Not Just Intuition

Not Just Intuition

          The body of Carter Grant, popular highly paid television talk show host, lay sprawled across a flagstone footpath just yards from his luxurious beach home.

         I stood looking down at the familiar face. His silver hair, boyish grin and quick humor were immediately recognizable to millions. I grew up watching his show.

         Grant stared up through sightless eyes.

         The area was surrounded with bright yellow crime scene tape, and two members of the forensics team were combing the area for clues. I called to the man nearest me, "Hey, Bill. Anything?"

         The balding, over-weight man shook his head. "Nope. The M.E. is on his way, Diane. Told us to leave the body alone."

         I scanned the area. The path was bordered on one side by pristine beach that slanted softly to the ocean fifty yards away. The other side was thick with shrubs and small trees that concealed a fifteen-foot high concrete sea wall. Stone steps led up to Carter Grant's home. "Who found the body?"

         "His wife. Knockout blonde about a third his age. Real rich widow, now," the forensics man said sarcastically.

         A strong breeze blew in off the water. I slapped at my gray skirt to keep it from billowing up. Sand gritted in my low-healed shoes. "Thanks, Bill. See ya'."

         I walked toward the stone steps and a shadow in the shrubs, darker than the rest, caught my attention. Spreading branches, scratching the back of my hand, I discovered a black umbrella, partially open. Taking a tissue from my shoulder bag I carefully lifted the umbrella, using the tissue to avoid touching the white, bone handle. Even in the dim moonlight a dark stain was noticeable on the long, pointed metal tip.

         "Find something?"

         I jumped at the voice behind me. "Oh, Harlow...you scared me," I said, turning to see Harlow Branch, the County Medical Examiner. The thick lenses of his eyeglasses made his eyes seem immense. "Yeah, found an umbrella. May be blood on the tip."

         Branch took the umbrella, mindful to keep the tissue in place. "I'll have it checked out."

         "Will you call me later? Or earlier, I should say," I sighed, glancing at my watch. It was almost midnight. "If you find anything?"

         "Of course, my dear. I'll do the autopsy as soon as possible. Can't bumble around when the victim is a big TeeVee star. Inquiring minds will want to know all the details by first light. I'll call," Branch affirmed, moving back toward the body.

         I climbed the stairs and, as I reached the top step three feet from the open back door of the Grant home, I heard a raspy, irritating voice coming from inside: Detective Harvey Cezwicci. Crap, I whispered aloud.

         Cezwicci was an old-fashioned cop. He still had trouble relating to women and most minorities. I had been paired with him on several cases when I was in training, before I got my Detective badge.

         He shouted. "Again! Where were you when your husband was killed?"

         "I-I told you. I was upstairs in the gym riding my new exercise bike. I just got it this morning. I rode for over an hour," a petite, blue-eyed blonde answered, nearly sobbing.

         She wore pink exercise tights and a sleeveless T-shirt over a blue sports bra. Incredible figure, I noted enviously. She also had a smudge of blue beneath her right eye.

         Cezwicci plodded ahead, ignoring my entrance. "Okay, Mrs. Grant, let me get this straight...you and your husband had a fight. He smacked you. You went upstairs and started exercising, and he went for a walk. Then, about an hour later, you came down to get a glass of water. Right?"

         "I've told you all this..."

         Cezwicci slammed his beefy palm down on the table at which the girl sat. "And you'll tell me again, and again, until I stop asking you!"

         The girl's lips trembled. "Yes. I came down for water. I saw that the door was still open. Carter always closed and locked it when he came in. When I saw it open, I thought I'd join him on the path. Walk with him. Try to talk. Instead, I found him d-dead," she gasped, burying her face in her hands. Her slim body shook as she cried.

         Cezwicci impatiently cast his eyes toward heaven, "Can we get on with this, please?"

         Mrs. Grant sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with a mascara-stained tissue. "Okay."

         "Was there anyone else in the house? Servants? Friends?"

         "Just me. Marie, our cook, is off on Wednesday."

         "Your husband have any enemies?"

         "Dozens. He wasn't a very funny man off television."

         Just then I saw something drop from the girl's ear. It spattered on the shoulder of her gray T-shirt and spread in a widening circle of crimson. Blood. "Uh, Mrs. Grant? Pardon me, but your ear seems to be bleeding," I said.

         The girl touched her left ear. Her fingertips came away smeared with bright red. She stared at her fingers a moment, a frown sitting uneasily on her pretty face. "I must have scratched myself on the shrubs when I ran back up here to call nine-one-one. Excuse me," she said, pushing away from the table and leaving the room.

         Cezwicci turned on me then. "Thanks for running her off in the middle of my questioning."

         "Badgering, don't you mean?" I responded, unhappy at the prospect of having to work with the heavy-handed Cezwicci. "If you think she did it, don't you think you should read her her rights?"

         "She don't have rights 'til I say she has rights."

         I shook my head in disbelief and leaned against the sink. An acidic smell rose up from the drain where an empty glass and a small paring knife lay. "What was the fight about?" I asked.

         Cezwicci snorted. "Lady says she found lipstick on hubby's shirt and asked him about it. She also brought up the fact that he hadn't been very amorous lately. Grant laughed at her. She tried to slap him but he caught her wrist and popped her, instead."

         "You find that amusing?" I bristled, feeling my eyebrows creep together over the bridge of my nose.

         "A little. Young dame like that marries a guy forty years older than her 'cause he's famous and rich. Then, when he has a little fling on the side, she gets all bent out of shape and starts complaining. So he put her in her place," Cezwicci said with a shrug.

         "In her place? Because she's a woman she deserves to be knocked around, right? You'd like to keep everyone in "their" place, wouldn't you Cezwicci? Let's separate people by class, and color, and sex, and religion and deal with them as we did fifty years ago. Is that your philosophy?" I exploded.

         "Close, Marsh. And just because you made it through Detective training don't let it go to your head. The department had a quota to meet...you're our female detective for the year." Cezwicci snorted.

         Before I could respond, and remind the cretin that I scored the second highest score in the history of the department, Mrs. Grant returned to the kitchen. A small adhesive strip covered her earlobe. She sat at the table and sipped water from a cut glass goblet.

         Cezwicci dug a cigarette from his shirt pocket, "Stay with her, Marsh. I'm gonna look around."

         "Please don't smoke in here," Mrs. Grant snapped. "I have more concern for my body than to inhale that poison."

         Cezwicci's mouth opened, then closed with an audible smack. He stuffed the cigarette back in his pocket and left the room, mumbling beneath his breath.

         "I apologize for his behavior, Mrs. Grant," I said, taking a chair across from the girl. "May I ask you a couple of questions?"

         "Sure. Call me Sherry, though. I haven't been 'Mrs. Grant' long enough to get used to the name. We'd only been married six months."

         "Your husband has been married before hasn't he?"

         The girl nodded. "I'm number six. Was number six."

         "I'm sorry. Did your husband take walks often?"

         "Two or three times a week for the past two months or so. He’d have a few drinks then go walking."

         "Was he drinking tonight?"

         "No. He wouldn't mix his own drinks. Too big of a star for such menial labor. I don't use alcohol myself, and I refused to make his drinks for him. He liked Cuba libres', with lemon instead of lime. But if no one fixed them for him, he didn't drink. Part of his star attitude."

         "I found an umbrella down by the path. Do you know if your husband took one with him tonight?"

         Blue eyes darted to the corner between the door and the kitchen counter as soon as the word "umbrella" was out of my mouth. "I don't know why he would have. It's beautiful out. We had a thunderstorm last evening though. Carter took an umbrella with him then. It was standing in the corner there this morning."

         Cezwicci returned to the kitchen wearing a sneer on his pock-marked face. "Girlie, you lied to me. That exercise bike hasn't been ridden. The distance meter is sitting on zero, zero, zero. If you rode it for over an hour it should have registered several miles."

         I watched the girl's face. Puzzlement.

         At that moment Harlow Branch stepped through the open back door. "We're leaving now, Diane. Umbrella looks like the murder weapon. Tip slipped right between his ribs and pierced his heart. No signs of a struggle, no tracks in the sand. Looks like he knew his killer. I'll know more in an hour or so. Talk to you then," the M.E. said.

         "Hey! I'm in charge of this investigation," Cezwicci stormed. "You tell me the autopsy results. And what's that about an umbrella?"

         I waved Branch off. "I'll explain, Harlow. You go on."

         The M.E. stared, tight-lipped, at Cezwicci for a moment before leaving.

         I told Cezwicci about finding the umbrella and about Mrs. Grant stating that it was probably her husband's.

         "Mrs. Grant, I'd take you into custody for lying about your whereabouts when your husband was killed, but I'll wait until I hear the autopsy results. Don't go anywhere. I'll be back in the morning," Cezwicci warned the stunned widow.

         Two hours later I sat curled in my over-stuffed recliner with Clairmont, my Siamese cat, curled in my lap. The telephone beside the recliner rang shrilly. Clairmont meowed irritably at the intrusion. "Marsh," I answered on the first ring, hoping the sound hadn't disturbed my husband's sleep.

         "Diane. Harlow. I just got off the phone with Cezwicci...the idiot. Now it's your turn. Cause of death was the wound to the heart. No legible prints on the umbrella, forensics tells me. Only other physical evidence was found clasped in the victim's hand. A diamond stud thing...you know... that you women wear in your ears. Grant must have ripped it from his attacker."

         I heard papers rustling as the M.E. consulted his notes. "Victim's blood alcohol level was consistent with about three drinks. He might have had difficulty fighting off his killer. Probably had trouble just walking. Stomach contents minimal. Rum, cola, and lemon or lime juice. A little pulp. That's it."

         "Thanks, Harlow. I owe you one."

         "Some day I'm going to collect, too. Do an old man's ego good to be seen having dinner with an attractive young woman like you. I'll even pay. And, if you have to, you can bring that husband of yours."

         I chuckled. "It's a date, Doctor. Thanks again. Bye."

         I ruffled Clairmont's fur. Funny, I thought...Mrs. Grant just didn't act like a killer. Not at all. Snuggling deeper into the cushions, I was replaying the investigation in my mind when Robert walked into the room, dressed in pajama bottoms. He stretched and yawned. The muscles in his chest and arms rippled. "Did the phone wake you, baby?" I asked.

         "Yeah. Now I'm glad it did, though. I come in here and catch my sexy wife giving her attention to a cross-eyed fur-ball instead of me."

         "Clairmont, I think he's jealous," I whispered to the cat, making his ear jerk rapidly.

         "Meeoow," Clairmont complained.

         Robert rubbed sleep from his eyes.

         "I'm sorry about the telephone. Go on back to bed," I said.

         "Nope. You woke me up, now you have to help me go back to sleep. I need one of your special sedatives, sweetness."

         "You won't get up in the morning," I warned.

         "Hey, I'm a big boy. I'll get up. Besides, Martin can handle the office until I get there. That's what partners are for. Come here," he said with a throaty growl.

         I shoo'ed Clairmont out of my lap and stood up. My robe fell open. I was naked beneath the white terry cloth.

         Robert's eyes traveled over my body. "I don't know how you do it. We've been married six years and you're just as firm, and just as hot, as you were on our wedding day."

         Whether he meant it or not, I loved to hear him say those words of love. I reached out for him, and shuddered when he took me in his arms and pressed his bare chest against my breasts. He kissed my forehead, my nose, my cheek, then just brushed his lips against mine, teasing me. "Don't make me beg, Robert, 'cause you know I will."

         "Yes, ma'am, Detective. I'll do as you say," Robert said, pressing his lips to mine, the tip of his tongue slipping between my lips, darting and seeking. A center of warmth began in my belly and flowed through me. The man could make me a panting Jezebel with just his kisses.

         He lifted the robe from my shoulders and let it drop behind me. Before I could move, he picked me up and carried me to our bed. As if his kisses weren't enough, his hands, big and smooth, made me want to cry out. He touched and squeezed and trailed his fingertips over my skin as softly as a whisper until I told him I was ready.

         "I know you're ready, Diane," he teased. "But I want to see what happens when you go past ready. Way past."

         He soon found out, and the experience left both of us gasping and clutching in a spasm of release. He curled himself against my backside, spoon-style. The last thing I heard him mutter before I fell into a dreamless sleep was, "If I didn't have you, sugar, I wouldn't have anything. Love you."

         At seven A.M., dressed in a navy blue skirt and jacket over a pink blouse, I rang the doorbell of the Grant home.

         The door was answered by a beautiful, dark-skinned girl whose even darker eyes were rimmed with red. "I'm Detective Marsh. I need to speak with Mrs. Grant," I said, showing her my badge.

         "She ess in the keechen weeth the other policemans. Thees way, por favor," the girl said, sniffing, wiping away a tear with the hem of her apron.

         Shoot, I thought. Cezwicci beat me here.

         Sherry Grant sat at the kitchen table again, a bowl of dry cereal and half a grapefruit untouched in front of her. She was pale. The bruise under her eye was now a deep, ugly purple.

         Cezwicci grimaced when he saw me. "I'm here to arrest Mrs. Grant, based on the evidence the M.E. came up with, and I don't need your help, Marsh."

         "What evidence?" Mrs. Grant asked, "I didn't kill my husband. I loved him!"

         "Yeah. You loved him so much, you got him liquored up, took him for a walk and stabbed him with an umbrella!"

          "Maria, would you give me a glass of water, please?" Mrs. Grant asked softly. Her eyes were wide, her breathing shallow and fast. She swayed slightly in her chair.

         The girl who met me at the door turned from the sink where she was peeling potatoes and pushing the peels down the noisy garbage disposal.

         "Never mind the water. Let's go," Cezwicci said.

         "But I didn't do anything!" Mrs. Grant insisted.

         "Sure you did. You didn't count on your husband pulling the stud from your ear. You must have gotten the bleeding stopped before I got here last night, but the wound opened again while we were talking. That, and the lie you told me about the exercise bike is gonna be enough for the D.A. to hold you on. You were jealous of your husband and he hit you, that's enough motive for me," Cezwicci bragged.

         "But..." Mrs. Grant said, shaking her head.

         "No more stalling. Let's go," Cezwicci said, roughly grabbing Mrs. Grant's arm.

         I slapped Cezwicci's big paw off of Sherry Grant's arm. "Cezwicci," I said forcefully. "Shut up. If only for a blessed minute...shut up. I want to talk to Mrs. Grant alone."

         Blood rushed to Cezwicci's thick neck and face. He looked as if he were about to deny me the opportunity to speak with his suspect. In fact, he looked like he might be about to slap me. Finally, though, he said, "Hurry it up, Marsh. I'm taking her in."

         I took Sherry Grant's elbow, helped her up from the table, and ushered the stricken girl to the staircase, and up. "Take me to the gym, Sherry."

         Mrs. Grant led the way. Her long, mauve peignoir dusted the Italian marble floor. "Here," she said, pushing open a door along the hallway.

         The gym was equipped with a stair-climbing machine, free weights, punching bags and the exercise bike. I went to the bike, tugged my skirt up on my thighs, and climbed on. I grasped the handlebars, put my feet on the pedals, and pumped furiously. It didn't take long to work up a sweat.

         Ten minutes later I led Mrs. Grant back into the kitchen, interrupting Cezwicci's attempted flirtation with the cook, Maria. The girl, buxom and exotic, couldn't be over eighteen, I guessed. Probably closer to sixteen.

         "Took you long enough," Cezwicci complained. "Now, cuff her, and let's get this over with."

         I removed the handcuffs from my purse, clicked them open and swiftly snapped one on the girl's right wrist.

         "What?" she yelped, trying to jerk away, but unable to before I forced her slender left arm up behind her back and snapped the other cuff in place.

         A half peeled potato thudded to the tile floor and rolled toward Cezwicci who stood with his mouth hanging open. "What are you doing, Marsh? You lost your mind? Put the cuffs on the killer...not the cook!"

         "This is the killer," I said.

         "Woman's intuition, I suppose?" Cezwicci smirked.

         "No. Just good police work and seeing things you missed. I checked the exercise bike, Cezwicci. The reason it showed zeros in the mileage gauge is because the wires had never been connected. It was new, remember? I rode it myself, and the gauge didn't budge. I believe Mrs. Grant was doing exactly what she says she was doing when her husband was killed."

         "But her ear..."

         "You didn't even give her a chance to respond to that," I accused. "Like she said, scratched on the bushes. I scratched my hand the same way. And, she couldn't have been wearing the diamond stud. Her ears aren't pierced, Cezwicci...something a man wouldn't notice. As concerned as she is with her body and health, I couldn't see her having her ears pierced just to wear jewelry." I explained.

         "Now, look closely at Maria's ear. You see the little tear in her earlobe? I was watching Maria when you mentioned the stud to Mrs. Grant. Maria's hand went to her ear for an instant. Reflex."

         "But she was off last night," Cezwicci said, frowning.

         "She was off. But she was here. She fixed Grant his Cuba Libres'. I saw a glass and the knife she used to slice the lemon in the sink last night. And smelled the scent of lemon coming from the drain where she put the rinds in the garbage disposal. Mrs. Grant told me her husband wouldn't fix his own drinks. When the M.E. told me Grant was drunk, I put two and two together. I knew someone else had been here."

         I rested my hand gently on Maria's shoulder. The girl looked lost--alone and frightened. "Why did you kill him, Maria?"

         The words poured out of the girl in a rush. "For two months we meet each other on the beach. He geeve me money and presents...like the diamond stods. Tuesday I tell heem I am, how you say, ah, pregnant weeth his baby. He laughs. Laughs! Last night I come to ask heem if he weel help me. While Meeses Grant ess upstairs exercizing I make his drinks, and show heem how sweet I can be. Again, he laughs at me and walks away, outside. I see the oombrella by the door and peek it up...to heet heem... to hurt heem only. But he hears me coming behind heem and turned around. Too fast. Too drunk. He fell forward. The oombrella...it...stabs heem! I did not mean..." Maria lowered her young chin to her chest and sobbed uncontrollably.

         "Good work, Marsh...uh...Diane. This will look great in our folders," he bragged, conveniently forgetting that he had been on the verge of arresting the wrong person twenty minutes earlier. He took Maria’s arm. "Come on, cutie. You have the right to remain silent..."

         I turned to Sherry Grant. "I hope the next man you meet is better to you than Mr. Grant was. You deserve it. Good luck."

         "Thank you, Detective Marsh. But I'd like to go with you, if you don't mind. Maria is...my friend. Sometimes we would talk like schoolgirls about what we wanted in our futures. I never considered her just a maid. I believe it was an accident, and she's going to need a lot of help, money-wise. And I guess I'm wealthy now. Does that sound strange...that I want to help the woman my husband was..."

         I gave her hand a squeeze. "No. It sounds like something a caring, courageous lady who knows what Carter Grant was like off stage would do. Go get dressed. I'll wait for you."

The End

DMM