“Art seemed okay to me. He just kind of sat back and watched Leigh, but when he was ready to go home, there wasn’t any doubt about who was boss.”
Unlike his own home, fortunately.
“Were either of you home for any portion of the morning Art was killed?” I ask, double-checking the police statement and Chet’s investigator’s report.
Neither was, but mrs. Wheeler isn’t through.
“You ought to get in touch with at least one of her sisters. I know her father’s a famous preacher around here, but he was obsessed with Leigh. Mary Patricia came to visit not too long before Art was killed. Leigh brought her over, and she gave me an earful about the father. Any sign of independence in them he hated. Christian Life was like a prison for them; they never got to go any where else. According to her, their father didn’t pay any attention to them until they were almost teenagers, but he didn’t make the same mistake with Leigh. He started taking her everywhere with him when she was five years old.”
I sit there, watching the husband glower at his wife.
There is no stopping her. I ask, “What was Leigh’s re action to her sister telling you this?”
Ann Wheeler makes a face as if the memory pains her.
“She just laughed and said she had loved it. I truly believe she did, but it had its price. She felt a lot of guilt when she stopped going to church all the time.
There was areal battle going on inside her between Art and her father, and Art was winning.”
Mr. Wheeler can’t stand it any longer.
“You don’t know anything from anyone’s point of view except Leigh’s. Most kids would love to have had a close relationship with their father. Leigh’s sisters were probably just jealous.”
I look around this big house for signs of children, but there are none. I change the subject to lower the temperature.
“I talked to Mr. Tyndall before coming over. Is he reliable?” I ask, hoping the wife will trash him, too.
mrs. Wheeler nods.
“According to Leigh, he practically built Christian Life when it was first beginning. In fact, he’s Mary Patricia’s godfather, Leigh told me, and he and Shane Norman are still close.” I think of Tyndall’s trophies. The guy bragged about his running, but didn’t mention his connection to Shane. Why in the hell not? If anybody had a reason to lie for Leigh, that old guy would. I think of Chet’s comment: “We don’t do things that way.” Well, maybe not, but it seems odd that he wouldn’t have volunteered his connection with Christian Life. Perhaps he kept an eye on Leigh for Shane and didn’t like what he was seeing. I don’t know what to make of his omission. It is probably meaningless, but with Chet acting as screwy as he has been, maybe it’s significant. I stare blankly at the Wheelers, realizing, not for the first time, how little confidence I have right now in the man who has hired me to help him. I can’t avoid the feeling that this case is like watching a play being done in a foreign language that sounds like English but isn’t quite. Until now, I’ve thought that if I just listened hard enough, I would be able to pick it up, but clearly, that isn’t happening.
Glowering at his pert and increasingly loquacious wife, Mr. Wheeler stands up, ending the interview. He’s had enough of this conversation, and I have no choice but to take my leave as gracefully as I can. I have undoubtedly ruined this evening for the Wheelers, but there’s nothing to spice up a marriage like a good fight.
The wife seems slightly disappointed, but I can always call back for more information when Mr. Tightass isn’t around between now and the trial, if she wants to cooperate.
Outside, parked in Leigh Wallace’s driveway, I find waiting on me Chet and the cop assigned to assure minimal damage to the crime scene. I don’t see what the big deal is after all these months unless the prosecutor is going to try to take the jury on a tour. Chet looks exhausted but gives me a nod as if to say that we’ll talk later about what I’ve learned.
“Gideon, this is Officer Brownlee. He’s our nanny for your tour,” he adds superfluously
I shake Brownlee’s hand. All arms and legs and so young that I wonder if he has a driver’s license, Brownlee grins as if being in the presence of the state’s premier criminal defense attorney has been more excitement than he can stand.
“Nice to meet you, sir,” Brownlee says politely. The kid has a nice smile.
“My pleasure,” I say, winking at Chet but meaning this pleasantry sincerely. Unlike some lawyers, I like cops, and the older I get, the more I like them. Every profession has its bad apples, but try giving lawyers a gun and a nightstick to carry around, and we would quickly acquire a worse reputation than we already have. You don’t have to be a psychologist to realize that if you give people the power and opportunity to abuse others (as cops unquestionably have), some of them will inevitably oblige you. But so will a convent of nuns.
Like all the homes out here, Leigh’s home is monster size. I’m glad I don’t have to make the mortgage payments on an empty house, but it would give me the creeps to keep living in a place where my spouse had been murdered even if I had done it. Nice double-wide yard, I notice enviously. Woogie would be in heaven pissing on all these shrubs. However, given my live and-let-die approach to yard work, it would surely look like a desert inside of a month if I owned it. As we enter immediately to our right off the foyer are a living room and adjacent dining room the size of a train station. They could have hosted the Blackwell County Bar Association meeting in here. Why do people buy what they least need? Because they can, I guess.
“Great party room, huh, Mr. Page?” Brownlee says, gawking at the scene before him.
I nod. The place looks like a museum. The walls are covered with exotic tapestries, paintings, and engravings, the quality of which I’m not fit to judge. We would have been happy to get an Artmobile full of this stuff where I grew up. I am in awe of the solid oak dining room table, which could seat a busful of schoolchildren, but I’m glad I wasn’t part of the crew that wrestled it in here. I can feel a hernia coming on just thinking about it. Even though Chet has been here before, he remains impressed. He whistles, “We’re not in Kansas anymore, Gideon.” He knows as well as I that while a few eastern Arkansas farmers may have had homes this size, almost none looked like this on the in side. He leads me to a room off to the right.
“This is where he bought it,” he says, pointing to a desk located next to a window looking out on the lawn and the Wheelers’ house next door. I’ve seen the pictures. Art was seated in his chair behind the desk when he was shot. According to the autopsy report, he died instantly from a bullet through his heart. According to the report, the time of death was between ten and eleven-thirty.
I stand in the doorway waiting for some brilliant in sight, but feel only a slight headache from hunger. I like the office, too. It has a fireplace, books, and photographs on the wall that Wallace must have made during his business trips. Besides imposing architecture of Third World banks, there are kids on burros, Latin American campesinos, Asian peasants. It is nice to think that Wallace got out in the countryside a bit.
There are also pictures of more than a few women.
Without a doubt, Wallace had an eye for female beauty.
There is one portrait of an Asian teenager that is unusually arresting. Her gentle, round face is dazzling in its luminosity. With eyes the color of washed graphite, she glows with a beauty so serene it is difficult to associate it with youth. Of all the women he encountered, how odd he found the one he wanted in a state as obscure to many Americans (until Clinton’s election) as the country of Albania. It is easy to forget that Wallace was from a small town in the state almost equally as obscure to Arkansans. His pictures of Leigh are gems, her face expressive, alive, and joyous in a way I’ve yet to see.
The portraits of her are enough like the others that I have to assume Wallace made them. If so, the proof of her love for him is staring me in the face. Her face radiates happiness.