So he’d go over there, blast her in the face up close?”

  “If he thought it would get him what he wanted and wouldn’t get himself caught?” Knowing that was unanswerable and they’d both seen weirder, Belichek switched topics. “Interesting Imogen said Jamie never wore that blouse with jeans.”

  “First name basis with the victim and witness, huh, Belichek? Imogen Wooton caught that, too.”

  “We often refer to murder victims by their first names, treating them more familiarly in death than we probably would if we encountered them, unknown and a stranger, in life.”

  Landis breathed out through his nose, recognizing the diversion.

  Belichek kept going. “But I think it’s good. Jamie. It makes her a girl I could have known. Makes her more Individual. More vulnerable.” His voice dropped on the last word, contemplating her absolute vulnerability in death. “And that makes us more human. Connected to her — to them — as people, not detective and victim.”

  “Makes perfect sense.” Landis dropped his mock solemnity. “Or it could be a detective getting whacko about a victim.”

  “Investigating is putting together the right—”

  “Pebbles to build a mountain. Don’t start on that with me again.”

  “A witness’ account that the victim was wearing a combination she’d never seen before is an interesting pebble.”

  “Fluke. An old lady—”

  “Don’t dismiss a witness because of age, Landis.”

  “I know, I know. Your grandparents were the sharpest folks around right up to the end. And, actually, I wasn’t going to say that, which you’d know if you hadn’t jumped to a conclusion — meaning you flunk Detecting 101.”

  “What were you going to say?”

  “That an old lady as sharp as she is would still not see what a neighbor wore every time. And the shoe information trumps any doubt about the blouse. But if you want to ask Mags about the outfit, knock yourself out. Now, what I thought was interesting was that anybody coming in that back door — hell, anybody on the patio and probably anybody standing outside the alley gate when it was open — could see those keys hanging there, including the one to Jamie’s—”

  “Jamie’s?”

  Landis didn’t pause, but Belichek was satisfied he’d made his point. “—and knowing it was there, it wouldn’t have been hard to find an opportunity when Imogen left the back door open and unattended—”

  “As she did to answer the door for us.”

  “Exactly. Lots of opportunities to come in the back. God knows those dogs wouldn’t raise a fuss.”

  Landis punctuated that statement by ringing the bell on the house next to Imogen’s.

  The house’s central door, flanked by symmetrical windows and topped by an arched fanlight, indicated the house had once stood alone. The houses built against their neighbors mostly had doors on one side or the other.

  He should have used that bit of knowledge to win Imogen Wooton’s approval, Belichek thought as the door opened.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Garrison Enderbe brought them past impressive rooms still true to their eighteenth-century roots to a small room that shared a recent addition with a kitchen, well-outfitted but not flashy.

  “This is about Jamie — Jamison Chancellor — I suppose. I knew her, liked her. But I’m afraid I don’t know anything that will help you.”

  The hair thinning on top and shadows around his eyes should have gone with an older man — or a younger one pulling all-nighters.

  “Did you see Jamison Chancellor the Friday night before Labor Day?”

  “No.”

  “Or after that?”

  “No. Last time I saw her was the weekend before, when I had a glass of wine with her and Imogen on Jamie’s patio.” He paused. His head cocked, his mouth still open. “Unless… One night that weekend, Labor Day weekend. Late night. Hardly anybody around, I was crossing my street, and here came a car barreling toward me. I thought at the time— It could have been Jamie’s. Or similar.”

  “Color? Make?”

  “Dark red like hers. One of those compacts that look similar.” He shook his head, negating hope for more details.

  “Which night?”

  He grimaced. “I went to a party Sunday night that went late, so it could have been then. But I also was up late Friday and Saturday playing an online game with my nephew who’s on the West Coast. One of those nights I went out and moved my car, there was a rare spot open across from the house and I had to load it with things I was taking to the Sunday party. But which night? I don’t remember. I honestly don’t remember. I could as
k my nephew.”

  “I’m not sure—”

  “He’s not a kid. He works for a tech startup out there. He can be vague, but if he says he remembers, you can bank on it.”

  “If you could give us his contact information…”

  “Sure. I understand. Anything I can do to help. Nice person, Jamie Chancellor. I hope you get the bastard who did this.”

  Belichek wondered if he was aware that as he spoke the last sentence, his gaze slide toward Phil Xavier’s house, a slice of it visible above the privacy fence that showed in the back window.

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “My whole family lived here for a while when I was growing up. Then when I came back and started working on the Hill… It’s not my house. It’s my dad’s. He’s a great businessman. I’m not. But I’m lucky he believes in supporting civic-mindedness, so he lets me live here. I might have let Phil think my name was on the deed for a while.”

  He grinned, dissipating the shadows and looking more the age of his round face.

  “Drove him nuts when he found out he’d spent time being his version of nice to me when I wasn’t useful to him.”

  “What’s his version of nice?”

  “Glad-hand. Trying to find out if I had wine, women, or song weaknesses by dangling out temptations. Or, better yet from his perspective, gambling, drugs, or Internet porn addictions. He’s not very subtle. I’d say Poor Phil, but he’s too much of a jerk to feel sorry for him.”

  “What happened when he found out you didn’t own the house.”

  Another grin. “First he let fly with the kind of insults you’d expect. Not imaginative after you’ve worked in the Capitol for a while. And then, when he realized Dad was the owner, he tried a cringe-worthy reconciliation — ha, ha, ha, it was all a joke. We’re still buddies and you’ll put in a good word for me, won’t you?”

  “Did you?”

  “Reconcile? Or put in a good word for him?”

  “Either.”

  “Definitely not put in a good word for him. Warned Dad. As for reconciling, we don’t do the neighborly dance anymore, but I say hello if we pass in the street. Which is more than he deserves.