A Panicked Premonition

  There was something so welcoming about the setting. It was inviting, comfortable, and elegant. Not at all the kind of environment I’d expected a young landscaper to live in.

  A shiny red Mustang sat in the front drive, indicating someone was likely home. “You ready?” Candice asked me.

  I took a deep breath and steadied myself. I had a feeling this was going to be a difficult interview, much like the one with Robin’s sister had been hard. Like I said before, it’s an awful thing to witness people in the midst of their grief, struggling to give you information that they know you need to help bring their loved ones some justice. They want desperately to help, and you can see that little bit of hope in their eyes, like if they supply you with the right answer, then some of their pain will lessen. And sometimes, it does work. They give you some clue, something that you need to connect the dots, but it’s never enough to suspend them from the terrible anguish they’re in the throes of experiencing.

  And while we didn’t know how this Walter Abbott figured into the picture, he’d probably at least be sad that Mario had died so senselessly.

  Candice stepped up to the door and rang the bell. We heard it buzz and stood back, waiting. There wasn’t any noise coming from inside. The house was silent, as if its grief was so deep that it couldn’t bear to be conscious.

  We were about to turn away when the door was opened and in the doorway stood a man who was shocking for both how beautiful he was and how destroyed he seemed.

  He had the most regal features: stunning gray eyes deeply set into a square face, an unlined forehead, and a straight, elegant nose with a small crease at the start of his brow—making him appear like a man who spent a lot of time thinking deeply.

  Other than that, his shoulders were broad, his waist was trim, and his general countenance was one that stood out. He’d be noticed in any room simply for walking into it. Mentally I compared him with Zane Maldonado, and found this man to be the far more handsome of the two. But it was his expression that was the most telling. There was so much sorrow there. So much unmasked heartbreak. It was easy to see he’d recently been crying. “Yes?” he said, his voice hoarse and raw.

  Candice spoke to him first. “Mr. Abbott?” He nodded and only then did his eyes narrow slightly, wary and suspicious. Candice was quick to hold up her PI badge. “I’m Candice Fusco, and this is Abigail Cooper. We’re working with the FBI and Austin PD on the murder of a resident of this home. We were wondering if we could ask you a few questions?”

  “Mario?” he asked us, his voice cracking again on a barely veiled sob. “You’re working on Mario’s case?”

  “We are,” I said, drawing his attention to me. And then, right there, I understood. He and Mario had been in love. “May we talk to you?”

  He nodded, but it was a moment before he seemed to be able to connect that he should invite us in. “I’m sorry,” he said, his cheeks flushing. “I’ve just been calling and calling to see if they found that madman who killed my . . .” Abbott paused to put his fist up to his mouth, struggling with his emotions. At last he cleared his throat and added, “No one seems to care about Mario. They won’t tell me anything.”

  “We’ll talk to you,” I assured him. “We’ll tell you what we can if you’ll talk to us about Mario.”

  Abbott stepped aside and made a motion with his hand. “Please. Come in.”

  We gathered in the living room, which was a space I could’ve visited every day of my life and never grown tired of. It was beautiful, full of soft, warm hues, a cozy sitting area, and bookshelves crammed with books lining almost every wall.

  Nowhere in sight was there a TV, a computer, or a tablet—just books and soft music coming from a set of speakers above the sofa.

  There was also a stone fireplace opposite the sofa, and on the mantel was a large, framed black-and-white photograph of an exquisite male form, naked and arching back on one foot with one hand high in a beautiful ballet pose that elevated his chest like an offering to the sun god. No face on the model was visible, and nothing too private was exposed, just his elongated legs, arms, and gorgeously chiseled torso.

  The way the sunlight was hitting his exposed skin was evocative and moving, and if that weren’t enough of a dramatic effect, he was posed at the very edge of a cliff face, with the photographer likely positioned several hundred yards away on a rock outcropping of equal height.

  There was so much to take in about the natural beauty of the scene, and yet the viewer’s eye was immediately drawn to and captivated by that model.

  I pointed to the photo. “That’s amazing.”

  Abbott made a small choking sound and I looked over at him to see that his eyes were welling again and he’d put a hand to his mouth.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Abbott,” I said quickly, not understanding what I’d said to upset him.

  He waved his free hand at me and closed his eyes to inhale a ragged breath and collect himself. At last he wiped his eyes and said, “It’s all right, and please call me Walter. I don’t mean to keep falling apart like this—it’s just . . . that’s my favorite photo of Mario. He would’ve been so pleased that you noticed it.”

  Candice and I both turned back toward the photo, then exchanged a look as if to say, That’s Mario?

  “I didn’t realize he was a model,” I said, finding a place to sit on one of the Eames-style chairs to the side of the sofa.

  Walter swallowed hard and sniffled. “He wasn’t a professional. But he could’ve been. He only modeled for me.”

  “You took that?” Candice asked him, referring to the photo again.

  “I did,” he said, without a hint of pride. His voice sounded so eminently sad, especially as he gazed at his creation across the room. “I dabble in photography. It’s a hobby.”

  “You could’ve fooled me,” Candice said. “Looking at that, I’d say you’re better than most professionals I’ve seen. It’s hard to believe you produced something so exquisite from just dabbling.”

  Walter chuckled and it seemed to surprise him that a laugh had come from his own throat. “It took us two whole days to get that shot. Mario was such a trouper. He could see what I was going for and he kept working his way through poses, trying to give me something great. That was taken at noon. It was the last shot I took, because I knew immediately that I had it.”

  Walter got up then and moved over to a closet on the other side of the wall containing the fireplace. He dug around inside for a moment before he brought out a large leather-bound portfolio. “Here,” he said, swiveling it to show us the collection of photographs inside. “These are all him. My sweet muse.” Walter’s voice broke again and while I turned pages and Candice looked over my shoulder, Walter cleared his throat several more times, bravely attempting to collect himself.

  “He’s beautiful,” I said, meaning it. Every single photo threatened to steal my breath away; they were so gorgeous. Mario was like something divine: chiseled, radiant, innocent, powerful, and alive. Except to my eye, whenever I saw his face, it took on a subtle two-dimensional quality—for me, the tell for when someone had passed away.

  Even with my inner tell, the photos weren’t any less lovely. Candice seemed to agree, because she reached out to run her finger along one of the photos—a close-up of Mario’s face, his skin and hair dotted with droplets of water and his eyes half-closed and his gaze downcast. His lashes were impossibly long, his skin smooth and imbued with the beauty of youth. “He was so gorgeous, Walter. You really bring out his spirit in all of these.”

  Walter dipped his chin in gratitude and I closed the portfolio. I realized, as I did so, that I felt profoundly sad for Mario and especially for Walter. His devastation wafted off him in turbulent waves that disrupted the ether and washed over me like a sad rain. I wanted so much to offer him words of comfort, but he was beyond any words at the moment. I knew that. But still . . .

  “How
long had you and Mario been together?” Candice asked gently.

  Walter lifted the portfolio from my lap and hugged it to his chest. Walking over to the sofa, he sat down with a heavy sigh and said, “Six months or so.”

  That surprised me. The way he was grieving felt like someone who’d lost a mate of many years. “Only six months?” Candice said, probably thinking the same thing I was.

  Walter’s lips twitched at the corners and he shook his head ever so slightly. “I know,” he said. “You’d think the way I’m carrying on that we’d been together forever, but no. Our May-December romance began last August.”

  “How’d you meet?” I asked.

  Walter set the portfolio on the sofa next to him, smoothing his hand over the cover. “My friend Robin introduced us.”

  Candice glanced at me, and I nodded. We knew this. Robin had stolen Mario and Rosa from Murielle. “You mean Robin Roswell, correct?” Candice asked.

  Walter was staring at the portfolio, his mind no doubt drifting back to the moment he and Mario had met. “Yes,” he said before closing his eyes as if he was suddenly pained. “Robin and Andy were my dear friends. I can’t believe they’re gone too.”

  “I’m so sorry, Walter,” I said. I knew then just how difficult it was for him to talk to us.

  He reached for a tissue on a side table to wipe at his eyes; then he waved that hand again. “It’s fine,” he said. “Please go on with your questions.”

  “How long had you known Robin and Andy?”

  Walter barked out a laugh, and again it seemed to surprise him. “From the beginning,” he said. “I introduced them.”

  “You did?” I said.

  “Yes,” he said simply. “Robin used to work for me, you see—”

  “I’m sorry,” Candice interrupted. “What do you do, Walter?”

  He made a sweeping motion with his hands to indicate the room we were sitting in. “I design,” he said simply.

  “You’re an interior designer?” she asked.

  “Yes. Been doing it a very long time. Maybe too long. Anyway, Robin worked for me as my assistant, but she had real talent. She had an eye for both the dramatic and the sublime. She could switch between two styles as easily as you could turn a light switch on and off. Most of us can’t do that. Well, I can, but most designers pick a style that becomes their brand and you never see anything unique or different afterward. Think Ralph Lauren and you’ll know what I mean.”

  I smirked. I’m not a fan of the Lauren. Never was. Never would be.

  “Anyway, one fine day,” Walter said, scratching the stubble on the edge of his chin, “this nerdy-looking young man waltzed into my studio and said that he needed some help. My first thought when I looked at him—dressed in a hoodie and high-tops—was that I don’t do charity cases, but . . . I don’t know. There was just something about him. Something that suggested he was more than he appeared. After I looked him up, I knew there was more, so I took him on as my pet project. But my pet project turned into Robin’s pet, and before I knew it, the two of them were running off together to get married. The rest is a rather rocky road of history.”

  “Why do you say ‘rocky road’?” I asked.

  “Oh, there was a breakup in the middle of their love story. Robin was seduced by a dreadful woman. A she-devil if ever there was one. My little protégé left Andy for a year or two before the smart part of her brain took over again.”

  “You’re referring to Murielle McKenna,” Candice said.

  Walter pointed at her. “The very bitch,” he said with a mean glint in his eye.

  I glanced up at the photograph above the mantel. “Did you ever have any run-ins with Murielle?”

  That humorless bark returned. “Plenty,” he said, and then he abruptly got up and headed to the kitchen, only to return with a small stainless steel garbage pail. “Like this one, for instance.” Reaching in, he pulled out several torn pieces of paper, but when he laid them on the ottoman in front of me, I realized they had been a greeting card. I assembled the pieces and inhaled sharply when I saw that together they formed a group of laughing hyenas like from The Lion King. I unfolded the creases to what would’ve been the inside of the card and reassembled them to see that Murielle had written, Soooooo sorry for your loss, Walter. Really. Truly. Cross my heart and hope to laugh and laugh all day long about it. Love, Murielle.

  “Ohmigod,” I said breathlessly.

  Candice leaned forward and I twisted the pieces so that she could see how the card had come and what it’d said. Candice’s eyes narrowed and her mouth pressed into a thin, dangerous line. I didn’t think I’d ever seen her so angry. Or . . . lethal.

  If Murielle had been standing in front of us, I had no doubt that bitch wouldn’t have been standing for long.

  Walter bent forward and swept the pieces back into the pail before wordlessly walking it back to the kitchen. When he returned, he didn’t so much sit as deflate on the sofa.

  “She’s hateful,” I said to him. “Despicable.”

  He nodded dully. “There would’ve been a time I might’ve been amused by something like that,” he said, his hand reaching for the portfolio again. “But not now. Not after falling in love with Mario.”

  “Walter,” Candice said after a moment. He lifted his chin to her and she continued. “Do you think Murielle could’ve been behind Robin, Andy, and Mario’s murders?”

  He blinked, as if confused by her question. But then he seemed to think on it and after a bit he said, “She’s capable. But I can’t say for sure that she had a hand in it.”

  “Even with the card?” I pressed. That thing felt like a barely veiled admission to me.

  Walter held his hands up in mild surrender. “That’s typical for Murielle. She’s cruel. She likes being cruel. And she looks for every opportunity to punish anyone who’s ever stood up to her. I’ve got a long track record of standing up to her, so she’s using the opportunity to kick me while I’m down. It’s war.”

  “Robin stood up to her,” I said. “And so did Mario. Maybe she did more than kick at them.”

  “What do you mean, ‘so did Mario’?” he asked me.

  My brow furrowed. “Didn’t Mario leave Murielle’s employment to go with Robin when she went back to Andy?”

  Walter shook his head slowly. “No,” he said. “Mario was fired by Murielle, for something trite of course, and Robin felt sorry for him, so she called her ex, Andy, and asked if he would hire Mario to work on the grounds at his place. That’s what got them talking again, actually. It was Robin trying to help Mario that opened the door for her to see what she’d lost by letting Andy go. They were back together a few weeks later.”

  “Is it possible that Murielle blamed Mario for being the catalyst that led to Robin leaving her?” Candice asked.

  Walter frowned. “It’s possible,” he said. “But I never got the impression she cared anything about Mario or where he went to work after she fired him. After all, in her eyes he was just a landscaper.”

  “But the card?” I said, pointing back toward the kitchen.

  “I believe Murielle meant Robin and Andy when she was talking about my loss,” Walter said. “She might’ve known that I also lost my lover. . . . That hag seems to know everything, but I believe she was mostly referring to the death of my dear friends.”

  I took in everything Walter had said, but something still nagged at me. “Assuming Murielle had a hand in the murders, is there any reason you can think of why she would’ve specifically targeted Mario?”

  He sighed and leaned back against the cushion. “Nothing comes to mind,” he said. “Even though Mario was with me out and about, he was little more than a serf or a slave in Murielle’s eyes. She would’ve considered him my plaything if she considered him at all. He had no power. And if they ever did have words or hard feelings, Mario never mentioned it to me.”

/>   “What did Murielle have against you?” I asked curiously.

  Walter rolled his eyes. “I worked for her, very briefly, a decade ago, right at the end of her breakup with her husband. Because I was often there, I’d see her in her most vulnerable moments. There were a lot of pills and alcohol and seething anger and even some award-winning self-loathing. Murielle doesn’t handle breakups well. Unless of course she’s the one doing the breaking up. Anyway, when her husband left her, she told me things. Secret things. Things she never wanted another living soul to know. Years later, when Robin confessed to me that she was thinking of leaving Murielle to go back to Andy, I told her what I’d seen, and I advised her that if she told Murielle they were done, she needed to get it on film.”

  I sucked in a breath. “The infamous video,” I said. “We’ve heard about that.”

  Walter smirked. “Everyone’s heard about it. And everyone has yet to see it. I know it exists because Robin often referred to it. It was her insurance policy—to an extent. Murielle still sniped at her, but it prevented her from going after Andy the way I know she wanted to. She would’ve loved to have destroyed them both.”

  “Maybe she did,” Candice said pointedly.

  Walter paled. “Maybe,” he conceded, as if the full realization was dawning on him.

  “And maybe . . . ,” I said, hating myself for what I was about to say. “Maybe, Walter, Murielle destroyed Robin, Andy, and you for giving her lover the idea to use the camera and for telling Robin all those dirty little secrets. Maybe she knew more about your love for Mario than you’re giving her credit for, and exacted her revenge on you as well.”

  Walter’s face grew paler still, and he put that hand back to his mouth again, his eyes darting back and forth as he sorted through that thought. “Oh, God,” he whispered.

  For a long moment, no one spoke, because what more was there to say, really? We were saved by the chirp of Candice’s phone. She lifted it to glance at the screen before she said, “We’ve got to go.”