Storm Season. Charlotte Douglas
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CHAPTER 5
One of the ironies of interrogation that I’d discovered over the years was that people seldom tell you what you need to know up front. Often only after endless hours of careful probing does the blooming obvious finally surface.
“Tell me about your ex.”
Kimberly made a face. “Like I said, I don’t like to talk about him.”
“A disgruntled partner from a former relationship should top our list of suspects.”
“But Simon wasn’t serious about killing me. He was just angry because I’d broken our engagement. And that was three years ago, right before I left Omaha. He’s moved on by now.”
“You’re sure?” I wondered how much her broken relationship had factored into her move to Florida.
Kimberly shrugged and reached for another cookie. If Adler and Porter didn’t collar Sister Mary Theresa’s shooter soon, Kimberly was going to need a new set of clothes in a larger size.
“What’s Simon’s last name and where does he live?” I asked.
“Anderson. And the last I knew, he was still living in Omaha and working as an investment counselor.”
“Let me guess. You met him when you were looking for someone to manage the bundles you were earning as Wynona Wisdom.”
Kimberly dusted cookie crumbs from her hands. “You want some coffee?”
“Thanks, and the more caffeine, the better.” At the slow and painful rate that I was extracting needed information, it was going to be a long night.
Kimberly abandoned the rapidly diminishing supply of cookies, scooped coffee grounds into a filtered basket and filled the reservoir with water. With brewed coffee trickling into the glass carafe, she puttered around the kitchen, clearing plates, putting mayonnaise and leftover cold cuts into the fridge and placing the half-empty bag of chips in the pantry. I didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to know she was stalling. Obviously, Simon was a sore point.
When the coffee had brewed, Kimberly filled two large ceramic mugs, also lavender, and offered cream and sugar. I heaped three spoonfuls of the sweetener into my coffee, then followed her into the living room. I took the chair I’d used earlier, and she settled once again into the corner of the sofa. She cradled the huge mug in both hands and sipped slowly. Sensing she wouldn’t talk until she was ready, I waited.
“I met Simon at Starbucks,” she finally said, “around the corner from my office in Omaha. We used to run into each other every morning on our way to work.”
Her expression turned dreamy with memory. “He was so good-looking, I never thought he’d be interested in me, but one morning I dropped my purse. The contents scattered everywhere, and Simon got down on his hands and knees to help retrieve them.” She smiled, but not at me. Her expression was distant, as if she was lost in the past, reliving the experience.
“I thanked him and apologized for being such a klutz. He said he was glad it had happened, that he’d been waiting for a chance to meet me. He’d recognized me from my picture in the paper.” She looked at me and blushed. “He said he could tell from my columns that I was a fascinating woman.”
“So he had no ulterior motive?” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“He never asked to handle your investments?”
Her flush deepened. “Well, yes, but only after we’d gone out together a few times.”
Poor Wynona Wisdom, I thought. All that sage advice for others, and she’d walked straight into the arms of a disaster she hadn’t seen coming. “And I bet you were one of his biggest accounts.”
She nodded. “He was so grateful. If it hadn’t been for me, he wouldn’t have been promoted so quickly.”
“And when you realized he was after you for your money, you dropped him?”
Her face reflected sadness, embarrassment and remorse. “I didn’t recognize the financial implications of his interest in me until after the breakup. Funny, isn’t it, how much easier it is to recognize other people’s problems than your own?”
I dipped my head in agreement and thought about Bill and Trish. Did I really have a problem or, in a few days, as soon as Bill found his ex-wife a place to live, would she be out of our lives again with Bill and me back to making wedding plans?
“If you didn’t think Simon was gold-digging,” I said, “why did you break off your engagement?”
Kimberly stared into her coffee mug as if looking for answers. “At first, I was flattered by how attentive he was. You’d think that I, who’d advised so many women to run for their lives from controlling, abusive men, would have recognized the danger signals, but I was as blinded by love and denial as the next woman. It wasn’t until Simon blew up at me for not replacing the two young men on my staff with female employees that I became aware of what he really was.”
“That must have been a scary realization.”
“A reality check. How he could be jealous of Steve and Gerry, I couldn’t figure. Steve is a terrific employee. Several years ago, when I was hospitalized with an emergency appendectomy and a post-op infection, Steve stepped in and wrote my column for six weeks. A nice guy, but he’s years younger than me and not particularly attractive. And Gerry’s obviously and flamboyantly gay. The fact that Simon was jealous of those two was a real wake-up call.”
This time her smile was sly. “I made my moves before he knew what hit him. Within twenty-four hours, I’d switched my investments to another firm, changed all the locks on my office and apartment doors, arranged for new, unlisted phone numbers and booked a flight to Tampa to look for a place to live.”
“And avoided the Starbucks around the corner?”
“Absolutely. I returned Simon’s ring by messenger. The only contact I had with him after that was outside my apartment when I was getting into the cab for the drive to the airport. Simon was waiting. He grabbed me, called me every name in the book and threatened to kill me if I didn’t marry him.”
“Did you call the police?”
Kimberly shook her head and smiled. “Didn’t have to. The cab driver was the size of a sumo wrestler. He told Simon if he didn’t back off his fare, he’d mop the street with him. Simon was enraged, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew he was no match for the cabbie.”
“And you never heard from Simon again?”
“I just added his threatening letters to the pile with those from other wackos.” She frowned. “What I’m telling you is confidential, you know?”
I crossed my heart. “Like attorney-client privilege. Our agency is discreet. But we should tell Detective Adler about Simon Anderson so he can check him out.”
Kimberly thought for a moment. “Okay, but I don’t think Simon shot Sister Mary Theresa.”
“Because he knew she wasn’t you?”
“Because if Simon is twisted enough to really want to hurt me, his type would want it up close and personal. Like any control freak, he feeds off fear. He’d want to see my terror, witness my suffering. Then he’d kill me. No, he wouldn’t take a shot from a distance.”
Sometimes knowing too much about what makes people tick could scare the daylights out of you. I attempted to lighten the conversation. “You called Simon a control freak. Is that a clinical diagnosis?”
She smiled. “It’s God’s honest truth.”
“With your permission, I’ll tell Adler.”
“It’s probably a waste of time. Simon’s moved on to another victim by now.”
Kimberly