A Stranger in the House

  “Just answer the question, please,” Rasbach says firmly.

  “I’m not going to answer that question,” Brigid says. She’s not under arrest. She doesn’t have to answer any of their questions. It worries her that Tom may have told the detectives about the two of them. She doesn’t like losing the upper hand. She must go more carefully now, feeling her way.

  The detective lets it go. “Where were you August thirteenth, the night of Karen Krupp’s accident, at around eight twenty P.M.?”

  “I don’t remember exactly.”

  “Tom Krupp says that you called him that day, and arranged to meet him that evening at eight thirty, but you didn’t show up.” She shifts in her seat, caught by surprise. “What did you want to see him about?”

  She looks from Rasbach to Jennings and back again. She doesn’t want to get in trouble for not mentioning this before. “I’d actually forgotten all about that, because of the accident. But yes, that morning, I saw a strange man snooping around the Krupps’ house, looking in the windows. I called Tom at the office, and asked him to meet me that night.” She stops.

  “And you felt you had to arrange a meeting in person about it, that evening?” Rasbach asks.

  “There was more to it than that,” Brigid explains. “The man spoke to me. He seemed—a little menacing. He said he knew Karen from another life. Those were his exact words. That’s why I called Tom and asked him to meet me. I thought it was something he should know, and I didn’t want to tell him over the phone.”

  “But you didn’t make it to your appointment with Tom Krupp that night. Why not?”

  Brigid hesitates. She’d rather not tell them where she was that night. Better that they convict Karen without Brigid’s eyewitness testimony. Better for her and Tom, and their future together. That’s why she planted the gun.

  Rasbach presses. “When we came to your door after the accident, you told us you hadn’t been at home that evening, so you hadn’t seen Karen leave the house. Where were you?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Really?” Rasbach says. “We have two witnesses who saw you drive your car down the street, just a couple of minutes after Karen left, and turn in the same direction that she’d gone.”

  She swallows.

  “And we found your fingerprints and a palm print of yours on the door of the restaurant where the body was found.” Rasbach doesn’t seem friendly anymore.

  Brigid is beginning to feel anxious.

  “How do you explain that?” Rasbach presses.

  She can’t explain it—unless she tells the truth. She knew this might happen. “Okay. I’ll tell you the truth,” she says quickly, her eyes darting between the two detectives. “Do I need to have a lawyer?”

  “You’re not under arrest. But you’re certainly able to call one, if you’d like to.”

  She shakes her head and licks her lips nervously. “No, it’s fine. I’d like to tell you what really happened.” She takes a deep breath and exhales. “I was home that night. I was just about to leave to go meet Tom when I saw Karen take off out of the house. I thought it looked odd, like she might be in some kind of trouble, because she was in such a hurry, so I got in the car and decided to follow her, instead of meeting Tom. I’d seen that man around, in the morning. I thought she might need help, and she’s a friend.” She pauses; the detectives are watching her closely. She twists her hands together under the table as she tells her story. “I followed her to that awful part of town. She parked her car in a little lot by the restaurant and I parked in a plaza across the street. I saw her—she was wearing these pink rubber gloves and carrying a gun. She disappeared behind the restaurant. I was walking toward it when I heard three gunshots. Then I saw Karen run out of the building to her car. She pulled off the gloves and got in the car and sped away.”

  “And what did you do?”

  Brigid takes a deep breath. “I went to the back door and then went inside. There was a man lying on the floor, dead.” She puts her hand up to her mouth, as if she might be sick. “I couldn’t believe it. I was horrified. I ran back to my car and went home.” She looks directly into the detective’s sharp blue eyes. “I was home for a while, wondering what to do, when Tom called and asked me if I knew where Karen was—and I said I didn’t know.” She begins to cry. “I didn’t know what to tell him. I couldn’t tell him that his wife had just murdered someone.” She lets the tears fall. Jennings slides a box of tissues in her direction, and she takes one gratefully.

  “Why didn’t you come to the police and tell them that you were there and what you knew? That you were a witness?” Rasbach stares at her with accusing eyes, unnerving her. “Why didn’t you tell us the truth when we questioned you?”

  “She was a friend,” Brigid whispers. “I know I should have come forward, but she was my friend.”

  “Did you pick up the gun?”

  “What?” She’s getting more and more nervous.

  “Did you pick up the gun that she dropped?”

  She can’t let them know that she planted the gun. “No, I didn’t see any gun. It was pretty dark, and I was upset. I just ran.”

  “So you didn’t pick up the gun and take it with you, and later plant it in the Krupps’ garage?”

  She colors and tries to look indignant, as she realizes that maybe she should have gotten a lawyer. “No, I did not.” She raises her voice. “Why would I do such a thing?”

  “You didn’t call the station, not once, but twice, and tell us to look for the murder weapon on the Krupps’ property?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “So if we look at your phone records, we won’t find a record of those calls?”

  “No.”

  “You’re right, because those calls were made from a public telephone, which you know perfectly well, because you made them. We found your fingerprints on that public phone.”

  She feels herself go completely bloodless. She can’t think straight; she can’t think her way out of this.

  “Are you in love with Tom Krupp?”

  She hesitates involuntarily, for a fraction of a second, startled by the question. “No.”

  “He says you are.”

  “Does he?” She feels confused. “What did he say?”

  “He says that you’re in love with him. He says that you tried to blackmail him, that you told him you followed Karen that night and saw what happened and that you wouldn’t tell the police what you saw if he had sex with you. Is that true?”

  Brigid is furious. How dare Tom tell them that, how dare he put it that way! Surely Tom wouldn’t do that. It’s this detective, twisting his words. She sits frozen still, and doesn’t answer.

  “Karen Krupp says that Robert Traynor was alive when she left him.”

  “That’s not true!” Brigid cries.

  “Karen says that she dropped the gun and her gloves by the side of the car and took off. She says that you must have picked up the gun and gone back into the restaurant and shot Robert Traynor dead and then taken the gun home and later planted it in her garage.”

  “What?” Brigid gasps, shocked.

  “Because you want to see her go to jail, because you’re in love with her husband.” Rasbach lowers himself down till his face is close to hers. “We know all about your affair with Tom Krupp. He told us all about it—every detail.” He looks at her with his terribly direct blue eyes. “And we know you’ve been sneaking into their house, going through their things. Your fingerprints are all over the house. We know you have a key.”

  Brigid says, her spine rigid, “That’s bullshit. I would like to call a lawyer now.”

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Rasbach lets Brigid go, knowing that the first thing she’ll probably do is scramble to find herself a lawyer, and they won’t get anything more out of her. He and Jennings head back to Rasbach’s office to discuss
the case.

  “What do you think?” Jennings asks him, as they sit down.

  “I think this is really fucked up,” Rasbach says, letting his frustration show. They sit in silence for a minute. Finally, Rasbach asks, “What did you think of Brigid?”

  “I think she might have a screw loose, like the Krupps say.”

  “But is she a murderer?”

  Jennings tilts his head to one side. “Maybe.”

  “And that’s the problem.” Rasbach sighs heavily and says, “I still think Karen Krupp killed Traynor. I don’t believe her story. The whole amnesia thing—and then suddenly remembering what happened? I don’t buy it.”

  “Me either.”

  “Interesting how Tom Krupp didn’t have anything to say about that. I wonder what he really believes,” Rasbach says.

  “I’d love to know, too,” Jennings says. “The poor schmuck, he was waiting down by the river while all this was going down, without a clue.”

  Rasbach nods. “I don’t believe that Karen ran away from Robert Traynor and dropped the gun, and that Brigid picked it up and went in and shot him. I can’t see it. I don’t think Traynor would let Karen get away, and I don’t think Brigid thinks fast enough on her feet to figure it all out. I think Karen shot him, Brigid saw her do it, and then she smelled an opportunity and picked up the gun for later.”

  Jennings nods thoughtfully.

  Rasbach says, “The district attorney’s probably going to throw up her hands and drop the murder charge against Karen Krupp. She won’t have much choice. She won’t have a leg to stand on if there were two people there, both with a good motive—and we’ve got planted evidence.”

  Jennings agrees. “She’s going to walk.”

  “One of those two women killed Robert Traynor. I think it was Karen Krupp. But the only ones who really know for sure are Karen and Brigid.” He looks at Jennings and says, “And it seems they’re both in love with the same man. It’s bound to get messy.”

  “I’m sure as hell glad I’m not Tom Krupp,” Jennings says.

  —

  Susan Grimes is a competent D.A. She’s smart and practical, which is why Rasbach knows he’s facing an uphill battle.

  Rasbach has carefully laid out all of the evidence before her. Now he’s standing by the window in her office, watching her as she sits back in the chair behind her large desk. Jennings is sitting across from her. It’s the moment of truth.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Susan Grimes says.

  “Sadly, I am not,” Rasbach replies.

  “You think Karen Krupp did it,” Grimes says.

  “Yes, I do,” Rasbach says. “I appreciate that it’s going to be difficult to prove.”

  “Difficult to prove? Try not worth bothering.” She sighs deeply, removes her glasses, and rubs her tired eyes. “Krupp has the best motive—a very strong motive. We know she was there; we have physical evidence putting her there and the damning eyewitness testimony of the other woman. What’s her name again?”

  “Brigid Cruikshank,” Rasbach says.

  “And she was clearly fleeing the scene.” Rasbach nods. The D.A. tilts her head and continues. “But we have Brigid’s fingerprints on the door of the restaurant. The Krupps claim that Brigid is in love with Tom Krupp and trying to frame Karen Krupp for murder. What proof do they have of that?”

  “Brigid isn’t admitting to being in love with Tom Krupp; she hasn’t even admitted to the earlier affair,” Rasbach says. “So it’s his word against hers. But her fingerprints are all over the Krupps’ house. And there’s the gun.”

  “The gun,” the D.A. says. “That’s the real problem. The Krupps obviously didn’t put it in their garage. And they can prove that Brigid called in the tip that it was there, because her fingerprints are on the pay phone.”

  Rasbach nods. “Yes.”

  “And she was there, at the crime scene, so she could have picked up the gun.” She thinks for a long moment. “If Brigid had just left well enough alone, if she’d just testified against her, we could have nailed Krupp. If only she hadn’t planted the gun. It shows Brigid had motive.”

  “That’s the problem.”

  She looks at Rasbach sharply. “And you’re sure there’s no evidence that the two women hatched this plot together? They were friends at one time, weren’t they?”

  “Yes. But we can find no evidence of that.”

  The D.A. shakes her head regretfully. “Even the most incompetent attorney wouldn’t have any difficulty raising reasonable doubt on this one,” she says. “I’m sorry, we’re going to have to drop it.”

  “That’s what I thought you’d say,” Rasbach says and looks moodily out the window.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Being home again feels strange and glorious after the discomforts of jail. Karen revels in the luxury of being alone, of having quiet, of not being constantly assaulted by hostile glares, bad smells, and god-awful food. The first few days back home again are like the best vacation Karen has ever had. She sleeps late, takes long, scented bubble baths, cooks her favorite meals. She loves her creature comforts; being deprived of them was torture.

  And then there’s the relief. She no longer has a murder charge hanging over her. She still has to deal with the reckless driving and the charges stemming from the fake ID, but those are relatively minor, considering. Jack Calvin is taking care of all that.

  The relief is . . . amazing.

  She no longer has to worry about Robert Traynor hunting her down and killing her.

  She no longer has to worry about Tom somehow finding out about her false identity.

  She doesn’t have to worry about an intruder in her house. Because they know now who it was. And she won’t be doing that anymore. They’ve changed the locks. They’ve also installed a new security system that they’ll keep on all the time, even when they’re at home. It’s an inconvenience and an annoyance, but it’s something they have to do. Even with the restraining order they’ve obtained against Brigid.

  Because who ever obeys a restraining order?

  Things are good between her and Tom again. She was afraid at first that they wouldn’t be able to get past everything that’s happened. He hadn’t liked her lying to the police, pretending to remember what happened that night.

  “Why did you do that?” he asked her, when they were alone. “If you don’t remember, why didn’t you just tell them the truth—that you don’t remember?” He was visibly upset.

  “I thought it would be better this way,” she told him. “I thought it would help us.”

  He glared at her. “I don’t like all the lies, Karen. I hate the lies.”

  He’d been upset about that, but then the charges were dropped, and he seems to have put it behind them. She doesn’t know what Tom really believes about who shot Robert Traynor. They don’t talk about it. He knows she can’t remember. He clearly believes that Brigid is unbalanced. He’s afraid of Brigid. Karen thinks that if Tom does believe Karen shot her former husband, he understands why, and he’s forgiven her. He’s not afraid of her.

  He seems to love Karen still, even if it’s with a different, more cautious kind of love. When they came home together, when she first got out of jail, as soon as they’d crossed the threshold he closed the door firmly behind them and turned to her solemnly.

  “I want us to make a fresh start,” he said. She’d never seen him look more serious. He reached out and held her by her arms, brought his face close to hers, and said, “No more lies. Promise me, Karen.”

  He was gripping her, hard. She looked back at him intently. She said, “I promise, Tom, no more lies. I swear.”

  “Everything is out in the open now between us,” he said, “and it’s going to stay that way. For each of us. Always.”

  “Yes, I promise, Tom,” she agreed, her eyes welling up.

  “I p
romise too,” he said, and then he kissed her, hard and deep and long.

  As she tidies up in the kitchen, Karen thinks about how angry Brigid must be, sitting across the street in her chair, watching them with her knitting in her lap. Things didn’t go her way. Poor Brigid. And Karen has heard that Bob has left her. What a shock it must have been to Bob, to learn from the police that his wife had been stalking the couple across the street, letting herself into their home when they weren’t there, playing house. That she was at the murder scene that night. That she might possibly be a killer, and that the police believe she planted a gun in the Krupps’ garage. No wonder he left her. She’s a nutcase. Perhaps he was afraid for his own life. Perhaps he should be. You just never know what Brigid might do.

  Karen’s done with Brigid, her former best friend. She’s banished her from their life. Now she’s going to enjoy herself. She’s free, at last.

  —

  Brigid sits in her darkening, empty house. She’s glaring across the street at the closed curtains of 24 Dogwood Drive. There’s a soft glow of light behind the curtains, a warmth, a happiness there that she knows she will never attain, no matter how much she aspires to it, no matter how much she’s willing to do to get it. Her knitting needles click violently—she’s bitter, angry, and vengeful.

  She thinks obsessively about everything that’s happened. Something good has come out of it at least—Bob has left her. He was appalled when he found out what had been happening right under his nose. He hadn’t been paying attention. Maybe if he’d been paying attention, none of this would have happened at all. But still, she’s glad he’s gone. Good riddance. She doesn’t need his wariness, his contempt. She doesn’t need his socks on the floor, his toothbrush by the sink, she doesn’t need his mess, his demands, his presence in this house. As long as he keeps paying the bills, she’s happy that he’s gone.