sign set by the curb, displaying the family name or the name of the house—Sand Castle or Shangri-La—or the more practical, if somewhat pointed, Service Entrance.
Kat’s house was on the left about a mile past the preserve, set back at the end of a gravel drive. I wondered if she was home, and I thought about stopping and checking on her before I went to the police station. I’d called her twice on my way over to the island, but she hadn’t picked up. This wasn’t entirely unusual. Unlike most people of the modern world, Kat had only a tenuous connection to her cell phone. She didn’t always pick up when I called, and she frequently ignored texts for hours, or even a day.
We’d spoken only once, briefly, since Howard’s death. Kat had been in London to meet with several artists whose work she was considering carrying in her gallery. She’d called me from Heathrow while she was waiting for her flight home. Kat had been subdued, which wasn’t surprising. The police had tracked her down at her hotel in London only hours earlier to notify her that Howard was dead. The housekeeper had found his body lying facedown on the back patio.
“Are you okay?” I’d asked.
“No,” she’d said. “But I will be. At least, I think I will.”
“I wish you didn’t have to be on your own right now.”
“I usually hate the flight back from Europe, but I’m sort of glad that I’ll have this time to pull myself together. There will be so much to do once I get home,” Kat said.
“Have you spoken to Amanda?” I asked. Kat’s daughter was in her first year of medical school at Emory, in Atlanta.
“I’m going to wait until I get home,” Kat explained. “She’s studying for a big test in her anatomy class. I don’t want to upset her.”
“You probably won’t be able to avoid upsetting her,” I said as gently as I could.
“I know, but I’d like to at least put off telling her until after her exam is over.” Kat sighed. “Marguerite was apparently hysterical. It must have been awful for her, finding him like that. What does it mean when the housekeeper has shed more tears for my dead husband than I have?”
“It probably means you’re in shock,” I said.
Kat’s flight had been called then, and she had to hang up. I hadn’t spoken to her since. I’d tried calling and texting her a few times, but she hadn’t responded. I knew she was probably busy planning the funeral and dealing with her relatives. Stopping by now, uninvited, at a house in mourning seemed intrusive. I drove by.
I arrived at the Jupiter Island Public Safety Department. It was located in a charming yellow building with green shutters, lush landscaping and neat hedgerows, and across the street from one of the holes of the Jupiter Island Club’s pristinely manicured golf course. I parked my ancient Volvo in a small lot just to the left of where the island’s two fire trucks were housed.
I checked my phone, but Kat still hadn’t responded. I sent her a text:
At Jupiter island police. They asked me 2 come in 4 interview about Howard. Not sure what’s going on, but will try to be helpful. Hope ur ok. xx.
I dropped my phone into my bag and climbed out of my car into the Florida sunshine. It was an unusually warm morning, and I had dressed for it in a light blue linen shirtdress and flat brown sandals. But the fabric was already starting to wilt in the heat, and perspiration beaded on my forehead. There was a flagpole in front of the building with an American flag at full mast. A light breeze caused the pulley to bang with a metallic rhythm against the pole.
As I entered the police station, a frigid blast of air-conditioning hit me. The waiting room area was small and, apart from some chairs and a table scattered with magazines, empty. Jupiter Island did not appear to be a hotbed of criminal activity.
I walked up to the middle-aged woman sitting at the reception desk. She wore a floral dress rather than a police uniform, and her glasses hung around her neck on a beaded cord. There was a small brass dish shaped like a pineapple and filled with candy on her desk.
“How can I help you, dear?” she asked.
“I’m here to see Detective Alex Demer. My name is Alice Campbell,” I said.
“Of course,” she said, smiling up at me. “He’s expecting you.”
I had deliberately not asked for Oliver. I hadn’t liked her, and I hoped she wouldn’t be there for the interview. But then I remembered the whole good cop–bad cop phenomenon. Maybe she’d been purposely rude so I’d open up to the more sympathetic Demer. Or was that just something from the movies?
The receptionist told me to take a seat, but I waited only a few minutes before Detective Demer came out to greet me, holding a paper coffee cup in one hand. His height should have made him imposing, but for some reason, he wasn’t. Perhaps it was his rumpled suit or his ugly tie, or the fact that his eyes looked tired and bloodshot. I wondered if his unkempt appearance was a result of living out of a hotel or if he always looked like this. Did he have a wife at home who did his laundry and picked up his dry cleaning? Or did he live in a bachelor pad with dirty dishes piled in the sink? I glanced at the detective’s left hand. He wasn’t wearing a wedding band.
“Mrs. Campbell, thank you for coming in,” he said, extending the hand that wasn’t holding the coffee cup.
I stood and shook his hand. “Of course.”
“Come on back. I’m working out of the conference room,” he said, nodding toward the hallway he’d just emerged from.
I followed him. The building didn’t look anything like the police stations did on urban cop movies, with the huge cement-floored rooms furnished with rows of industrial desks and perps handcuffed to chairs. Instead it looked like the office of an insurance company, with subdued furnishings and a low-pile beige carpet. We passed a few small offices, most of which were empty. Sergeant Oliver sat in one, and she looked up when we passed.
“Mrs. Campbell is here,” Demer said to her.
“I see that. I’ll be right in,” Oliver replied.
The detective led me to a small conference room and gestured for me to sit at a rectangular table with a shiny cherry finish. Sun was streaming in through two windows, and Demer adjusted the blinds so the light wouldn’t be in my eyes.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” he asked. “Coffee? Although I wouldn’t, if I were you.” He held up his Starbucks cup. “I’m not a coffee snob by any stretch, so you can imagine how bad it would have to be to get me to spend five bucks on this. We also have soda and bottled water.”
“Water would be great,” I answered.
“Sure thing. I’ll be right back.”
Demer left just as Oliver strode in. She had removed her suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of her blue oxford button-down. Her face was bare of makeup, and the only jewelry she wore was a pair of small gold hoop earrings. She took a seat across from me, dropping a notebook on the table.
“You took your time getting here,” she said. The bad cop was officially on the scene.
I wondered if she was always this bad-tempered or if there was something about this particular case bothering her. Was it
