by Gilian Baker
“So you haven’t been able to talk to the guy yet?”
“Nope. And off the top of my head, I can’t remember his name. Oh, Charley Hesston. That’s the guy’s name.” She laughed. “Sorry. That came out of nowhere.”
“Did you ever find out if anything had been taken the night of the murder?”
“Doesn’t look like it. We don’t think it was a robbery. It looks like the killer came there specifically to get rid of Paula.”
“Just one more question—”
“You know I shouldn’t be telling you this stuff. You have to promise to keep it under your hat.”
“Of course. I’m just using the facts for mental gymnastics, anyway.” I cleared my throat. “I know the killer was dragging Paula to the kiln when Homer disturbed him—don’t ask how I know. I’m curious if the kiln was already heating up when you got there.”
“Yeah, Mr. Warner turned it off, but it was still warm when we arrived. I think it’s clear what the killer had in mind. But we haven’t released that—”
“I know. Mum’s the word. Okay, I’ll let you get back to work. Doug probably thinks you fell in.”
***
I didn’t sleep great that night, thanks to my ankle. It woke me up every time I tried to shift positions. But by morning, it was feeling a little better, and I was moving around more smoothly on the crutches. Good thing too. Paula’s viewing was tonight, and there was no way I was going to miss that. I kept my head down and plowed through work until mid-afternoon.
At lunchtime, I maneuvered down the stairs cautiously and ate a quick sandwich at the kitchen table, since I couldn’t carry it up with my crutches. Luckily for me, the cats seemed to be scared of my false legs and didn’t wind themselves around them, tripping me up.
Once back upstairs, my eyes felt heavy, and since I’d accomplished a lot already today, I decided I’d earned a power nap. Siestas are one of my favorite things about working from home. Thirty minutes of rest usually perked me up enough to finish the day with a bang. Unfortunately, I drifted off before setting my alarm, so I awoke an hour and a half later feeling like I’d been drugged.
I traversed the stairs again to make a strong cup of coffee and got back to work. I had just enough time to finish a couple of things in the office before hitting the shower in preparation for attending Paula Hexby’s viewing.
***
I arrived at the church a few minutes late, thanks to my new handicap. I looked around the parking lot before attempting to wiggle myself out of the car with the darned crutches.
As expected, had anyone been around, I would’ve flashed them when my dress rode up while I struggled from the seated position behind the steering wheel to standing. I managed to smooth it down, ensuring all the important places were covered before I hobbled up to the front of the church. The trip would have been much easier had the parking lot not been gravel.
I found Gabby already inside mingling with other town’s folk who’d gathered to pay their respects. She jerked her head to the side, signaling for me to join her, but once she noticed I was on crutches, she excused herself and weaved her way through the crowd. I filled her in on my mishap, and she led me over to a row of metal folding chairs to sit down. For the first time, I got a good look around the room.
Dillon wore a too-big suit, probably borrowed from his dad. He hadn’t felt it necessary to get a haircut for the occasion and nervously kept tucking it behind his ears. His mom and dad stood next to him beside the casket. They all looked drained and exhausted, as all grieving people do.
Shelly was nearby with Harper, keeping her entertained and out from underfoot. Shelly was wearing a dark blue dress, but seemed delighted—the only joyful one near the coffin. She looked up at Dillon every once in a while, though he pointedly ignored her. Anyone watching could tell she adored him. How she tolerated his lack of affection was beyond me, but she seemed utterly unfazed.
Gabby said, “Sheryl just told me the most incredible thing…they think the person who killed her might be from Cheyenne, not Aspen Falls.”
“Does this have to do with the Charley Hesston?” I continued to scan the room, imagining who wasn’t here yet.
“How did you know?”
I looked at her. “I called Crystal after I spoke with Dillon yesterday. She told me.”
Looking dejected, she said, “Oh.”
Hearing the disappointment in her voice, I snapped my attention back to her. “But go ahead. You may have learned something I didn’t.”
She relayed the same information Crystal had offered, and I’d started to zone out, when she said something interesting.
“…what cinched it was the speed camera caught him on film at 11:53 p.m., zooming back toward Cheyenne.”
“Wait a minute. Back up. Who did it catch?”
She rolled her eyes at me. “Charley Hesston.”
“So they know he was in Aspen Falls that night?”
“He could have been. And, he was clocked at 80 miles per hour, so he was in a big rush, wherever he’d been coming from.”
“That’s great, Gabby. That could totally explain the whole thing. He killed her to get revenge for stealing his glaze recipe.” I thought about it for a beat. “That must have been why Paula was at the studio so late—she was meeting Hesston. Though why she’d agree to meet there, I can’t understand.”
“I guess it was better than having him show up at her house. Or her in-law’s house. According to Sheryl, Dillon confirmed the story about the theft, but said his parents didn’t know about it, and he’d rather keep it that way. Apparently, they hadn’t been keen on Paula.”
“I can understand that. She was pretty rough around the edges. Not quite the respectable wife they’d wanted for their only son. So, did Sheryl say what their next move was going to be?”
“They’ve set up a time to meet with Mr. Hesston at the Laramie County Sheriff’s Office tomorrow.”
“Well, it looks like Ross has got his man.” I tried to sound cheerful, but I was disappointed. I hadn’t gotten a chance to figure it out.
Feeling guilty for thinking about myself when a young family was left to deal with the aftermath of murder, I went through the line and spoke with the widower and his parents. Once that was done, I mingled, as one tends to do at those functions.
Gabby and I were talking with Phyllis and Homer when a glass vase filled with roses flew across the room, barely missing Jack Bristol’s head
Chapter Eight
“How dare you show your face here,” shouted Dillon, his cheeks crimson and his hands in fists by his sides. He swung his long bangs out of his line of vision with enough force to require a chiropractor to put his neck right.
Joe Hexby murmured something to his son, but Dillon was having none of it. He shrugged off his father’s hand on his arm and charged out of the room. I had a sudden flashback of the fight he and Paula had in Tea & Sympathy just a day before she’d been murdered.
Jack Bristol stood erect, complete with a satisfied look on his face, even though water dripped from his hair down his suit coat. Light pink roses littered the floor. The funeral home owner, Ned Walchesky, handed Jack a wad of paper towels before starting to clean up the mess on the floor.
In his usual fashion, Jack made a show of mopping his face and hair. He dropped the sodden towels at his feet for Ned to pick up as he swiftly made his way over towards Joe and Stella. With one hand he shook Joe’s big paw and with the other, he clapped Joe on the back with a big smack. Jack spoke to Joe in low tones for a moment, and then looked around to make sure all eyes were still on him.
“Go about your business, everyone. It’s all taken care of.” Jack’s bark of laughter echoed around the room, as everyone slowly returned to softly talk to their neighbors.
Stella went over to comfort her granddaughter. Shelly had disappeared, probably gone out to find Dillon.
“What the heck was that all about?” Phyllis broke the silence in our huddled group.
“Clear
ly, Dillon’s heard the same rumors we have about his wife and Jack,” said Gabby.
“But that don’t mean he should throw a vase of flowers at the man at his wife’s viewing, for Heaven’s sakes.” Phyllis shook her head. “This young generation has no respect.”
“I guess this makes the theory that Charley Hesston killed Paula look premature,” I said.
“Who in Sam Hill is Charley Hesston? And why don’t I already know about all this?”
I smiled. For once I was more in-the-know than Phyllis.
Gabby told them the story, after which we discreetly discussed the possibility of Jack Bristol or Charley Hesston being Paula’s murderer. All theories were accepted for debate, though none was agreed on before we went our separate ways for the night.
Dillon still hadn’t reappeared by the time we said our good-byes. As I hobbled to my Subaru, I noticed him leaning up against the bricked side of the funeral home, suit jacket off and sleeves rolled up to his elbow, smoking a cigarette. Standing in front of him, Natalie Fisher was gesturing with her hands and speaking vehemently to him in words I was too far away to hear.
***
The next morning I was sitting in my office, but I wasn’t working. Instead, I was creating a timeline of the murder, struggling to connect the dots. Even though there was now another suspect, my money was on Jack Bristol. Last night’s brouhaha didn’t prove Jack was Paula’s murderer, but it did earn him another tick beside his name on my timeline.
I could see Paula falling under Jack’s spell—he was smooth and came off as worldly and sophisticated, even though he was really a small town boy. He was handsome and in my opinion, a better candidate for a fling than Roger Graver, who was much older and definitely not debonair.
Clearly Dillon hated Jack, but admittedly, it could have been for many reasons. Jack Bristol had few friends in the community, though we’d all done business with him at one time or another. But, Dillon detesting Jack because of an affair with his wife fit nicely into my theory.
Unfortunately, there were problems with my theory as well. For example, why would Paula and Jack use the studio as a love nest when they could’ve gone to Jack’s house? It would certainly be more comfortable and private since his house was farther out of town than the studio. If he were going to kill her, wouldn’t it be safer to do so at his own home? There he would’ve had time to bury the body on one of the acres he owned. It would have been nearly impossible for the sheriff’s department to find the body, even if he was suspected of the crime.
Even though I didn’t have the answers to those questions, I still liked Jack for the murder. I didn’t know him well since I’d never personally done business with him, and I'd been happy to keep it that way. However, I concluded that I now needed to get better acquainted with our local realtor.
***
Driving into town a few minutes later, I invented a story to sell my impromptu meeting with Jack. The melee last night would come up naturally in the conversation, Jack being the bragging type, but I came up with a lame cover story, just in case.
I slid into a parking space in front of Bristol’s Realty Office. All the lights were off, and even with my new bifocals, I couldn’t read the sign hanging on the door. Sighing, I unfastened my seatbelt and got out of the car. Seems he was out of the office, but there was a cell number listed so I could inform him of my real estate needs. Fat chance.
Sighing again, I got back into the car and dialed the number as instructed. It rang repeatedly until his voicemail kicked in. As I listened to his arrogant voice giving me instructions, I wondered if I should bother leaving a message. What the heck, I might as well, since he was probably rarely in his office.
After the beep, I left my fabricated story and asked him to call me on my cell phone. I clicked off the call after reciting my number. What should I do now? I’d been psyched to talk to him, so the thought of going back home to work left me feeling apathetic. Did I have any errands to run? I couldn’t think of any. Shoot.
On impulse, I started the car and headed to Paula’s Pottery Barn. I wouldn’t mind getting another look at those pieces with the opalescent glaze—the ones I suspected were the product of the pilfered recipe. Even if no one was around, I might be able to get a good look at them through the big front windows Paula had installed to show off her work before customers had even walked in the door.
It was another beautiful, breezy day, and I took full advantage of being out of the office. I rolled down my windows and turned up the 80s radio station. I sang along with REO Speedwagon …And I’m going keep on lovin’ youuuuuu…The song ended, and the station went to a commercial break right as I pulled into the driveway. Perfect timing. There didn’t seem to be anyone around, though I hadn’t really expected there to be.
I shut off the car in the middle of an ad by a local garage offering a special on snow tires. I didn’t want to think about the snow and cold on such a gorgeous day. Maybe I’d spend some time in the garden when I got home. I was speculating why weeds grew so much faster than things I planted when, out of habit, I turned and pulled on the door knob. To my amazement, it opened.
I’d want to keep my store locked up, even in rural Wyoming, but I shrugged to myself and walked around the large open space, viewing a matching set of teacups and pot all done in the opalescent glaze. Picking up one of the cups, I was astonished by how sturdy it looked, and yet, how light and elegant it was. It took a real artist to throw such a light cup. My attempt would’ve weighed five pounds if it weighed an ounce. I felt a sadness at the loss of such a talented young lady, even if she ended up being a thief and adulteress.
Caressing the smooth, glossy finish, I walked around looking at other pieces on display, when I saw a shoe lying on the floor near the studio door. As I neared it, I gasped and dropped the cup. The sound of it smashing into bits reverberated in my head as time seemed to stand still.
I now knew why Jack hadn’t answered his phone. He was lying on the cement floor of the dusty pottery studio, dead.
Chapter Nine
After I’d called the sheriff’s department, I took the opportunity to get a closer look at the body. Just as Homer had described in Paula’s case, Jack had a clay cutting wire encircling his neck. Drops of congealed blood clung to the cut the sharp implement had made through his skin.
Pushing back my disappointment at being wrong about the murderer, I asked myself What Would Poirot do? I only had a few minutes before Ross arrived, so I needed to make mental notes of anything unusual. I walked around the body, trying to gather any details that might be relevant. His watch was still ticking away—a Rolex, though probably a knock-off—so that didn’t give the time of his murder.
It occurred to me that his car wasn’t in the parking lot. How did he get here? I hadn’t spotted his car at his office either. Continuing my visual search, I moved across the floor, noticing a pattern in the fine silt of clay dust no amount of sweeping could remove. Why hadn’t the body been left beside or inside the kiln? Why hadn’t the killer incinerated the body? Instead, the body had been left lying in a conspicuous location.
For good measure, I snapped a few pictures with my phone so I could look at them later. I went to the back of the room and checked the kiln. It was cool. So the killer hadn’t even started heating it up in preparation.
My phone was neatly back in my jean shorts pocket when Ross strolled in. I had the good sense to look sheepishly at him, and then did a little smile and finger wave.
“I found him just like this. And before you ask, no, I didn’t touch anything.” My eye caught the smashed teacup. Shoot. “Except for that shattered cup. I was holding it when I saw him and dropped it in my surprise.”
“Jade, what in the world are you doing here? And how did you get inside?”
“The door to the gallery was unlocked.”
He gave me a look that said he wasn’t sure he believed me.
“It was. I didn’t break in.” How could he think such a thing?
�
��When did you find him?”
“Right before I made the call. I don’t know… I wasn’t looking at my watch, for crying out loud. I’d just found a dead body. I’d guess less than ten minutes ago. You got here fast.”
He grunted and walked over to where I stood.
“Do you think it’s the same person who killed Paula? It’s the same M.O. But it’s strange that Jack’s car isn’t in the parking lot. I just came from his office, and I didn’t see it there either, though I guess he might have parked behind the building. But it’s quite a hike from there to here. I can’t imagine he was much of a walker… so where’s his car? How’d he get here?”
“Let me think, will ya? In fact, why don’t you go back over into the gallery and stand quietly. Crystal and Doug are bringing in the tech kits, and the ambulance will be on their way soon.”
Well, that was gratitude for you. Here I’d found the body and had some good questions, yet I was to be removed to the corner like a naughty child. I went back into the gallery to wait, trying not to sulk. In a couple of minutes, the two deputies walked in carrying a variety of cases. Doug had a huge camera hanging from his neck. I got a cross look from him as he passed, but a smile from Crystal.
Ross got right to it. “Doug, you can start by roping off the area around the building perimeter then take some different angled shots when you’re done with that. Crystal, start taking notes on what you see here and then bag up any evidence you find, including blood samples from the floor.” Ross then turned to me. “You, come outside where I can take your statement.”
We shuffled outside into the warm sunshine. Leaning back against his Range Rover, he pulled his black notebook and pen from his shirt pocket and flipped through to a clean sheet. Then, he looked up at me expectantly.
