“God, do you think this man might have gone to prison for something he didn't do?”
“It happens-and this sounds pretty good,” Lucas said. “This sounds like Bucher and Donaldson and Coombs…”
“Who?”
“Ah, a lady named Coombs, here in the Cities. Anyway. Let's go talk to Carol. Man, looking at solved cases. That was terrific. That was a terrific idea.”
Later, as Lucas left the office, Carol said, “You really got Sandy wound up. She'd jump out of an airplane for you.”
“It'll wear off,” Lucas said.
“Sometimes it does, and sometimes it doesn't,” Carol said.
Amity Anderson probably would not have jumped out of an airplane for him, Lucas decided after meeting her, but she might be willing to push him.
He saw her unlocking the front door of her house, carrying a purse and what looked like a shopping bag, as he walked up the hill toward her. She looked down the hill at him, a glance, and disappeared inside.
She lived in a cheerful postwar Cape Cod-style house, with yellow-painted clapboard siding, white trim, and a brick chimney in the middle of the roof. The yard was small, but intensely cultivated, with perennials pushing out of flower beds along the fences at the side of the house, and bright annuals in two beds on either side of the narrow concrete walk that led to the front door. A lopsided one-car garage sat off to the side, and back.
Lucas knocked, and a moment later, she answered. She was a midsized woman, probably five-six, Lucas thought, and in her early to middle thirties. Her dark hair was tied in a severe, schoolmarmish bun, without style; she wore a dark brown jacket over a beige blouse, with a tweedy skirt and practical brown shoes. Olive-complected, she had dark brown eyes, overgrown eyebrows, and three small frown wrinkles that ran vertically toward her forehead from the bridge of her short nose. She looked at him through the screen door; her face had a sullen aspect, but a full lower lip hinted at a concealed sensuality. “Do you have any identification?”
He showed her his ID. She let him in, and said, “I have to go back to the bathroom.
I'll be just a minute.”
The inside of the house was as cheery as the outside, with rugs and quilts and fabric hangings on the brightly painted plaster walls and the spotless hardwood floors.
A bag sat on the floor, next to her purse. Not a shopping bag, but a gym bag, with three sets of handball gloves tied to the outside, stiff with dried sweat. A serious, sweating handball player…
A toilet flushed, distantly, down a back hallway, and a moment later Anderson came out, tugging down the back of her skirt. “What can I do for you, Mr. Davenport?”
“You worked for Claire Donaldson when she was killed,” Lucas said. “The most specific thing I need to know is, was anything taken from the house? Aside from the obvious? Any high-value antiques, jewelry, paintings, that sort of thing?”
She pointed him at a sofa, then perched on an overstuffed chair, her knees primly tight. “That was a long time ago. Has something new come up?”
Lucas had no reason not to tell her: “I'm looking at connections between the Donaldson murder and the murder of Constance Bucher and her maid. You may have read about it or seen it on television…” Anderson's hand went to her cheek. “Of course. They're very similar, aren't they? In some ways? Do you think they're connected?”
“I don't know,” Lucas said. “We can't seem to find a common motive, other than the obvious one of robbery.”
“Oh. Robbery. Well, I'm sure the police told you she usually had some money around,” Anderson said. “But not enough to kill somebody for. I mean, unless you were a crazy junkie or something, and this was in Chippewa Falls.”
“I was thinking of antiques, paintings…”
She shook her head. “Nothing like that was taken. I was in charge of keeping inventory.
I gave a list of everything to the police and to Claire's sister and brother-in-law.”
“I've seen that,” Lucas said. “So you don't know of anything specific that seemed to be missing, and was valuable.”
“No, I don't. I assume the Booths told you that I was probably involved, that I gave a key to one of my many boyfriends, that I went to Chicago as an alibi, and the boyfriend then came over and killed Claire?”
“They…” He shrugged.
“I know,” she said, waving a hand dismissively.
“So you would categorize that as 'Not true,'“ Lucas suggested with a grin.
She laughed, more of an unhappy bark: “Of course it's not true. Those people…
But I will tell you, the Booths didn't have as much money as people think. I know that, from talking to Claire. I mean, they had enough to go to the country club and pay their bills, and go to Palm Springs in the winter, but I happen to know that they rented in Palm Springs. A condo. They were very tight with money and they were very happy to get Claire's-and they got all of it. She had no other living relatives.”
“You sound unhappy about that,” Lucas said. “Were you expecting something?”
“No. Claire and I had a businesslike arrangement. I was a secretary and I helped with the antiques, which was my main interest. We were friendly, but we had no real emotional connection. She was the boss, I was the employee. She didn't pay much, and I was always looking for another job.”
They looked at each other for a moment, then Lucas said, “I suppose you've been pretty well worked over by the sheriff's investigators. They found no boyfriends, no missing keys…”
“Officer Davenport. Not to put too fine a point on it, I'm gay.”
“Ah.” He hadn't gotten that vibe. Getting old.
“At that moment, I had no personal friend. Chippewa is not a garden spot for lesbians.
And I wasn't even sure I was gay.”
“Okay.” He slapped his knees, ready to get up. “Does the name Jacob Toms mean anything to you? Ever heard of him? From Des Moines?”
“No, I don't think so. I've never been to Des Moines. Is he another…?”
“We don't know,” Lucas said. “How about a woman named Marilyn Coombs. From here in St. Paul?”
Her eyes narrowed. “God. I've heard of the name. Recently.”
“She was killed a couple of days ago,” Lucas said.
Anderson's mouth actually dropped: “Oh… You mean there are three? Or four? I must've heard Coombs's name on television. Four people?”
“Five, maybe, including Mrs. Bucher's maid,” Lucas said.
“That's… crazy,” Anderson said. “Insane. For what?”
“We're trying to figure that out,” Lucas said. “About the Booths. Do you think they were capable of killing Mrs. Donaldson? Or of planning it?”
“Margaret was genuinely horrified. I don't doubt that,” Anderson said, her eyes lifting toward the ceiling, as she thought about it. “Glad to get the money, but horrified by what happened. Landford wasn't horrified. He was just glad to get the money.”
Then she smiled for the first time and looked back at Lucas. “Thinking that Landford… no. He wouldn't do it himself, because he might get blood on his sleeve. Thinking that he might know somebody who'd do it for him, you know, a killer-that's even more ridiculous. You have to know them. Deep in their hearts, way down in their souls, the Booths are twits.”