A Walk in Ashes

Chapter 1 – The Lieutenant

I shall never forget the weekend that Belle French died. The sun burned through the sky like a fireball consuming every hint of a consuming breeze, every possibility of respite, every bit of refreshing moisture.

It was the hottest Sunday in any August in my recollection, the heat rising from the streets and sidewalks so that the inhabitants felt like they were in one giant convection oven.

Bereft of my truest, best friend, I felt as if I were the only human being left in Asheville.

For with Belle's horrible death, I felt alone.

Yes, I, Regina Mills, I was the only one who really knew her. . .

Regina was sitting on her rooftop deck in her canopied hot tub with the laptop in front of her set on a wooden carousal. She was writing an update to her fantastically successful I'm Glad I'm the Queen blog. She'd piled her glossy black hair on top of her head and was sipping some red wine while she wrote. She was about half way finished with her own efforts at a eulogy when her personal man of affairs, Graham Hunter, interrupted her. He was a tall, slender young man dressed, at her preference, in snug blue jeans and a tight black t-shirt.

"It's another one of those policemen, ma'am. He's asking to see you," he notified her deferentially.

Regina rubbed her neck. Damn, would they ever just move it along? "Tell him to wait in the living room," she directed Graham. Regina would be able to see the officer through the French doors that led into her living room area. She watched Graham as he ushered the police officer in. Of course, it was another man.

She checked him out - as she checked out every man that came across her threshold, or across her path for that matter. He wasn't very tall, she noted first off. Ordinary features. Rather well dressed in a three piece suit, dark shirt, subdued power tie had to be sweltering in this heat. Walked with a pronounced limp, carried a cane.

She might have summarily dismissed him, yet, there was a certain grace to his movements, like a predator checking out a new territory. The man moved like a tiger, with a hidden strength and the promise of explosive power. She watched as he began examining things, not with any semblance of cultured appreciation for her finer possessions but with a policeman's cold, hard, objective regard. The ornate starburst mirror, the perfectly coifed white flowers in the Waterford crystal vase, the red Envy apples in the antique bronze bowl on the coffee table, the elegantly carved ebony fireplace mantel with the pearlescent marble statue of her favorite horse and . . . oh yes, now he was looking at her clock, her exquisite milk-glass, hand-painted floor clock set in a rosewood frame.

"There's only one other of those in existence," she called out to him, getting his attention. The policeman looked around and saw her in the hot tub. "You may have already noticed the other one. It's in Belle's apartment."

In the very room where she was murdered. Regina made no effort to get out of the hot tub.

The policeman stopped and looked out at her on the rooftop. He regarded her a moment, still standing inside the living room. Apparently he made up his mind and then he slowly walked on out to the deck to see her. He didn't hurry but he didn't dawdle either. He walked with a purpose, his cane a crutch that carried the threat of a weapon.

"Ms. Mills?" he asked.

"Ah, you recognize me. How splendid." She shifted in the hot tub so that he could probably tell that she wasn't wearing a bathing suit. "Sit down, please," she directed him towards one of the cushioned teak wooden chairs that were set near the tub. Set all around were a plethora, a near jungle, of potted plants giving the area a garden-like feel as well as some marginal protection from any prying eyes. She entertained out here often, her parties well known for their sophistication and exclusiveness.

"Nice little place you have here, Ms. Mills," the police officer said as he sat on the edge of the chair. He pulled out a pocket-sized spiral notebook and a throwaway Bic pen.

She gave him her patented throaty laugh, "It's lavish, but I call it home." She sat back with her arms resting on the edge of the tub. In a sad-sounding voice she said, "I assume you're here about the Belle French murder." She took a deep breath, focused her attention on her computer screen and began, "Yesterday morning, after Belle's body was found, I was questioned by Sergeants MacDoc and Sueno and I stated," Regina was now reading from her screen, "On Friday night, Belle was to meet me for a girl's night dinner. But she phoned and canceled our dinner at exactly 5:25. She was planning to go out of town to her mountain cabin for rest and renewal. After that I. . . "

The police officer was looking through his notebook, "You ate a lonely dinner and then got into your hot tub to read."

Regina nodded. "Exactly."

"Why did you write it down?" he asked her, frowning. "Afraid you'd forget it?"

"I am one of the most widely misquoted women in America. When my friends do it, I resent it. From Sergeants MacDoc and Sueno, I should find it intolerable. Hand me that towel, please, Mr. . .?"

"Gold, Lieutenant Gold," the police officer answered, complying with her request and handing her a plush deep red towel.

The name tickled her memory. "Gold? Gold! Not Rumford Gold from the siege of Swannanoa? With the drug dealer with the machine gun and ten hostages? That nutcase junkie had already killed three policemen! I told the story over a podcast and wrote in my blog about it! It made national news! You're the man with the leg full of lead!" she extolled the merits of the case while wrapping her hair in the towel.

The police officer grimaced but confirmed the story, "The man who walked right in, got shot up but still got the perp and saved the hostages? Yeah, that was me."

"You were a sergeant then, weren't you? Got a promotion out of it, I see."

Gold just looked at her without replying.

"I got a Pulitzer nomination out of it. Thanks," she remarked, then continued, "They don't usually send lieutenants, you did say you were a lieutenant? out on routine investigations, do they?" she was curious. Why this officer?

The police officer gazed around the rooftop garden. "I'm a lieutenant," he confirmed with her. "I guess this isn't considered a routine investigation." He gave her a half smile, a crooked smile that didn't reach his eyes.

He had nice eyes. Brown but there was a warmth and a depth to them like a fine whiskey.

A warmth like a banked furnace fire.

And very fine whiskey.

Regina found herself smiling back at him. Well, there might be hope for him yet, especially if she was in the mood for sardonic. She thought he might very well be a candidate for a little Wamsutta Watusi.

Regina considered him like she considered everyone she met, putting them on her scale of whether or not they might be entertaining in the sack. This Lieutenant Gold was a definite maybe. "Well, well. Hand me my robe, please."

The man looked around and found the bathrobe. Regina could have reached it herself. He got up and retrieved it.

"You have a pretty good memory, Ms. Mills," he told her handing her the floor-length luxurious red velvet bathrobe. When he saw that she was about to stand up, he quickly turned his back to her, obviously disconcerted.

"I always liked the idea of the detective with the stainless steel shinbone," she purred at him, stepping out of the tub and wrapping the robe around herself.

"Oooh, you were the one that started that rumor," his eyes had narrowed in displeasure. "It's not correct, you know. My shinbone is more or less intact. It was my knee that was blown out," he told her. "But thanks . . . I guess. I hope you won't have any reason to change your mind about me."

"Have you got any more questions?" she walked around him now clothed wearing the floor length bathrobe with her hair still wet and dripping down her neck she knew it was a sexy look, one of many that she had cultivated and went back into the living room. He followed her.

"Yeah, just one," and he consulted his little notebook again. "Two years ago, in your October blog, you started out writing a book review . . ."

"Yes, I believe it was The Long Game, excellent book," Regina told him.

He nodded, ". . . but at the bottom of the column you switched over to the Marion Forrest murder case."

"My, my," Regina had walked down the hall into her bedroom. She called back, "Are the processes of the creative mind now under the jurisdiction of the police?"

The police office ignored her and continued, "You said Forrest was rubbed out with a shotgun loaded with buckshot . . . the same way that Belle French was murdered night before last."

Regina, still in the bedroom, called back, "Did I?"

"Yeah. But Forrest was really killed with a forty-five."

Still back in her bedroom, Regina observed, "How ordinary. My version was obviously superior." She came out of the bedroom, rubbing her hair with a red towel. She had changed into black pants and a close fitting black top, one that showed her figure off to an advantage just a shade less than what would be the socially acceptable allowance of cleavage. "I never bother with details, you know."

The police officer looked at her and, after a moment, he answered, "Well, I do." He nodded at her and headed toward the door, "Thank you and so long."

Regina followed him, catching up to him before he got near the door, "Mind if I go with you?"

"What? What for?" he was confused by her question.

Regina shrugged, "Murder is my favorite crime. If you know anything about me, you know I write about it regularly." She gave him a brilliant smile, "And I know you'll have to visit everyone on your list of suspects. I'd love to study their reactions."

The police officer frowned at her, "You're on the list yourself, you know," he told her.

"Good. To find out that you'd overlooked me would have been a pointed insult."

The police officer gave her another one of his half smiles, "You're not the sort of woman one would overlook . . . or insult, Ms. Mills."

Regina paused a moment to refresh her Ruby Woo lipstick. Popping the black case back together she turned back to the police office, "Do you really suspect me?" Any other man would have thought she was flirting with him.

"Yes ma'am," he replied.

"Lieutenant Gold, if you know anything about faces, look at mine," she paused giving him time to check over her stunning visage. "How singularly innocent I look this morning. Have you ever seen such candid eyes? such a placid expression, such a calm demeanor?"

"A tribute to your therapist or did you suck out the soul of a kindergarten teacher?"

Regina had to smile at his quip, "It does take a lot of control," she admitted "Try it sometime?"

He gave her a tight brief smile, "No, thanks."

Regina reached in the hall closet and pulled out a red burnt-out silk jacket to slip over her shoulders. She knew she didn't really need the jacket in the heat but also knew she looked particularly stunning in this outfit it had been one that Belle had designed for her.

"Were you in love with Belle French, Ms. Mills?" the police officer asked her abruptly.

When Regina didn't answer, Lieutenant Gold pursued the questioning, "Was she in love with you?"

Regina answered him slowly, genuinely, "Belle considered me the best connected, most supportive, most interesting woman she'd ever met. I was in complete accord with her on that point. She thought me also the kindest. . . the gentlest. . . the most sympathetic woman in the world. She thought of me as her mentor, her teacher, even her friend."

"And did you agree with her there, too?"

Regina shook her head, "Gold, you won't understand this . . . but because of Belle's regard I tried to become the kindest, the gentlest . . . the most sympathetic woman in the world."

There was a pause, "Have any luck?" Gold wasn't impressed.

Regina fluffed her hair before answering, "Let me put it this way. I should be sincerely sorry to see my neighbors' children devoured by wolves. I wouldn't have felt that way five years ago." She smiled again picking up a stylish leather tote bag was set near the door. "Shall we go?"

"Very well," he sighed.

"He spoke in a gruff, commanding tone, obviously a man who was used to being obeyed," she narrated into a tiny voice recorder she had pulled out from the tote bag.

Gold stopped and turned on her, "You can't do that. Don't write your damn blog while you're with me."

"Oh, definitely used to being obeyed," she gave him her most seductive smiles. "He began making demands right away, his keen insights and experience spewing forth as he lent his edgy intellect into solving this heinous murder," she continued narrating. "You are going to give me sooo much material." She watched his rear end as he limped away to his next stop. Nice.

Gold hadn't wanted this job. They had, yet again, talked him out of his self-imposed retirement to take this case on. Well, maybe they'd blackmailed him with the threat of pulling his retirement check to take on the bloody case. He'd wanted nothing more than to be left alone. But, he had the experience, the understanding, the insight to tackle this highly publicized, highly sensitive murder investigation. His background in homicide and then in the special crimes unit that he had created from the ground up make him the most qualified to manage this case.

So they told him.

He would have preferred to be sitting on his back deck drinking himself, yet again, into oblivion but, no, that wasn't going to happen now. Here he was, up, limping around in this suffocating heat, talking to this overly self-important local celebrity about some little cunt dress designer who'd gotten herself blown away.

Sad for sure, but worth dragging him out of his self-imposed, liquor-addled exile?

He didn't think so. He had to take away time from his duel diets of ramen and self-loathing to interact with these people. Well, nothing to be done for this except to take the next step. The quicker he solved this, the quicker he could be back sitting on his deck drinking good Scottish whiskey.

It was in one of the most exclusive apartment buildings in downtown Asheville. It looked out on Wall Street and hailed as one of the town's newest condominiums. The starting price in this particular building was in the mid 800,000's. It required a code to enter – apparently the police department had gotten one for Gold as he first checked in his ubiquitous little notebook and then tapped something in. Regina, still on his heels, rode with him up the elevator equipped with cameras. They went up to the penthouse suite. These apartments went for a cool seven figures. Regina blatantly looked the officer over in the artificial light of the elevator. Gold made a point of looking straight ahead.

He was definitely a cool one and apparently impervious to her charms.

Well, damn.

They stepped out of the elevator onto the top floor. The hallway was a testimony to calmness, carpeted with deep plush lemon cream, the walls flock-papered with a formal pattern done in tones of dulce de leche. Gold tapped at the red-stained door of one of the four apartments on the top floor. An exceedingly well-dressed woman opened the door.

Gold promptly showed his badge.

"Oh yes, Lieutenant Gold, I've been expecting you," and the woman stepped aside to let them in, her perfume, an amalgam of syrupy sweetness and hard-edged oriental scents, assailed their nostrils as they walked by.

This was yet another manicured, well-kept, professionally decorated room. This one was decorated with white lace, golden tapestries and red velvet – hyper-feminine, overstuffed . . . somewhat cloying . . . and over-powering. The room seemed dark . . . still . . . airless when compared to the bright, bustling world outside the building. It suited the woman who'd answered the door, an aging beauty with dark red hair.

"Please have a seat," the woman directed them into a sitting area.

"Good morning, Ms. Hart. Thanks for seeing me." The police officer went into the sitting area but remained standing.

The woman turned to Regina, "Regina, darling."

"Mother dearest," Regina responded and the two women gave each other a pro forma embrace.

The police officer waited for the two women to finish greeting each other and then cleared his throat, "Ms. Hart, I do appreciate you seeing me this morning. You may already be aware that I've been assigned the Belle French case. Ma'am, would you please sit down."

Ms. Hart smiled at the officer and floated slowly down onto her expensive tapestried couch, sinking into the cushions. She leaned back on one of the red velvet cushions arranging herself so that it put her in the best light. The detective realized that the generally dim light allowed for Ms. Hart to be seen more favorably than in a normally lit room. The darkness muted the inevitable lines of age and turmoil. She was wearing a flowing red dress that complimented the room. The dress was cinched at her waist. It showed off her lush figure in a positively tempting manner. She gestured to the officer for him to sit down in one of the red velvet upholstered chairs.

The Lieutenant took a seat on the edge of the chair, obviously uncomfortable in the soporific surroundings. He continued, "Thank you ma'am. I have the reports from Officers MacDoc and Sueno, but there are a few more questions I'd like to ask."

"Certainly," Ms. Hart responded, her eyes flicking appreciatively over the police officer's trim form. "I'll do anything I can to help." She touched her hair flipping it over her shoulder.

Next: The engagement

Belle's apartment