Curse of the Jade Lily (Mac McKenzie #9)

Curse of the Jade Lily (Mac McKenzie #9) Page 84

“Why?”

“You’re scarier than I am.”

“Fuckin’ Girl Scouts scarier ’an you.”

We made our way down the street and up the driveway. I knocked on the door. Von Tarpley opened it as if she had been expecting someone else. When she saw it was me, her face drained of color. I was mistaken about Herzog. I didn’t need him to frighten the woman. She was ready to be afraid of anyone for any reason, even a guy with a bum shoulder and ankle who couldn’t run her down if he tried.

“I know you,” she said, although by the sound of her voice it seemed she wasn’t quite sure.

“Mrs. Tarpley?” I said. “My name is McKenzie. We met in the corridor outside the police department a few days ago.”

She nodded her head as if it had all come back to her. “You’ve been hurt,” she said.

“A minor accident, I said. “This is my associate Mr. Herzog. We represent the City of Lakes Art Museum. I hope we’re not disturbing you.”

“What do you want?”

“We’d like to ask you a few questions about the Jade Lily.”

“I already told the police and that insurance investigator everything I know.”

“I appreciate that, ma’am.” Von raised an eyebrow at the word “ma’am.” “Perhaps you’d be kind enough to discuss the matter with us as well?”

She looked past me at Herzog. “Are you the last?” she asked. “I talk to you, will I finally be done with all of this?”

“I suppose,” I said.

“Because I’m tired of it. Tired of the whole thing. Patrick was cremated yesterday.”

“Sorry I missed the service,” I said.

“There was no service.”

Von stepped away from the open door and allowed us to enter her living room. It was small and cramped and littered with cardboard boxes, many of them with handwritten labels that corresponded to various rooms—kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom. Most of them were stacked on top of the chairs, sofas, and tables. The furniture was relatively new yet unimpressive. It looked like the kind of stuff a man might buy without consulting his wife. There were two arches. The one in front of me led to the kitchen. The one to my left led to a room I couldn’t identify—dining room, probably. A carpeted staircase led to the upstairs bedrooms and bath. I could hear music in the distance, Stacey Kent’s crystal-clear voice singing about love in a hotel made of ice, but I couldn’t determine which room it came from.

“Excuse the mess,” Von said by way of explanation. “I’m getting ready to move. The real estate agent will put the house up for sale and start conducting tours right after I get packed.”

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Phoenix. I have friends there.”

“It’s warm in Phoenix.”

“Warmer than here.”

“When are you leaving?”

“End of the week.”

I stared at the packing crates and wondered—what if I started opening boxes and looked inside? What would I find?

“Somehow I expected you to be older,” Von said.

“Hmm, what?”

“I expected you to be older. I know we met before, and yet I expected you to be an older man. As old as my husband, anyway.”

I shot a glance at Herzog. He was standing near the door, an impassive expression on his face, as if he were watching the opening credits of a movie and wondering if it would be worth the ticket price or not. I looked back at Von. Here was a woman who could give Heavenly Petryk a run for her money. She wore little makeup and no jewelry, not even a wedding ring—the pale band of skin at the base of her fourth finger, left hand was already returning to normal. Her long brown hair was tied back, and she was casually, almost sloppily dressed—clothes chosen for the task of packing cardboard boxes. Yet there was no question that there was a real woman beneath the loose-fitting clothes. The color had returned to her lovely face, giving her the look of a college girl ten years her junior. Her scent was light and fresh in the stale air of the house. Her voice was unexpectedly husky and deep, with a rich resonance that seemed to vibrate in the silence that followed her words. Certainly she didn’t look or behave like a woman whose husband had been murdered a week ago—there was nothing sulky or mournful in her expression or movements.

“You were expecting me?” I asked.