“What do you mean?”
“When we were together, Lisa could do whatever she wanted. Sometimes…” He waved a hand.
“Sometimes what, sir?”
Ramsey sat straighter. “Sometimes I think I was too easygoing, and she thought I didn't care. I don't want to tell you how to do your job, but I can't say I see the point of all this… biography, Detective Connor. Lisa was murdered by some maniac, and we're sitting here talking about her childhood.”
A topic you brought up. “Sometimes it's hard to know what's relevant, sir.”
“Well,” he said, “I just don't see the point.”
Petra drew an oval on her pad and placed a horizontal line two-thirds of the way down. A few more pen strokes turned it into Ramsey's tailored mustache. She sketched in his blue eyes, tilted them downward a bit, made him look sad.
“Any other reason for Dr. Boehlinger to hate you other than your being too old for Lisa?”
“I don't know,” he said. “Jack and I never had any hassles, so I honestly don't know.”
“No problems at all?”
“None- why?”
“He mentioned something to me, Mr. Ramsey. The incident-”
“That,” said Ramsey sharply, and now she saw something different in his eyes. Wary. Hardened. “I figured we'd get around to it. Do you know why Lisa went public? In addition to hurting me?”
“Why, sir?”
“Money.”
“The show paid her?”
“Fifteen thousand. She called it adding insult to injury.”
“She must have been pretty mad at you.”
“Beyond mad- Lisa has Jack's temper.”
Present tense, again. On some level, she was still there with him.
“Tell me about the incident, Mr. Ramsey.”
“You don't watch TV?”
“I'd like to know what really happened.”
His lower jaw slung forward and he clicked his teeth. “What can I say? It was sleazy, tawdry, inexcusable, it still makes me sick. We'd been out to dinner, came home, had words- I don't even remember about what.”
Bet you do, thought Petra.
“It heated up, Lisa started shoving me, hitting me. With a closed hand. Not the first time. I put up with it because of the difference in our sizes. This time I didn't. There was no excuse. What can I say? I lost it.”
He looked at his fist, as if unable to believe it had ever caused damage.
Petra remembered the news clip. Lisa's black eye and split lip.
“It only happened once?”
“Once,” he said. “One single, solitary time, that's it.” He shook his head. “One stupid moment you lose control, and it's forever.”
As good a description as any of murder.
“I felt like crap, just like absolute filth, seeing her on the floor like that. I tried to help her up, but she screamed at me not to touch her. I tried to get her an ice pack- she wouldn't have anything to do with me. So I went out to the pond, and when I came back, her car was gone. She stayed away for four days. During that time she went to Inside Story. But she never told me about it, came back and acted as if everything was fine. Then, a few days later, we were eating dinner and she turned on the TV and smiled. And there we were in the hot tub, and she gives me this grin, says, ‘Insult to injury, Cart. Don't ever lay a fucking hand on me again.' ”
Ramsey studied the offending body part again, opened the palm. “I never did- I'm going to get something to drink. Sure you don't want?”
“Positive.”
He was gone for several minutes, came back with a can of Diet Sprite. Popping the top, he sat back and drank.
Petra said, “You just mentioned going out to a pond. I don't remember seeing one out back.”
“That's because it was our other house.” Our, not my. Another indication he hadn't severed all the ties. Nor had he lapsed into distancing language, the way murderers sometimes do in the middle of their chronologies, starting with we and switching to she and I. Petra had read an FBI report claiming linguistic analysis could offer major clues. She wasn't convinced, but she was open-minded.
Ramsey drank more soda, looked genuinely miserable.
“Your other house?” said Petra.
“We have a weekend place up in Montecito. Actually, a bigger house than this. It's pretty nuts, maintenance-wise. There's a little pond there I used to find peaceful.”
“Used to?”
“Don't go there much anymore. That's the way it is with second houses- I've heard the same thing from other people.”
“They don't get utilized?”
He nodded. “You think you're getting yourself some refuge and it just becomes another set of obligations- the place was too damn big in the first place. God knows this one is, too.”
“So you don't go up there much.”
“Last time had to be…” He looked at the ceiling. “… months ago.”
Suddenly his body jerked, an almost seizurelike movement that snapped his head down and brought his attention forward. His eyes met Petra's. Wet. He wiped them quickly.
“The last time Lisa and I were up there together,” he said, “was that time. We never went back together. A few days after the show aired, she moved out again and I got served with papers. I thought everything was patched up.”
Petra kept the poignancy at bay and thought: The DV episode had gone down in Montecito. She'd call Ron Banks and save him more searching.
Ramsey rested his chin in his hand again.
“Okay,” she said. “This is helpful. Now, if you don't mind, let's talk about the night Lisa was murdered.”
27
Mildred Board would have liked to scrub the kitchen floor.
Years ago, she'd accomplished the task every single day. A one-hour commitment, up to the elbows in soapy water from six A.M. to seven. Excellent thinking time, no distraction from the slosh or the circular movements of cotton rags on yellow linoleum.
Once the arthritis set in, all that stooping and rubbing became unbearable, and she was lucky if she was able to attend to the floor once a week.
The dining room parquet required attention as well. The wood was faded, buckling and cracked in spots, long past due for a refinish.
Every inch of wood visible; the dining room was empty, all the missus's furniture shipped off to those Sotheby's people in New York.
Mildred felt an uncomfortable tightening around her eyes. She breathed in and straightened her back and said, “One does one's best,'' in a firm voice.
Firm and loud. No one to hear her. The missus was upstairs. So many other rooms between them, all empty and closed off.
The kitchen with its old cherrywood cabinets, industrial refrigerators, and three ovens was big enough for a hotel. The pots and pans and cutlery remained, as did the missus's favorite bone china set and a few sentimental silver pieces in the butler's pantry. And the magnificent linen press the Sotheby's people said they couldn't hope to sell. But the lovely things- the treasures the missus and him had acquired in Europe- were all gone. Brought in fine prices, they had, even after the auctioneer's premium and the taxes. Mildred had seen the check, known everything was going to be all right. For a while.
She and the missus had never discussed the… financial situation. The missus continued to pay her, insisting upon full salary, though Lord knew Mildred didn't deserve it- what use was she in this state?
Destructive thoughts. Banish, banish.
She noticed a water spot on the cabinet below the sink, found a rag, wiped it clean.
Back in the old days, the kitchen had been a bustling place, the missus and him entertaining constantly, caterers milling about, waiters rushing, pots steaming, stainless steel counters blanketed with platters of savories and sweets. Not the least of the latter were Mildred's pies. No matter who the missus hired for catering, she'd always craved Mildred's pies, most notably the plum, the Dorset apple, and the mixed-berry. So had him. So had… everyone.