good photographs.
Both, on paper, came across a lot better than Pete Wetmore did before Otis had hired him.
But maybe Pete might make it after all. Maybe he could work his way out of the mush.
Otis heard a loud scream outside. Before he could really react, Melissa burst through the door. She had her hands up to her face.
“It’s Mr. Wetmore! They just found him in his car! He’s dead!”
PETE AND JUNE Wetmore’s home was only six blocks west of the Halsteads in NorthPark, their upscale residential enclave. It consisted of some thirty houses of varying motifs—English Georgian, French chateau, Tuscan villa, Spanish castle, Cape Cod tony, Miami Beach deco, Jacobsen white, Southampton beachy, and so on—along a series of carefully drawn winding streets and cul-de-sacs. No matter the style, each house sat amid at least a half acre of trees on acre-plus lots, and most had swimming pools, three-car-plus garages, and sweeping circular driveways.
The Wetmores’ house was a light beige Spanish-castle design. Otis had been there only once or twice, but as he drove up to it now, he had no question which one it was.
There were two police cars and several other cars in the driveway and out front. Clearly, something was going on here. Thefront door was slightly ajar, and Otis walked on in. He heard soft voices coming from the living room on the left.
He stepped to the room’s threshold and saw maybe twenty-five people in the room. Everyone was standing and speaking quietly, mostly in small groups. Some were familiar faces. The first he acknowledged was Sally’s. He had called her from the office and suggested she go over to be with June Wetmore.
“June treated me coldly and very rudely, Otis,” Sally said after motioning him to one side. “She kept mumbling something about all of this being ‘your son-of-a-bitch husband’s fault.’ Meaning you, of course.”
Yes, meaning me, of course
, Otis thought.
“Her kids are upstairs with some relatives, and she’s in another room now with Josh Garnett.” Josh was the pastor of the First Methodist Church of Eureka, where both the Halsteads and the Wetmores were members. “But when you do see June, don’t be surprised if she takes out after you. I don’t know how to say it, but she acted like she hated you.”
Otis said he would not be surprised. Then he moved over to another familiar face, that of Jerry Elkhart, the Cushman-loving detective who’d been at the Halstead house the afternoon Otis had returned from Nebraska with the scooter.
“I figured you’d be here,” said Elkhart. “How’s the scooter?”
Otis said the scooter was fine. He asked the detective exactly what had happened to Pete Wetmore. All Otis knew when he left the office was that Pete had killed himself.
“A jogger found him sitting in his car in the parking lot behind the civic auditorium. He had fired one shot from a nine-millimeter Beretta into his mouth. The medical examiner says he’s one hundred percent sure it was suicide.”
Elkhart held out a small white sealed envelope toward Otis. “There were two of these on the car seat next to him. One ofthem had his wife’s name on it. I gave it to her already. The other was for you.”
Otis took the white envelope and put it in a suit-coat pocket without looking at it.
“Aren’t you going to read it?” asked the detective.
“Not right now, if you don’t mind.”
The detective said he would eventually like to know what it said, although he doubted the coroner would need any further confirmation that Pete Wetmore had died by his own hand.
He said to Otis, “I understand you had a long private meeting with Mr. Wetmore right before he left your building to go kill himself. Is that right?”
Otis confirmed that.
“Did he act like he was a man about to take his own life?”
“Certainly not,” Otis said. “There was no question Pete was upset about some things that had gone badly in his life. But suicide? Certainly
Both, on paper, came across a lot better than Pete Wetmore did before Otis had hired him.
But maybe Pete might make it after all. Maybe he could work his way out of the mush.
Otis heard a loud scream outside. Before he could really react, Melissa burst through the door. She had her hands up to her face.
“It’s Mr. Wetmore! They just found him in his car! He’s dead!”
PETE AND JUNE Wetmore’s home was only six blocks west of the Halsteads in NorthPark, their upscale residential enclave. It consisted of some thirty houses of varying motifs—English Georgian, French chateau, Tuscan villa, Spanish castle, Cape Cod tony, Miami Beach deco, Jacobsen white, Southampton beachy, and so on—along a series of carefully drawn winding streets and cul-de-sacs. No matter the style, each house sat amid at least a half acre of trees on acre-plus lots, and most had swimming pools, three-car-plus garages, and sweeping circular driveways.
The Wetmores’ house was a light beige Spanish-castle design. Otis had been there only once or twice, but as he drove up to it now, he had no question which one it was.
There were two police cars and several other cars in the driveway and out front. Clearly, something was going on here. Thefront door was slightly ajar, and Otis walked on in. He heard soft voices coming from the living room on the left.
He stepped to the room’s threshold and saw maybe twenty-five people in the room. Everyone was standing and speaking quietly, mostly in small groups. Some were familiar faces. The first he acknowledged was Sally’s. He had called her from the office and suggested she go over to be with June Wetmore.
“June treated me coldly and very rudely, Otis,” Sally said after motioning him to one side. “She kept mumbling something about all of this being ‘your son-of-a-bitch husband’s fault.’ Meaning you, of course.”
Yes, meaning me, of course
, Otis thought.
“Her kids are upstairs with some relatives, and she’s in another room now with Josh Garnett.” Josh was the pastor of the First Methodist Church of Eureka, where both the Halsteads and the Wetmores were members. “But when you do see June, don’t be surprised if she takes out after you. I don’t know how to say it, but she acted like she hated you.”
Otis said he would not be surprised. Then he moved over to another familiar face, that of Jerry Elkhart, the Cushman-loving detective who’d been at the Halstead house the afternoon Otis had returned from Nebraska with the scooter.
“I figured you’d be here,” said Elkhart. “How’s the scooter?”
Otis said the scooter was fine. He asked the detective exactly what had happened to Pete Wetmore. All Otis knew when he left the office was that Pete had killed himself.
“A jogger found him sitting in his car in the parking lot behind the civic auditorium. He had fired one shot from a nine-millimeter Beretta into his mouth. The medical examiner says he’s one hundred percent sure it was suicide.”
Elkhart held out a small white sealed envelope toward Otis. “There were two of these on the car seat next to him. One ofthem had his wife’s name on it. I gave it to her already. The other was for you.”
Otis took the white envelope and put it in a suit-coat pocket without looking at it.
“Aren’t you going to read it?” asked the detective.
“Not right now, if you don’t mind.”
The detective said he would eventually like to know what it said, although he doubted the coroner would need any further confirmation that Pete Wetmore had died by his own hand.
He said to Otis, “I understand you had a long private meeting with Mr. Wetmore right before he left your building to go kill himself. Is that right?”
Otis confirmed that.
“Did he act like he was a man about to take his own life?”
“Certainly not,” Otis said. “There was no question Pete was upset about some things that had gone badly in his life. But suicide? Certainly
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