by Lauren Carr
David stood up from behind his desk.
“You know that turn,” Bogie said. “People go too fast, can’t make the turn, and end up off the road. Since Leroy had such a high blood-alcohol level and—”
“We’re going to the scene.” With the case file in his hand, David left the office.
Wondering what David had seen to make him jump up and leave, Bogie stood in the middle of the vacant office until David stepped back inside. “You’re driving.”
It was a fast drive. They drove along the twisting country road to the bridge, which was less than ten minutes from the police station.
During the drive, David’s cell phone rang, and the call was from Dallas. “Hey, lover boy, I’m on my way out of town!”
“Was it something I said?” David said with a grin.
“Archie and I are goin’ to Gettysburg to meet with the police chief who investigated Fiona Davis’ murder. We’re gonna stay at a charmin’ hotel.”
David heard Archie say something in the background that he didn’t catch. Luckily, Dallas repeated it for him. “It’s haunted!” she said before squealing with laughter. “Can you be a love and stay with Mac tonight? Archie is worried about him. Be sure to take Storm over with you.” After some giggles mixed with information about her and Archie following up on a lead they thought they had uncovered, Dallas hung up.
Bogie pulled the police cruiser off of the road next to a marshy area of the lake. From there, the road sharply curved up onto the bridge that crossed into McHenry.
Depending on the water level, the grassy-field area that sloped forty feet down to the lakeshore was usually dry, but it didn’t take many rainy days to turn the area into a marsh. When the lake’s water level was particularly high, the marshy area would rise to within a few feet of the road.
Because it was early in the summer season and there hadn’t been any rain for over a week, the grassy field was somewhat dry.
David climbed out of the passenger side of the cruiser and waded through the tall grass until he was down by the water’s edge. “How far up was the water?”
“About where it is now.” Bogie joined David down by the shore. “The truck was submerged right about there.” He pointed to approximately twenty feet out from shore. “It was submerged when I got here.”
David squatted down. “And Leroy wasn’t in the truck?” He ran his fingers through the mud.
Bogie watched him pick up one handful of mud after another and let the cool lake water wash the mud from his hand. “He was at the bottom of the lake. They think he was too drunk to swim to shore.”
“And so he drowned? Here?” David looked up and down the lakeshore.
“That’s what Doc and the forensics people said.”
David picked up a handful of the mud. Rising to his feet, he held it out to his deputy chief. “What’s this?”
“Mud.”
“Mud. All around here is mud. Along the shore. At the bottom of the lake.” He turned his hand over and allowed the mud to land at his feet with a plop. “Doc found sand in Leroy’s lungs.”
“Sand?”
“Sand. Beach sand. Who do we know who has a private beach in the backyard of his lakefront home?” David shook his head. “Leroy Clark didn’t drown here.” With a sweep of his hand, he said, “This was all staged.”
“I can’t believe I slept all day.” Mac Faraday pulled himself up and fluffed the pillows behind him before accepting the hot tea with honey that David was holding out to him.
Mac had wakened up to Storm licking his face. Once she had completed her task of waking him up, she rested her head on his chest as if to commune with a fellow creature who needed mending. She had healed enough that David had removed the cone of shame that she’d been wearing around her neck to prevent her from chewing her stitches. Taking in her wounds, Mac shuddered to imagine the horror Storm had experienced when the mountain lion had jumped her.
“You overdid it the last couple of days. Now your body needs to catch up.” David picked up the pill bottles on the nightstand. “Did you take your meds?”
To answer him, Mac opened one of the bottles and shook out a pill. David took the water glass into the bathroom and filled it with fresh water. While washing down his medication, Mac watched David sit on the edge of the bed and proceed to stare off into space. Mac set the glass on the end table and picked up the cup of tea.
“Sand in Leroy’s lungs despite the fact that his body was found in a part of the lake where there is no sand proves that he drowned someplace else,” Mac said. “At the very least, his body was moved.”
“He was murdered by his own brother,” David said with certainty.
“Maybe.”
“Bill Clark had his ring.”
“Clark’s lawyers will say Leroy gave it to him, and we can’t prove otherwise,” Mac said. “A jury will find it hard to believe that a man killed his brother over a ring.”
“Plus Leroy was suing him because Bill cheated him out of his half of the estate,” David said. “Bill was furious that his mother gave the ring to Leroy. If he’d acquired it legally and rightfully, he would have been wearing it all these years instead of hiding it in his desk drawer.”
With a sigh, Mac set the cup down and clasped his hands behind his head. He stared up at the ceiling.
“You do believe me that Clark is capable—”
“I believe that everybody is capable of murder when the circumstances are right,” Mac said. “The problem is proving it. Leroy’s case was closed as an accident. It will be impossible now to match the sand found in Leroy’s lungs to the sand on Bill’s beach because so much time has passed. Every lake house around here has private beaches with sand. You can’t prove he drowned on Clark’s beach and not on some beach someplace else on the lake—like on the state park’s public beach.”
“I know,” David said.
“The ring can’t be used as evidence, because Bernie and Hap stole it,” Mac said. “Where was Leroy drinking before the so-called accident?”
“There’s nothing about that in the file. Leroy really didn’t have much in the way of friends.” David shrugged his shoulders. “He was a drunk, which was why Bogie and everyone else pretty much went through the motions when his truck ended up in the lake. His blood-alcohol level was twice the legal limit. Bogie feels terrible about this. Maybe if he had—”
“Give me the case file.”
David grabbed the case file he had left on the dresser when he’d arrived at Spencer Manor. While he was crossing the room, Storm resumed licking Mac’s face.
“Any word from Jessica about their case?” David held out the case file to him.
“They got the guy and a confession,” Mac said while turning his head from one side to the other in an effort to escape Storm’s flapping tongue. “They’ll bring Gnarly back on their way up to West Virginia to visit Murphy’s twin brother. Murphy missed his law-school graduation.” He allowed Storm to nuzzle his ear while he reached around her for the folder.
“You really miss Gnarly,” David said.
“No, I don’t.” Mac attempted to gently push Storm away. “Gnarly has been getting me up at six o’clock every morning since the day I met him. Now that Archie and I are married, he still gets me up. And he snores. I never knew dogs snored. Frankly, I enjoy the break.”
David sat on the edge of the bed. “Well, take your mind off of how much you don’t miss Gnarly by figuring out how we can catch Bill Clark.”
“We’re going to need a confession.” Mac opened the folder.
“Even if we get one, he’ll get it suppressed and go free,” David said. “His supporters will never believe he killed his own brother over a ring.”
“But he did kill his brother over a ring.” Mac turned a page in the folder. “Do you have it with you?”
David took the ring out of his bre
ast pocket and handed it to Mac, who took his time studying the gold jewel with the blue stone. He then read the inscription inside the band.
“Dollarwise,” Mac said, “this is worth a little over a thousand dollars. But the real value is attached to what it signifies. Back in the old days, a ring with the family seal would be passed from the father to the firstborn son. The carving in the stone is the Clark family crest. When the family patriarch would write a letter, he would press the ring into hot candle wax to seal the letter with the mark of the family crest.”
“Now we use e-mails,” David said.
“This ring”—Mac held it up—“signifies Bill Clark’s birthright. The firstborn is the patriarch, the leader, and the head of the family. When his mother gave it to Leroy, she gave Bill’s birthright to the family’s black sheep. That’s why he went nuts and killed him to get it back.” A slow grin worked its way across Mac’s face while he studied the ring.
“What are you thinking?” David finally asked.
Mac held out his hand with his palm up. “Give me your hand.”
David hesitated. “Which one?”
“Doesn’t matter. Either one.” When David placed his right hand in his palm, Mac corrected him. “Give me your left.”
With a roll of his eyes, David placed his left hand in Mac’s palm. Mac slipped the signet ring onto his little finger. It fit perfectly.
Holding up David’s hand to admire the gold jewel with the blue stone, Mac chuckled. “That’ll work.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Archie Monday could not believe that they’d managed—in a most spur-of-the-moment way—to travel two and a half hours to Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, and to reach the borough’s police department one hour before it closed for the day.
Considering the way Dallas Walker had raced her big pickup truck up and down the mountains and across the rolling farmlands of Maryland and Pennsylvania, Archie was grateful that they’d arrived at their destination in one piece.
As if Dallas’ adventurous driving style hadn’t been enough for Archie to deal with, when they’d crossed the state line into Pennsylvania, they’d been greeted by Gnarly’s smiling face—four stories tall—and the words “Don’t Give a Paws! Vote for Gnarly!” The unexpected sight had caused both women to shriek. Luckily, there hadn’t been any other vehicles on the freeway, so both lanes had been clear for Dallas to zigzag in while regaining her composure.
Upon reaching Gettysburg, Archie said a silent prayer of thanks, pried her fingers from the edge of her seat, and made an ironclad decision that she’d drive for the rest of the trip or take a bus home.
If nothing else, Dallas Walker was entertaining. She’d filled their roller-coaster drive with one story after another about growing up on her pappy’s ranch, her first real cattle drive when she was six years old, her mother’s teaching her the Walker family’s secret chili recipe, and the day she squealed on her brother for breaking their mother’s vase after he had paid twenty bucks for her silence. Dallas insisted it hadn’t been her fault. When Phil had said, “Don’t tell anyone,” he hadn’t told her that “anyone” included their momma and pappy.
As Dallas’ loud enthusiasm filled the interior of the truck, Archie quickly forgot that her pappy’s ranch was spread over three counties in Texas, that the Walker chili her momma had taught her to make was the world-famous specialty served at the ranch house of the Walker dude ranch, and that the vase her brother, Phil, had broken had most likely been worth no less than several thousand dollars.
If only she’d learn how to drive.
They were so anxious to get started on their case that Dallas went straight to the borough’s police department instead of going to the hotel to check in.
In addition to being home to one of the most famous battles in the Civil War, Gettysburg was the meeting place of several major roads going north and south and east and west, as it had been founded over three hundred years earlier. Despite the tourist traffic and the fact that it had three times the number of residents of Spencer, it still held on to its rural historic atmosphere.
Located in a red-brick building, the police department was only slightly bigger than Spencer’s.
Dallas shoved their unofficial case file, which was made up of news articles and their copy of the bootlegged police report about Fiona Davis’ death, into her oversized bag, and they marched into the police department. At the business counter, the desk sergeant, an attractive woman in her fifties wearing a name tag that read “Gladstone,” welcomed them with a pleasant smile.
Taking the lead, Archie introduced herself and Dallas and explained that they were investigative journalists working on a death that had taken place in Gettysburg close to twenty years ago.
“Twenty years ago?” The desk sergeant looked from Archie to Dallas. “You two must have been just little girls when it happened. Was the person a relative?”
“Her death came to our attention while we were investigating another case,” Archie said. “She was a witness. She died only a few weeks later under what appears to have been questionable circumstances, so we think the two deaths could be related.”
That seemed to catch the attention of the chief of police, who strolled out of his office in the corner of the spacious squad room. Big boned and with a barrel chest, the balding middle-aged man eyed the two visitors while he made his way up to the counter.
“Sounds exciting,” the desk sergeant said in a pleasant manner. “What’s the name?”
“Fiona Davis,” Dallas said.
The desk sergeant’s eyes looked like they were about to pop out of her head. The police chief stopped in midstride. Both of their faces went white.
The first to recover, the police chief stepped up to the counter and introduced himself as Jarrett Hill. After shaking both of their hands, he asked, “What was that name again?”
“Fiona Davis,” Archie said while the desk sergeant stepped aside to allow the police chief to take over the conversation.
Chief Hill placed his hands on a computer keyboard and went into the police database. Archie noticed that the desk sergeant, who had returned to her desk, was watching him.
“Davis,” the police chief said over and over again. “What was that first name again?”
“Fiona,” Dallas said.
“Spell it for me.”
Casting quick glances at the desk sergeant, who was visibly upset, Dallas slowly spelled out the name while the police chief pecked each key on the keyboard. When the case file came up, the chief uttered an “aha” before saying, “Fiona Davis. Twenty-seven years old. She committed suicide. Sad.”
“By drowning herself in a toilet,” Dallas said with a chuckle.
“I admit it’s not something you see every day,” Chief Hill said. “But she did leave a note.”
“But you can’t drown in a toilet,” Dallas said with certainty.
“Yes, you can,” the police chief said. “Fiona Davis did drown, and her body was found in a toilet. So, yes, you can drown in a toilet.”
“Not without help,” Dallas said. “If you want, we can take you into the bathroom and prove it.”
“She left a note saying that she wanted to die, and she took a whole bottle of migraine pills,” the chief said. “When they didn’t kill her, she stuck her head in the toilet and passed out and drowned—or maybe she held her head under the water. In either case, there was no one else involved. It was a suicide.”
“You said she was a witness to another murder?” the desk sergeant asked from her seat behind her desk.
“Six weeks earlier, a man who Fiona Davis had had dinner with in Deep Creek Lake was murdered,” Archie said. “That was made to look like a suicide, too. That’s why we think it could be the same killer.”
“She wasn’t murdered,” Chief Hill said with a laugh. “You two ladies have very active imaginations.”
“How can you be so certain that your department didn’t make a mistake?” Dallas asked. “A few minutes ago, you didn’t know who Fiona Davis was. All you did was look at the statement on your computer screen.”
In an effort to keep their conversation with the police chief congenial, Archie patted Dallas on the arm. “Do your records show any family members who still live in the area?”
“Yes, but I don’t think any of them would like my giving out their names.” The police chief turned off the monitor so that they couldn’t read what was on it. “Enjoy your stay in Gettysburg, ladies.” He spun on his heels and went back to his office.
The desk sergeant was staring up at them with wide eyes.
Furious at the roadblock, Dallas slammed her hand down on the counter and went over to the door to leave.
“Can you give us directions to the Gettysburg Hotel?” Archie asked in a surprisingly friendly tone.
The desk sergeant jumped out of her chair and hurried up to the counter. While giving Archie detailed directions to the hotel, she scribbled on a notepad that was resting on the counter. Then she ripped the sheet of paper off of the pad, folded it in half, and handed it to Archie.
“I hope you have a pleasant stay in Gettysburg.” She flashed them a wide grin.
“Thank you,” Archie said before sauntering past Dallas to go out into the parking lot.
“Why did you have to be so nice?” Dallas said as soon as they were outside. “This whole trip has ended up bein’ a waste of time. No way is that police chief gonna help us.”
Archie unfolded the note that the desk sergeant had handed to her and held it out for Dallas to read. “Ms. Gladstone in there will help us.”
The desk sergeant had not written out driving instructions but rather a note that read, “I found Fiona’s body. Was murdered. Will meet you @ Gettysburg Hotel @ 5:30. Sally Gladstone.”
A wide grin filling Dallas’ face, she snatched the note out of Archie’s hand to read it a second time.
