Same Place, Same Time

“How’s the business doing?” Morgan continued in a conversational tone. Their investigation had already turned up tax returns for the past four years that showed a very healthy profit in each year. But he wanted to hear what Nan had to say on the topic.

“Fine. Excellent, as a matter of fact.”

“I understand you do the accounting?”

Her expression brightened. “Yes. All five stores. The accounting is centralized at our main store on Queen Street.”

Proud of her work. “Was there anything unusual about your husband’s behavior recently? Any changes in his habits, new people that he was seeing?”

Nan colored at his words. “If you’re referring to the fact that they found him in a motel room, the answer is that I have no idea what he was doing there. I suppose you think he was having an affair or something.”

“Is that what you think, Mrs. Walker?”

Nan’s gaze dropped from his. “I don’t know,” she said softly. “I’ve sometimes suspected him of being unfaithful over the years, but we’d just started marriage counseling. I guess I hoped he was sincere when he told me he was willing to work on some of our problems.”

Lying about husband’s affair.

Nan looked back at him, her expression earnest now. “It’s been difficult with Jason away from home. Our counselor says it’s not uncommon for couples to go through a period of adjustment after their children are gone. To be honest, it was me that found it particularly hard. When Jason was at home his friends were always over, involved in one activity or another. And I volunteered at his school and drove for all his hockey games.”

Morgan nodded sympathetically. “So when Jason left, life seemed pretty empty?”

“Oh, I still had my work. But evenings could be lonely. Jerry never felt like doing much when he got home—he was happy to sit around watching television. Quite honestly, I have a hard time imagining him having the energy to have an affair.” The underlying bitterness of her last comment had obviously been unplanned. Her mouth tightened the second the words left her lips and her eyes became fixed on a point somewhere to the left of Morgan’s head.

“Do you know the contents of your husband’s will?”

“Yes.” Her gray eyes flashed at him, objecting silently to the question, but she answered. “I get the house, both cars and retirement fund. The business will go to Jason, of course.”

“Entirely to Jason?” Morgan feigned surprise.

Nan lifted her chin. “Of course. He’s our son.”

Morgan shrugged. The value of Nan’s inheritance was not insubstantial, but it paled in comparison with the worth of the business. “Sure. But your husband could have left you with a life bequest, with the shares to revert to Jason on your death. I mean, in a divorce, you would have been entitled to half of his assets. It just seems odd, that’s all…” Morgan’s voice tapered off, and he pretended to look uncomfortable, all the while watching Nan’s face closely for any signs of resentment. He saw none.

“Our retirement fund is not insubstantial. I’ll be well provided for. And of course I draw my own salary out of the business. And I’ll receive a pension when I retire.”

“Of course,” Morgan was silent for a moment, as if thinking something over. “But what will your son do with the business? You said earlier he wasn’t interested in working there.”

“Perhaps he’ll change his mind. Or he could always hire someone to run it for him,” Nan pointed out reasonably.

“You perhaps?”

“Me? Good heavens, no. Lorne Thackray would be the most likely choice, I’d say.”

Lorne Thackray. Morgan wrote the name down on his pad and circled it twice. “Does he work there?”

“He’s the manager at the Queen Street location. Jerry was talking about increasing Lorne’s responsibilities by adding another store. I imagine he could handle all five if he had to.”

Nan was sitting straighter in her chair now, and her voice was firmer. Morgan found the changes very interesting, but he sensed this was not the time to dig deeper. “That’s all for now, Mrs. Walker. If you think of anything that might help us out, please give us a call.”

Once the initial shock wore off, people’s memories tended to loosen up. Knowing this, Morgan tried not to feel discouraged by the lack of information Nan had provided.

In a homicide of this type, the spouse was an obvious suspect. The marriage had been in trouble and Morgan was almost certain Nan had known her husband was having an affair. And while Nan certainly seemed anxious and distraught, Morgan had a feeling it was more because of his questions than the loss of her husband.

On Nan’s side, of course, was her alibi. And the fact that she didn’t exactly come away with a fortune in the will certainly stood in her favor. On the other hand, alibis could be discredited, and money wasn’t the only motive for murder.

Morgan shook his head, momentarily clearing his mind of the conflicting facts and motives. If he went on gut feel, he’d have to say he didn’t think she’d done it. And why?

Maybe it all boiled down to this: he didn’t think Nan Walker had the balls to cold-bloodedly plan and carry out the murder of her own husband.

CHAPTER THREE

IT WAS NOON. Trista sat and stared at her hands, folded motionless on the top of her desk. Usually she worked through lunch, eating a sandwich as she read files, or making notes on her morning appointments. Today, however, she wasn’t hungry. And her thoughts were uncharacteristically scattered.

Maybe the problem was lack of sleep. But whenever she tried to close her eyes to catch a quick nap, she saw Morgan’s face—the way it was now, not the way she remembered it from before—and she was stricken with guilt.

She’d ruined his life. She still felt that way, despite the months of therapy she’d undergone in an attempt to make peace with her past. He was angry and bitter, and worst of all, she couldn’t blame him, nor could she criticize him for not having moved on with his life. How could he, when she hadn’t either? Weak and foolish she might be, but she wasn’t about to add hypocritical to the list.

How had he survived these past few years? Same as her, she suspected—by throwing himself into his work. At least now he would have Jerry Walker’s case to keep him busy. He wouldn’t be in her position, sitting in an empty room with nothing but her own thoughts to drive her crazy. His job demanded action. Gathering evidence, interviewing suspects—he wouldn’t have time to sit and stew.

Trista separated her hands and tapped her long nails against the wooden surface of the desk. She still found it difficult to believe that Jerry had been murdered, although the basic facts had been confirmed in the morning paper.

But why? And who could have done it? His wife, Nan? It seemed impossible for such a quiet, self-effacing woman. Did her mild exterior conceal the rage it would take to commit murder? Certainly there were negative feelings, repressed hostility. But murder?

Once Nan was ruled out, though, who did that leave? The woman Jerry had been having an affair with? But why would she kill him? Because he wouldn’t leave his wife, perhaps? For some reason, that scenario didn’t sit right with Trista either. Who was this woman he had been seeing? Were there any clues in her session notes?

Trista was relieved when a knock interrupted her fruitless speculations.

“Yes?”

The door opened and a large woman with jet-black hair and piercing dark eyes strode into Trista’s office.

“Sylvia,” Trista said, surprised. Sylvia and her husband, Daniel Hawthorne, were former clients. They’d come to her after Sylvia had found out her husband was having an affair, and stayed in therapy for about two months. Trista had been sorry to see them quit the sessions. It was obvious there were still issues that needed to be resolved.

“Sorry to barge in.” Sylvia spoke in her customary booming voice and didn’t sound sorry at all. “That secretary of yours wasn’t at her desk.”

“Brenda’s on her lunch break.” Trista invited Sylvia to sit down. “Can I get you a coffee?”

“I’m fine,” Sylvia said as she lowered herself into one of the wingback chairs.

Inwardly Trista scrambled for the particulars of the Hawthornes’ situation, wishing Sylvia had given her notice so she could have reviewed her files. She remembered that Daniel had been a sweet, intelligent man. In their conversations, he’d often been dominated by his overpowering wife.

“He’s at it again,” Sylvia said in quiet fury. “I asked him to take me out to lunch today—Wednesday is when he used to meet his girlfriend, remember?—and at the last minute, he canceled.”

Trista assumed she was talking about her husband. “Did he say why?”

Sylvia flounced her hair with one hand. “He said they were having a faculty meeting. So, of course, I phoned the university after he left to check—”

Trista made mental note of that of course. Did Sylvia routinely check up on everything Daniel said?

“—and they said there was no meeting and that Daniel had even canceled his afternoon class!”

Trista remembered that Sylvia had a strong jealous streak, predating Daniel’s affair. Whether those feelings were justified in this case, Trista had no idea. “Before you jump to any conclusions, I think you should talk to Daniel. Perhaps the meeting was rescheduled. Perhaps he wasn’t feeling well. There could be many reasons why he had to cancel his class.”

Sylvia shook her head. “No. If he wasn’t well, he’d have come home or at least phoned me.”

“You won’t know for sure until you talk to him.”

“But I don’t even know where he is! How can I talk to him?”

“I guess you’ll have to wait until he gets home.”

“But that could be hours!”

“I’m sorry. Sometimes we have no choice but to wait. Once you’ve had a chance to discuss this with your husband, I’d be happy to talk to both of you, or you alone, if you’d prefer. Just phone Brenda and make an appointment.”

They sat quietly for several moments before Sylvia finally gave a reluctant nod of agreement. Despite the woman’s abrasive nature, Trista felt sorry for her. Waiting was never easy, especially for a woman of Sylvia’s impatient nature. As Trista ushered the distraught woman out of her office, she saw that Brenda was back from lunch.

“Could we talk a minute, Brenda?”

“Sure.” Brenda waited until Sylvia had walked out the main doors before standing and smoothing the skirt of her navy suit. She was about the same age as Trista, 32, but appeared older, probably because of the premature gray streaks in her hair, and a naturally sallow complexion. Trista had often thought that some hair color and a little makeup would make a world of difference, but those sorts of personal indulgences simply were not Brenda’s style.

Closing the door behind them, Trista got right down to business. “I meant to tell you this earlier, Brenda. I think someone broke into our office last night.”

“What?” Brenda looked disbelieving. “How did they get in?”

“With a key, apparently. The spare in your desk is missing. Wait—” She held out a hand to stop Brenda as she went to check. “I want you to be aware that a detective may be calling with some questions.” She looked out the window before continuing, “His name is Morgan Forester. I think he’ll probably want to know the last time you saw the key, and whether you remember anyone suspicious hanging around your desk, that sort of thing.”

“The key was there Monday morning, when I needed money to buy cream,” Brenda said slowly. “What was stolen?”

“Nothing that we know of, but maybe you could check the files to make sure. I’m going to call security and have the locks on our door changed.”

Brenda went to leave, then paused at the door. “Work must be slow if they’re sending detectives to investigate office break-ins these days.”

The remark caught Trista off guard. Brenda didn’t offer her own opinions very often. Obviously she was expecting more of an explanation. When Trista didn’t say anything, Brenda continued, “Does Detective Forester think our break-in had something to do with Jerry Walker’s murder?”

Trista sighed. Jerry’s murder was something else she should have discussed with Brenda, and she felt like a coward for having avoided it. “I suppose you read about it in the papers?”

Brenda nodded.

“I’m sorry. I should have told you before my ten o’clock appointment.”

“Is there a connection between the break-in and the murder?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? Trista thought about the Walker file and Morgan’s expectations that she review it. The prospect both exhausted and frightened her. It was a big mistake for her and Morgan to spend time together. If only this could be one of those rare cases, the kind that got solved quickly and simply.

Brenda was still waiting, her expression cool but expectant. Trista raised her hands helplessly. “I don’t know. It’s possible, I guess. But I sure hope not.”

MORGAN WAS LATE for his appointment with Trista. As he rushed off the elevator and through the main door, he was disappointed to see the receptionist’s chair empty, her desk cleared of the day’s work. He’d asked Brenda a few questions over the phone about an hour ago, and had hoped to catch her before his meeting with Trista.

Behind the reception area, Trista’s office door stood slightly ajar. Morgan walked up to the threshold, somehow reluctant to announce his presence. The silence was unsettling. With a slight push of his hand the door swung open.

Trista was on the sofa, asleep. Her body was curled in an S shape, with her auburn hair spilling loosely over the arm she had tucked under her head. She’d kicked off her shoes, and her long, narrow feet, encased in sheer hose, were resting on a pile of books on the far cushion.

As Morgan stepped closer, he was able to see more. Her face was pale, her eyelids almost translucent, her lips pulled down at the corners as if even her naps were haunted by sad dreams. Her narrow skirt had ridden to almost the top of her thighs, and his breath drew in at the sight of her long, slender legs. As far as he could see, they were as flawless as when he’d first known her, and he felt a thumping in his chest in response to awakened memories.

White-hot anger suddenly replaced the stirrings of desire. Teeth together, he sucked in his cheeks, took a deep breath and tried to fight off the vicious pull of emotions. Turning his back to her, he picked up the phone to make a quick call. He spoke quietly, but soon heard the rustle of her suit against the stiff fabric of the sofa, and the soft intake of her breath, signaling that she was waking. He didn’t turn around. The next time he looked at her, he wanted her to be back together, without so much as a hair out of place.

When he hung up, she asked, “What time is it?” in a voice husky from sleep.

“Five-thirty.” He spread his hands, gripping the edge of her desk, surveying the spartan neatness of the work top and trying to erase the picture of her long, almost bare legs from his memory. This was all about business. He’d be okay if he just kept reminding himself of that fact. “Sorry if I kept you waiting.”

In the background he heard sounds of smoothing and pulling, and he imagined her tidying her hair, reorganizing her clothes. Her arm must have fallen asleep, it would be tingling now. Would she guess that he’d taken a moment to stop and study her while she was asleep?

“No problem. I guess I needed the rest.”

Her words were cool, composed, and suddenly he knew that it wouldn’t have occurred to her that he might have been watching her. And even if she’d known, she couldn’t have cared less. He felt the rage building in him again. How could she be so distant and impersonal? Even caught off guard taking a nap, she didn’t give an inch. From her reaction, he might as well be the night janitor, asking if he could empty the trash from her office.

He tightened his hold on the edge of the table and bowed his head. Get a grip, he told himself. You can do this.

“Can I have the file?” she said, stepping behind her desk into his range of vision. As he’d suspected, her hair was smooth and her suit was impeccable once more, barely a trace of a wrinkle in her brown linen skirt and jacket.

He pushed the locked briefcase across the desk surface, noticing as she reached for it how smooth and even-colored the skin on the back of her hands was. They in no way betrayed the pain and unhappiness of the past. Unlike the circles under her eyes and the gauntness of her frame.

Her long nails were tapered, with a flawless covering of polish. A different color than yesterday, he noticed. God, he was falling apart and she was coordinating her nail color with her change in clothing.

Before she could open the file, he stopped her with one quick touch to those picture-perfect hands. “I think I should fill you in on the latest developments before you start.”

Her nostrils pinched in as she drew a deep breath. Because of his touch, or the suggestion? Did she think he was prolonging their encounter for the fun of it?

“The more background information you have, the more likely you’ll be able to pull any relevant information from your notes,” he explained.

She nodded tightly in response. “Let’s sit down then.”

Carefully avoiding the sofa—he imagined he could still see the imprint of her body on the soft cushions—he sat in one of the chairs, pulling out his notepad and resting it on one knee.

“Obviously my main interest is in identifying the woman Jerry was having an affair with,” he began, trying to pretend this was just another briefing. “Beyond that, let’s start with Nan Walker. Both she and her son have motives, but they have alibis as well. Nan claims to have been at the store Monday afternoon, while Jason was at school in Kingston.”

Trista nodded, and he continued, “She claims she didn’t know Jerry was having an affair. I got the impression she was lying. What do you think?”

Trista uncrossed her legs and leaned forward on her lap. “I can’t dispute what she told you. The topic of an affair never came up in our sessions, and I never pursue those avenues unless it seems necessary.”

Morgan checked his impatience with her carefully worded reply. God, talking to Trista was like dealing with a lawyer. “Well, it’s pretty clear he was having an affair. Nan found a note among his personal effects today.”

That shocked her at least, he observed with satisfaction.

“A note?”

Morgan nodded. On his way here, he’d stopped at the Walkers’ to pick it up, which was why he’d been late. “Nan found it this afternoon when she was sorting through Jerry’s papers. It’s typed on a piece of stationery with flowers across the top. It says—” he lowered his eyes to his notepad to read the exact words “—Let’s make it Monday this week. Same place, same time.”

The room was silent as Trista absorbed the information. “Poor Nan,” she said finally, taking a deep breath with the words. “Having to cope with this on top of everything else.”

“Women have murdered for less.” He saw Trista cringe at the harshness in his tone.

“Who else have you talked to?” she asked. “Besides Nan.” Her voice was low, quietly encouraging. He imagined her using that same tone to inspire the confidence of her clients, and he felt the anger surge inside him again.

“The cleaner at the Night’s End. She said Jerry had been coming to the motel for several weeks now, never staying more than three or four hours at a time. She’d pretty much figured out what was going on in that room and she wasn’t impressed.”

“Did she ever see the woman he was meeting?”

“Only from a distance. She said the woman looked like a spy from the movies. Big trench coat. Hat. Sunglasses. Arrived in a taxi, left in a taxi. Ring any bells?” he asked sarcastically. As a description it didn’t have one thing to commend itself. The cleaner hadn’t even been willing to guess as to weight or height.

Trista shook her head, as if sharing in his disappointment.

“The desk clerk wasn’t any better,” Morgan continued. “According to him, Jerry always picked up the room key. Except this last time the woman came to the desk saying her husband had locked them out and she needed another key.”

“That’s strange.”

“Isn’t it, though? Something else that ties in with the note Nan Walker found—the clerk said they normally booked their room for Wednesdays. This was the first time they’d met on a Monday.”

“That has to mean something.”

“I agree. But what?”

“I wish I knew.” Trista held her hands out helplessly.

“Tell me about your secretary. Brenda.”

Trista looked surprised at the question. “Brenda Malachowski? She’s been working for me since I first opened my practice.”

“Is she married?”

“No. She lives alone in a condominium on King and Bathurst.”

“Does she date anyone in particular?”

“Not that I know of, although she goes out a lot.” She frowned. “Is this really relevant? I don’t like talking about people behind their backs.”

Morgan felt his patience snapping. “Answering questions in a homicide investigation isn’t exactly gossiping. But maybe you should take a look at that file now.”

Once Trista was settled at her desk, Morgan turned to the forms he’d brought with him. Unlike a lot of cops he knew, Morgan enjoyed doing the paperwork on a job. It was a chance to sit and think, to pull the strands of an investigation together.

Still, it was easier to do when you’d had some sleep in the past forty-eight hours, and he’d had precious little. Slouching down in his chair, he put his feet up on the coffee table. Trista looked exhausted as well, despite the catnap he’d interrupted. Had she, too, found it impossible to fall asleep last night?

He tried to concentrate on his papers, but it wasn’t long before the lines in front of him blurred then went double. He slouched down farther in his chair. The hand holding his pen went slack and the pen slipped down, soundlessly, onto the plush carpeted floor.

“YOU WANT TO KNOW what I think? You won’t like it, I’ll guarantee you that. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with our marriage. She just needs to broaden her own interests a little. Ever since Jason left for university she’s been moping around the house and acting miserable. Who feels like talking to a person like that?”

Jerry’s voice came loudly over the earphones Trista was wearing. She adjusted the volume slightly downward.

“What do you have to say to your husband’s comments, Nan?”

There was so much that a tape recording left out. Trista could remember the hostility in Nan’s eyes, the way her lips had compressed into a tight, thin line. But then, in a matter of seconds, her anger seemed to have disappeared, and she replied in a typically unassertive manner.

“I know I haven’t been very good company lately, but I do have other interests. I work, after all. Maybe we need to go out more. Do things together, as a couple—”

“We do go out. We went to the Easter Seals thing just a few months ago. And before that there was the political fundraiser…”

“The one for Suni Choopra. But those aren’t the sort of things I was talking about.”

That was where Trista had met the Walkers. She’d been at the fundraiser as both a friend and supporter of Suni’s. Federal elections were being held in six weeks, and Suni looked like a shoo-in as the incumbent member of Parliament for Toronto West.

“No kidding! You stood by yourself, in a corner of the room, for most of the evening. It was damn embarrassing, let me tell you! You’d think a woman over forty would have learned a few social skills already!”

“They were your friends. And you didn’t introduce me to any of them.”

At this point, with their time almost over, Trista had felt obliged to break in.

“Are you talking about more intimate activities, Nan? Just you and Jerry? Maybe going out for dinner or to a movie?”

“Exactly.”