The Oldest Sin, page 17
part #3 of Sophie Greenway Series
After spending several hours talking to all the bellmen, the staff at the front desk, and requesting that someone check the safe to see if there was anything inside with Lavinia’s name on it, she returned to her father’s office — now her office — and dropped with an air of failure into the leather desk chair. She hated to admit it, but perhaps Bram was right. Whoever had tom the suite apart had already found the diary. She was simply spinning her wheels.
As she gazed up at the oil portrait of her mother and father on the wall behind the desk, an idea occurred to her. What if Lavinia had given the book to someone for safekeeping? Sure. That was a possibility. But whom would she trust in a city where she barely knew a soul?
A name popped immediately to mind.
Lifting die Minneapolis White Pages from the bottom desk drawer, she once again looked up the number for Peter’s parents’ house in Edina. After punching in the numbers, a man’s voice answered.
“Is Peter there?” asked Sophie, hoping she’d find him in.
“He’s taking a shower,” replied the man. Then, hesitating, he added, “Who is this?”
Sophie felt sorry for him. The last few days must have seemed like a nightmare for his family. Peter returns home for a visit, and a couple of days later the woman he’s just married — and failed to tell them about — is murdered. “My name is Sophie Greenway. I was a friend of Lavinia Fiore.” She decided not to mention that she was the one who’d called yesterday.
“I see,” he said, his tone a mixture of reserve and relief. “I’m Peter’s father. I thought for a second there that you might be with the police.”
“No, no connection. But I would like to come over and speak with your son. Will he be around for a bit?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know. He’s trying to plan a memorial service for the end of the week, but what with the police hounding him every minute, it’s been hard to get anything done. I’m leaving in a couple of minutes myself. Would you like me to give him a message before I go?”
“That’s not necessary. I’ll just stop by and take my chances.”
“All right.” He hesitated. “He could use a friend right about now. You are … a friend, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am,” said Sophie. She hoped that was true. After saying a quick goodbye, she sat back in her chair and gave herself a moment to plan her next move.
If Peter was in the shower, that gave her a little extra time. The freeway would be the fastest route. She’d been up so many blind alleys already this morning, what was one more dead end in the scheme of things?
Half an hour later she pulled up in front of a large, two-story brick house. Only one car was in the drive. It looked new, possibly a rental. And that meant Peter might still be home.
Easing out of the front seat, Sophie made straight for the front door. She rang the bell and then waited, glancing up at one of the second-story windows. The curtains parted briefly and then eased back together. Whoever was inside was being careful. She stood — quid examining the shrubbery — for what seemed like an eternity before the door finally swung open. Peter appeared dressed in a gray-and-white-striped bathrobe, a towel draped around his shoulders. He didn’t look surprised to see her, merely resigned.
“This is kind of a bad time,” he began, making no move to ask her in.
“I know,” said Sophie, nodding sadly. “I’ve heard about all the trouble you’re having with the police. But I didn’t come to talk about any of that.”
“You didn’t? Then why are you here?”
“I wanted to ask you about — •”■ She hesitated. Lowering her voice she continued. “Something private.”
“Like what?”
“Invite me in and I’ll tell you.” She hoped she’d piqued his curiosity.
“Oh, all right,” he said, stepping back and allowing her to enter. “Come on,” he said, leading the way through the kitchen to a three-season porch at the back of the house. After making himself comfortable on a wicker sofa, he said, “So what’s up?”
Sophie sat down opposite him. He looked tired today, his good looks a bit frayed around the edges. He also seemed nervous, jumpy, fidgeting with the newspaper lying next to him on the couch, making as little eye contact as possible. She couldn’t help but think it was a response to the hours of intense questioning he’d undergone at the police station. “First, let me tell you how sorry I am about what happened to Lavinia. We didn’t get much of a chance to talk yesterday.”
“Thanks.” A small tremor passed across his face.
She watched him struggle to adopt a more impassive expression. “This may seem totally off-the-wall, Peter, but did Lavinia ever mention a diary to you? One that a woman named Ginger Pomejay kept back in the early Seventies?”
“Sure,” he replied, his agitation easing just a bit as he saw that she really wasn’t going to press him on the subject of his wife’s murder. “The one who died back at that religious college you all attended. If I’m not mistaken, she brought the diary with her to Minnesota.”
“Do you know why?”
“She wanted to confront someone with it. Someone she thought might have had a hand in Ginger’s death.”
“And do you know who that someone is?”
He looked away. “She asked me not to tell, not that I thought anyone would ever ask. She wanted to keep it a secret until she had a chance to talk to the man.”
So it was a man, thought Sophie. Fascinating. “She didn’t by any chance give the diary to you for safekeeping before she died?”
He shook his head. “Sorry.”
“You have no idea where it might be?”
“None. Say, now that you bring it up, that’s kind of funny. I saw a detailed list of her belongings in the police report this morning. They asked me to go through it and comment on what I thought might be missing. All I could see that was gone was her jewelry.”
This was news to Sophie. The detective hadn’t mentioned it. “You say her jewelry had been taken?”
“Every last scrap. But now that I think about it, someone must have taken that diary, too.” He raked a hand through his clean, uncombed hair. “I loved her, Sophie. I’ve never loved anyone the way I did Lavinia. She was special. One of a kind. I felt so lucky when she agreed to be my wife. And now … why can’t the police see that? Why would I want her jewelry? It makes no sense.” He dropped his head in his hands and closed his eyes.
The pain on his face touched her deeply. She might be a romantic sap, but she had a hard time believing it was an act. • After almost a minute he wiped a hand across his face and looked up. “I’m such a pathetic fool,” he whispered. “I deserve everything I get.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because …” His eyes slid past her.
He seemed to be having difficulty finding the right words. Sophie waited, then coaxed him by saying, “You can trust me, Peter. I believe you’re innocent. I think the real reason Lavinia was murdered has to do with that diary.”
“You do?”
She gave a grave nod.
“Then … if I tell you something, will you promise to keep it a secret — at least for now.”
“You have my word of honor.”
He got up and walked over to the far wall, turning his back to her. Placing a hand on the screen, he said, “The night Lavinia died, I wasn’t home.”
“Really?” Her instincts told her to play dumb.
“You have to understand. Mom and Dad didn’t realize I was married. So, when an old girlfriend called a couple of weeks ago and asked for my phone number in California, they told her I was coming home soon. Without my knowledge, they arranged for her to come by on Saturday night as sort of a surprise. They even made reservations for us at one of my favorite restaurants. The entire evening was on them.” He shook his head. “Mom’s always wanted to see me married and happy. They like this girl a lot. Her name is Miranda. Since I couldn’t exactly spill the beans and tell them I was married, I had to go along with it.”
“You went out with Miranda.”
He nodded. Turning around, he sat down on a wooden bench, folding his hands in front of him. “Miranda and I, well, we’ve always gotten along great. We’ve known each other since high school, even dated for a couple of years before I left for California. That night, she was really hot to renew our old relationship.”
“She told you that?”
‘Told me … and showed me.”
A cold feeling grew in the pit of Sophie’s stomach. “Showed you?”
He didn’t respond immediately, but instead seemed to be weighing something in his mind. Finally, he said, “I don’t know if you can understand this, but when Miranda and I broke up, she was the one who dumped me. What can I say? It was hard to take. It hurt a lot. When I saw her on Saturday night, the tables had turned. She wanted me back. It felt… good. Better than good.”
“So you strung her along?”
He gave a guarded nod.
“Until four in the morning?”
His shoulders tensed. “We drove around for a while, then went back to her place.”
“Did you sleep with her, Peter?”
“No! Absolutely not. We … kissed … and you know. Touched. I had way too much to drink. But I stopped it before it went too far.”
A fine distinction, as far as she was concerned. She realized she was angry at him not only for what he’d done — betraying Lavinia’s trust, abusing another woman’s emotions just because he’d once been hurt by her — but also for trashing her own romantic notions of “true love.”
“I left around four. By then I’d made it clear we weren’t going to get back together.”
“That was kind of you.”
His eyes flicked to her and then away.
“Am I correct in thinking that this is why you don’t want to give the police your alibi? If they call your ex-girlfriend for verification, she’s going to verify a lot more than you want.”
“I’ll not only look like some sort of disgusting womanizer,” he said, his eyes fixed on the floor, “but it will look as if I didn’t love my wife.”
“That’s what I’d think.”
“But it’s not true!” he said, shooting off the bench. “I did love her. More than anything.”
“But not enough to keep your hands off Miranda.” She knew she was punishing him, but couldn’t help herself.
“Okay, I accept what you’re saying. It was wrong. / was wrong. No more excuses. But I didn’t murder my wife. The police theory goes something like this. Because I’m going to inherit a lot of money —”
“Is that true, Peter? Are you going to inherit Lavinia’s estate?”
He nodded. “They think I got rid of her for die inheritance. And now, if I have to produce a witness to prove I couldn’t have done it, the witness will just make it look more and more like I didn’t care about her. Like I really did have a motive. One of them even said, ‘Hey, buddy, she was old and fat. You some kind of weirdo? If you didn’t do it, maybe you had someone do it for you.”
Sophie’s eyes opened wide. She couldn’t help herself — she thought of Morton. What if Peter had hired him?
“What?” he asked, staring down at her. “Something’s upset you. What are you thinking?”
“Me? Nothing.” He’d caught her off guard. Even so, she knew better than to voice her suspicions. “I, ah … I’m just listening to what you’re saying.”
“But you had a funny look on your face.”
“I did?” She cleared her throat. “I guess I just don’t like the word fat. It always rubs me the wrong way.”
“Right” he said, nodding his agreement “I understand. And I feel the same way. I could have decked that guy. We’re way too stuck on looks in this country. Not that Lavinia wasn’t a solid ten on the Richter scale — in my opinion.”
Score one for Peter — that is, if he was telling the truth. She was no longer confident he was.
“But see,” he said, sitting down across from her again, “if your theory is true, it gets me off the hook. Maybe you’re right Lavinia was pretty sure she knew who was behind your friend Ginger’s death.”
“Peter,” said Sophie, choosing her words very carefully, “I don’t mean for you to break a confidence, but it would help me a great deal if I knew who she suspected.”
He wrung his hands together in front of him. “Well… I suppose. What the hell? The guy’s name was Knox.”
Sophie blinked her surprise. “Isaac Knox?”
“That’s the one.”
“But… how? Why?”
“I don’t know. Lavinia never actually said. But she came here to confront him. She found out early last spring that he was going to be in the Twin Cities for a church holiday. That’s why she insisted the D.O.S.S. convention be held here this year, instead of Chicago. She gave herself six months to find out everything she could on the guy, and then she was going to talk to him in person. She also thought someone in your old group might know something about it so she finagled the reunion. She said the timing was perfect She mentioned her suspicions last Friday night, right?”
Sophie nodded.
“I know she was planning to talk to all of you privately. Except… she never got a chance.”
Sophie’s mind was racing. What possible reason could Isaac Knox have had for hurting Ginger? Had she threatened him in some way? “Did Lavinia ever say how Isaac Knox did it? We all thought Ginger died of cancer.”
His face drawn with fatigue, he replied, “I should have listened more carefully, Sophie. I’m sorry. I just don’t remember.”
Damn it all. If she could only find that diary!
“You believe me, don’t you?” he asked, his eyes pleading with her for understanding. “I didn’t hurt Lavinia. I couldn’t. She was the best thing that ever happened to me.” ,
In her youth, Sophie had often been a sucker for handsome and needy. Unfortunately for Peter, she’d grown up. “I’ll promise you one thing,” she said, rising and looking down at him. “I think that diary is important, and until I learn otherwise, I believe it played a role in Lavinia’s death.”
“You do believe me, then,” he said, exhaling his relief. Rising quickly, he accompanied her to the front door. As he opened it he fixed her with his intense blue eyes. “Lavinia will be buried in New York, but I’ve planned a memorial service for her here, at Lakewood Cemetery, on Thursday evening. I hope you can come.”
“Of course. I’ll be there.”
“Good. You know, Sophie, if I’ve only got one person in my corner, I’m glad it’s you.”
His handsomeness was seductive. So was his sincerity. Containing her ambivalence behind a forced smile, she nodded a quick goodbye and then walked back out to her car.
25
After returning to her office at the Maxfield, Sophie called Bram’s private line at the radio station to give him an update. He picked up on the second ring.
“You’ll never believe what I just found out,” she said, her voice breathless with excitement. She settled into her father’s leather chair with a growing sense that it now belonged to her.
“Hello to you, too,” said Bram, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “And yes, I’m fine. The show went well this morning, thanks for asking. I don’t suppose you caught it?”
“No. Sorry.”
“It was on crime in the Twin Cities.”
“How timely,” she said, matching his tone.
“I agree. And as Minnesota’s revered radio lion, I was typically incisive, bringing great depth to the subject.”
“I’m sure you did. But just listen, okay?”
“You have my full attention, my love. Shoot.”
She doodled on a notepad as she talked. “I spent the last half hour talking to Peter. Get this. He said that the person Lavinia suspected of murdering Ginger was none other than Isaac Knox.”
Bram whistled. “That is news. So what are you going to do?’
She’d been thinking about it all the way back to the hotel. “What can I do? Without the diary, everything I know is merely hearsay. The police certainly won’t take it seriously. And I can hardly walk up to Isaac and say that I’ve heard there is a diary out there somewhere that suggests he may have had something to do with Ginger’s death.”
“Good point. I guess that means you didn’t have any luck finding it this morning.”
“None. Say, while we’re on the subject of Peter, he said something else I found interesting. It seems the police accused him of hiring someone to murder Lavinia.”
Another whistle. “What does that make you think of?”
“Exactly. Morton. The worst thing is, Peter’s alibi for Saturday night is an ex-girlfriend. They were messing around back at her apartment until four in die morning.”
“That guy’s a total idiot. Do the police know?”
“Not yet.”
“Jeez, Sophie. And you still think he’s innocent? Not to put too fine a point on it, but sometimes your lack of cynicism drives me nuts.”
“Meaning what?”
“That … you amaze me. After everything that’s happened to you in your life, you still think the best of people.”
“Is that so awful?”
“Yes. Because it makes you vulnerable. Forget Isaac Knox and the diary. Peter might as well plaster a bull’s-eye on his shirt when the boys in blue find out he was cheating on his wife — now conveniently deceased. If he wasn’t already their prime suspect, he soon will be.”
In frustration, Sophie tossed her pencil on the desk, leaned back in her chair, and closed her eyes. Maybe Bram was right. Yet something inside her continued to resist the notion that Peter was a killer. “So where does that leave us?” she asked, her voice growing weary.
“Were we’ve always been,” said Bram. “A couple of private citizens with a bad case of curiosity. Speaking of which, you weren’t the only person this morning to ferret out some fascinating info. I had an enlightening conversation myself. It was during one of the hourly news breaks. You remember my buddy from the St. Paul Police Department? A1 Lundquist?”
