The Kind Worth Killing (25 page)

“She went by a different name?”

“Faith is her middle name, I think. That's what she went by in college.”

“Have you kept up with her? How did you know that Ted Severson and she were married?” He sat up a little, pushing back fractionally into the chair. His hair was a little long, especially for a police detective. He had round brown eyes under thick eyebrows, an imposing nose, and a mouth that could belong to a girl, with a plump lower lip.

“We met in Boston a few years ago, just by accident.”

“Was she with her husband then?”

“You know, I was wondering that myself after I read the story. She was with a man, I think, and she introduced us but I don't remember much about him. I couldn't believe it when I read about what happened in Boston. Detective . . . is it Kimball? . . . I was going to make coffee. Should I make enough for two?” I stood, aware that I was potentially acting suspicious, but I needed time to think.

“Um, sure. If you're going to make it for yourself.”

“Unless you think we can wrap this up right away. I'm actually pretty curious as to why you're here,” I said as I walked toward the kitchen.

“No. Make coffee, and I'd love some.”

Once in the kitchen, I took a deep breath, put the water on to boil, and put ground coffee at the bottom of my French coffee press. I needed to think clearly. Something had happened to connect me with Ted Severson and I had to be extremely careful to not get caught in a lie, not to contradict myself. They had found something out, but I didn't know how much. When the water had started to boil I poured it over the coffee, inserted the plunger. I put the coffee on a tray with two mugs, a carton of milk, and a bowl of sugar cubes, and brought it back into the living room. I was startled to see the detective standing, peering closely at the bindings in my living room's built-in bookshelf.

“Sorry,” he said, sitting back down on the lip of the chair. “You have some interesting books. I hope you don't mind my asking . . . you're David Kintner's daughter, right?”

I placed the tray on the coffee table and sat down on the couch. “Uh, yes. Do you know him? And please just help yourself to coffee.”

“I do know him. I've read several of his books, and I saw him read once. In Durham, New Hampshire.”

“Oh yeah?”

“He was quite the showman.”

“So I've heard. I've never seen him read before.”

“Really? I'm surprised.”

“Don't be. He's my father, and what he does for work is not exactly fascinating to me. At least it wasn't when I was younger.”

I watched the detective assemble his coffee, adding milk but no sugar. He had beautiful hands with long slender fingers. I was suddenly struck with how similar he looked to Eric Washburn. Thin and masculine, but with almost girlish facial features. Rosebud mouth. Thick eyelashes. He took a sip of his coffee, put the mug back on the coffee table,
and said, “You know, you weren't easy to find out here. Are you still a Kintner or did you officially change your name to Lily Hayward?”

“No, I'm still Kintner, legally. People here know me as Lily Hayward. Hayward was my father's mother's maiden name. Don't read too much into it. It's just that—working at a college—people are familiar with my father and all his baggage, and when I got the job here, I decided to go by another name.”

“Understandable.”

“So you know what's happening with my father?”

“The accident in England.”

“Right.”

“Yes, I heard about it. I'm sorry. I really am a big fan of your father's. I've read
all
his books, actually. I think I remember that he dedicated his last one to you.”

“He did. Too bad it wasn't a better book.”

The detective smiled. “It wasn't so bad. I think the reviews were a little harsh.” He took another sip of his coffee, was quiet for a moment.

“So,” I said. “Back to Ted Severson. I'm still confused why you're here.”

“Well, it could all be a coincidence, of course, but Ted Severson came here to Winslow on the day he was killed. We know that because he got a parking ticket. He wasn't coming to see you, by any chance?”

A flash of anger at Ted's stupidity went through me, followed by a touch of sadness. He had come looking for me. He had come to my town. I shook my head. “Like I said, I don't know him, and he doesn't know me. We might have met once or twice . . .”

“You were in England in September, right?”

“I was. I went over to see my father after he got out of prison. In fact, he's going to be moving back to America, and I was there to help him with some of the logistics.”

“Do you remember the flight you took back?”

“I can look it up for you if you'd like.”

“That's okay. I know the flight. It was the same one that Ted
Severson was on after a business trip he took to the U.K. Do you remember seeing him on that flight?”

I was prepared for this. So they knew that Ted and I were on a flight together. It was still highly doubtful they knew that Ted and I met later at the Concord River Inn. Did they know I traveled to Kennewick the day before? Probably not, but it wouldn't be hard to find out.

“Do you have a picture of him?” I asked

“I don't with me, but if you have Internet . . .”

“Right. I'll double-check it, but I did talk with a man on that flight, and now that I think of it, it was probably Ted Severson. We met, actually, in the airport bar at Heathrow. I remember thinking when we met that he seemed to know me. The way he said hello. But then we introduced ourselves and talked for a while. He didn't really look familiar to me.”

“You didn't exchange names?”

“We did, but I didn't really catch his. Or if I did, I didn't remember it.”

“But you gave him your name?”

“I did. And I told him that I worked here in Winslow.”

“So if he wanted to he could have looked you up, come out here to try and find you?”

“In theory,” I said. “Though if he'd really wanted to get in touch with me, I don't know why he wouldn't have tried to call me.”

“You gave him your number?”

“I didn't, actually.”

“So it's possible he tried to find your number and couldn't, then drove out here.”

“Sure, I guess it is. It just doesn't seem likely. We had a nice conversation but it wasn't flirtatious, and he's a married man, and . . .”

The detective smiled and shrugged. “You might have just missed it. We see it all the time. Some guy meets some woman, and the woman thinks nothing of it, and the next thing she knows, he's stalking her. And vice versa, as well, but that's not as common.”

“You think I was being stalked?”

“I have no idea. We were just curious as to why he drove out here on the day he was killed. It's a suspicious death, so we look at anything that happened recently that seems out of the ordinary. But if he drove out here in the hopes of running into you, then I can't imagine it had anything to do with his death.”

“No. I can't imagine.”

“Do you mind my asking if you're in a relationship, Miss Kintner?”

“No, I don't mind. And no, I'm not seeing anyone. And you can call me Lily.”

“Just checking, Lily. No jealous ex-boyfriends in your life?”

“Not that I know of.”

The detective looked at his spiral-bound notebook and was quiet for a moment. I had relaxed. As far as I could figure, I had covered myself as best as I could. I couldn't deny having met Ted on the plane. There were witnesses. But there was no reason for me to admit anything else. If the police figured out that I had stayed for two nights in Kennewick immediately after the murder, I would just have to claim it was coincidence. It might look strange, but what could happen to me? It's not as though I had actually been involved in the Friday night murder.

“Sorry, Lily, but I need to ask this. Can you tell me where you were on Friday evening?”

“I was here. I was alone. I cooked dinner for myself, then watched a movie.”

“Anyone stop by? Anyone call?”

“Sorry, no. I don't think so.”

“That's okay.” He finished his coffee and stood. “Is it possible to look at a picture of Ted Severson online so you can give a proper identification?” he asked.

“Of course,” I said, and got my laptop. Together, we found a picture that accompanied a news article on Ted's slaying, and I said, that, yes, I was pretty sure that it was the same man I'd talked with on the plane.

“It's so strange,” I said. “I read the article and realized that I kind of knew this man, or at least I definitely knew his wife, and it turns out I'd met him recently, spoken with him.”

At the door, Detective Kimball reached into his jacket pocket, then said, “Oh, one more thing. I nearly forgot.” He pulled out a single key, still shiny. “Do you mind if I check and see if this key opens your door.”

I laughed. “So dramatic. You think this man had a key to my house?”

“No, I don't, but we found it hidden among his things, and I need to check every possibility. I'm just eliminating your house is all.”

“No, please check. I understand.” It must have been the key that Ted had stolen from Brad's house, probably a master for all the rental cottages. If Brad became a suspect, it would only be a matter of time until they discovered that the key belonged to him.

I watched the detective insert the key into my front door lock. It slid in easily and for one confused and terrifying moment I thought the key might turn my lock, that maybe Ted really did have a key to my house for some reason. But it didn't. The detective jiggled it a couple of times, then pulled it out. “Nope,” he said. “I had to check, though. You've been very helpful. If you think of anything else . . .” He held out a card and I took it. Glancing down, I saw that his first name was Henry. I stood in the door and watched him drive away. It was almost dark, the sky crisscrossed with orange clouds. Behind me the phone rang twice and then stopped. I walked toward it, but I knew what the handset would tell me. I picked it up, the words
MISSED CALL
and the number on the digital readout. The area code was 207. I would double-check the number against the number of Cooley's pay phone that I'd jotted down on the back of the napkin, but I was pretty sure they would be the same. The phone call meant that Brad had set up the meeting with Miranda for later that night. It was all going as planned. The visit from the detective had made me a little nervous, but as he'd said, he was simply eliminating me from the investigation.

I opened the fridge and peered inside, deciding what to make for dinner.

Back when Brad and I had been planning Ted's murder, I had briefly considered getting a pair of untraceable temporary cell phones. Just in case. I had stupidly discarded that idea, not wanting any physical evidence that pointed to our guilt. Right now, I desperately wished we had them. I was pacing the house in the South End, going out of my fucking mind, wondering if I should just call Brad, warn him that he was going to be questioned. I didn't even know if it would help. Maybe he would panic more if he knew they were coming. And part of me wondered if I should tell Brad that he was recognized by a witness, and that he should pack his truck and leave town, go on the run.

Scenarios unfolded in my mind.

According to your cell phone records, Mrs. Severson, after you identified Brad Daggett as the man who had been spotted entering your house, you called the same Mr. Daggett that evening. And now we can't find him. What exactly did you talk about during that ten-minute conversation?

I'd tell them that I'd called Brad to let him know that the police
might question him, that I'd identified a suspect as possibly looking like him. I told him not to worry, that no one really thought he was involved. I had no idea, Detective. I mean, why would I?

You'll be glad to hear, Mrs. Severson, that we caught Brad Daggett this morning. He didn't get far, actually. They got him at the Canadian border. He's confessed to murdering your husband, and he has quite the story to go with it. Would you mind coming into the station for questioning?

No, Brad running was not an option. He needed to hold his nerve, long enough for the investigation to become cold. I had plans for Brad eventually, but those plans needed to wait.

I stood in front of the wide window in the second-floor living room. It was dark outside, the rain steady, almost comforting. Across the street were the lighted rooms of my neighbors' brownstones. I saw a figure move across one of them, a curtain being pulled.

I stood at the window for a while. I had yet to turn on any lights in my home, and I felt invisible, looking out at my corner of the city. A car moved slowly down the street, hitting a pothole and sending a cresting spray of rain onto the sidewalk. Would the police be watching me yet? Was I a suspect? It was Monday. The murder had happened on Friday and no one had been arrested yet. They must be getting nervous, and I knew that, on one level, I would have to be a suspect. I was the wife of a rich man who had died a suspicious death. But was it more than that? I pulled the curtains across the window, making sure that they met in the middle, then snapped on a lamp. It sent a circle of pale light into the room. I blinked rapidly, then shut the lamp off. I lay down on the couch in the dark, wondering if it had been a mistake to return to my house. Maybe I'd have been better off in a hotel room, like that baby-faced detective had suggested.

I kept imagining Brad at the moment when a detective approached him with questions about where he had been on Friday night. I pictured
him sweaty and stammering, the detective instantly suspicious. I knew that the wheels would come off fast. I'd misjudged Brad. When we'd first met, all I saw was a cocky, slightly stupid contractor. Seducing him had been way too easy. I'd waited until we were alone in the house. I bummed a cigarette, telling Brad not to tell my husband. “Hey,” he'd said. “I won't tell your husband anything you don't want me to tell him.” It was early August and I was wearing a short dress that buttoned up the front. I pulled it over the top of my head, shucked my underpants, and slid on top of the finished kitchen counter. The height had been all wrong, and Brad had to slide a box of tiles over and stand on them. It was awkward and unsatisfying, but afterward I lied and told Brad, tears in my eyes, that it was the first time I'd had sex since the week after my wedding, that my husband had no interest in me that way. We got dressed, and I cried for a while, and then we got undressed again, and had sex with Brad sitting on one of the folding chairs the crew had brought in for their lunch breaks. I straddled him, facing forward, my leg muscles shaking. The look on Brad's face, his eyes raking over me, told me all I needed to know. “Never anywhere else,” I said that afternoon. “Only here, and only when we absolutely know that no one will be showing up. Okay?”