Double Shot

“The garage door was half open, which was bizarre, or at least unusual for John Richard.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because John Richard loved that car, that new Audi. He was manic about his stuff. He’d never risk someone being able to break in through the garage.” Blackridge nodded for me to continue. “I ducked down. I could see that the Audi was still there. So I scooted under the garage door—”

“Why not call Arch over at that point?” Blackridge wanted to know. “You’d been at the front door together, trying to summon his father.”

I let out a deep breath. “I don’t know.” This seemed to be my refrain for the day. “Anyway,” I went on quickly, eager for this to be over, since I knew I was going to have to repeat the whole thing down at the department. “I went in, walked across the garage, and then…” I paused, remembering the horrid sight of John Richard’s twisted body. “Then I saw him. In his car. I saw he’d been shot and that he was dead. So I called Tom and got his voice mail. I left a message about what I’d seen, and I asked him to come up here. Then I called you all.”

“Did you touch anything in the garage? Move anything? Take anything?”

“No, no, no, of course not.”

Reilly tapped the clipboard with his pen. “We’ll be analyzing the tape of your call to 911,” he put in.

“Go ahead,” I retorted, feeling fury flare. So what if I’d hung up on the 911 operator? I’d been worried about Arch, still out front. I hadn’t wanted him to make an appearance in the garage and see his father, so grotesque in death.

Blackridge lifted a warning eyebrow at Reilly. “And next, Mrs. Schulz?” he asked gently.

I bit the inside of my cheek. In a homicide case, the cops traced all the calls you made, so omitting the call to Marla was a bad idea. “I called my best friend, Marla Korman. She’s John Richard’s other ex-wife. I got her voice mail, too.” I took a deep breath.

“And why did you call the other ex-wife of the man you’d just found dead?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t think. Because she’s my friend, I suppose. I left her a message saying John Richard was dead. Then I went to tell my son there had been a terrible accident. That his father was dead. I knew he’d need me. Then the two of us waited for you all to show up.”

Blackridge had hooked his meaty arm over the front seat so he could turn and look at me. “Do you have any idea who could have done this, Mrs. Schulz? Did Dr. Korman have enemies? Say, particular people who didn’t like him?”

I thought of Courtney MacEwan’s cold eyes and hardened visage this morning. He owes me. But she was only one of many women—present company included—whom John Richard had made love to passionately for a while before moving on to someone else.

“He had ex-girlfriends,” I said lamely. “Lots of them. Fifty-some.”

“Fifty-some? Can you give us names of the most recent ones?”

I felt horrid pointing the finger at Courtney, but I was being truthful here, right? “I’m pretty sure the most recent ex-girlfriend is named Courtney MacEwan.”

“Spell her name, please.” Reilly’s thin voice startled me. Feeling like a total heel, I spelled Courtney’s name.

“Anyone else?” Blackridge asked.

“His current girlfriend is named Sandee Blue. I think she works at the country-club golf shop.”

“Anyone else?”

“Wait. He had an argument at the funeral lunch with a man named Ted Vikarios. I don’t know where Ted lives or even if the argument is significant.” I spelled Ted’s name for them. Did I know any other possible enemies of John Richard? they asked. I said, “Apart from the man wanting his money, I don’t know who John Richard’s current acquaintances are. Were.” I did not add my usual comment, I try to stay as far away from him as possible.

“Okay, Mrs. Schulz,” Blackridge said. Finally. “You know the drill here. You’re the primary witness, and we need to take you down to the department to make a taped statement.” Reilly flipped over the pages of notes he’d taken and tucked the clipboard beside him. Blackridge turned the key in the ignition, and we started out for the Furman County Sheriff’s Department. There, I knew, everything would be different.

My new criminal lawyer would be waiting. This would make me look even more guilty, but tough tacks. And the taped interrogation would not be, as they say, a piece of cake.

Brewster Motley had wide shoulders, a mop of long, sun-bleached blond curls, and a tanned, boyish face complete with impish grin. He looked like a surfer who’d accidentally gotten tucked into an expensive gray Italian suit and dark gray leather loafers. Unfortunately, I’d had to deal with a few criminal lawyers. When you’re telling them what actually happened, they smirk at you. And then when the two of you are with the cops, your lawyer commands you to shut up, even when you have a perfectly good explanation for how things went so wrong. In any event, I took to happy-go-lucky-looking Brewster Motley. He’d believe I was innocent, wouldn’t he?

Tom had told me to demand to see my lawyer immediately. So when we reached the department parking lot, I astonished Reilly and Blackridge by announcing that my attorney should have arrived by now. I said I wanted to confer with him before any taping began. When Blackridge glanced in the rearview mirror to check my expression, I just closed my eyes.

After about ten minutes of bureaucratic wrangling and trying to find the person Mrs. Schulz was asking for, I was ushered into a room where Brewster Motley was waiting, grinning from ear to ear. Surf’s up!

“I think I’m in trouble,” I began, once the door was closed. Brewster suppressed his grin and nodded sympathetically.

“Tell me about it.” His voice was as warm and comforting as custard sauce. “Let’s sit.” He snapped open a luxurious leather briefcase and pulled out a notepad. “Relax.”

I did as told. No wonder they call them Counselor.

“First of all, Mr. Motley, I did not shoot my ex-husband.”

“Call me Brewster. And by the way, I’m aware of the few times you’ve helped the cops with cases. I read about them in the paper.”

“Super. But I have to tell you, Brewster, there are a lot of circumstances that are going to make this look really bad.” I gave a very abbreviated account of the terrible history between John Richard and me. John Richard, I went on, was an unreformed batterer who’d beaten one girlfriend almost to death, an act that had finally landed him in prison for aggravated assault. He’d gotten out six weeks ago, on April the twenty-second, and had already dumped one girlfriend who was now furious with him. Brewster asked for her name and I spelled out Courtney MacEwan for the second time that day. I told him about the Jerk’s brief argument with Ted Vikarios, and again spelled out that name. Plus, John Richard seemed to be in trouble with creditors. He was living a country-club lifestyle with no visible means of support. I believed he was borrowing large amounts of money, secured by who-knows-what. That could be the only explanation for his sudden ability to sponsor a golf tournament, afford the rent on a Tudor McMansion, and buy, not lease, a new Audi. John Richard had been trying to embrace the high-flying rich-doctor lifestyle he used to have. Except that he wasn’t practicing medicine. His license had been suspended when he went to jail.

“How do you know he bought the Audi?”

“His other ex-wife, Marla Korman, and I are best friends. She told me.”

“Yes. That’s the Mrs. Marla Korman who hired me.”

“Right. Marla loves to track the…John Richard, his love life and financial dealings. And she passes on all she learns to me.” I felt my cheeks coloring. “We do gossip about him. Did.”

Brewster tapped his pen on the desk. “Did you and Dr. Korman have any children?”

I told him about Arch, that my son had been with me when I’d discovered John Richard’s body. Well, not exactly with me, and that was part of the problem.

Brewster held up a hand and gave me another charming grin. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Did Dr. Korman keep up with child support while he was in prison?”