Death Is in the Details

By Alex Winter

Marnie Wallace, a soon-to-be unemployed researcher for a private investigator, has a problem. It's not just that she's overweight, has a domineering mother or a stalled career. She thinks she knows who killed her client's niece, known by the press as the Georgetown Jogger... but, no one will believe her.
As she packs up her just-retired boss's office, two cases fall into her lap which she takes on in his name but without his knowledge. The second case involves a private school headmaster who goes missing ... at the same time that a big chunk of the school's funds and his secretary also disappear. The search takes on new energy when Wallace learns that the secretary's boyfriend is a member of a sophisticated militia group, and, that the missing headmaster has been having an affair with the wife of one of D.C.'s most powerful real estate developers.

As gray, damp winter descends on Georgetown, Washington's affluent, self-important enclave, Wallace pulls together a team of eccentrics to help her: Julia, a reclusive, witty African-American computer whiz, Yo-Yo, an expert but unintelligible safe cracker, Jo Lee, a sexy Chinese film student turned bodyguard, and, Willy Clark, a Washington society matron who is Wallace’s godmother.
Wallace is stalked by an ex-SAVAK executioner, driven out of her home, and, puts in danger the people closest to her. Follow Marnie Wallace through the seamy underside of a prestigious private school, an All Souls costume bash with the rich and powerful of the nation's capital, and, a late-night break-in with her curious entourage into the sinister 'Dallas Palace' mansion looking for clues which may solve a case that she believes was a murder, clues which may prevent her own violent death.

Wallace's own complex personality unfolds through visits with her rootless happy-go-lucky father and socially- rigid mother, and through her reflections on her contrasting affections for good-looking Sean Devon, who may be working with her adversaries, and enigmatic Jo Lee, who comes from a vastly different culture.

Death Is in the Details is a fresh, urbane mystery, light on gore and full of plot twists which will appeal to readers of Sue Grafton, Sara Peretsky and Margaret Truman. The novel is more than a drawing room mystery because it contrasts the old Washington and the new, avoiding political issues and delving into motivations behind the decisions of those who play Washington games. Above all, it is rich with people. Even the most casual characters in this intricate novel are fully fleshed-out and original.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alex Winter
• Release date: Feb 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465837639

Alex Winter

Alex Winter has been a career in-house writer and video director/producer for advertising firms, publishers and government agencies. Winter's field has always been international politics, and this has involved experience working in Europe and in Asia, though home now is on the California coast, where Winter enjoys the perspective across the ocean and across the continent. Death Is in the Details is Winter's first novel.

Book preview

Death Is In the Details

By

Alex Winter

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2012 by Alex Winter

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CHAPTER ONE

Halfway up the block, Astrid the Dalmatian began pulling at her leash. Her owner, Ron Murray, was in the cool-down phase of his morning jog and was not about to break training by picking up his pace so he tried quieting the dog with obedience commands. That usually worked, but not this morning. As they approached the corner of thirty-second and R Streets at the edge of Dumbarton Oaks estate, Astrid became more agitated and barked aggressively. At six-forty in the morning this unseemly behavior would annoy the sleeping residents of well-behaved Georgetown, so Ron reined in Astrid and berated her in hushed tones. Astrid, however, was not to be consoled.

Moments later, as the pair reached the intersection at the top of the hill, Astrid lunged and dragged Murray some twenty feet. In the pre-dawn darkness, Murray was so focused on his dog that he did not immediately see the object of Astrid’s interest until he almost stumbled over the body.

Hit and run? What’ve you got?

Not much, the patrolman answered the detective. That guy with the dalmatian flagged me down on Wisconsin Avenue. Says he found her during his morning run, about a half hour ago. She’s in her early twenties, I’d say. No ID, just a set of keys. Could be a Georgetown student. Looks to be in good shape, could be a regular morning jogger. I’ll ask around.

You question the on-lookers, I’ll call in my partner and we’ll knock on doors.

The headline in the Washington Post the next morning was Jogger Killed by Car, and the story following it was slim on details. Two days later, however, Detective Wilson Washington’s inquiry had identified the deceased as Carla Summerlin, a graduate student at Georgetown University and a tenant of a row house on Thirty-third Street. Her next of kin, an aunt in Texas, had been notified and had flown in to identify the body. No witnesses had come forth and there was no apparent motive for the death. By the time the aunt positively identified the victim as her niece, Detective Washington was ready to close the case as an accident. He had five unsolved homicides on his desk and the hit-and-run of a local jogger in Georgetown did not much nag at his professional conscience.

A few days later, Marne Wallace was sitting at her desk surrounded by half-packed boxes of files, holding her head in her hands. Her only hot job lead had just dissolved with a follow-up call and she was numb. Charlie Dellosso, her boss, was letting her use his office until his lease ran out in a month in exchange for packing up his office and shipping his stuff down to Tampa where he was retiring to take care of his mother. But Marne could maintain the fiction of being employed only three and a half weeks more before the title of research associate no longer applied. She had to find another job, and soon. Her chronic unemployment and career-switching for a long time now had ceased being excusable, amusing and even interesting steps in her post-adolescent search to find herself. Life was getting serious now. It was time to get health insurance, open an IRA, take the plunge and commit to something…but what?

Six months ago she had thought she had finally found her calling. Sure, she had been in exactly the same place six months ago, no job, a slim bank balance and no inspiring career interests to pursue, but then a want ad in the Post had turned up this job for Charlie Dellosso, a clever and well-regarded private investigator. And the best part, in Marne’s mind, was that he wanted to hire her because she was precisely who and what she was, bright, hard-working, resourceful, and experienced in a half-dozen work environments. Charlie had actually liked the fact that she had changed college majors from anthropology to business to journalism, that she had worked on Capitol Hill, in hotel management, as a realtor, a freelance reporter, and an assortment of other jobs. He even told her so months later when he took her out to lunch to break the news that he was retiring.

"In this line of work ya gotta be able to talk to people, all kinds of people, and keep ‘em talkin’, gain their trust. So it follows that ya gotta be able to relate to ‘em, their jobs, their lifestyles. I figured once ya got the hang o’ the paper work, ya’d learn fast out in the field, and ya did. Ya’d make a pretty good investigator, Marne."

With that Charlie handed her a list of names and phone numbers and a letter of recommendation to law firms, Congressmen and companies he had done work for, and told her to use his office for her job hunt until his lease ran out. At first, Charlie’s referrals generated interest and interviews, but, as she was passed on to second and third-generation contacts, she became discouraged. Now she was depressed. Her last hope was dashed moments ago when an old friend of Charlie’s told her he had hired someone else who had a masters degree in criminology.

As soon as she hung up the phone, a wave of nausea swept over her. She had applied at every investigations and security firm in the area, many more firms than were on Charlie’s list because she was methodical once she was interested in something and she used the same skills and plodding patience in a career search that she had brought to her job with Charlie. The problem was, now she wanted to be an investigator. The hitch was, she would need a job to pay for school to get another degree, and it was becoming clear that she would need that degree to get a job.

She would have liked to have called Charlie just then. Their relationship was close enough so that she could depend on him to cheer her up and make some useful suggestions. But, last weekend he and his mother flew to Miami to take a long cruise through the Caribbean and the Panama Canal to the Pacific Coast of Mexico. Charlie was out of touch and Marne was on her own.

That was true in more ways than one. Her most recent romantic involvement had ended during the summer when Don, her live-in beau of almost a year, got a job in Seattle at the corporate offices of Starbuck’s Coffee and did not invite her to move out with him. It wouldn’t work out, Marne, you’re not a Seattle type. There aren’t a lot of jobs out there, it rains all the time, and, you’d miss the Big Time environment of Washington. Marne had never been to Seattle, she did not think it ever rained all the time anywhere, and as far as Washington’s Big Time was concerned, she had been out of that fast-track loop for a couple of years, once she had left her job on Capitol Hill. What Don was saying was that he did not see a future for them as a couple, and, he did not want her hanging on him for however long it took her to find a job out west. At least there was no scene. At that point she did not know Charlie was retiring, she still thought she had a long-term job, and, she could afford her apartment by herself without taking in a roommate. Now the only one she had to come home to was Shep, her dog, and probably a message on her answering machine from her mother wanting to know what she was going to do with the rest of her life.

Marne did have one major asset beside her own skills and persistence, she had a lot of friends. Many from college days were in the Washington area now, others she had made in her many jobs, or, met socially. Partly due to the social influence of her godmother, the renowned Washington hostess Wilhemina Clark, Marne had for several years been in the mainstream of Washington society, or at least the junior version of it. That was how she got her job with a Congressman a couple of years ago. But there was a steep downside to that world. Once she left the Hill, and went on to less glamorous jobs, she felt at a disadvantage in the fast groups she had been meeting at Georgetown dinner parties and summer beach weekends. Worse yet, during her prolonged bouts of unemployment, she was embarrassed to mix with people who seemed to have the world by the tail, or at least tried hard to make everyone think so, and so she stopped accepting invitations which would put her in the company of the young darlings of the nation’s capital. In fact, she had even let slide her other social contacts as the demands and secrecy of her job with Charlie began eating up all her time and prevented her from talking about her job. That was one of the reasons that she and Don probably grew apart as well. There was little free time and energy left after long hours at the office and in stake-outs which she could not even discuss when she got home. The upshot of all this was that she did not have much to look forward to and if she did not find something to hold her interest soon, she would begin eating her way through the long, lonely winter to come.

It was almost lunch time. She was hungry and the sight of an empty Fritos bag in the waste paper basket triggered a craving for junk food. Some pretzels and a couple of lite beers would help her get through more packing and the packing would at least give her something constructive to do for the day, so she went out to the liquor store on the corner.

When she returned the phone was ringing.

Dellosso and Associates.

I want to speak to Mr. Charles Dellosso, said an older female voice in the manner of an educated southerner.

He’s not in town this week. May I help you?

There was silence and then what sounded like a sigh. Finally, Is this the same Dellosso who was recently on ‘Burden of Proof’ on CNN?

Yes, that’s right, may I ask who’s calling? Charlie had been key to settling a high- profile insurance fraud case just before he retired and the law firm he had done the investigation for had included him in their CNN appearance. The resulting media invitations had petered out shortly before Charlie retired but he had gotten a media agent and planned to parley his brief celebrity into speaking engagements and maybe a book once he settled down in Florida.

Are you a private investigator?

I’m one of Mr. Dellosso’s associates, may I ask what this is in regard to? Charlie had told her how to answer that question. He had also warned her where she had to draw the line legally. She could not pose as a licensed investigator, especially to the police or lawyers, but she could say she was an associate and if people were satisfied with that she could let her position remain vague.

There was another silence then the woman seemed to make up her mind. I saw him on television a couple of weeks ago. I…want to talk to him about looking into the death of my niece. I’m not going to be here much longer, I go home the day after tomorrow. When will he back?

Not until after that I’m afraid. Why don’t we meet? You can tell me what happened to your niece, and, I’ll explain our policies. When would it be convenient? I can meet you anytime. Marne had been about to tell her that Charlie had retired, but that was not yet public knowledge and the habit he had taught her of keeping people talking had taken over and during the brief conversation a thought was forming in her mind. This woman wanted some work done, as long as Marne thought of it as research, she could help, and, be paid. Once she could contact Charlie he would cover for her with the client. Well, he would probably cover for her. The thought of having something to do other than look for a new career was so tantalizing that she put aside logical cautions and pressed her case. Would you like to come to our office? We’re at the corner of Connecticut and S Street, in the Lithgow Building, fifth floor.

The woman hesitated, then agreed to come over in an hour. Marne sipped a beer while she shoved boxes into closets and made the office look like it was open for business again. She had just washed her hands and combed her hair when there was a buzz at the door.

Dorothy DeCamp was a well-dressed sixty-something with dyed brown hair, trim figure and a canniness about her which contradicted the prominently-displayed gold cross around her neck. Marne’s first impression was that she was a tough lady, the kind who played hardball politics at garden clubs and church groups in tidy suburbs throughout Middle America. The first thing Mrs. DeCamp did was to look over carefully both Marne and the office.

To put her at ease, Marne gave her a business card and offered her coffee. Mrs. DeCamp scrutinized the card and refused the coffee. Marne relaxed into the conference room chair and smiled. Some clients cannot be rushed. By coming to the office, the woman had probably committed herself to telling her story and Marne did not want to talk her out of it by saying anything.

I…well…my niece was killed here by a hit-and-run driver last week. I’ve just come up to arrange her burial. When she studied Marne’s face for signs of recognition and found none, she reached into her handbag and pulled out some news clippings.

Oh, yes, the Georgetown Jogger. I’m sorry you lost your niece, Mrs. DeCamp. How can we help you?

The woman did not seemed moved by the tragedy, but she did seem preoccupied. After another silence she drew a sharp breath. I am a Christian, and it pains me to say this, but, I don’t like phoniness in people and I won’t be a hypocrite. My niece and I did not see much of each other. We…didn’t get along. It was her father I was close to, my brother. Robert died recently, God rest his soul, of a heart attack in Nicaragua…. At this she produced a lacy handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes, careful not to blur her mascara.

I see… Marne responded in a gentle funeral parlor manner, I’m sorry….

Yes, well, Mrs. DeCamp looked her in the eye for a sign of sincerity. Having found something which satisfied her she resumed. He was doing God’s work, a humanitarian mission for our Christian Revival Church, she brightened and smiled, Robert retired from the State Department a few years ago and had been elected to our church’s Human Rights Council. He traveled all over Central America. Robert was fluent in Spanish.

And his wife…Carla’s mother?

Mrs. DeCamp paused uncomfortably, "Divorced. Yearsago. She just disappeared after Carla was born. I think she died some time ago. Robert never remarried, raised his daughter by himself. Of course, he had maids. They lived in Latin America several years and, well, help is cheap there," she sniffed.

Marne nodded and thought of the beer in the office fridge. Mrs. DeCamp did not look like she would like to be offered one. To keep her talking, Marne added sympathetically, Was Carla an only child then?

Yes, she was. And she was heir to most of Robert’s money. He left me some, of course, but the bulk went to her.

Now we’re getting somewhere Marne thought. Was his estate considerable, would you say?

Robert was a frugal man, lived within his means and tithed the church. Do you know what that means?

Oh yes. Usually ten percent of one’s income.

DeCamp nodded her head vigorously then looked down for a long moment. Marne could now see gray roots accenting a cowlick in her carefully sprayed hair. Now that the woman was into her story, Marne let her eyes roam. Mrs. DeCamp’s manicure was professional, her hands smooth and rather younger than her face. Her coat dress was crisp navy linen and her scarf was carefully pinned below her neckline to show off her gold cross to best advantage. She wore a wedding ring and tiny pearl earrings and her shoes looked new. A vain woman, reflected Marne, used to an easy life and free time, a woman with an image to maintain.

So Carla inherited a lump sum of her father’s money recently and it’s possible she hadn’t spent it all?

Exactly. Again Mrs. DeCamp looked directly at her. She apparently appreciated people who followed her train of thought but probably was not used to finding that often, Marne speculated, because she liked to keep people in their place if she did not consider them her social equals.

Robert loved his daughter, but, he understood that she was, well, rash with money. Or she would be if she had any to speak of. However, he was still young when he died. When he made out his will he surely expected to live another twenty, thirty years, and by then Carla would be settled, and maybe have learned some hard lessons about money and life. Mrs. DeCamp looked reprovingly at Marne who caught herself from shifting uncomfortably in her chair. This was turning into a lecture which cut coincidentally close to home for her. She took the initiative.

This inheritance you’re speaking of, may I ask how much was it so I know what we’re looking for?

Mrs. DeCamp softened her stare and nodded. It was sizeable, three hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Robert left me…about a third of that, bless his heart. As to what Carla did with it, I don’t know. Moreover, she didn’t leave a will, and, she looked up again at Marne, I’m her only living relative.

So, you want me to find out what happened to her inheritance?

"I want you to do that and more, Miss Wallace, I also want you to find out who ran her over. I want to sue the…party involved." She looked away with a grim expression on her face.

Do you think there might be a connection between the inheritance and Carla’s death?

Oh, I have no idea. I just know that now that’s she’s dead, my dear brother would have wanted me to benefit as much as possible from this awful business. After all, he saved all those years so Carla and I would be comfortable, and, she gave a little smile, of course, both he and I would want some of whatever there is to go to the church to continue the work Robert had been doing.

Marne reflected, she is canny all right, she has figured out two ways to possibly enrich herself. Fair enough. I need to know everything you told the police, and everything that you can remember about Carla, even if you don’t think it’s significant. Of course, we’ll hold everything you say in the strictest confidence. And, I do have to be clear with you about a couple of things. We’ll do our best for you, Mrs. DeCamp, but there’s no guarantee that we’ll turn up anything on either the inheritance or on the person who ran her over.

Mrs. DeCamp seemed to relax now that her story was out. Marne explained Charlie’s retainer and expense policy. Her new client flinched at the costs involved but left a check as an initial payment, said something about God’s will, squared her shoulders and left the office, not offering to shake hands. They agreed to meet at Carla’s house later that afternoon.

Marne opened a beer and looked over her notes. Charlie made a point to do a preliminary inquiry on his clients before he got into a case, he said it sometimes meant losing business but it saved a lot of grief in the end.

A call to the National Council of Churches told her that her client’s church was small, but on the cutting edge of the Christian right in the U.S. and heavily invested in exporting domestic political issues like human rights and anti-abortion.

The State Department personnel office verified that Robert Summerlin had been a mid-level career employee, a paper-pusher issuing U.S. visas to foreigners, renewing Americans’ passports abroad, that sort of thing. Between stints in Venezuela, Mexico, Costa Rica and Uruguay, he had worked at U.S.-based passport offices.

Finally, she called Charlie’s contact at D. C. Police headquarters and asked for all the information they had on the hit-and-run which killed Carla Summerlin. There was very little in the official report which she received on the office fax an hour later, not much more than had appeared in the Washington Post articles Mrs. DeCamp had left with her. Marne was able to establish that Mrs. DeCamp had been reached at her home in Texas within hours of Carla’s death and would not have had time to run her over and return to Texas. According to the police, Carla’s death was an unfortunate accident of a serious jogger unwilling to alter her summer schedule and run after dawn when it was safer.

She tried Ron Murray’s work number but his secretary said he had taken some time off and would not give her his unlisted home number. Tomorrow morning she and Shep would spend a few hours in Georgetown talking to early-risers. For now, since Detective Washington was not available, she would go home and have a late lunch before meeting Mrs. DeCamp.

Up until now, commuting to work by bus had not been much of a problem for Marne, but being unemployed and deprived of a car was an inconvenience she dreaded having to face. Her old Volvo gave out on her a week after Charlie told her of his retirement and once the mechanic told her how much it would cost to replace the engine, she reluctantly surrendered her independence to save money. But as long as Mrs. DeCamp was her client, she could take taxis or rent a car. The thought of a reprieve from the indignity of being without an income cheered her as she stepped onto the bus which headed up Connecticut Avenue toward her apartment.

As usual, the young fellow at reception buzzed in the group of strangers ahead of Marne with a cheerful wave without asking them to sign in, but then, it was her experience that he would probably do the same for Jack the Ripper. She did not like his letting in complete strangers unchallenged, but she knew why he did. The apartment next door to her was rented out to a new age group which held therapy sessions twelve hours a day, six days a week. As a result, a hundred new faces washed through the front entrance each week on their way to learning meditation, visualization, biofeedback and other anti-stress and self-awareness techniques. The friendly young man took it on faith that everyone had legitimate business in the building and did not feel it was his job to challenge honest people. Marne gave him a pensive look and shook her head. She had been meaning to say something to building management for months, ever since she had become security conscious working for Charlie, but the long and unusual hours of her job meant missing the chance to catch the manager during his office hours.

Although it was only four in the afternoon, the old Italian woman at the end of her corridor had already been simmering her pasta sauce long enough for the heavy, damp scent to fill the hall like a London fog. Two hours from now the Sri Lankan family at the other end would respond with a curry and coriander dish which, at its peak, could make Marne’s eyes water in the few moments before she escaped into her well-ventilated apartment.

Shep’s olfactory abilities were never dulled by the potpourri of smells and she was sniffing audibly at the door as Marne approached. As soon as she opened it the dog was bounding around her and whimpering with joy. Somehow Shep could also distinguish her muted footfalls on the hall carpeting from all the other sounds in the not-too soundproof building, regardless of the time of day.

Shep was a mixed breed of unclear origins from the District’s Animal Rescue League. Marne had adopted Shep three years ago after she had broken up with her then-current beau. Dogs had always been a part of her family’s life and their company filled the lonely voids between boy friends and jobs, and, enhanced her successes as well.

"Shep, good girl! Down please!" As she put down her purse she noticed the blinking answering machine light. She debated briefly listening to the messages then thought better of it. She would do that after walking Shep and thinking of her plans for the evening with Mrs. DeCamp. Unless she had gotten lucky, the only messages were likely to be from her mother or godmother and she was not eager to talk to either.

As she looked around the small living and dining room for Shep’s leash, a pang of loneliness hit. The mess of her clothes, books, mail, newspapers and general clutter did not completely hide the remainder of Don’s things which she had promised to send on to him. She would have to make a point of doing that and rearranging her own belongings so that she would not be reminded of him every time she walked into her apartment. Being busy might not be an excuse for procrastination if Carla Summerlin’s case ended quickly at an impasse.

Shep’s enthusiasm for a walk worked its usual magic and her own spirits lifted as the two stepped out into the cool, brilliantly clear late afternoon. Within a minute they had turned the corner on the rush hour traffic which made Connecticut Avenue unpleasant and noisy during the week. Now they were in a quiet world of gold and orange. There were plenty of leaves still on the trees and blowing in the air and they muffled ambient noise and disguised scents, leaving Marne and Shep to trot without distraction a dozen blocks, relishing freedom of motion in the cool weather and colorful surroundings.

Marne did not think about anything at first. Mrs. DeCamp had offered her a brief respite from a lot of headaches and she was bent on enjoying the moment. The headaches would come up soon enough, and among them was the issue of whether she could afford to stay in her apartment. She did not particularly like having roommates in what was a two-room rabbit hutch, but, it might be hard to find a place which would take a dog and its unemployed owner. Well, Scarlet O’Hara had a point, sometimes you have to put off the big issues. She and Shep trotted back and ate quickly, then she took a taxi to Georgetown to meet her new client at Carla’s house.

Georgetown houses deceive outsiders because most of them look quite small from the front, have no garages and are sandwiched in tight rows. To Americans used to sprawling suburbs and the big front lawns of wealthy folks, this mile-square pocket of the nation’s capital is more like a residential theme park of American history than a functioning neighborhood. But real estate values are among the nation’s highest and many houses have been remodeled and expanded to include maximum space and comfort, including swimming pools and mini-spas. This was the case with the house on Thirty-third Street. Marne counted seven rooms of generous size made interesting with glass doors and sky lights, fireplaces and a tidy, professionally-landscaped garden with a hothouse and jacuzzi in the back.

Mrs. DeCamp and the property manager were waiting when she arrived.

This is a great house, Mr. Witstrand, may I ask how much the rent is? Marne asked as soon as her client had vaguely introduced her as a friend.

The short, balding man snorted. The house isn’t exactly for rent. The owners had a special arrangement with Ms. Summerlin. She could live here month-to-month in exchange for her presence as a deterrent to robbery. She paid, let’s see, the exact amount was, uh, twenty-nine hundred a month, plus utilities.

Marne nodded and glanced at Mrs. DeCamp who looked like she had just swallowed a gold fish. How long did she live here?

Witstrand leafed through his papers. Since August. This house, as I’ve already told Mrs. DeCamp, is completely furnished by the owners. All Ms. Summerlin’s personal effects are in her suite on the third floor. As you can understand, the owners wish me to be present while you pack up her things. He gave the two women a professional smile and waited for someone else to make the next move.

Marne smiled disarmingly, Who are the owners?

Mr. Witstrand had not anticipated the question. He looked back at her, blinked, and then replied, It’s a consortium, actually. A group of investors.

She nodded encouragingly, And they are….

The property manager hesitated. I’m not at liberty to say. In fact, I only deal with one of the, uh, principals.

Of course, I understand. She could do a property search at the Recorder of Deeds and Witstrand probably realized that. On the other hand, he did not know that she was trained in this sort of thing and assumed she would simply lose interest. Washington houses were sometimes owned by famous, powerful people and anonymity was important to their security. Carla had befriended someone well-off to be able to rent out the house at below market rate and that might be useful information.

While Witstrand and DeCamp were going over formalities of the security deposit, Marne looked around. The place was furnished without taste. What stood out were the two downstairs rugs, expensive Persians, probably quite old. She had had to learn something about oriental rugs for a job at an auction house and she knew just enough to spot the really good ones.

She went up ahead to the third floor while Mrs. DeCamp was persuading Mr. Witstrand to bring up some boxes. The top floor had two large rooms and a bathroom which was more of a spa. Aside from the bedroom overlooking the garden there was a study where Carla’s text books and papers were still spread out. She had been a business major at Georgetown University, a demanding course of study at a prestigious school. Unless she had been very bright and had good study habits, this would have taken up almost all of her time. When Witstrand joined her Marne asked, Do you know if Carla entertained much? This house really lends itself to having friends over, she smiled.

Witstrand shook his head, I have no idea. She never called me to complain about anything and always paid her rent on time. He set some empty boxes down and retreated downstairs from Marne’s questions and Mrs. DeCamp’s requests. Let me know when you’re finished, he called over his shoulder.

Among Carla’s clothes were a pair of men’s shoes, some slacks, sweaters and shirts, underwear and a bathrobe, and in the bathroom were male toiletries. Marne took a whiff of cologne. Slick, distinctive, announces the wearer when he walks into a room, she reflected, belongs to a guy who wants you to know he’s there. Carla had had a flashy beau. She returned to the bedroom.

I guess you noticed that Carla had a guy stay over. Mrs. DeCamp nodded. Would you know anything about her boyfriends?

I couldn’t say. Once Robert died I lost touch with her. Carla…well, she always acted as though she were…not one of the family…. DeCamp trailed off. Marne realized that her client was vulnerable at this moment and she took advantage of that by crossing the room and sitting quietly beside her on the bed.

"What was Carla really like?" she whispered.

"Dreadful. She was a snob, Mrs. DeCamp erupted, always putting on airs, a real beauty queen! Not an ounce of Christian charity or humility in her. Dear Robert was so good to her and she was ungrateful! When he came to live with me after his retirement, she just dropped out of sight, never wrote or called! I know that if he had lived longer he’d have written her out of his will." Mrs. DeCamp wiped her tears, checked her handkerchief and frowned at the mascara and rouge smudges she saw.

What were her goals in life? Surely she had some reason for going to business school?

She wanted to be rich, I suppose. All those years in Latin America turned her head. People there are either very rich or very poor and Carla had too much of the good life with spoiled, wealthy friends. Robert later regretted that but by then it was too late.

Odd, Marne reflected, that Mrs. DeCamp would so heavily criticize her niece for putting on airs when she did the same thing. Perhaps she hated her niece for what she saw in herself, or for the fact that Carla made her feel she did not measure up to someone else’s standards.

Mrs. DeCamp disappeared into the bathroom to remake her face and left Marne to look through things. First, she went to the answering machine. The in-coming message tape had been removed. As her client took a long time in the bathroom, Marne was able to go through everything thoroughly, drawers, closets, boxes, and obvious hiding places, between the mattresses, inside cushions and behind furniture. There was nothing much of a personal or financial nature besides a few bank and credit card statements and a post card from someone named Jill in Paris. She slipped that into her pocket. The police had not found any more, either. Marne walked to the door and scanned the whole room, looking for some clue, something she had missed. Even college kids have more personal paperwork than Carla did, and Carla had been in this house long enough to accumulate things. Of course, her stuff was in some disarray, it had been gone through first by the police and now….

Hold on a minute! The house may have been searched before the cops got here, Marne suddenly realized. To confirm her suspicions, Marne looked at the closets and drawers again. Carla’s skirts hung in a group, as did her slacks, dresses, blouses. Her sweaters were still mostly folded in two drawers, shoes lined up in orderly fashion…. Carla had been neat and organized in her personal habits, it was the subsequent searches of her quarters which had made a mess of things. She probably had her personal papers organized, too, and those had been taken.

Mrs. DeCamp, was Carla a pretty tidy person, do you know? she called through the door.

What? Well, yes, I suppose so, she spent a number of years at boarding schools.

What did this room look like to you when you got here with the police?

Pretty much the same as it does now. Her things were all over….

And when was the first time you came here?

Why, with the police, of course. I didn’t even know Carla’s address until they took me here.

How did they know where to find you?

Mrs. DeCamp came out of the bathroom. She had washed her face and was reapplying her make-up. By the looks of it, she was only half-finished. "Carla had had to give the property manager a next-of-kin reference because she was a student and not employed. Mr. Witstrand gave the police my name. What are you getting at?"

Her room may have been searched before you got here.

The woman squinted at Marne then looked around her as though everything were contaminated. "Why? I mean, do you think…?"

I don’t know, it’s just a hunch. And it probably happened just after Carla was killed.

Mrs. DeCamp was unnerved by this insight. She sank down on the bed and fiddled with her cross. That left Marne to pack up her niece’s possessions. When she was finished Witstrand helped her carry the boxes downstairs, then she slipped into the kitchen on the pretext of getting her client a drink of water.

Carla’s taste had been spare, health food and red wine. She did not appear to have entertained at home much.

The kitchen was fully outfitted by the owners, Witstrand admonished from the doorway, everything in here belongs to them.

Yes, of course, Marne replied. Then she asked suddenly, Do they have keys to the house?

Why, I should think so…

Do you know if they’ve been by very recently, since Carla was killed?

"I wouldn’t know. Now, if you don’t mind, I have an appointment and I’d like to finish up here," he snapped.

Forty minutes later, Marne told her client that she would call her later then put her in a taxi with all that remained of Carla’s life. Then Marne began knocking on the doors of the neighboring houses.

A few people recalled seeing a good-looking, dark-haired young man coming and going from Carla’s house over time, but that was all. No one knew who owned the house now, just that it had been remodeled over a year before, an activity which takes up parking spaces in a tightly-packed residential area and likely to be noticed.

Before that, one neighbor told her, The place had been in bad shape, it had been a student rental for years, a real eyesore.

Is there anyone on this block who might be out regularly in the evenings, walking a dog, jogging, coming home late as a rule?

The man smiled. "I’ve lived here for six years and I barely know my neighbors. This is not like a suburb where kids play together and people car pool. You should talk to the neighborhood security