“No, I’m not.”
“A family friend, perhaps?”
“In a way, yes. But may I ask why you’re asking?”
She appeared to be searching his face for a clue on how she should proceed. Then something in his expression seemed to reassure her. Her voice dropped into a confidential register. “I’m sorry. I certainly didn’t mean any offense. But the Spalter property, you can understand I’m sure, is a special case. We sometimes have a problem with … what shall I call them? Sensation seekers, I suppose. Ghouls, when you come right down to it.” She curled her lips in an expression of distaste. “When something tragic occurs, people come to gawk, take pictures. It’s disgusting, isn’t it? I mean, it’s a tragedy. A horrible family tragedy. Can you imagine? A man is shot at his own mother’s funeral? Shot in the brain! Crippled! A completely paralyzed cripple! A vegetable! Then he dies! And his own wife turns out to be the murderer! That’s a terrible, terrible tragedy! And what do people do? They show up here with cameras. Cameras. Some of them even tried to steal our rosebushes. As souvenirs! Can you imagine that? Of course, as resident manager, it all ends up being my responsibility. It makes me sick talking about it. Sick to my stomach! I can’t even …” She waved her hand in a gesture of helplessness.
The lady doth protest too much, thought Gurney. She sounds every bit as enlivened by the “tragedy” as the people she’s condemning. But, he reflected, that wasn’t unusual. Few behaviors of other people are more irritating than those that display our own faults in an unattractive way.
His next thought was that her apparent appetite for drama might give him a useful opening. He looked into her eyes as if he and she were having a deep meeting of the minds. “You really care about this, don’t you?”
She blinked. “Care? Of course I do. Isn’t that obvious?”
Instead of answering, he turned away thoughtfully, walked toward the rose border, and poked absently in the mulch with the tip of the umbrella she’d handed him.
“Who are you?” she finally asked. He thought he heard a touch of excitement in the question.
He continued prodding the mulch. “I told you, my name is Dave Gurney.”
“Why are you here?”
Again he spoke without turning. “I’ll tell you in a minute. But first let me ask you a question. What was your reaction—the very first thing you felt—when you found out that Carl Spalter had been shot?”
She hesitated. “Are you a reporter?”
He turned toward her, took out his wallet, and held it up, displaying his gold NYPD detective’s shield. She was standing far enough away that the word “Retired” at the bottom of the shield would not be legible, and she didn’t come any closer to examine it. He closed his wallet and put it back in his pocket.
“You’re a detective?”
“That’s right.”
“Oh …” She looked alternately confused, curious, excited. “What … what would you want here?”
“I need to get a better understanding of what happened.”
She blinked rapidly several times. “What is there to understand? I thought everything was … resolved.”
He took a few steps closer to her, spoke as if he were sharing privileged information. “The conviction is being appealed. There are some open questions, possible gaps in the evidence.”
She wrinkled her brow. “Aren’t all murder convictions appealed automatically?”
“Yes. And the vast majority of the convictions are upheld. But this case may be different.”
“Different?”
“Let me ask you again. What was your reaction—the very first thing you felt—when you found out that Carl had been shot?”
“Found out? You mean, when I noticed it.”
“Noticed it?”
“I was the first one to see it.”
“See what?”
“The little hole in his temple. At first I wasn’t sure it was a hole. It just looked like a round red spot. But then a tiny red trickle started down the side of his forehead. And I knew, I just knew.”
“You pointed it out to the first responders?”
“Of course.”
“Fascinating. Tell me more.”
She pointed at the ground a few feet from where Gurney was standing. “That’s where it was, right there—where the first drop of blood from the side of his forehead fell onto the snow. I can almost see it now. Have you ever seen blood on snow?” Her eyes seemed to widen at the memory. “It’s the reddest red you can imagine.”
“What makes you so sure it was in that precise—”
She answered before he could finish. “Because of that.” She indicated another point on the ground, a foot or so farther away.
It wasn’t until Gurney took a step toward it that he saw a small green disc below the grass level. It had pinhole perforations around its circumference. “A watering system?”
“His head was face down just a few inches short of it.” She stepped over to the spot and placed her foot next to the watering head. “Right there.”
Gurney was struck by the coldness, the hostility, of the gesture.
“Do you attend all the funerals here?”
“Yes and no. As the resident manager, I’m never far away. But I always maintain a discreet distance. Funerals, I believe, are for invited family and friends. Of course, in the case of the Spalter funeral, I was more present.”
“More present?”
“Well, I didn’t feel it was appropriate to sit with Mr. Spalter’s family and personal associates, so I remained a bit to the side—but I was certainly more present than at other interments.”
“Why was that?”
She looked surprised at the question. “Because of my relationship.”
“Which was what?”
“Spalter Realty is my employer.”
“The Spalters own Willow Rest?”
“I thought that was common knowledge. Willow Rest was founded by Emmerling Spalter, the grandfather of … the recently deceased. Didn’t you know that?”
“You’ll have to be patient with me. I’m new to the case, and I’m new to Long Falls.” He saw something critical in her expression, and he added with the hint of a conspiratorial tone, “You see, I was brought here for a completely fresh perspective.” He gave her a moment or two to absorb the implications of that statement, then went on. “Now let’s go back to my question about the feeling you had when you realized—noticed—what had happened.”
She hesitated, her lips tightening. “Why is that important?”
“I’ll explain in a minute. In the meantime, let me ask you another question. What did you feel when you learned that Kay Spalter had been arrested?”
“Oh, God. Disbelief. Shock. Complete shock.”
“How well did you know Kay?”
“Obviously not as well as I thought I did. Something like this makes you wonder how well you know anyone.” After a pause, her expression morphed into a kind of shrewd curiosity. “What’s this all about? These questions—what’s going on here?”
Gurney gave her a long, hard look, as if he were assessing her trustworthiness. Then he took a deep breath and spoke in what he hoped would come across as a confessional tone. “There’s a funny thing about cops, Paulette. We expect people to tell us everything, but we don’t like to reveal anything ourselves. I understand the reasons for it, but there are times …” He paused, then took a deep breath and spoke slowly, looking her in the eye. “I have the impression that Kay was a much nicer person than Carl. Not the sort of person who’d be capable of murder. I’m trying to find out if I’m right or wrong. I can’t do that alone. I need the insight of other people. I have a strong feeling you may be able to help me.”