“Why was he at the ranch?” Spalding asked. “He’s never gone there before.”
“As I understand it, your husband was arranging to purchase a horse for your anniversary.”
Spalding’s hand flitted to her chest. “Oh my.”
“Had your husband been sick recently?” Ellie asked.
Spalding gestured toward the house. “Please come inside. Except for a cold, not at all. He played tennis regularly and swam every day. He had a thyroid condition, but it was controlled by medication.”
“Yes, I know,” Ellie replied. “We found the medication in his belongings.”
Spalding didn’t react one way or the other. Following along behind her, Ellie entered a large room with a vaulted ceiling and an enormous stone fireplace at one end. The floor was antique terra-cotta accented by a big Tibetan rug that would have overwhelmed an ordinary room. A mixture of Italian antique tables, soft leather couches, and upholstered easy chairs done up in subtle Moorish patterns were arranged at either end of the room. Ellie sat with Spalding in front of the fireplace and watched as the woman took a deep breath and composed herself.
“This must be very hard on you,” Ellie said.
Spalding nodded. “Clifford was a special man. Brilliant, worldly, caring. I loved him dearly.”
Ellie studied Spalding’s face. Her large blue-green eyes were attention grabbing. Her thin lips with a hint of small lines at the corners made her appear secretive in a provocative way. Her creamy, flawless skin spoke of expensive spa treatments.
Something about the woman didn’t ring true. Ellie decided to abandon her game plan. “Your neighbor, Nina Deacon, has suggested that you might not have loved your husband as much as you claim,” she said.
“Excuse me?” Spalding said, with a look of haughty surprise.
“I’d like to hear your side of the story regarding your relationship with Kim Dean,” Ellie said.
Spalding’s expression turned cold. “Would you, now. For what reason?”
“To set aside any suspicions I might have about you.”
“My husband died in his sleep.”
“Every unattended death is investigated, Mrs. Spalding, and from what Nina Deacon told a Santa Fe detective, you weren’t as happily married as you’d like me to believe.”
Spalding got to her feet. “There are certain facts you’re not aware of. Wait right here.”
She left the room with her back stiff and her head held high. She returned with a folder, handed it to Ellie, and said, “Read this.”
In it was a legal amendment to the prenuptial agreement specifying that the removal of Clifford Spalding’s prostate had rendered him unable to engage in connubial activity with his wife, and thus she was free to engage in discreet sexual liaisons without suffering any financial loss, as long as such relationships did not occur in Montecito or nearby environs, and that the terms of the amendment remained strictly confidential between the two parties.
It was dated four years ago, signed by both of them, witnessed, and notarized.
In her years as a cop, Ellie had encountered a good many people with unusual private lives. But this definitely was a new wrinkle on matrimonial bliss. “Interesting,” she said.
Spalding looked down at Ellie. “It was Clifford who instigated this agreement. In fact, he had to talk me into it.”
“I see,” Ellie replied, not sure that she did at all.
“What Nina Deacon may have told you about my personal relationship with Kim is true. He is my lover. Nina is a neighbor and close friend, and it would have been impossible for me to hide everything from her. Letting her believe I was trapped in a loveless marriage was preferable to breaking the confidentiality of this agreement with my husband.”
“She said the Santa Fe house was in your husband’s name only.”
“I lied,” Spalding said curtly. “It’s my house free and clear.”
“Did your husband know of your relationship with Dean?”
“No.”
Ellie waved the papers at Spalding and stood. “Does Dean know about this agreement?”
“Heavens, no.”
“I’ll need to keep this document for a time to verify the contents with the lawyer, and I’ll also need to speak to the doctor who removed your husband’s prostate.”
“Of course. Just make sure I get it back. Now, when can I claim my husband’s body?”
“Today,” Ellie replied, handing Spalding her business card. “Once you’ve made arrangements with a funeral home, have them call me.”
“I did not have anything to do with my husband’s death.”
“I never said that you did.”
“I am not a brainless trophy wife, Sergeant,” Claudia Spalding said. “I hold an MBA and a PhD in organizational psychology, and clearly understood the implications of your questions. You’d better be very careful with your investigation, or you may find yourself swimming in deep legal waters.”
“I’ll be in touch,” Ellie said. “One last question: Do you know a man named Kevin Kerney?”
Claudia knitted her brows. “I’ve heard that name before. Who is he?”
“I thought you could tell me.”
She left the mansion convinced that notions of normal behavior-if there was such a thing-simply didn’t apply to the very rich.
Captain Chase was out of the office attending an all-day meeting, but at the front counter a detective who was helping a young Hispanic woman amend a stolen property report from a recent burglary took a moment to buzz Kerney through the door to the restricted area. From there a uniformed officer took him to the cold case office, a windowless room with two desks and a big chart on the wall that tracked the status of the cases under review. George Spalding’s name wasn’t on it.
At one of the desks, a young man sat in front of a computer screen scrolling through a file. A name-plate on the shelf above the desk read DET. JUDE FORESTER.
Forester had an eager, intelligent look about him, which was offset by dark circles under his eyes and a skin condition that turned his forehead bright pink.
Kerney explained he’d like to take a look at the George Spalding case file, and Forester gave him a quizzical look.
“Why bother with that piece of garbage?” he asked, gesturing at an empty chair.
“Professional curiosity,” Kerney said as he sat. “There are some New Mexico connections that interest me.”
“Well, actually, we don’t really work it as an active case.”
“So I understand,” Kerney said. “How is it handled?”
“You know about the situation?”
“Your captain filled me in,” Kerney replied.
“Then he probably told you we do nothing more than take down the information Alice Spalding gives us and forward it to him. He takes it from there.”
“Where does he take it?” Kerney asked.
“He talks to Alice and then gives the ex-husband a heads-up on the situation.”
“Talks to Alice about what?”
“Just to reassure her that we’ve looked at whatever she told us and there is nothing to report. Of course, we really don’t do squat.”
“Do you have the case record?”
“Do I ever,” Forester said with a laugh. He opened a desk drawer, removed a thick file folder, and put it in Kerney’s hands. “Have at it, Chief,” he said, grinning. “You can use the other desk.”
Kerney spent an hour paging through the file. Most of what Chase had talked about was documented in the record. A U.S. Army report described the helicopter accident in Vietnam that had caused George Spalding’s death. The chopper had gone down for unknown reasons, probably due to mechanical defects. There was nothing in it that spoke about a secret mission or hush-hush duty, as Penelope Parker had mentioned.
Kerney had been in-country during the same time as George Spalding. He wondered if he’d ever met the man.
According to the rescue and inspection team sent to the crash site, only two passengers, who’d been thrown free upon impact, had survived. Everyone else-four people-had been fried to a crisp when the bird exploded.
He scanned the missing person reports that Alice Spalding had called in to the department over the years. In the material he found an old memorandum from a former police chief assigning Detective Chase to the investigation.