“His hair and eye color?” Dirk asked.
“Blond and brown.”
“Any identifying scars, tattoos?”
“No tattoos. Bill was too conservative for anything like that.”
Savannah couldn’t help noting that Bill Jardin’s wife had just referred to him in the past tense. That didn’t bode well for Bill.
Dirk asked Bill’s birthday, and Savannah knew one of the first things he would do was run a background check on Bill to see if he had a criminal record. Experience had shown them both that a sizable bank account was no guarantee that someone was a law-abiding citizen.
“What sort of vehicle does he drive?”
“A new, red Jaguar XK. A convertible.”
She even supplied the license plate number, which Savannah found mildly interesting. Most people didn’t know their license plate number unless it was a vanity plate.
“And what was he wearing the last time you saw him?” Dirk asked.
“Jeans and a turquoise polo.”
She wondered how much Clarissa might have prepared for this moment. Her answers seemed rehearsed, her manner quite subdued for a woman with a long-absent spouse.
“What does he do?” Dirk asked.
“Do?” Clarissa thought about it a moment before answering with a totally straight face, “He drinks, gambles, and chases other women.”
Dirk stopped scribbling for a moment, but continued to stare down at his pad. “Actually,” he said, “What I meant was, ‘How does he make a living?’”
“Bill doesn’t make a living. I do.”
For just a moment, Savannah saw it—the fleeting look of hurt in the other woman’s eyes. Not anger. Raw pain. And she couldn’t help but feel a twang of pity for her.
Pain was pain. Even for rude people.
In a gentle tone, with her heaviest Georgian accent, Savannah said, “Your Billy Boy sounds like a real peach.”
Clarissa’s eyes searched Savannah’s, and Savannah could feel the moment when the other woman realized that she was offering genuine empathy.
Clarissa’s expression softened, and it occurred to Savannah that maybe Clarissa Jardin wasn’t accustomed to kindness or sympathy.
“Yes,” Clarissa said, sounding suddenly tired. “Bill’s a real catch. Lucky me.”
“How long have you two been married?” Dirk asked.
“Eighteen years. I married him right out of high school.”
“That’s a long time to spend with a heavy-drinking, womanizing gambler,” Savannah said softly.
“I love him.” Clarissa shrugged. “There are all kinds of love in this world. Not all of them are noble.”
A heavy silence hung in the air until Dirk said, “When did you last see your husband, Clarissa?”
“Five nights ago. He left the house about nine to run an errand, and he didn’t come back.”
“Where did he go?”
“He said he was driving to Twin Oaks, to the convenience store there, to get cigarettes.”
She was lying; Savannah saw it in her eyes.
Glancing sideways at Dirk, Savannah saw him squint ever so slightly and she knew that he had registered it, too.
Being cops for years, having people lie to you at least twice every fifteen minutes—it tended to fine-tune one’s internal lie detector.
“He said he was getting cigarettes,” Dirk repeated, “and he didn’t come back or contact you in any way since that night.”
“That’s right.”
“So, the question that I have to ask you, Clarissa,” he said, “is why didn’t you call us before now?”
Again, she seemed to have her answer ready. “Because he’s done this before. He always came back after a couple of days, apologizing, promising to be a good husband from then on. And he’d be my good Bill, the one I fell in love with in high school. I just thought it was one of those times. But—”
She choked, and her eyes filled with tears.
“But?” Dirk prompted.
“But he’s never been away this long. Three days was always his limit before.”
“So, you two had some sort of argument or disagreement before he left to go get the cigarettes,” Savannah said.
“Sure. We fought almost every night about something.”
“And what was the argument about that night?” Dirk asked.
“Another woman. Most of the fights were about other women.”
“What is this other woman’s name?”
“I don’t know her name.”
Another lie, Savannah noted. She was starting to have doubts about the health and well-being of Mr. Clarissa. A guy who’d been missing for five days, whose wife was lying to the cops—things were looking a bit grim for poor ol’ Bill.
“What do you know about her?” Savannah asked.
“That she wears cheap, disgusting perfume. Too much of it. And she’s forgetful.”
Dirk looked up from his scribbling. “Forgetful?”
“Yeah. She forgets to put her panties back on…leaves them in married men’s cars.”
“Oh, okay.” Dirk didn’t bother to write that one down.
His cell phone began to ring, playing “The House of the Rising Sun.” Savannah knew it was the police station house calling. He’d chosen that ring tone after one too many all-nighters at his desk, buried in paperwork.
“Excuse me,” he told Clarissa and answered it. “Coulter.”
Dirk had a good poker face, but after so many years looking at his mug, Savannah could tell when it was an important call or a “the captain wants to know if you’re anywhere near his daughter’s school; she forgot her lunch money” call.
“Yeah? Where?” He listened, gave Savannah a quick look, and then said, “Okay. I’m on my way.”
He shoved the phone back into his pocket and stood. “I think I’ve got what I need for right now, Ms. Jardin,” he said. He handed her one of his business cards. “If you think of anything else or if you need to talk to me, just give me a buzz.”
“Thank you.”
She slid the card into her robe pocket as she searched his face, suspicious. “Is everything all right? I mean, that call you got?”
“It’s just something I have to check out. But I’ll start working on finding your husband right away. I’ll get in touch with you as soon as we get anything new.”
In less than a minute, Savannah and Dirk were out the door and walking through the courtyard garden, on their way back to the car.
Savannah knew something was up. Dirk seldom moved that quickly.
“Whatcha got?” she asked.
He glanced back toward the house, the closed door. Opening the bell gate, he said, “A new, red Jaguar abandoned up in the hills on Sulphur Creek Road.”
“Uh-oh. A body?”
“Nope.”