“Ms. Harkness, I am not convinced your daughter’s death was accidental.”
Her face is finally bereft of its frozen mask. The lines deepen, the lips tremble, just for a moment before the facade is restored. And I get it. She’s probably afraid to crack, afraid that if she relinquishes her armor she’ll dissolve; that without self-imposed walls to contain her she’ll lose herself completely.
Projecting a bit, aren’t you?
When she speaks her voice is barely above a whisper. “Why do you think that?”
I hesitate. “At the moment, I have no hard evidence. But I have been a detective for a long time. This — event — just doesn’t feel right. Listen, I see that you’ve been given access to this apartment and presumably all her things.” I wait for Ms. Harkness’s nod before continuing. “Therefore, it’s not being treated as a crime scene. Did you find her handbag here? Her keys and I.D.?”
Objection! Leading the witness.
I’m treading on thin ice here, but I want to establish a basis for my earlier observations.
“The police gave me her keys. They were in her pocket. Her purse was here. With her wallet. They did check for fingerprints on it and laptop, and a few other places.”
My stomach drops when she mentions fingerprinting, but remind myself that I was wearing gloves when I was last here.
Resuming the thread, I ask, “Phone?”
“No phone.”
Probably at the bottom of the river. But. “Did you find a suicide note?”
Her mouth twists as her cheeks redden, but she holds it together. “No. The police walked through with me, but we found no note. No evidence of violence. Hence the verdict of ‘accident.’ Now, tell me why you think it might be something else.”
“I’ve talked to her associates. No one thinks it was a suicide.” Except for Eric North. I’ll ask about him later. “You can never completely rule out accident, but to me it just doesn’t sound likely, unless she was intoxicated when she went out. There’s railings and fences everywhere along the boardwalk, so it’s not easy just to fall in the water.” I’d found no signs of alcohol in the apartment when I’d gone through the cupboards, not even beer, so I didn’t think she was a habitual drinker. “So, ruling those out, we must consider foul play. Whether or not there’s evidence.”
“You mean murder.” She closes her eyes. Mascara is smudged beneath her lashes. The fabric of the skirt she’s folding bunches in her hands. “How do I know you’re not just dragging this out, in order to collect a paycheck?”
“That,” I say through gritted teeth. “Is out of line.” How dare she? When was the last time she risked her life in the line of duty? Put herself into danger for a person she didn’t know?
Easy there, Lake. Don’t attack the witness.
I simmer down with an effort. “Think of it, Ms. Harkness. She had her keys. She left her wallet. She meant to come back. She may have been meeting someone. Or it may have been a chance encounter. I know this is painful, but I need to know everything you can tell me about your daughter. It will help my investigation.”
“Everything?” Ms. Harkness laughs mirthlessly. “I’ve known my daughter for thirty-two years. I can tell you lots about her childhood. But now? I’m sure I’m the last person to know anything useful.”
“Let’s talk about this church Victoria founded.”
Ms. Harkness’s shoulders straighten. She lays the skirt in the suitcase. “I don’t understand how my daughter could have gotten so far off the path. I could only hope one day she’d find her way back. But now…” She touches the silver cross pendant. “It started about ten years ago, after she left Reed College. She had been majoring in art but didn’t complete her thesis project. She joined a Bible study group, but soon was inviting friends from Reed over to ‘pick it apart’ — her words, not mine. Eventually she stopped going to church. And then she started having discussion groups at one of those New Age bookstores. And, aided and abetted by these other so-called ‘spiritual seekers’ she started her own on-line video channel, which then grew into a, a movement.” She twists the chain of her pendant in her hand. “I could not, can not, support what she was doing — what she did. I asked her to move out of my house, and never to speak of this — this sham she was perpetuating.”
I wonder how an art school drop-out managed to support all these activities, and I ask, albeit more diplomatically. I learn about the trust fund set up by her grandfather, Ms. Harknesses’ own father, for each of his grandchildren when he passed away. Victoria and her cousins could access the interest, but not the principal, until they were forty years old, the idea being they would be set for life but unable to squander their resources in a misspent youth.
Nice. Nothing like second generation entitlement.
“I see. And who gets that money now?”
“The contents of the trust will be disbursed among the remaining accounts.”
“Where are her cousins?”
She stares at me. “Back East. One’s in London. Why?”
“Ms. Harkness, is there anyone you can think of who might want to harm Victoria? Ex-boyfriends, jealous classmates, anyone?”
“I couldn’t get her to settle down to a proper relationship. They never lasted more than a few weeks. She was a pretty girl and there was always someone in the wings.” She abandons her folding and walks to the window, looking out.
I notice a dead fly on the sill. The light outside is cool and white.
She says, her voice muffled, “I just wanted her to have stability, a house, a family. I didn’t even object to her being an artist, if that’s what she wanted.”
I take a few steps into the
