Murder In Missoula Page 3

  On several occasions, they had returned to the same yellow-and-white cottage, sometimes with a Realtor, sometimes without. In the front yard was a blue-and-white sign:

  FOR SALE BY FITZGERALD REALTY / CALL JENNY

  Then one Sunday, the Fitzgerald Realty sign was obscured by a banner that read UNDER CONTRACT. The black Realtor’s lockbox on the front door was still in place. Marie-Justine and Anne walked in and out of the house, raked the yard, and chatted with the elderly woman living next door, as if they had already taken up residence.

  Durbin had checked the Sunday paper for the Fitzgerald Realty ads. Along with the property listings, the company was kind enough to provide him with the name and a photograph of each of the Realtors in the local office. He quickly found the photo of Jenny. Jenny Garland.

  He knew her. She was a bit overweight—zaftig, one might say—in her early forties, and had bleached blond hair in need of moisturizing and a good cut. She was married to the local police chief but not very happily, according to the confidences she shared while sipping tea in Durbin’s kitchen as he groomed her Yorkshire terrier.

  At first, Jenny was skeptical about his sudden interest in buying another house.

  “As an investment,” he had said to quell her curiosity.

  As they eventually began to visit properties for sale she would occasionally ask about his past. Deftly he would change the subject to her personal life, a subject on which he knew she could ramble for hours.

  He only requested to see properties that were listed by Fitzgerald Realty, and in particular, the ones that Jenny had listed herself. This way, he was almost guaranteed that the lockboxes on each front door would be opened by the same combination. He stood as close as he dared. She opened one front door after another, and each time, he picked up a new number. After the fifth house, he had the combination he needed.

  He had driven to the yellow-and-white cottage. There was only one lock on the door: a dead bolt. The lock box yielded the key on the first try. Twenty minutes later, he had returned the key to the box and tried the newly cut duplicate. It hung up at first, but after a few twists, it turned the tumblers of the dead bolt smoothly.

  Marie-Justine moved into the cottage the first week in August. From then until early September, Durbin was able to wander through her house and touch her things at will, provided he was cautious not to be seen. He had been tempted to enter at night while she slept. He would have, except that he did not like the idea of a confrontation should she awake and find him hovering. Until recently, he had not been ready for that. Instead, he allowed his hunger to grow slowly. He only explored while she was out, being careful not to become too lost in his musings and always leaving well before her return.

  Three weeks ago, he followed her to an evening concert on campus. Once he was sure she was inside the music building, he headed directly to the cottage. Delighted he would have several hours alone, he hummed as he approached her door. But he couldn’t get in. He tried twice before he realized the dead bolt had been changed and a new doorknob presented a second lock.

  At first he had been frightened. Why had she changed the lock? Had he been seen? Did she notice something out of place? Maybe the old lady next door had seen him. He dismissed his fears. He was too careful, too skilled. He should have anticipated the locks would be changed. He had been lucky to get the time he had enjoyed. In other cities, the locks would have been replaced before the new owner moved in.

  Now, as he entered O’Connell’s Auto Repair, he was close to possessing all he needed to resume his foraging. Behind the wooden counter were two pegboards—one marked DROP OFF, the other PICK UP. He lifted the Mercedes ring from the drop-off board and placed it in his pocket. He turned to leave.

  “Can I help you?” O’Connell’s voice held a hint of suspicion.

  “Need an oil change. Got time today?” Durbin tried not to look the mechanic in the eye.

  “Sorry, not today. Can ya come back Monday?” O’Connell said, wiping his hands on a greasy towel.

  “Monday is good.” Durbin stepped out the open doorway. “Might stop by again later and see if you can work me in.”

  “No sense in that. I’ll be lucky to finish the ones I’ve got stacked in the yard before five tonight.”

  Thirty minutes later, Durbin replaced the Mercedes keys on the drop-off board. O’Connell never noticed.

  Ten

  Nicoletti wandered the residential area bordering the campus and studied the local architecture. He made mental notes of features that he hoped to one day include in his own peaceful retreat. In the six months since his retirement, it had become his habit to imagine building a home in which he could enjoy his remaining years. It had begun to take shape first in his mind, systematically incorporating and abandoning various design ideas, and then on paper.

  He drew floor plans and elevations whenever time allowed. He had plenty of time. In his new life as an investigator for a law firm in Washington, DC, he seemed to have more time on his hands than was good for him. In the last few weeks, he had been concentrating on gardens and outdoor patio areas: teak benches and tables, stone walls and archways, slate and brick. It all intrigued him. These were the things he looked for in the side and rear yards near the university as he patiently walked the streets of the quiet neighborhood.

  After two hours of walking every street and alley he could find, Nicoletti began to tire. His pace and powers of observation slowed. Distracted by a trellis covered with roses, a piece of uneven concrete in the sidewalk caught and held the toe of his right foot, and he was propelled headlong into a thick hedge of hemlock.

  Pulling himself from the evergreen branches, he heard Vivaldi. The music flowed from the open doors and windows of a small, pale yellow cottage with white trim, partially concealed from the street by the hemlock hedge. The cottage was set amid the autumn remains of what had been a lush garden. The flower beds were divided by a brick walk leading to the front porch and side patio.

  Through the hemlock boughs he saw a woman sitting on the patio in the sun. To the right of her chair was a metal table with a stone top. Nicoletti recognized her as the woman with the chestnut braid from the café.

  She was dressed in white shorts and a pink tank top. Her tan legs held Nicoletti’s attention until she extended a taut dancer’s arm gracefully to her right to pick up a teacup from the table. As she brought it to her lips, he cast an admiring glance along her toned body, her muscles long and smooth.

  He felt a light tapping on his left shoulder and sprung back from the hedge, landing in a defensive position, his body angled toward the imagined attacker, his hands raised to protect his head and chest.

  Confronting him was an elderly woman no more than five feet tall. Her body was positioned in an exaggerated offensive stance, her left foot forward. A red-and-white checked apron clung loosely to her thin build. She waved a broomstick dangerously close to the tip of his nose.

  “Are you looking for something, young man?” she asked, holding the broom across her body, ready to parry any advance he might attempt.

  “No, I just tripped on the sidewalk and sort of stumbled up against this hedge here.” He gestured as if to emphasize the innocence of his behavior with the use of sign language. He heard the phone ring behind the hedge and saw a blur of white, pink, and tan head into the house from the patio.

  “I’ve told the city several times about the condition of the walk. A person could break their neck just going to the store.”

  “There’s no doubt about that. Sorry if I gave you a start.” He delivered the sentence in his best country boy twang and began to retreat toward the street.

  “Where you from, mister? New York?” She advanced on his position.

  “I was born there, but I’m from a little bit of all over.” He refused to drop the unsuccessful twang.

  “What brings you to Missoula?” She was relentless.

  “Came to look at the university. Might take a teaching position here next semester.” Well, he might, he thought, if he knew anything worth teaching and if someone offered him a job.

  “You don’t look like a professor to me.” She started to point the boom handle in his direction. “How old are you?”

  “Fifty.”

  “I wouldn’t have guessed that old.”

  “Thanks,” he said, hoping she meant it as a compliment.

  “Well, if you do end up here, come on back and visit me. My name’s Jaeger.” She leaned toward him and spoke softly for the first time. “I might even invite my neighbor to join us.” She pointed the broomstick in the direction of the yellow and white cottage and smiled at Nicoletti. “She’s a professor over there too. A scientist… real smart…a real lady, sweet and kind as they come.” She poked the stick at his shoulder. “That’ll give you a chance to talk to her instead of just lookin’ at her.”

  “Sounds like a date. I’ll look forward to it. Take care.” Nicoletti eased back slowly, though he would have preferred to run away. He decided Jaeger was an alias and the old woman must be retired KGB, relocated to Montana after the fall of the Berlin Wall. He checked the tips of her shoes for poison-dipped daggers.

  Through the hedge he saw the patio was vacant. Mrs. Jaeger was still talking, but Nicoletti stopped listening. Now all he had to do was figure out how to get back to his hotel.

  Eleven

  Marie-Justine continued talking on the phone as she looked out the patio door, straining to see through the hedge. She was curious whom Mrs. Jaeger was accosting.

  “Did you check with Jim? Are we on for tomorrow night?” Marie-Justine said, tugging at the legs of her white shorts.

  “I’m sorry, M-J. He’s committed us to a dinner at the Bedford’s. Jim swears he told me about it the other night. I must have forgotten.
I’ve been so preoccupied with the book; I guess it just slipped by me.”

  “Another dinner at Dean Bedford’s house? Won’t tonight with the academic crowd at Dean Hawkins’ party be enough for him?”

  “Tonight is the sociology department, and it’s just cocktails. Tomorrow is literature and a more intimate dinner for twenty. I don’t know how much more I can take.”

  “Well, don’t worry. It’s okay.” She hid her disappointment. “I guess I can’t compete with Jim’s need to kneel at the feet of the dean of the literature department.” Marie-Justine never tried to hide her opinion of Anne’s choice of companions, and her opinion of Jim Reynolds was especially critical.

  “I know you’re disappointed. Maybe we could do something next week to celebrate.”

  “Sounds good. We can toast to my divorce tonight at the Hawkins’ party. Tomorrow I will celebrate alone. Tomorrow it will be ‘champagne for one’ at Chez Margot.”

  “You’ll be drinking French champagne while I’m sipping a thick and overly sweet California cabernet with the dullest people in town? Don’t rub it in.”

  “Anne, you’re not going to believe this. Remember the man at the café this morning?” She focused on the scene on the other side of the hedge. “The guy with the salt-and-pepper hair, sitting at the corner table?”

  “Do I remember? Broad shoulders, soft brown eyes…I’m just distracted, honey, not dead.”

  “I think my neighbor, Mrs. Jaeger, is out on the sidewalk, hitting him with a broom.”

  “She’s probably trying to drive him into her house. Tell her to leave him alone. He’s mine. I saw him first.”

  “But you have Jim.”

  “I’ll work a trade-in,” Anne said. “Don’t let Mrs. Jaeger beat us to the punch. Shall we pick you up about 7:45?”

  “I’m going with Dr. Kimba. Remember? I agreed to be his escort for the evening.”

  “Of course I remember.” Her voice said she didn’t. “Hey, do you need a ride to go get your car?”

  “No, Mr. O’Connell said he would drop it off on his way home.”

  “Okay. Now go out and save that hunk from your neighbor’s clutches. Invite him to the party tonight. Wouldn’t he be a pleasant change? And don’t give me that ‘I feel like I know him’ nonsense.”

  “I do know him from somewhere.”

  “I didn’t believe it this morning and I still don’t buy it now. See you tonight, about eight. And don’t use too much of that perfume.” Anne hung up.

  Marie-Justine stepped back onto the patio. The commotion in Mrs. Jaeger’s driveway was over and the combatants were gone.

  If Anne was too tied up with Jim to celebrate with her, so be it. She was not going to be sad. She had been waiting years for this day. Her lawyer had called from Los Angeles yesterday with the news that she and Dr. David Cantrell were officially divorced. The paperwork that she signed this morning was a mere formality. A celebration was in order and she was going to have one tomorrow night, with or without her best and oldest friend.

  She called the Chez Margot Restaurant and made a reservation for the following evening at seven. She filled a wine glass halfway with the pale yellow crispness of cold Mâcon-Villages. She looked again for the stranger she thought she knew. Accepting that he was gone, she sat down to read in the warm afternoon sun.

  • • •

  A dusty, gray Suburban pulled away from the curb and rolled slowly down the tree-lined street. Charles Durbin followed the gray-haired man he had seen peeking through the hemlock hedge. When it was obvious the man was heading toward downtown, Durbin abandoned the chase in favor of returning to see the object of his desire.

  Slinking down behind the wheel as he drove past the yellow-and-white cottage, Durbin smiled as he saw Marie-Justine sitting on her patio in the afternoon sun. He checked his watch. He was out of time. He had an appointment at four on the other side of town. A terrier with bad teeth and gums needed a scaling.

  “I will be back tonight, my dear,” he whispered as he drove away.

  Twelve

  Wet from the shower, a towel wrapped around his waist, Nicoletti answered his hotel room phone.

  “Hey, Nico, it’s Lenny.” The upbeat voice of Lenny Pandori brought a smile to Nicoletti’s face. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you all afternoon.”

  “Just walking around town.” Pressing the phone between his shoulder and his ear, he tugged at the towel to stretch it around his waist. Either hotels were skimping on the size of their bath towels or he was eating too much pasta.

  “Great little town, don’t you think? Nice place to settle down,” Pandori said.

  “Yeah, very nice.” The towel sprung loose and fell to the floor. Nicoletti shook it, then wrapped it around again, this time holding it closed with one hand.

  “Don’t forget the reception tonight. Want me to pick you up?”

  “No. I’ll find my way there. How’s Liz?” Nicoletti abandoned his struggle with the postage stamp-sized towel and pulled on a pair of sweat pants and a T-shirt, trying to keep his ear to the receiver.

  “She’s fine. Out of town until next week, visiting her sister in Billings. So I’m a bachelor once again. Make sure you’re at the Hawkins’ house at 7:30 sharp. The rest of the guests won’t show till eight. That’ll give you a chance to talk to the dean one-on-one. He’s really looking forward to seeing you again.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Don’t be so fucking negative. See you later.”

  Nicoletti dried the phone, opened the drapes, and turned on the desk lamp. From his briefcase he took a small, dark green velvet pouch. He untied the drawstring and emptied the contents of the pouch into his left hand.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the small, gold wedding band and delicate wooden rosary in his hand. He raised the gold ring to his lips and kissed it. Then, taking the rosary in his right hand, he began a ritual he had practiced since Kristen’s death. A ritual that signaled an attempt to connect, like dialing the phone and hoping she would answer.

  His fingers moved from one bead to the next until he clasped the rosary and gold ring with both hands. He spoke to an empty room.

  “Kristen, I’m in Missoula again. I guess you know that. I’m still thinking of taking the teaching job here. Actually, I’m not thinking of it; I have pretty much made up my mind. If the offer is good I’ll do it. Lenny thinks he’s helping me get a new start. Do I need a new start?

  “I talked to the kids last night. They’re all fine. Kristy is thinking of quitting her job and opening up a pastry shop. I don’t know what to tell her other than ‘Do what will make you happy.’ You better give her a little nudge, if you can. The boys are the same as usual, so I guess all is well here.”

  He stood up and shifted the rosary into his left hand with the gold ring. He started to walk around the room, then returned to the edge of the bed and sat down again.

  “I saw a woman today. She reminded me of you. Not just the way she looked. It was more the way I felt when I looked at her. I know after all this time it’s a little crazy, and maybe it is…maybe not. For some reason I don’t think it is. Anyway, I just thought I’d mention it. Okay?

  “I’ve got to get ready to go to some cocktail party with Lenny. I won’t drink too much so don’t worry.” He put his wife’s ring and rosary back in the pouch, pulled the strings tight, and placed it next to his cell phone in the briefcase.

  Thirteen

  Dean Hawkins and his wife lived in a large Tudor-style house. English landscapes hung on heavily plastered walls. The dark parquet floors were covered with Oriental rugs beneath uncomfortable-looking antique furniture.

  Guests moved in slow waves from the living room into the study, then through what the dean’s too-thin wife called “the sunroom,” a glassed conservatory filled with flowering plants, small trees, and wicker furniture. The rooms on the main floor opened onto a wraparound deck. The rapidly cooling night air pushed into the house from all sides.