The Wicked Wife (Murder in Marin Book 2) (32 page)

“I’m not surprised that she was not Miss Popularity in her high school senior class,” Eddie replied. “By the way, did she ever mention to you a guy named Kozlov?”

“Not to me, and I don’t think to Sylvia. But considering all that we’ve learned about Willow in the last twenty-four hours, not much would surprise me. What about Kozlov has put him on your radar?”

“The fact that he and Willow have called each other back and forth numerous times on any given day over the last year or so. I think it’s a pretty safe guess that they were having an affair. He certainly wasn’t her music teacher.”

Holly gave a low whistle. “Willow certainly kept busy!”

“And do you remember anything about a James Finch?”

“His name never came up that I recall. I’ll ask Sylvia. You think they were involved as well?”

“Not sure. All I know is the only guy who rang Willow’s number more than Koslov was this guy, Finch.”

“So, you’re thinking where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

“Holly, that’s not always the case. Just ninety-nine percent of the time.”
 

By Monday morning, Eddie was beginning to feel more confident about getting his hands around Willow’s odd life and mysterious death. It was still Topic Number One for the Bay Area media, and he knew it would be a wonderful thing to clear this case off his desk as soon as possible.

He and Canning huddled early in the day to discuss their one o’clock press conference. At three, he planned to be at the church in Tiburon for Willow’s memorial service.

“Anything interesting turn up in the call records of our celebrity victim?” Canning began.

“Not certain. But a few things came up that raise questions that need answering.”

“Such as?”

“One is a Viktor Kozlov. I dug up some background on the guy. He’s a famous Russian violinist, who renounced his citizenship and became a British citizen. He and Willow were an item before she and Adams married.”

“From what I’ve read, she was an item with half of the names in Hollywood, the NBA, and the NFL,” Canning muttered.

“True. But her most lasting relationship appears to be the one she had with Kozlov. And given the calls between them over the last twelve-plus months, you start to wonder if they were…”

“Fiddling around?” Canning said with a smile.

“That’s as good a way to put it as any.”

“Well, I know you’re not seriously looking at William Adams as a suspect, but at a hundred million a year, he might think his money should buy him a little fidelity, if nothing else.”

“You think?”

“What else do you have?”

“This attorney of hers—a guy named James Finch. Could be nothing, but a lot of calls between them as well. More accurately, incoming calls made from him to her. There must be ten calls from him for every one call she made in return. Maybe nothing. Just strikes me as unusual. I’m going to the funeral service later today. I pulled up a picture of Finch from his law firm’s website. I’m going to buttonhole him and arrange an interview.”

“Any others?”

“Yes, two, both in Paris. Here she had the same number of calls, inbound and outbound. One of them is her designer and partner in the success of that perfume, LeBon. The other is a guy named Jacques Allard. He’s a jewelry designer. I’m just curious about what she may have been up to with him.”

“Fishing around for a connection related to your theory that Willow’s love of jewelry might have gone to inappropriate levels?”

Eddie smiled. “Jack, you do have a way of putting things. You should run for Congress.”

“Actually, I’d prefer running for another term as sheriff. Fewer knuckleheads to deal with, and you can actually claim that you accomplished something.”

“One of my contacts at the
Standard
, the local columnist for Tiburon and Belvedere, tells me that both LeBon and Allard are coming to Willow’s service. I’ll interview them, hopefully before they head back to Paris. I know the department doesn’t want to explain why I was sent to Paris on the county’s dime,” Eddie said with a mischievous grin.

“Don’t worry about that, Eddie,” Jack assured him. “If anyone is going on an expense paid trip to Paris, you’re looking at him.”

For dramatic effect, he and Canning leaned on Max to join them and put on a little show. “Nothing too gruesome,” Eddie explained. “Just a bit of that computer modeling you made of the hammer strike to the back of the head.”

“Really, you think you’re going to satisfy the media beast with that morsel?”

“Trust me, they’ll eat it up.”

“Anything else?” Max asked Canning.

“Yes. I’m going to mention that we have fibers that were left behind by the killer.”

“But we have very little of that,” Max said with a raised eyebrow.

“I know that, but at least it sounds like progress,” Canning explained. “Better still, if our killer is watching, it will start him thinking. The first person who pops up and asks what kind of fibers have been found, I’m going to quickly say that ‘discussing the nature of our specific evidence could impede our investigation.’”

“Okay, guys, it’s your show. The sooner we can get it done with, the happier I’ll be.”

“Don’t worry, Max. It will all work out. This is just a little bit of showbiz.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

The press conference went well, but ran long. When Eddie arrived at Belvedere’s St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church, shortly before the memorial service for Willow began, the first thing he noticed was television satellite trucks lining Bayview Avenue, as reporters, cameramen, and producers all jockeyed for position.
 

Anticipating a rush for the limited available seating inside the sanctuary, Holly, Rob, and Sylvia arrived thirty minutes early, and held on to one extra space for Eddie. As he slipped in between them, he whispered to Holly, “All the usual suspects, I imagine?”
 

“I wonder how many times the murderer shows up at the victim’s service?”
 

“As often as the arsonist waits around to see the fire trucks arrive.” He craned his neck to observe those seated in the pews. “Do you know where Finch is sitting?”

“He and his wife, Jade, are seated next to William Adams on his right.”

“And the couple to his left?”

“Oscar and Gloria Bukowski, Willow’s parents.”

“Quite the family photo.”

“Hardly!”

“Do you see LeBon and Allard?”

“They’re seated in the second pew behind Adams. LeBon is the one in that dramatic white double-breasted suit, with the black carnation on his lapel. Allard is seated to his right.”

“Sylvia, when the service ends, you button hole the Bukowskis. Holly, you pull Allard aside. After I pay my respects to William, I’ll introduce myself to James, just as we discussed. Rob, you keep an eye on the buffet table and make sure to save me a donut; I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

“Very funny!” Rob muttered. “By the way, how did the press conference go?”
 

“A breeze. You were so right to suggest that Max do his little animation with the hammer blow. They ate it up.”

Rob nodded. “Substance always takes second place to something that will shock your listeners, readers or viewers. Fire up your audience’s imagination, and everyone goes home satisfied.”

Just then, the organist began
Rock of Ages.

“And the show must go on,” Eddie murmured.

With the exception of William and LeBon, there were few tears shed during the ceremony.
 

Sylvia dabbed the corners of her eyes several times, but Holly reasoned that was more for the loss of innocence than the loss of Willow.

From what Sylvia could see, apparently none of Willow’s classmates were in attendance. “Most of the church seems to be people who were there for William. Or simply here out of curiosity.”
 

But as the gathering rose to follow William and the minister to the church’s reception hall for an elaborate afternoon tea, Sylvia intercepted the Bukowskis. At the same time, Holly re-introduced herself to LeBon and Allard, while Eddie walked just a few steps behind James.

In the church’s spacious glass-enclosed space, the attendees—mostly William’s neighbors, his family, partners and employees at his law firm and various other business ventures—gathered and spoke softly of the tragic loss of one so young, the unsettling nature of the brutal crime, and their surprise and regret that William had now lost two wives in a period of less than five years.

Always generous in his contributions to St. Stephen’s, though rarely in attendance, the church took care to see that William and his fellow mourners were all made quite comfortable. A variety of teas were served, along with small finger sandwiches.
 

To Rob’s dismay, there was not a donut in sight.

As for Sylvia, Holly, and Eddie, all of who had information to gather, the inviting afternoon sun filtering through the floor to ceiling colored panes of glass created a calming effect that made the perfect atmosphere to ask difficult questions at a sensitive time.

Sylvia began by re-introducing herself to Gloria and Oscar.
 

They agreed with her that it had not seemed very long since they had last seen each other at William and Willow’s wedding.
 

“Willow and I spent a great deal of time together, working on local community projects. She was so dedicated to the causes she chose,” Sylvia said with a sympathetic smile.

“I never knew Willow did any charitable work,” Oscar exclaimed, somewhat surprised.

Sylvia smiled, and pushed ahead. “In fact, I’m in the middle of writing a piece about your daughter for this Friday’s edition of the
Standard
.”
 

“I don’t think there’s very much we could tell you about Willow, at least not about her life for the last thirteen years,” Gloria began in a wistful tone. “She moved out of the house at eighteen, less than a month after she graduated from Marin Academy. I’m sorry to say that we had very little contact with her after that.”

Sylvia hoped to stay on task, but the nature of Willow’s relationship with her parents struck her as so thoroughly bizarre. The only thing she could think to do was to follow the advice she had heard from both Rob and Holly, “When in an uncomfortable spot in an interview,” Holly said, “keep smiling and keep pushing for answers.”