“Hold your floral work right now, because we’re certainly not there yet,” Ross said in between spoonfuls of his soup. “We have Patrice Leyton and Bella Compton to get to, as well as Ethel Kohl. Jackson has asked us to wait just a little longer to question her, because she’s taking King’s death really hard, as you can imagine. What mother wouldn’t, but you know as well as I do that we can’t overlook anyone.”

  Wendy’s gasp was on the quiet side but still audible. “Wait . . . you’re not suggesting that King’s own mother could have killed him, are you?”

  “I didn’t say that. But we do need to get her prints and DNA to match up with the crime lab’s report of what was found here and there in the house. She and Jackson spent a lot of time there with King, so we’re just going by the book.”

  Wendy returned to her soup while trying to envision the alternate universe in which any mother might be driven to do away with her son. Or daughter, for that matter. Try as she might, she was unable to fathom it. Yet she remembered that Wyvonne had mentioned that she thought something was definitely “not right” with Ethel Kohl these days. Was that just more of Wyvonne’s apparent maneuvering? Or was there actually something substantive to it?

  CHAPTER 5

  The slave quarters behind Kohl Place lacked nothing in the way of luxurious decorative touches. Ethel Kohl had spent nearly as much money on the project as she had in restoring the main house decades ago; the only thing she and Jackson had given up when they had moved in several years back to accommodate King was space. The two-story brick outbuilding was a bit on the cozy side, as Ross discovered when he entered for his “kid gloves” interview with Ethel.

  “Please, come on in,” Jackson told him at the red door with the impeccable fanlight above it. He gestured toward Ethel, who was seated on the Belter sofa in the middle of the living room with its sumptuous Persian rug and Zuber wallpaper panorama of myriad frigates in a harbor somewhere for a background. The air was also laden with the essence of furniture polish. “I’ve just given my wife something to calm her down, since she’s been so inconsolable. I’m sure you understand, detective. Please forgive her if she’s a little groggy. We’ll get through this somehow.”

  Ross bowed his head slightly. “Of course. I will be as brief as possible.”

  “Dear,” Jackson said, approaching his wife, “you remember Detective Rierson, don’t you? He just wants to ask you a few questions and do a bit of forensics.”

  “What?” Ethel said, gesturing toward her ear as if she were hard of hearing. “For-rest-tics?”

  Jackson reached down and patted her shoulder gently. “He wants to take your fingerprints and that sorta thing, like I told you. It won’t take long.”

  Ethel was dressed in her pink bathrobe and white fuzzy slippers, and her half-lidded eyes suggested that she might have just been roused from bed, although it was nearly ten-thirty in the morning. Then again, the sedative that Jackson said he’d given her might have kicked in, as well. Nonetheless, she finally patted a spot on the sofa and managed a smile. “Come, sit next to me, young man.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to stand,” he told her, matching her smile. “I’ll need to get your prints and swab the inside of your mouth, Miz Kohl. Just standard procedure, you understand. You probably know your husband has already cooperated with us. And let me again express my sorrow for the loss of your son.”

  “It has devastated us,” she said, pointing across the room with a sigh. “There’s his portrait over there on the wall. We had it painted when he graduated from college. But now I’m thinking of taking it down and putting it in storage, because every time I walk past it, the tears come out. If we did, though, I might miss it, and that would be even worse.”

  Having settled into his favorite armchair nearby, Jackson said, “I told you we can do that if you want, dear. You just tell me what you prefer to do.”

  “If you could just stop me from dreaming,” she said, looking over at her husband with a doleful expression. “King’s still alive in these dreams I’m having, and when I wake up, I remember that he’s gone. My husband seems to have a pill for all my aches and pains and so forth, but not for that. I know something like that doesn’t exist.”

  Ross steeled himself, hoping to strike the right tone. “I can imagine how difficult that is for you. I lost my parents in a car wreck when I was in college, and it was very difficult for me to get through. Dreams have a way of either soothing or disturbing you.”

  Then came Ross’s forensic duties, which he performed quickly, and he was somewhat surprised when Ethel seemed to spring to life with a little giggle, her sadness suddenly vanquished. “Goodness, that Q-Tippy thing tickled. I enjoyed that.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Ross said, relaxing somewhat himself. Then he began his questions with his pen at the ready.

  “Miz Kohl, to the best of your ability, can you tell me what you think your son was up to with this party he was planning? We have reason to believe it was not primarily to play bridge. Did he give you any inkling?”

  Ethel became even more sanguine, her eyes opening wide. “I like to think he was going to make an engagement announcement to all of us. He invited the two girls he’d been seeing the most of in recent years, and he was someone who liked his drama.”

  Ross scanned his notepad. “That would be Miz Bella Compton and Miz Patrice Leyton, right?”

  “Yes, that’s them,” she said, but there was an uncomfortable edge to her voice. “You see, I helped him design the invitations, but I’m fairly sure that the Leyton girl did not play bridge. Her type wouldn’t have, you know. Bella did, of course. The Comptons are quite social, in case you don’t know that. At least they were before Peter died. Since then, not so much. Greta keeps to herself more.”

  “I believe I’m aware of that,” Ross said. “Being social in this town is a prerequisite for becoming a true Rosaliean, and I’ve learned a lot more about that since I married my Wendy. Before, I was just your everyday policeman type.”

  “Yes, I’ve adored that pretty, redheaded wife of yours since she started writing her social column a few years back. It’s not even worth reading anymore. That girl they have now is just a waste of copy. She gets her descriptions wrong.”

  Ross brightened. “Lotsa people liked the job she did back then, with all the wedding write-ups and baby showers and things like that, but I’m sure you know she’s an investigative reporter now.”

  “Is she?”

  Ross fought back a frown, observing Ethel’s sudden befuddled expression. It was accompanied by a return to the profound sense of sadness that had enveloped her demeanor a minute or two earlier. “Yes, but her assignment at the moment is to do an in-depth feature on what the Kohl family has meant to Rosalie all these years. All those people who showed up at your son’s services proved that all of you mean a great deal. They’re a testament to your status in Rosalie.”

  “That’s nice to hear.”

  “If I may ask you just a couple more questions, then.” He paused to look down at his notepad once again. “What is your opinion of Miz Sidley?”

  “Who?”

  “Miz Wyvonne Sidley.”

  Ethel shot a bewildered glance at her husband first, then turned to Ross. “I don’t believe . . . I know her.”

  Jackson quickly intervened, leaning in her direction. “King’s housekeeper, dear.”

  “Still not ringing a bell,” she said, turning both hands palms up. “Did she just start?”

  “Miz Sidley told me that you were the one who interviewed her for her job and hired her for her position,” Ross said.

  Ethel shook her head emphatically.

  “I’m afraid she’s been deeply affected by the tragedy that’s befallen us,” Jackson said. “You’ll just have to forgive my wife. This continues to be quite a burden for her to bear—for both of us, you understand. She may not be able to give you much that’s helpful to you. We’ve been broken in two, and there’s no putting us back together.”

  “Humpty Dumpty,” Ethel said under her breath. “Jackson told me to say that if I couldn’t think of anything else to say. He told me not to strain. He’s always reminding me of things. He says one thing, then he says another. But all I seem to remember is ‘Humpty Dumpty’.”

  Jackson rose from his armchair. “Detective, I don’t believe my wife will be able to tell you much more. If you don’t mind, could we bring this to a close?”

  “Of course,” Ross said. “I understand. And I want to thank you both for your cooperation. We will keep in touch with you as our investigation proceeds.” At the door, Ross continued, “My thoughts and prayers are with you. And those of my wife’s, too.”

  “And we sincerely thank you for that,” Jackson said with a gentle wave of his hand before closing the door.

  In the background, Ethel could be heard saying, “Humpty Dumpty,” again.

  Once outside, Ross began walking down the path leading past the main house to the sidewalk that Ethel had landscaped so expertly, so lovingly. The crepe myrtles lining both sides were getting ready to bloom, and the pea gravel crunched under his feet, a surprisingly pleasant sensation. Flower beds filled with pansies seemed to be smiling at him as he made his short trek, as if he were in the midst of an ongoing garden party.

  It was only after he had slid into the front seat of his car that a phrase came to mind, and he couldn’t exactly figure out why: being led down the garden path.

  Was he beginning to develop the sort of special instincts that his wife had become famous for? Beyond those he had acquired in his years of police detective, of course. He decided he was going to bounce that particular sensation off Wendy that evening and see what she had to say about it all.

  * * *

  Because the weather was mild and sun-splashed on this late May afternoon, Wendy and Bella Compton were sitting out on the commanding veranda of Bella’s Victorian raised cottage on Lambert Street, sipping coffee under the ceiling fan and engaging in small talk at first. Wendy had already observed, however, that Bella’s cheerfulness seemed decidedly forced—too many smiles where none were required, too many averted glances when nothing much of consequence was being said. It was almost as if Bella didn’t want to acknowledge that Wendy was there. Yet, it was quite evident why King had taken an interest in the young woman. Even in this cautious mood of hers, she was quite the dazzling blonde specimen, and the sunflower-print dress she was wearing spoke both to her sense of fashion and her accompanying fitness.

  “I know this is difficult for you to talk about,” Wendy began, intent on leaving behind all the casual pleasantries and getting to the point of her visit, “but I would like some background on your relationship with the Kohl family. As I told you, my editor wants me to do an in-depth feature on them in light of this terrible tragedy. It’s to be something in the way of a tribute so that people can get closure. It won’t be an exposé or anything like that, I can assure you.”

  That got Bella to face forward at last, and she quickly dropped the perfunctory smile. “The Kohls and the Comptons have been close for generations. My family, being in banking the way they are, and theirs first got connected because real estate firms need their bankers to seal the deals, of course. It was a good partnership over the years. I’m sure you know how successful the Kohls have been in business. There have been the occasional soirées, cocktail parties, and picnics that both families have enjoyed together. My mother Greta and Ethel Kohl have been great friends for at least thirty-five years and belong to hundreds of planning committees in this town. And then it was Ethel and my mother who picked out this cottage for me after I graduated from Ole Miss. Mother let Ethel decorate it, because she didn’t think she had Ethel’s taste. Once that got underway, Ethel even asked me which fabric swatch I preferred—once in a while.”

  The sarcasm was not lost on Wendy. “Do you and Ethel Kohl not see eye to eye on things?”

  “That’s in the past. The decorating thing, I mean. I trusted her to do a job for me, and I’m mostly happy with the results. It was clear to me that my mother and Ethel expected King and me to get married eventually. You should have seen them giggling together at times during that period when we were a serious couple, and all of us were together at a party or something. But it’s not worth dwelling on now.” Bella twitched her mouth to one side and then whispered, “Let’s drop it.”

  Wendy changed the subject quickly. “So there were social aspects to this, but the primary connection between the two families was a business one.”

  “It certainly started that way, yes. But if you’d like more details, I’d suggest you interview my mother, Greta. She’ll also have a million anecdotes for you about the Kohls and the Comptons. I’m sure that’s the sort of thing you’d want for your feature article. I could text her and arrange a meeting for you, if you’d like?”

  “Thanks. I’d appreciate that very much.”

  “I’ll text her as soon as you’re gone, and the two of you can nail something down.”

  Wendy scribbled something quickly in her notepad. Then she looked up, manufacturing one of Bella’s forced smiles, and lowered her voice. “Is there anything else you wanted to add to any of this?”

  “Such as?”

  Wendy leaned forward and softened her tone further. “I don’t want to intrude upon your grief, but would you mind telling me about your actual relationship with King, if it isn’t too much of an invasion of privacy? You call the shots here.”

  Bella put her coffee cup down on the small wooden table between them, took a deep breath, and said, “Is this going to go into your article? You said you weren’t doing some sort of exposé. You aren’t the Enquirer, right?”

  “No. If you don’t want to answer, you don’t have to. I’d just like to get a clear picture of the Kohl family from every angle. Again, I promise not to write anything that would be inappropriate. This will be a favorable snapshot in time.”

  It took Bella a while longer to gather herself, but she eventually said, “King and I had known each other from childhood. I had a crush on him since forever and used to chase after him at recess. But he could always outrun me. I hated that, even though I think he really liked me, too. It . . . well, it made me determined to catch him, no matter how long it took me.”

  “That’s an interesting way to put it,” Wendy said. “I remember having the same sort of crush in middle school on a boy named Rufus, even though he always seemed to be blowing his nose. He completely ignored me, and so to get back at him, I started calling him Rufus, the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Problem was, it stuck and followed him around the rest of his schooling. I’m sure he never forgave me for that, and I certainly didn’t mean to cause all that trouble for him.”

  Both women laughed, and then Bella said, “I never had a nickname for King. Why would I need one? He got enough of ‘Old King Kohl’, as it was. Anyhow, eventually we went out now and then in high school, but nothing much ever came of it. King was quite the player. It was when he came home from college that we started seeing each other in earnest. I thought to myself, ‘At last, we’re on the same page.’ ”

  “And were you?”

  “Yes, and no.”

  “Could you explain further?”

  Bella began tearing up and wiped at the corners of her eyes with her cloth napkin. “Just give me a minute, please.”

  “Of course. As I said, you call the shots here.”

  Finally, Bella opened up. “There was a period in there, not all that long ago, when I thought that King was going to ask me to marry him. He would hint around all the time, but he never proposed. I pressed him one summer about it, and he seemed to go off the rails. He mumbled something about not wanting to settle down and resenting having his life planned for him from cradle to grave. I swear I wasn’t pressing him too hard, just a bit of casual, friendly persuasion with a kiss or two. Not long after that, I found out he was seeing Patrice Leyton. She has . . . a reputation, and I’m sure you know what I mean.”

  “I do,” Wendy said, thinking to herself how harshly old Southern cities judged women compared to the way they judged the men who flitted around them and then flew away at a moment’s notice without a care in the world.

  “I’m leveling with you now—I was furious with him,” Bella continued. “Why did he reject me at that point and settle for her? Do you understand how that made me feel? I could have killed him at that point—” She stopped suddenly, realizing what she’d just said.

  The bitter undertone did not escape Wendy, and she said, “I think we’ve all felt that way about someone, but then regretted those feelings.”

  Bella conjured up more tears, dried them up again, and sniffled. “What I just said sorta slipped out. Then last week, I get this perfumed invitation from him for a bridge party, and I wonder what the hell is going on with this. Next thing I know, he’s texting me that he wants to make things right with us once and for all, and I just have to come to his house for this to-do he’s having. He says that I can’t let him down. I had no idea what to make of it. Was he going to propose to me at last? Was that how he was going to make things right? But he didn’t text that he wanted to make things right just with me. He said us. That put everything in a different context for me. I have to say, I wasn’t looking forward to such a public proposal of marriage in front of everyone, if that’s what he had in mind. Forget those Hollywood scenes where the man proposes to his girl in front of a multitude of people who applaud insanely. A woman wants her privacy for that. At least, I do.”

  “Do you actually think that he might have intended to propose to you finally, using that as his stage?”

  Bella shook her head with her eyes cast downward. “Honestly, no. We just hadn’t been having the kind of contact that would have justified that. Our relationship was . . . very intimate at one point. But that hadn’t happened lately. I was planning to come to his party, or whatever it was. Maybe out of curiosity more than anything else. But then, the next thing I know is that he’s been . . . well, you know . . . murdered. I can hardly wrap my brain around it. It’s like I’m living in some sort of alternate reality.”