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Authors: Nelson DeMille
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side door,
covering all the doors. I half expected, half wanted someone to be in this house so I could arrest him—or her—wrap the case,
and get the hell back to Virginia. But that was not to be.
Cynthia looked into the large bedroom and commented, “She made her bed.”
“Well, you know how those West Pointers are.”
“I think it’s sad. She was so neat and orderly. Now she’s dead and everything will be a mess.”
I glanced at Cynthia. “Well, let’s begin in the kitchen.”
CHAPTER
FIVE
I ndeed, there is something sad and eerie about intruding into a dead person’s house, walking through rooms they will never
see again, opening their cabinets, closets, and drawers, handling their possessions, reading their mail, and even listening
to the messages on their answering machine. Clothes, books, videotapes, food, liquor, cosmetics, bills, medicine… a whole
life suddenly ended away from home, and no one left behind, and a house filled with the things that sustain, define, and hopefully
explain a life—room by room with no living guide to point out a favorite picture on the wall, to take you through a photo
album, to offer you a drink, or tell you why the plants are dry and dying.
In the kitchen, Cynthia noticed the bolted door, and I informed her, “It leads to the basement. It’s secure, so we’ll check
it out last.”
She nodded.
The kitchen yielded very little except for the fact that Ann Campbell was for sure a neat-freak and ate the kind of healthful
foods—yogurt, bean sprouts, bran muffins, and such—that make my stomach heave. The refrigerator and pantry also held many
bottles of good wine and premium beer.
One cupboard was crammed with hard liquor and cordials, again all high-priced, even at post exchange prices. In fact, by the
price tags still stuck on some of the bottles, the liquor did not come from the PX. I asked, “Why would she pay civilian prices
for liquor?”
Cynthia, who is sensitive, replied, “Perhaps she didn’t want to be seen in the PX liquor store. You know—single woman, general’s
daughter. Men don’t worry about that.”
I said, “But I can relate to that. I was once spotted in the commissary with a quart of milk and three containers of yogurt.
I avoided the O Club for weeks.”
No comment from Cynthia, but she did roll her eyes. Clearly, I was getting on her nerves.
It occurred to me that a junior male partner would not be so disrespectful. And neither would a new female partner. This familiarity
obviously had something to do with us having once slept together. I had to process this.
“Let’s see the other rooms,” she said.
So we did. The downstairs powder room was immaculate, though the toilet seat was in the up position, and having just learned
a thing or two from that colonel at the O Club, I concluded that a man had been here recently. In fact, Cynthia commented
on it, adding, “At least he didn’t drip like most of you old guys do.”
We were really into this gender and generation thing now, and I had a few good zingers on the tip of my tongue, but the clock
was ticking and the Midland police could show up any minute, which would lead to a more serious difference of opinion than
that which was developing between Ms. Sunhill and me.
Anyway, we searched the living room and dining area, which were pristine, as though they were sanitized for public consumption.
The decor was contemporary but, as with many career military people, there were mementos from all over the world—Japanese
lacquers, Bavarian pewter, Italian glass, and so forth. The paintings on the walls would have been appropriate in a geometry
classroom—cubes, circles, lines, ovals, and that type of thing, in mostly primary colors. They conveyed nothing, which was
the point, I suppose. So far, I couldn’t get a handle on Ann Campbell. I mean, I remember once searching the home of a murderer,
and within ten minutes I had a grip on the
covering all the doors. I half expected, half wanted someone to be in this house so I could arrest him—or her—wrap the case,
and get the hell back to Virginia. But that was not to be.
Cynthia looked into the large bedroom and commented, “She made her bed.”
“Well, you know how those West Pointers are.”
“I think it’s sad. She was so neat and orderly. Now she’s dead and everything will be a mess.”
I glanced at Cynthia. “Well, let’s begin in the kitchen.”
CHAPTER
FIVE
I ndeed, there is something sad and eerie about intruding into a dead person’s house, walking through rooms they will never
see again, opening their cabinets, closets, and drawers, handling their possessions, reading their mail, and even listening
to the messages on their answering machine. Clothes, books, videotapes, food, liquor, cosmetics, bills, medicine… a whole
life suddenly ended away from home, and no one left behind, and a house filled with the things that sustain, define, and hopefully
explain a life—room by room with no living guide to point out a favorite picture on the wall, to take you through a photo
album, to offer you a drink, or tell you why the plants are dry and dying.
In the kitchen, Cynthia noticed the bolted door, and I informed her, “It leads to the basement. It’s secure, so we’ll check
it out last.”
She nodded.
The kitchen yielded very little except for the fact that Ann Campbell was for sure a neat-freak and ate the kind of healthful
foods—yogurt, bean sprouts, bran muffins, and such—that make my stomach heave. The refrigerator and pantry also held many
bottles of good wine and premium beer.
One cupboard was crammed with hard liquor and cordials, again all high-priced, even at post exchange prices. In fact, by the
price tags still stuck on some of the bottles, the liquor did not come from the PX. I asked, “Why would she pay civilian prices
for liquor?”
Cynthia, who is sensitive, replied, “Perhaps she didn’t want to be seen in the PX liquor store. You know—single woman, general’s
daughter. Men don’t worry about that.”
I said, “But I can relate to that. I was once spotted in the commissary with a quart of milk and three containers of yogurt.
I avoided the O Club for weeks.”
No comment from Cynthia, but she did roll her eyes. Clearly, I was getting on her nerves.
It occurred to me that a junior male partner would not be so disrespectful. And neither would a new female partner. This familiarity
obviously had something to do with us having once slept together. I had to process this.
“Let’s see the other rooms,” she said.
So we did. The downstairs powder room was immaculate, though the toilet seat was in the up position, and having just learned
a thing or two from that colonel at the O Club, I concluded that a man had been here recently. In fact, Cynthia commented
on it, adding, “At least he didn’t drip like most of you old guys do.”
We were really into this gender and generation thing now, and I had a few good zingers on the tip of my tongue, but the clock
was ticking and the Midland police could show up any minute, which would lead to a more serious difference of opinion than
that which was developing between Ms. Sunhill and me.
Anyway, we searched the living room and dining area, which were pristine, as though they were sanitized for public consumption.
The decor was contemporary but, as with many career military people, there were mementos from all over the world—Japanese
lacquers, Bavarian pewter, Italian glass, and so forth. The paintings on the walls would have been appropriate in a geometry
classroom—cubes, circles, lines, ovals, and that type of thing, in mostly primary colors. They conveyed nothing, which was
the point, I suppose. So far, I couldn’t get a handle on Ann Campbell. I mean, I remember once searching the home of a murderer,
and within ten minutes I had a grip on the
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