“Do you have any idea what could’ve been so urgent for your father?” Diego asked.
“No,” Julia replied with a sigh. “I tried to press him a little yesterday when I first noticed his mood had soured. He got brusque with me and said I should mind my own business.” Her lips trembled for a few seconds before she pressed them together. “I went behind his back and asked Mother about his mood swings, but she denied noticing anything wrong with him.” Julia snorted and rolled her eyes. “I’d like to take whatever medication her doctor prescribed her.”
“Benzodiazepine,” Royce said. “I saw the bottle next to the empty scotch decanter.”
Julia’s brow furrowed. “What is the prescription used for?”
Royce considered her question for a few seconds. He wasn’t a doctor, but he’d heard about benzos. “You’re not familiar with the medication as a doctor?”
Julia offered a bless-your-heart smile and said, “I’m not that kind of doctor. I have a PhD in theater, and I work as a director and producer in Boston.”
“Your parents must be so proud,” Diego said.
She sat as still as a statue while she assessed his remark. Was she looking for sarcasm? Then, as if someone flipped a switch, she went into action again, wringing her hands. “My mother is very proud of me, but my father believes my education and vocation are a complete waste of time, money, and brainpower. He has zero respect for creative arts and believes the only doctors that count are the ones who’ve completed medical school and the specialized training for their field.”
Royce thought her father sounded like a complete asshole, but he tried not to let his expression show that.
Julia pinned him with a penetrative stare. “You don’t approve, Sergeant Locke.”
Oops. He hadn’t suppressed his resting dickhead face quickly enough. “I don’t,” he admitted. “That isn’t the type of father I want to become to my future children.”
Genuine approval shone in her eyes. “Then don’t.”
He took her advice with a soft nod before steering them back to the reason for the conversation. “People often take benzodiazepine for anxiety and depression. Mixing them with alcohol is extremely dangerous and can be deadly.”
“And that’s what you think happened to my father,” Julia said.
“That is the working theory based on the limited evidence available. The medical examiner will investigate to see if there were other contributing factors.”
“So, he either accidentally overdosed or…” Her words trailed off as she folded into herself like a crumpled tissue.
“Juju!” a woman yelled from somewhere in the house. “What’s going on?”
Julia gasped and bolted to her feet. She ran for the door about the time an older woman with perfectly coiffed platinum blonde hair walked into the room. “Mother!”
Alyssa Matisse wore a white pantsuit with wide, flowy legs that swished when she walked. She must’ve been in her late sixties or early seventies but looked almost as young as her daughter. Alyssa stopped just shy of Julia’s outstretched arms. “Eli broke the news to me, and I insisted he drive me home right away. Tell me it’s not true.” Dark eyes implored her daughter to allay her fears.
“I’m so sorry, Mother,” Julia whispered.
Alyssa shook her head repeatedly, unwilling to believe the truth, but Julia nodded solemnly. The older woman released a keening wail and collapsed into her daughter’s waiting arms. “No. I won’t believe it.”
A silver-haired man entered the salon and assessed the situation with a shrewd, dark gaze. Mayor Barclay took both women into his arms and cradled them against his chest. “I’m so sorry,” he told them.
Alyssa pulled back enough to look at Barclay’s face. “Did you see Jean Claude? Is it real?”
“Do you think I made the whole thing up?” Julia asked in a clipped voice.
“Of course not,” Alyssa said. “This situation is just unfathomable.”
“The officers prevented me from walking onto the patio, but I saw enough through the wall of windows to know it’s true.” Barclay briefly closed his eyes. When he reopened them, his gaze locked on Royce and Diego. He lowered his head and whispered something to the women before he lowered his arms and strode forward. His shoulders rose, and his chest puffed out a little when he reached them. “Who’s in charge?”
Royce stuck out his hand. “I’m Sergeant Locke, sir.”
The mayor shook his hand and looked to Diego for an introduction. He gestured for Royce to join him for a private conversation, and he obliged the man. “What can you tell me so far?”
“We’re still in the preliminary stages of the investigation, but I’d just discussed what evidence we’d found so far with Julia when her mother arrived. If it’s okay with them, we can have this discussion together. Maybe you can offer invaluable insight on the situation.”
“I can try.” He looked over at the women, who huddled together crying. “I’d like to get this over with as quickly as possible tonight. Perhaps we can have a longer discussion tomorrow or Monday. Julia and Alyssa will be overwhelmed with funeral arrangements.”
“I understand that, and I will accommodate them as best I can. There are a few more things I need to ask this evening.”
“Okay,” Barclay said. “Do you mind if I sit in and provide moral support?”
“I’m sure they’d appreciate that,” Royce replied.
“I’ve been like an uncle to Julia.” He glanced over at the women again. “More like a father figure, if I’m telling the truth. Jean Claude spent ninety percent of his time ensuring other people achieved their dreams of parenthood and left very little energy for his only daughter. That didn’t change when he retired either. Alyssa and Julia were his accessories and nothing more.” He pressed his lips together and shook his head. “Julia has spent her entire life chasing his approval, and now she’ll never receive it.”
Royce knew Julia’s daddy issues were about to get much worse, but he just nodded sagely. He and Barclay returned to the others and sat down. He gestured to his phone and informed them he was recording the conversation. Then he noted the recent additions to the conversation and the time before continuing. “Mrs. Matisse, I need to ask how your husband seemed before you left for Mayor Barclay’s house. Julia said he’d been agitated before she left an hour prior.”
Alyssa scowled briefly in her daughter’s direction. “Jean Claude was just a little out of sorts.”
“Mother,” Julia chided. “The officers need you to take off your rose-colored glasses where Father is concerned and answer their questions honestly.”
“Julia! I think you forget who the parent is here.”
“Ladies, please,” Barclay cajoled. “This isn’t the time to argue. The officers want to figure out what happened to Jean Claude, though I don’t know why they’re asking about his mood.”
“Because Father either accidentally or purposely overdosed on expensive scotch and Mother’s antidepressants.”
Alyssa gasped and clutched her chest. She sucked in short bursts of air, and Royce worried she’d gone into cardiac arrest until Julia got her to calm down through repetitive breaths, counting for her mother during her inhales and exhales. “Impossible,” Alyssa whispered raggedly.
“What’s impossible?” Barclay asked.
“He couldn’t have mixed my pills and booze,” Alyssa said.
“Lyss, people do it all the time.” Barclay looked at Royce. “Jean Claude was furious about something yesterday. He phoned me in the afternoon to inquire if Richard Todd would be at the party. That’s our mutual friend and Jean Claude’s former attorney. I told him that Richard was spending the day with his son’s family. That only seemed to irritate Jean Claude more. I asked if there was something I could do to help, but he insisted only Richard would do.”
“Does anyone know if Dr. Matisse ever spoke to Richard?” Royce asked.
The three of them shook their heads.
Then Alyssa sniffled delicately. “Jean Claude and I briefly argued after Julia left for Elliott’s. I told my husband it was silly to mope around the house like a teenage girl waiting for the phone to ring.”
Julia scoffed. “You did not say that, Mother. You never stand up to him.”
Alyssa leaned forward to peer around Barclay. “I absolutely did, and those were the last words I said to him.” She looked at Royce, her expression somber but determined. “Jean Claude couldn’t have taken my prescription pills because he didn’t know about them. My husband thinks—” Her words stopped as if abruptly hitting a brick wall. “ Thought ,” she said hoarsely. Alyssa paused and closed her eyes. Tears trickled from the corners and ran down her face. She took a few more breaths and met Royce’s gaze once more. “Jean Claude thought depression and anxiety were excuses people gave to avoid difficult things.”
Royce hazarded a quick glance at Julia in time to catch her subtle flinch before she said, “And he said pharmaceutical companies got rich off making people sick.” Julia raised her hands. “Not saying I believe that. I know damn well anxiety and depression are real conditions and that those medications save lives.” She exchanged a look with her mother. “I believe you.”
As touching as the moment was, it didn’t get them any closer to figuring out the events of the afternoon. He only disliked the dead man even more than before he arrived. Then he realized what Alyssa said. He hadn’t known about her pills. “Are you sure he didn’t know about your prescription?”
“No way,” Alyssa said. “He would’ve berated me for being weak and discarded them.”
“Mother, he would’ve had to care about you to go to that extreme. As long as it didn’t get back to his friends, Father wouldn’t have given a damn what you did with your body.”
“You ungrateful brat,” Alyssa snarled.
Mother and daughter spoke at once, yelling over one another. Alyssa extended long, pink nails toward her daughter, who batted her mother’s hands away. They looked like they were seconds away from snatching each other bald.
“Ladies, ladies, please,” Barclay implored as he tried to separate them back to their couch cushions. He had the patient demeanor of someone who’d done this more than once. “This spiteful back-and-forth isn’t helping anyone, especially not the officers trying to figure out what happened with Jean Claude today.”
The women stopped yelling, but they continued leaning forward to glare at one another.
Royce felt like he was on an episode of Housewives and wished for a bowl of popcorn. He risked a glance at Diego and bit back a laugh at the younger detective’s stunned expression. Christ, they’d be talking about this case at the cop shop for a long time. “Emotions are clearly high, so let’s try to get through this as quickly as possible. At the mayor’s behest, we’ll resume this conversation tomorrow or Monday.”
The women called a truce with jerky nods before turning their attention to Royce and Diego, who moved them through the day’s timeline as quickly as possible. With Barclay’s mediation, they figured out that Jean Claude had been home alone for over five hours by himself, which was plenty of time for him to get worked up and search the house for ways to ease his frustration. And then there was the alcohol to consider. Alyssa admitted that she’d poured him a glass of scotch after his aggravation had reached peak levels. She’d been the one to suggest he should take a swim to relax. They didn’t have security cameras anywhere on the property because they would ruin the elegant aesthetic, so there was no way of knowing when or if the doctor went for a swim or if he’d fallen into the pool during his overdose.
“How much liquor was in the decanter when you poured the drink?” Diego asked.
“It was half-full,” Alyssa replied. “He’d been nursing that five-hundred-dollar bottle of scotch for six months or more.”
And he drank the rest of it in one afternoon? He’d either received bad news from Richard Todd or had gotten furious when they failed to connect. Obtaining phone records would help answer that question if a judge approved a warrant in what appeared to be an open-and-shut overdose. It was possible that Mrs. Matisse had tired of his shit and slipped him the pills and plied him with the booze, but they’d need to find some evidence pointing them in that direction. The autopsy would clear things up or muddy the waters.
“How was Dr. Matisse’s overall health? Did he have any underlying conditions that could’ve been exacerbated by the pills or alcohol?”
“No,” Julia said.
“Absolutely not,” Alyssa stated emphatically. “My husband was at the peak of health. He worked out religiously and adhered to strict eating habits. His only vice was an occasional glass of scotch, as I said. A single bottle would typically last him a year or longer.” She sniffed. “I gave him one for Christmas every year.” She looked at her daughter. “I’m pretty sure it’s the only time he liked me.”
Julia’s mouth trembled as she reached around the mayor to hold her mother’s hands. Barclay leaned back with a wary expression on his face. “That’s not true, Mother.”
The last thing Royce wanted was for them to get into another argument, so he kept the conversation going. “Do any of you know the source of his distress?”
The trio averted their gazes away from him and grew pensive. Julia’s brow furrowed, Alyssa glared at no one in particular, and the mayor frowned. One by one, they seemed to pull the room back into focus. The trio exchanged glances among themselves before giving Royce and Diego their attention again.
“No,” they said at once.
“And I’m not sure it matters to you,” Barclay added. “Unless you suspect foul play.”
“Should we?” Diego asked. “Has Dr. Matisse had any issues with anyone?”
The trio looked at each other again and this time shook their heads. Barclay looked less convincing, but Royce couldn’t tell if Matisse had confided in him or if he simply suspected someone with the doctor’s personality had ruffled the wrong feathers. Royce wanted to push harder but knew it would likely backfire. It was time to call an end to the interview for the time being. He leaned forward and turned off the recording. He asked for one final piece of information, which was how to contact Yvonne and Ricardo.
Alyssa gave him a puzzled look. “Why? They weren’t here today.”
“Mother, something has been off with Father since yesterday afternoon. Give the sergeant their contact information so he can see if they witnessed anything that might explain why this happened.”
“That makes sense.” Alyssa looked at Julia. “Could you get that for them? It’s in my address book in my office.”
“Sure,” Julia said. “I’ll be right back.”
Silence washed over the room as they waited for her to return. Luckily, she wasn’t gone long.
“You’ve been through a lot,” Royce said, pocketing the piece of paper she gave him. “We can chat again later once you’ve had time to rest and assimilate everything that’s happened.”
Royce and Diego placed a few business cards each on the coffee table and collected their contact numbers before exiting the salon. They regrouped on the back patio where the medical examiner and her staff were loading the body bag onto the gurney.
“We better call Mendoza and bring him up to speed.”
They waited until the medical examiner, crime scene techs, and officers were ready to leave and followed everyone through the house and out the front door. Royce and Diego called Mendoza from the car and gave him a rundown of what they knew so far, starting with the bomb Felix dropped on Royce. The chief said nothing until Royce and Diego finished their summary.
“Christ,” Mendoza said. “This is going to turn into a media circus.” He blew out a frustrated sigh. “I don’t see a judge issuing subpoenas or search warrants until we get some hard facts from the medical examiner’s office.”
“That’s what I thought too. Unless Fawkes uncovers a surprise, I can’t see her ruling anything other than an overdose. And she might not be able to determine if it’s accidental or not. That will lead to a lot of public speculation, but it’s better than writing a report with false findings.”
“True,” Mendoza said. “It doesn’t sound like there’s anything left for you to do right now. Enjoy the rest of your night because I’ll want to know how the family reacts to Felix’s exposé in tomorrow’s paper.”
“You got it, Chief.” Royce disconnected the call and looked at Diego. “Let’s head on back to my house. The party should still be in full swing.”
“You couldn’t pay me to get into your pool again tonight,” Diego said.
“I’ll take that bet.”