The Blue Journal Page 10
“Joan Avery. And Fran Colello.”
“Anyone else?”
“Oh, yes, sorry. Phyllis Wentworth.”
“Anyone else?”
“No. Just the five of us.” She paused. “Five, including poor Elizabeth.”
Walker nodded to himself, confirming all the names.
“I hope I’m not doing anything wrong,” Lisa Gorman said, “by giving out the names, I mean.”
“No, no, of course not. And I’ll keep our discussion confidential.”
“Thank you.”
“Well, you’ve been of great assistance, Mrs. Gorman.”
“I have?”
“Yes. Very much so.”
“Is that it?”
“That’s all for now. But I’m sure we’ll be in touch.”
“Oh yes, please do. I mean, if I can be any more help.”
They said their good-byes and, as soon as she hung up, Lisa pushed the speed-dial button for her best friend, Karen Martin. “Karen? Listen to this,” she began.
CHAPTER 14
That afternoon, Mitchell Avery was seated comfortably on the striped couch in Randi Conway’s private office. His right arm was outstretched along the back cushion, his legs were crossed, and his foot was wagging up and down like a metronome. He said, “Joan and I had a rough time after you and that cop left the other night.”
“What do you mean ‘a rough time’?” Randi asked.
“Just kind of tense.” Avery shook his head. “Arguing is easy. Yelling and shouting are no problem. I can deal with conflict.” He shrugged. “Silence is much worse. It’s like she’s giving up or something.”
“Giving up?”
“You know, disgusted, depressed, whatever. Really morbid, actually.”
“Did you talk about Kyle?”
As obvious as that question should have been, it caught Avery short. He stopped shaking his foot and sat up a bit straighter. “Not much,” he said. “What the hell is there to talk about?”
Randi leaned back in her chair. “How about the fact that Kyle made his way to the rooftop of a four-story building earlier that night?”
Avery could not look her in the eyes. “Let’s not discuss Kyle right now.”
“All right. What would you like to discuss?”
“I don’t know.”
“How about you and Joan?”
“Like there’s anything about us you don’t already know?”
“Indulge me.”
He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Joan wants to know what went wrong between us, and I don’t know what to tell her.”
“Why not start with the truth?”
He responded with a disapproving look, as if the notion of telling his wife the truth was nothing less than absurd. “How can I? How can I can tell Joan that too many years have gone by, that things have changed, that she got older. How can I say that to her?”
“I’m not even sure what that means.”
“What?”
“You said that she got older.”
“Did I?”
“Yes, you did. What does that mean?”
“That’s a stupid question, Doc. What the hell do you think it means? She got older. She looks older. She acts older.”
“And what about you?”
Avery allowed himself an embarrassed laugh. “It’s different for me.”
“Do you feel you haven’t gotten older?”
Avery looked genuinely puzzled.
“Mitchell, you said that Joan acts and looks older. Don’t you also look older?”
“You mean, what do I see when I look in the mirror?”
“Let’s start with that.”
He pressed his lips together in a thoughtful frown, then said, “I’m heavier. A lot heavier, although I try and kid myself about it. I have less hair. Lines around my eyes. I’m closer to death than birth, if we’re going to be blunt about it. That’s what a midlife crisis is all about, right? Fear of mortality? But I don’t really feel any of that. Somehow I don’t feel older in the things that matter. Attitude. View of life. I feel as if I can still hack it. I feel . . .” He stopped.
“Go on.”
“It’ll sound ludicrous to you.”
“Don’t worry what it sounds like.”
“Okay.” Avery uncrossed his legs and leaned back, his arms folded across his chest. “I feel I’m still attractive to women. Including younger women. Maybe even more now than I was twenty years ago. Does that sound ridiculous?”
“Why would it?”
“Why? I’ve already admitted I’m a paunchy, balding, middle-aged guy.”
“But one who believes he’s attractive to younger women.”
“Yeah,” Avery chuckled. “Yeah, that’s exactly how I feel. Who knows why, who knows what these women are after? My life experience? My money?” He laughed again. “Maybe it’s the story about older men being better lovers.”
“You rattle those off as if it doesn’t matter what the reason is.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, you didn’t, but I want to know. Do the reasons matters to you or not?”
Avery paused, thinking it over before he replied. “If you want me to be totally honest about it, I don’t think I care.”
“So you don’t care why you’re attractive to younger women, as long as they find you sexy, is that right?”
“This may sound foolish all over again, but it’s not just about the sex. It’s about the romance.”
Randi responded with a simple nod.
“It’s about the excitement of a new relationship,” he went on. “The idea that a beautiful young woman would want me, want to be with me.”
“And maybe even love you?”
“Sure, why not?” He laughed. “Love is good, right?”
“But it’s not that important to you?”
Avery tilted his head to the side and gave her a knowing grin. “Who are we kidding here, Doc? It’s enough if a younger woman is willing to be with me. I’m not foolish enough to think she’s really in love.”
“So romance doesn’t have to involve love?”
“Of course not.”
Randi nodded, as if finally getting the concept straight. “Okay, then tell me how much younger we’re talking about.”
“How’s that?”
“You keep referring to younger women. How much younger?”
Mitchell Avery smiled. “I’m fifty-three, so twenty-eight or twenty-nine sounds about right.”
“Thirty is too old?”
“Come on, Doc, you’re teasing me now.”
“I really don’t mean to tease you. What about a forty-year-old woman?”
“What about her?”
“Would you be interested in an affair with a forty-year-old woman?”
“I might. Depends on the woman.”
For a moment, Randi wondered if they were both thinking of the same woman. “What would it depend on, Mitchell?”
He was obviously uncomfortable with the question. “Who knows?” he asked.
“But it’s not as exciting as a woman in her twenties or thirties.”
“I guess that’s true.”
“Do you mean it’s not as flattering to have a forty-year-old woman want you as a twenty-eight-year-old?”
“Maybe. Maybe that’s it.”
“What if Joan wanted to be with a younger man?”
He shook his head as if he was incapable of imagining such a thing.
“You think a woman in her late forties couldn’t attract a younger man?”
“Sure, I guess so,” he replied. “But not Joan.”
“I see.” Randi hesitated, then said, “Elizabeth Knoebel was almost forty.”
Avery’s brow furrowed into tight little lines and he leaned forward. “That supposed to mean something to me?”
“It just came to mind, is all.”
“Anything else come to mind? About Stanley’s wife, I mean.”
“Did you know her?”<
br />
“Elizabeth?” He sat back again, taking his time now. “Yeah, we met.”
“You never mentioned that before.”
“You never asked.”
“Fair enough.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Only what you want to share with me.”
Avery forced a laugh. “A perfect therapist’s answer.”
“Elizabeth was an attractive woman.”
“I’m not disagreeing.”
“Would you agree that she could have attracted a younger man?”
Avery became increasingly uneasy, but repeated a casual, “Why not?”
“Much younger?”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You seem to be interested in much younger women, correct?”
“I’m not talking about children,” he replied with a sudden flash of anger.
“No, I know you’re not. I am.”
“Are you?”
They stared at each other without speaking. Then Randi said, “I won’t if you don’t want me to.”
“She was a demented bitch,” Avery responded angrily.
Randi waited for more.
“How about we skip the whole Knoebel saga for the time being?” Avery said.
Randi stared at him for a moment, then said, “It seems the Knoebel saga, as you call it, has become part of your life.”
“I don’t want to talk about my son right now.”
Randi nodded. “All right, we can discuss Kyle another time. Let’s get back to you. I mean, all of this talk about other women. You said it’s not just the sex. It’s the romance, the thrill of new love, right?”
Mitchell Avery nodded.
“What about your wife. Doesn’t she love you?”
“Of course she does. And I love her. I love her very much. But it’s different.”
“Or, it’s not different. Isn’t that the point?”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean it’s the same old thing. There’s no sense of discovery anymore. No risk.”
“I suppose.”
“No excitement,” she added. “No romance.”
“Exactly.”
“So is that the problem for you? The need for something new?”
Avery forced a smile. “There’s an old joke about the necessities of life for a man stranded on a desert island. He needs food, water, shelter, clothing, a woman.” He paused. “And another woman.”
Randi shook her head.
“Hey, I cleaned it up for you.”
“Your wife is still very attractive.”
“Hell yes.” Mitchell looked into her eyes. “Joan’s a great-looking woman. Sheer class, you know? Dresses like something out of a magazine. Takes care of herself, too. Exercises. Stays in shape. And for what? We go to bed at night, and all I want to do is sleep.”
“And how does she react?”
“She’s hurt, and she says so. She says I’m ignoring her, rejecting her. Then we argue. Or worse, we go through the goddamned motions, and then sex with her is about as thrilling as watching reruns of I Love Lucy.” He stopped at the harshness of his own words.
“How do you think Joan feels about all this?”
“Women are different,” he said reflexively. Then he smiled. “It’s like that comedy routine about cavemen. Women nest. Men hunt.”
“Thank you, Tarzan.”
Avery forced a laugh. “We should go on safari some night. I’ll show you what I mean.”
She knew that he intended it as a joke, but there was something about the comment that troubled her, something disturbingly familiar. She was tempted to ask him about Elizabeth Knoebel again but let it pass for now. “So sometimes it’s not about romance, or feeling younger, sometimes is has nothing to do with anything but the sex. Is that right?”
“Maybe.”
“There are serious things we need to discuss to help you get clear on where you’re going with all of these feelings.”
“Oh sure. So you can convince me I’m a selfish egotist. Well, guess what—it’s too late, I already know that.” Avery averted his gaze again. “This is going nowhere, you see that, don’t you? I can’t go on fooling myself like this.”
Randi watched him for a moment. Then she said, “Don’t sell yourself short, Mitchell. People do it all the time.”
CHAPTER 15
Kovacevic spent time processing each of the names Walker had gathered thus far, using the Department of Motor Vehicles, matching license plates and registrations, identifying the automobiles owned by each of the families. He had already gathered brochures of various cars that bore any resemblance to the description of the sedan given by Mrs. Fitzmorris, the neighbor who remembered a car speeding away from the Knoebel house on Tuesday afternoon. He now printed a few more examples from online ads, pictures of other cars that matched those registered to the people on their newly formed list.
“Good work, Kovie,” Walker said as he looked through the photos. “Detective work isn’t usually glamorous,” he reminded the young officer, “but sometimes it can be easier than people think.” He smiled. “You might want to keep that last part to yourself.”
They arrived at the Fitzmorris home at the appointed time. Mrs. Fitzmorris was waiting for them at the front door. She was a stylish woman Walker figured to be around sixty, but looked better than that. She was dressed in a pink cashmere top and matching cardigan, her style well manicured and well kept.
After an exchange of polite greetings, the two policemen followed her into the house.
Shutting the door behind them, she said, “You know, Detective, it’s terrible to have a thing like this happen right here in our neighborhood.”
Walker nodded sympathetically at the idea of the privileged class having their idyllic lives disrupted by something as tawdry as murder.
“Believe me,” she assured him, “I want to help if I can. It’s just that I don’t really know very much.”
“That’s all right,” Walker assured her in his most studied manner. “You never know what little detail you might provide, and believe me, everything helps. If you’ll just answer a few questions, we’ll be out of your way.”
Mrs. Fitzmorris led them into her kitchen and seated them at the polished gray granite island in the center of the room. Walker had a look around, at the Wolf stove and double oven, the Sub-Zero side-by-side refrigerator, the pantries and glass-fronted expanse of shelves. As she moved to the other side of the counter, facing them, she appeared ready to host a cable channel cooking show. “I feel as if I should offer you coffee but I never drink it myself,” she said with a nervous giggle. “Can I make you some tea?”
Walker politely declined. “We’ll only take a few minutes of your time. We just need to review a few things.” He pulled out a typewritten report and began reading. “On Tuesday afternoon you returned home with some groceries at about five, came into the house, and placed the bags here, in the kitchen.”
“That’s right.”
“Then you went back outside to collect the mail. That was when you saw the car coming from the Knoebels’ house.”
“Yes.”
“And you noticed it because it was going so fast.”
“That’s right,” she nodded, looking from Walker to Kovacevic. “That’s right.”
“And what time was that?”
“As I told this young man, it was just about five. I put the bags down and went right back out for the mail.”
“Uh huh. Just as you had said.” He turned to Kovacevic, who handed him a group of brochures and photographs. “We want you to spend a moment looking at these. They’re pictures of several different cars. We think it’s possible that one of them might be the type of car you saw leaving the Knoebel property that day.”
She nodded dutifully.
“Just take your time and have a look at them.”
Mrs. Fitzmorris spread the prints and color fold-outs across the countertop.
“I believe you
said the color of the car was . . .” Walker paused, offering her the opportunity to fill in the blank.
“Gray. I’m pretty sure it was a medium gray.”
Walker smiled in appreciation. “Excellent, that also confirms your earlier recollection.”
Mrs. Fitzmorris appeared pleased with herself, and Kovacevic made a show of writing something in his notepad. Then Walker and Kovacevic watched as she carefully scrutinized each of the pictures.
“This could be the one.” Mrs. Fitzmorris was pointing to a late-model Mercedes-Benz sedan. “I’m not very good at cars,” she admitted. “They all kind of look the same to me nowadays.”
Walker smiled. “I know what you mean. Let me ask you, would it be helpful if we began to eliminate some? Take out the ones it couldn’t possibly be?”
“Yes,” she nodded enthusiastically, “that might help.”
They spent a few minutes setting aside the pictures of cars that were not close to her original description. That included the models of Jeeps and Explorers driven by the Colellos, the Gormans, the Wentworths, and the Averys; the type of small sedan owned by Nettie Sisson; the make of Fred Wentworth’s station wagon; and Mitchell Avery’s sports car. That left them a few sedans. Of those, Mrs. Fitzmorris still thought it might be the Mercedes.
“But I’m not sure,” she warned them. “I’m really not sure.”
“That’s all right,” Walker said soothingly. “You’ve been very patient. I just have one more question. I apologize, because I know you’ve been asked this before.”
“Go right ahead,” Mrs. Fitzmorris said.
“I want you to think back to Tuesday afternoon. I want you to concentrate on the period of time from when you first drove up to your house, right up to the moment you went out to get your mail. All right?”
She nodded.
“I want you to think back and tell me, did you hear anything at all that might have been a gunshot? Anything?” She was already shaking her head when he added, “The sound of a car backfiring? Something loud falling? A cracking sound, like a tree branch breaking?”
She was still shaking her head. “Nothing. Nothing at all like that,” she told him.
“All right. I just needed to be sure.” He offered up another approving smile. “If we get any additional information, we may ask to bother you one more time.”