Life Without Parole: A Kate Conway Mystery Read online

  A PLUME BOOK

  LIFE WITHOUT PAROLE

  CLARE O’DONOHUE is a freelance television writer and producer. She has worked worldwide on a variety of shows for Food Network, the History Channel, and truTV, among others. She is also the author of the Someday Quilts Mystery series.

  Praise for Missing Persons

  “O’Donohue puts her real-life expertise as a freelance TV writer and producer to good use in this sharp first in a new series. An absorbing read.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “This is going to be a great series. Fans of Sue Grafton and V. I. Warshawski, and even Nancy Pickard’s Truth trilogy, should try Missing Persons.”

  —iloveamystery.com

  “Kate is funny and sarcastic . . . which makes her good company. This reader would welcome another appearance by the all-too-real Kate.”

  —The Cleveland Plain-Dealer

  “Well written, with fascinating characters, multifaceted story lines, and plenty of action. A heroine readers can embrace.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “A rollicking good start. O’Donohue exhibits a masterful approach with her classic red herrings and carefully placed foreshadowing as she drags us through the muckraking of yellow journalism. This will be a series worth collecting.”

  —Suspense magazine

  “Kate makes a great and sympathetic detective. Here’s hoping there’s more to come from her.”

  —The Parkersburg News and Sentinel

  “[4.5 stars.] It didn’t take long for me to develop a girl crush on Kate Conway. With a fresh, sophisticated plot, snappy dialogue, cleverly placed red herrings, and a brisk pace, there isn’t a single sentence in this novel that isn’t thoroughly enjoyable.”

  —RT Book Reviews (top pick)

  Also by Clare O’Donohue

  Someday Quilts Mystery Series

  The Lover’s Knot

  A Drunkard’s Path

  The Double Cross

  The Devil’s Puzzle

  Kate Conway Mystery Series

  Missing Persons

  LIFE

  WITHOUT

  PAROLE

  A KATE CONWAY MYSTERY

  Clare O’Donohue

  A PLUME BOOK

  PLUME

  Published by Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A. • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India • Penguin Books (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Plume, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, May 2012

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Copyright © Clare O’Donohue, 2012

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  O’Donohue, Clare.

  Life without parole : a Kate Conway mystery / Clare O’Donohue.

  p. cm.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-58047-9

  1. Women television producers and directors—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3615.D665L54 2012

  813’.6—dc23

  2011045703

  Printed in the United States of America

  Set in Adobe Garamond Pro

  Designed by Eve L. Kirch

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS OR SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION, PENGUIN GROUP (USA) INC., 375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014.

  ALWAYS LEARNING

  PEARSON

  To Jack O’Donohue,

  a gentleman and a scholar—and a darn fine brother.

  You still owe me a quarter for each of the thousands of shirts

  I ironed for you when we were growing up.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  These last few years have been a whirlwind of new experiences and new friendships. I am truly grateful to all the people who have e-mailed me, come to book signings, and help spread the word about my books. I’m thankful, too, to all of the talented people in the Mystery Writers of America and Sisters in Crime, without whose friendship, advice, and support, I would have felt completely alone. A special thanks to crime writer Libby Fischer Hellmann, for her generosity and kindness. As always, this book owes its life to my agent, Sharon Bowers, and my editor, Becky Cole, both of whom have an uncommon faith in my writing, or are just crazy optimists. In either case, I thank them both for helping me move forward on the series. Also Mary Pomponio, who does everything but kill to get publicity for my books, I owe you. To Liz Keenan, and the marketing and publicity teams at Plume, thanks once again for the efforts on my behalf. To Karen Meier and Tom Carroll, both of whom saw this book in early stages, thank you for tasting the cake when it was half baked. To Maura Sweeney, who always reads the acknowledgments, I thought it was about time you saw your name. To Kevin, for knowing the truth about me and keeping it to himself. To my mom, for helping with the final stages of the manuscript. To V, and my family, for always being there. And to my aunt Mary, I miss you.

  LIFE

  WITHOUT

  PAROLE

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four
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  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  Forty-six

  Forty-seven

  Forty-eight

  Forty-nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-one

  Fifty-two

  Fifty-three

  Fifty-four

  Fifty-five

  Fifty-six

  Fifty-seven

  Fifty-eight

  Fifty-nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-one

  Sixty-two

  Sixty-three

  Sixty-four

  One

  I stayed by the window, hidden from view. The street was quiet and dark, but I kept watch. I’d been in this house, this stranger’s house, for hours, waiting for the man who owned the place to come home. I was doing what had to be done. If I hadn’t agreed to it, someone else would have. No one would get hurt. That’s what I kept saying. But inside I died a little every time I had to do what I was doing today.

  I waited another twenty minutes. Finally, I saw it. A car was pulling up. I nodded toward Jim, who was standing outside between two vans so no one could see. He lifted his camera and waited.

  I watched the man get out of his car and walk toward the house. This was it.

  Within seconds the door opened and the man walked in.

  “Oh my God.” He looked around the living room. “This is amazing.”

  His wife ran toward him and squealed with delight. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, it’s great,” he said. “It’s really…different. I wasn’t expecting it at all.” His wife kissed him, then looked around, beaming. The man looked toward me. “Is that enough or do you want more?”

  “It’s perfect,” I said. “But, if we could just do it one more time. And this time, if you could be a little more surprised. You come home after a golf weekend with your buddies to a whole new living room. Completely redecorated. Your wife brought in a design team and a television crew. They’ve remade the place to be exactly what you’ve dreamed of and you had no idea this was happening.”

  “So I shouldn’t mention the photos she e-mailed me last night?”

  “The audience doesn’t know you’ve seen photos,” I said. “They’ve spent the last twenty minutes watching the host of our show pick out furniture and paint the walls this nice, um, reddish color.”

  The room had the feel of a college apartment. Hand-me-down tables from the husband’s parents had been painted off-white, and pressboard shelves had been hung on two of the walls. Their cream sofa had been sloppily reupholstered with a wild floral pattern. And by “reupholstered” I mean cheap fabric was tucked around the cushions and stapled at the corners. Then the couch had been repositioned on an angle, which for some reason was supposed to make the room better for entertaining.

  When I looked through the camera lens, the place looked amazing. But when I looked at it in real life, I was depressed. I knew it would be about twenty minutes before the shelves started falling off the walls and the staples on the couch came undone.

  “Our viewers,” I said, turning to the equally unimpressed husband, “will be sitting on the edge of their seats, worried that you might not like the new rug or the mural over the fireplace.”

  “I don’t really like it.”

  “You can paint right over it the minute we’re gone.”

  This was my seventh episode of Budget Design, the Home Network’s latest hit, and each time, I gave the same pep talk to the homeowners, who either hated the remodel or couldn’t work themselves into the rabid dog/game show enthusiasm that the network wanted.

  “Can we just do it again?” I asked. “Big surprise. Big enthusiasm. Lots of specifics. You love the drapes, love the rug, love the”—I pointed toward a weird sculpture our host had found at the Salvation Army—“you love whatever that thing is.”

  “It’s just not what I wanted,” he said.

  I gave him my best fake smile. “The thing is, the sooner I get what I need, the sooner we’re out of your lives. You and your wife have a nice DVD of your moment on TV, and a funny story to go with it.”

  He looked at his wife. “Next time you want to be on TV, leave me out of it.” He walked out the door.

  I crossed my fingers. Five minutes later, and exactly on cue, he was back. This time he was completely surprised, overwhelmed by the beauty of his new living room, and madly in love with his wife.

  “We’re done,” I said. “And now you can have your living room all to yourselves.”

  As the cameras were packed up, I watched him throw the sculpture in the trash.

  Two

  Despite the stop-and-go Chicago traffic and the snow falling steadily against my windshield, I nearly fell asleep on the drive home. I hadn’t been sleeping well lately, but it wasn’t just tiredness. I was bored. For almost five months, I’d been working on decorating shows and makeover shows. Ugly rooms with a new coat of paint or ugly people in new clothes. One was just like the other, and I didn’t care about any of it.

  I’d always loved being freelance. It meant I could work on a documentary about a presidential election for three months, followed by two weeks on a golf special. After more than twelve years as a television producer, I knew everything there was to know about the history of the cookie and how the Wild West had gone from lawlessness to statehood. It was fun because those topics—most topics—were interesting to me. How to turn a perfectly nice living room into a piece of crap was not interesting to me. And it was beginning to show.

  When I got home, I halfheartedly began cleaning up the living room. Sometimes, when I was working as much as I had been lately, I’d leave clothes, newspapers, and half-finished cups of coffee scattered around the entire house. I didn’t love living like this, but it wasn’t an indication of depression, anxiety, iron deficiency, or any other condition that my sister, Ellen, routinely diagnosed me with.

  These days there was a lot of talk about my hair. Mixed in with the dark red were a few whitish gray strands, which Ellen swore needed to be taken care of by her stylist, who’d seen a picture of me and declared me “savable.” The price of saving me was a hundred and seventy bucks a visit. I may have needed a little sprucing up, but I wasn’t interested in being mugged by a hairdresser with a God complex. In a moment of compromise, I’d bought a box of Nice ’n Easy. It sat unused on my bathroom counter.

  I moved all the clutter from the living room into the dining room and looked around. Little had changed in the past year. It was the same couch, the same rug, the same plant that was nearly, but not quite, dead. The painting of the couple walking down Michigan Avenue still hung over the fireplace. The bookcases were still littered with a combination of mass market paperbacks and hardcovers, a no-no according to the decorator/host of Budget Design. And there were still empty spaces where framed photographs had once been displayed. Except for my parents’ wedding photo and a picture of my oldest nephew’s confirmation, the whole house was devoid of any photographic evidence of my life before.

  Before. I hated that word.

  Frank had been dead for almost seven months. I’d canceled his cell service, donated his clothes, written thank-you letters to everyone who’d sent flowers, and gotten back to living, just like I was supposed to. And, as it turns out, living sucks. It’s bills, and laundry, and boring television. The closest I’ve come to sex in nearly a year is watching a Viagra commercial. I’d read a couple of books on grieving that well-meaning friends had given me. Well, I’d read the covers. But they hadn’t helped me feel better. They’d just made me less inclined to mention how I was feeling so my well-meaning friends would stop dumping books on me.

  At seven thirty, as usual, my phone rang, and as usual, I debated whether to answer it before finally giving in and picking up.
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  “How are you?” Ellen asked in that way she had that projected both alarm and pity.

  “Fine, Ellen. I was fine yesterday, and the day before, and the week before. You can stop calling me every evening to check up on me.”

  “I’m just…” I could hear her searching for the words that Dr. Phil would use. “I’m just concerned that you’re not dealing with your life as it is now. I think you’re wrapped up in what you wanted your life to be instead of what it actually is.”

  Given that I hadn’t disclosed anything more personal to Ellen than the damage an ice storm had done to my gutters, I wasn’t sure what she was basing that on. No, scratch that—I was certain. She was deciding what I should want for myself, then feeling sorry for me that I didn’t have it. What she wasn’t doing was asking me what I wanted. If she had, I would have told her what I wanted was an evening without a call from her.

  “Are you doing anything tonight?” she asked. “Besides working?”

  “I’m going to a movie.”

  “Oh.” The surprise was evident. “With who?”

  It’s tricky when you lie to your sister. Ellen knew most of my friends, and I knew that tomorrow she would call whomever I named to casually ask how the movie was and therefore check my alibi. So it was too risky to name someone she knew.

  On the other hand, using the name of a total stranger would only make her assume I was lying, and that would lead to another round of uninvited analysis.

  “Vera Bingham,” I said, grabbing the name of someone who was neither a stranger nor a friend. As soon as the words exited my mouth I knew I’d made a huge mistake.

  “What?” She managed to extend the word to three syllables. “How can you? I mean after everything she’s done to you? I don’t understand you, Kate. I really don’t.” She just kept talking, asking me why over and over without giving me a chance to answer. And then the coup de grâce: “Does Mom know?”

  “I’m almost thirty-eight, Ellen. I don’t need Mom’s permission to go to the movies.”

  “But why her?”