Slow Kill (26 page)

After talking to Macy, Ellie had settled down to a cup of tea and thoughts about how to approach Claudia Spalding. Then the sheriff called. Did Ellie understand she was to make no statements to the press after the arrest? That the case would get national attention? That there could be no procedural screwups?

An hour later, Ellie lay wide-awake in bed, puzzling over how to get Claudia Spalding talking. What was it Ramona Pino had said about Kim Dean? She couldn’t remember the exact words, but it boiled down to Dean being easily manipulated by Claudia. Bill Price had noted the same trait in Coe Evans.

Claudia Spalding apparently thrived on domination and control. Prickly and imperious, she was beyond a doubt a formidable woman. Ellie could easily imagine how she used her sexuality, intelligence, and guile on Dean and Evans. Or anybody else she needed to. It was one thing to guess at Claudia’s motives for murder, but quite another to understand the forces that had made her act. For a woman who’d been given so much, who had so much, it surely went far beyond simple greed.

A restless night finally over, Ellie was starting the day with no brilliant inspirations or new insights. She checked her appearance in the mirror and left the house, hoping that during the drive to headquarters she would think of some way to get Claudia to take that first small step toward admitting guilty knowledge.

It was a soft summer morning in Santa Fe, unusually cool with moist tropical air coursing up from the Gulf of Mexico, yet without a cloud in the sky or any haze to dampen the sunlight. Kerney found it unusual for other reasons as well. Although the downtown shops were about to open, traffic was light and the tourists had not yet begun to stream out of their hotels to fill the sidewalks.

By the time he reached the turnoff to Canyon Road the brief moment of serenity had passed. People wandered up the middle of the narrow street snapping pictures of the quaint pueblo-style adobe buildings, drivers backed up traffic waiting for parking spaces to become available, and the open-air sightseeing trolley just in front of Kerney’s unit was filled with visitors listening to a tour guide’s thumbnail sketch of Santa Fe history blaring out from a loudspeaker.

Santa Fe, a city of 65,000 people-not counting the untold numbers of undocumented residents from Mexico and Central America-was the third largest art market in the country. It was awash with art galleries, private art dealers, art consultants, conservators, appraisers, and studio artists. There were foundries, lapidaries, glass-blowing studios, weaving shops, wood-carving shops, and ceramic studios all over town. But the largest concentration of businesses that made Santa Fe an art mecca were to be found around the Plaza and on nearby Canyon Road.

Years ago, old-timers had decried the rapid changes to the street, once a quiet, sheltered neighborhood of adobe homes, a bar or two, and a small grocery store along a dirt lane. Now the transformation was complete: shops, studios, galleries, and restaurants dominated, and the tourist dollar ruled.

Kerney parked illegally in a loading zone and walked over to the art gallery next to the restaurant where Mrs. Kessler had last seen Debbie Calderwood’s college roommate. The gallery was gone, replaced by an upscale boutique that sold fringed leather jackets, handmade western shirts, silk scarves, flowing dresses, gaudy, flowered cowboy boots-everything a gal needed to show that she had Santa Fe style.

Kerney wasn’t surprised; retail shops along the road came and went with such frequency it was almost impossible to keep track of them.

The store owner told Kerney she’d been in the same location for five years, didn’t know who had leased the space before her, and had never met the prior occupants. However, she did provide Kerney with the name of her landlord.

Kerney called the landlord from his unit and learned the building had previously been leased by a woman who now ran a gallery out of her house in the village of Galisteo, southeast of Santa Fe.

“She deals in abstract, modern art,” the man added. “A lot of it by well-known European and East Coast artists.”

“How long did she lease from you?” Kerney asked.

“About ten years.”

“What’s her name?”

“Jennifer Stover. Her number is in the business directory under the Stover-Driscoll Gallery. Driscoll is her ex-husband’s name. She sees clients only by appointment.”

Kerney got the listing from information, dialed the number, listened to a recorded message, and disconnected. He called information back and learned there was no published residential listing for either a Stover or a Driscoll in Galisteo.

When he got to his office, he’d ask the phone company to search for an unlisted number and then try to make contact with Stover again. If that didn’t work, Galisteo was ten minutes away from Kerney’s ranch. He’d swing by the village before going home in the evening and track Stover down.

From a distance, Ellie Lowrey and Lieutenant Macy watched the hushed, somber crowd assembled at the grave site. Men and women dressed in dark blue, black, and charcoal outfits stood quietly, eyes cast downward. The young children present were anchored close to their mothers’ sides to keep them still. Claudia Spalding held a bouquet of flowers and a pure white linen handkerchief in her gloved hands. An ocean breeze ruffled skirt hems, jacket lapels, and ties, and carried away the minister ’s words.

The wind died away, and for a moment the gathering looked like a staged movie scene. The open grave, the casket of polished wood with brass handles, the abundance of carefully arranged funeral wreaths, the green grass blanket of the cemetery dale with the forested hills rising behind, created a surreal impression.

It was a large crowd of two hundred or more people. Behind the hearse, cars parked on the winding gravel lane stretched almost to the cemetery entrance. Outside the arched, open gate, private security personnel held back photographers with telephoto lenses who were pressed against the ornate wrought iron fence taking pictures.

“We may have a long wait before the last of Spalding’s guests clear out after the wake,” Ellie said to Lieutenant Macy.

Macy nodded. “I’m more concerned right now about the paparazzi. We need them contained and kept away from the estate.”

Ellie had been out of touch with Macy for the past three hours, scoping out the situation in Montecito, making arrangements, and putting her team in place.

“Spalding’s rent-a-cops will keep them at the bottom of the hill, and the Santa Barbara PD, at Claudia’s request, will be on hand to assist.”

“Do they know what’s going down?”

“No, I called the estate posing as a newspaper reporter and got the information from an employee. She also told me that invited guests would be screened at the entrance to the estate by private security.”

“How do we make sure Spalding doesn’t slip away in the backseat of a guest’s car?” Macy asked.

“Claudia has hired a valet parking service for the wake. One of our detectives will be an attendant.”

“Valet parking for a wake,” Macy said in mock disbelief. “How did you manage that?”

“Plus catered food for the guests by a celebrity chef,” Ellie said. “I talked to the man who owns the service, flashed my shield, told him I was with dignitary protection for a high-ranking government official, and got him to agree to the substitution. He thinks we’re feds and it’s all very hush-hush.”

“Clever,” Macy said.

“Security at the entrance will use the keypad gate opener to let the guests through. We’ll use it after they leave to make a quick entry.”

“You have the code?”

“I got it from the fire department,” Ellie answered. “A local ordinance requires owners of all gated residences to provide emergency access information to the department.”

Ellie watched Claudia step away from the crowd, place the bouquet on her husband’s coffin, bow her head, and clutch a hand to her throat.

“She’s very good,” Ellie said, still wondering what it would take to break the woman down.

“Let’s go,” Macy said as people started drifting away toward the waiting cars. The young children, released from their mothers’ sides, eagerly skipped ahead of their slow-moving parents and skirted around the tombstones.

After the last guest had left and the caterers and parking attendants were gone, Ellie went up to the estate alone. She found Claudia on the patio seated in a lawn chair next to the pool.

“I don’t recall your name on the guest list,” Spalding said. “How did you get in here?”

Spalding’s modest black designer dress, with a high scooped neckline, half sleeves, and the hem just below the knees, fit her perfectly. She stood, walked to the pergola, poured whiskey into a tumbler, and held it in both hands.

Everything about her was smooth and polished. She glanced at Ellie intently without a hint of uneasiness.

“I know this probably isn’t the best time to talk,” Ellie said.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Claudia replied.

“Would you rather I come back some other time?”

“Don’t play games with me, Sergeant. Coming to see me now, at this time, goes beyond rudeness and bad manners. Tell me how you got in or leave.”

“A security guard let me in,” Ellie said.

A thin smile stretched across Claudia’s lips. “I rather doubt that.” She put the tumbler down. “Say what you need to and then go.”

Ellie waved her off. “Never mind. It can wait.”

“Another little trick, Sergeant?” Claudia asked. “Are you trying to make me anxious and curious about what brought you here? If so, you’re being much too transparent. Let me show you out.”

Ellie followed Spalding through the sunroom, down the hallway with the walls of paintings, into the enormous living room. There would be no breakthrough moment with Spalding. She showed no tiny pang of conscience or fear of punishment that could be used as a lever. There was no gambit of conversation Ellie could use to open her up, lower her defenses.

She was a poised, elegant, armor-plated, stone cold killer.

At the massive front doors, Ellie cuffed Spalding, told her the charges, read her the Miranda warning, and put her in the backseat of the unmarked cruiser.

“I’d like to call my lawyer,” Spalding said.

“You can do that from jail,” Ellie said, looking in at her through the open car door.

“Were you overweight as a child?” Spalding asked.

“Why do you ask?” Ellie countered, taken aback by the question. In fact, she’d been a little chubby until puberty caught up with her and burned it permanently away.

Spalding smirked. “Never mind.”

“Were you?” Ellie asked, hoping at last Claudia wanted to talk.

Spalding turned away. “Please hurry. These handcuffs are very uncomfortable.”

W ith Claudia Spalding in custody and on her way to jail, Lieutenant Dante Macy quickly moved the team of detectives onto the estate. The long lane to the house, shaded by rows of overarching trees, cut the afternoon sun into gleaming flecks of light. On either side, thickets of brambles and tall pines created the illusion of a forest. When the Tuscan-style house and the formal tiered gardens came into view, Macy was stunned by the opulence. Ellie Lowrey’s description of the estate hadn’t done it justice. He wondered how many tens of millions, or hundreds of millions, it took to own such a place.

Macy put his people into motion. Two men would round up the staff and take their statements. Detective Price and two officers would conduct the search for evidence. Two more detectives would do a visual sweep of the extensive grounds to determine what else might need to be searched under a new warrant.

The five employees consisted of Clifford Spalding’s personal assistant, an estate overseer who lived on the grounds, two gardeners, and a resident housekeeper. All of them had attended the funeral services and the wake, staying behind after the last guests departed to tidy up and restore order.

Macy wandered through the house and grounds thinking it would take a platoon of officers a day or more to do a truly comprehensive search. Hopefully, that wouldn’t be needed. He watched as the detectives working under Price examined hard drives on the household computers, then stopped by the kitchen where the personal assistant, a nervous woman in her thirties named Sheila, was giving a statement. The rest of the staff were seated silently around the table in the adjacent dining room under the watchful eye of an officer.

Macy found Price exiting the guesthouse by the tennis courts, empty-handed. Price shook his head to signal that he’d found nothing of interest and walked toward the garage and staff quarters. Macy went back to the kitchen and waited for the detective to finish up with Sheila. Then he took her in tow and had her open every locked door on the estate so the officers could do a visual inspection. There was no good reason to waste time trying to do a thorough search of every nook and cranny. At least, not yet.

After the doors had been unlocked, he told Sheila to wait in the dining room, and sat at the far end of the long antique tavern table that filled the center space of the kitchen. The two gardeners, both middle-aged Hispanic men with limited English language skills, were questioned one at a time by a Spanish-speaking officer. They both said they didn’t know Kim Dean or what his relationship to Claudia was. The detective probed a bit, but it was clear both men had very little personal knowledge about their employers.

Next up was the housekeeper, a woman with a broad Nordic face and pale blue eyes named Cora Sluka. Under questioning, she was uncooperative and evasive at first, but opened up a bit when the detectives pointed out that Clifford Spalding was dead, his wife was in jail charged with murder, and Sluka might have a hard time getting another job if they had to arrest her.

She talked about a male who’d appeared unannounced within the past year to visit Mrs. Spalding, and recalled serving them drinks on the patio. She couldn’t describe the man, but when shown Dean’s booking photograph from the Santa Fe County Jail, she identified him as the visitor.