by Mary Maxwell
“That’s the plan for now,” she told me. “If we need you to take over on that task, I’ll let you know.”
“Sounds good,” I said. “With four victims and three additional locations, the Oldham case will be fairly complex.”
“Luckily, the folks in the other jurisdictions are being completely cooperative,” Dina said. “Once everyone realized what we were dealing with, the lines of communication became a lot less fuzzy and twisty-turny.”
“Are those official CCPD terms?” I asked.
She sighed. “Two of our finest. We like to keep things simple around here.”
“If only everything else could be the same, right?”
“Not in this day and age,” she said. “And not when an illustrious member of our business community meets such a strange end.”
“So I’ll start looking into Natalie and Walker before I go to bed,” I said. “I’ll pick it up tomorrow when there’s a lull in the action at Sky High.”
“You’re a life saver, Katie.”
“I’m just glad that I can help,” I replied. “Are you sure there’s nothing else? Do you want me to canvass the other tenants in Oldham’s building or talk with some of his neighbors?”
She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “Go for it. Tyler and I spoke with someone in all of the other businesses in the office complex, but a follow-up chat with you would be a great idea. Just keep to the script as far as protocol.”
“Don’t I always?”
Dina laughed. “You do,” she said. “There’s nothing twisty-turny about your investigative skills, Katie. You know how to get the job done and stay inside the lines.”
CHAPTER 7
Dell McCann’s law office was located across the hall from Walker Oldham’s accounting firm on the third floor of a red brick building in downtown Crescent Creek. The building was part of a complex filled with attorneys, accounting firms, doctors and dentists. Since many of the tenants ordered frequently from Sky High Pies for office parties, special events and holidays, I was a frequent visitor and knew the shortcut from the rear parking lot to the entrance of McCann, Williamson & Browne.
“Hi, Katie,” said Marjorie Lowe when I walked into the law firm’s reception area at four that afternoon. “Mr. McCann is waiting for you in the conference room.”
When she got up from the reception desk, I followed her down a short corridor to a sunny room outfitted with a long table and several high back leather chairs. A roly-poly man was sitting at one end of the table, drinking a Diet Coke and reading a sheaf of papers. He was dressed in gray trousers, a crisp white shirt and a light blue tie covered by tropical fish.
“Howdy!” Dell said, getting up to shake my hand. “You don’t happen to have any of those delicious maple walnut scones tucked in your pocket, do you?”
I shook my head. “Tic Tacs and a Snickers,” I said. “You’re welcome to either if you need a little pop of sugar.”
“Thanks, Katie,” he said, rubbing his ample midsection. “I was just kidding. Marjorie and I split a tuna salad sandwich from Drake’s Deli a couple of hours ago. And don’t you worry; I popped an Altoid right before you got here to mask the stinky breath.”
He motioned at the chairs around the table. I sat in one and waited for him to shuffle back to his seat.
“So I understand that Trent Walsh has you poking around town again,” Dell said, smoothing his tie with one plump hand. “I assume it’s about what happened to Walker.”
I nodded. “Dina Kincaid and Tyler Armstrong are doing the heavy lifting, as usual,” I told him. “My role is to talk with a few folks who might’ve heard or seen something the day of the murder or leading up to it.”
“Sure,” he said. “I’ve watched enough crappy TV shows to know how this goes, Katie. I’m just a little confused why someone who runs a café would be hired to help investigate a major crime.”
“First of all,” I said with a casual smile, “I’m not getting paid for this; I’m consulting as a community volunteer to help find the person responsible for Mr. Oldham’s death.”
His lips shifted into a smile. “Mr. Oldham? I thought we were talking about the jackass who ran his scams from the office across the hall.”
“That’s right,” I replied. “Walker Oldham.”
Dell shifted his weight in the chair, causing it to squeak and wobble. I was never very good at guessing someone’s weight, but I usually estimated McCann to be somewhere between a side-by-side refrigerator/freezer and a VW bus.
He was still stroking the tie, glancing down occasionally to monitor his progress.
“Like I said, Katie, the jackass across the hall.”
“Does that mean you didn’t get along with Mr. Oldham?”
He made a face. “Did anybody? It’s that thing about the difference between perception and reality. To the outside world, Walker Oldham seemed like an upstanding citizen, someone who donated time and money to every charity that asked. He had a reputation for lending a hand to the poor, the elderly and the homeless. But the story was quite different behind closed doors. Then you saw what Oldham was really made of.”
I asked him to elaborate.
“Really? You want to hear all the crap he pulled? All the lies he told to get clients to sign up for his shoddy accounting and tax services?”
“Maybe just the highlights,” I said.
McCann shook his head. “I’m sorry, Katie, but I can’t spare the time it would take to describe even his top three worst traits.” He finished arranging his tie. “I’ve got a conference call in twenty minutes about a personal injury suit that’s going before the judge in the morning.”
“Okay, then how about just the day of the murder? Did you see or hear anything unusual around the building that day?”
He changed position in the chair again, grimacing slightly from the effort.
“You okay there?” I asked.
“It’s just arthritis in my hip,” he answered. “Forty and falling apart a little every day. But it’s nothing a couple of pills won’t remedy.”
“Sorry to hear that,” I said. “My mother’s started dealing with something similar.”
“How are your folks anyway?”
“Nothing’s changed,” I said. “They’re both still ornery and full of it.”
“Tell them that I said hello the next time you talk,” he said.
I smiled. “I can do that.”
“And I would appreciate it,” he said, checking the time on his phone. “Now what did you just ask me?”
“The day of Mr. Oldham’s murder,” I said. “Did you see or hear anything unusual around the building.”
McCann chuckled. “That’s right,” he said. “I knew it was about the jackass across the hall.”
I considered asking him not to show such disrespect for the dead, but then decided to save my breath. Dell McCann wasn’t the sort of guy to take advice about such things.
“You know,” he began after a long silence, “there was a different janitorial guy than we usually have. I was coming back from lunch around one o’clock. I always use the back alley for a shortcut to the building from Taco Tico, and I saw him coming down the stairs just inside the rear entrance.”
“Maybe your regular janitor was out sick,” I suggested.
McCann shook his head. “I actually commented to the guy. I asked him where Dunkirk was. I said, ‘Did the old boy come down something with overnight?’ But the guy sort of glared at me and didn’t say a word.”
“Did that seem unusual?” I asked.
McCann laughed. “Heck, no,” he said. “I’m an attorney, Katie. I’m used to dealing with rude people.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “Did you get a good look at the janitor that you saw after lunch?”
“Not really,” he answered. “His cap was pretty low on his forehead, so I saw mostly teeth, mustache and shadow.”
“And your regular janitor?” I said. “His last name is Dunkirk?”
He nodded. �
�Tommy Dunkirk. Isn’t he yours, too?”
“No, we do our own cleaning,” I said. “But if Tommy’s the tall, scrawny guy with the freckles and scratchy voice, he’s been in for breakfast a few times.”
“That’s Dunkirk,” said McCann. “Somewhere around six-three. Weighs about the same as a newborn. I’ve never known anyone quite so tall and skinny.”
I nodded. Then I asked McCann if he noticed the plates on the van driven by the rude guy with the mustache.
“The van?” he said.
“Yes. Don’t they usually drive one?”
“Hmmm,” he said after considering the question. “Now that you mention it, I don’t remember seeing a van out by the dock. I would’ve walked right by it on the way in, too.”
I made a mental note to call Crescent Creek Janitorial after I left McCann’s office. Then I waited while he checked a new text. And then I asked if he’d noticed anything else unusual around the time of Walker Oldham’s murder.
“Just the gunshots,” he said. “And the screams when Pam Newill called out for help.”
CHAPTER 8
After the conversation with Dell McCann, I walked around the corner to Cup & Saucer, a new coffee shop that had opened earlier in the year. The owner was Cressida Ferguson, a chic woman with a British accent, an Italian husband and two French bulldogs. Her family was like an abbreviated version of the United Nations tucked away in a charming shop with gingham tablecloths, delicious baked goods and a soundtrack of chamber music playing gently in the background.
“Katie!” Cressida said when she saw me stepping through the door. “You just made my day!”
“I did?”
She smiled. “I was hoping that a friendly face might come through the door next. I’ve just been on the phone with my sister. She’s having a wretched back-and-forth with her soon-to-be ex-husband and called to cry on my shoulder.”
“Ah, I’ve done that duty more than a few thousand times,” I said. “But I love my sister, and would gladly do it ten thousand times more.”
The shop was empty, although two tables were still cluttered with empty cups, crumb-covered plates and pots of tepid tea. When Cressida noticed me glancing around the room, she squeaked a few times and rushed over to begin clearing the dishes and debris.
“Sorry about the mess,” she said apologetically. “I got a little distracted being on the phone for such a long time.”
“Don’t worry about that,” I said. “Makes me feel at home.”
She laughed. “Nonsense! Harper keeps your dining room neat and tidy. I’ve been there for breakfast, lunch and a late afternoon slice of pie. It’s never as mussed up as this.”
I walked over and offered to help, but she waved me away.
“Are you staying for a cup?” she asked.
“Or two,” I said. “I just had a disconcerting conversation of my own. I came here to recharge my batteries.”
“Something to do with your sister?” she said as I walked to a table on the far side of the tiny room. “Or is it about Sky High?”
I shook my head. “It’s actually about an entirely different subject. Deputy Chief Walsh asked me to help with one of their cases.”
As she carried the dirty dishes to a tub behind the counter, Cressida’s fragile smile drooped.
“Is it about Mr. Oldham?” she asked.
“Afraid so. How did you hear the news?”
“Pam Newill comes in two or three times a week for tea and scones,” she answered. “I was expecting her yesterday because our paths crossed the night before and she promised to finish telling me a story that she’d started the previous afternoon. When she didn’t come in, I just figured things got busy at the office. I never in a million years would’ve imagined that she’d been shot by a madman that killed her boss.”
“It’s always hard to deal with such a heinous act,” I said. “We hear the terrible news everyday about people being assaulted or murdered, but it’s much more devastating when the victims are friends or neighbors.”
“I only talked to Mr. Oldham a couple of times,” Cressida said. “He always struck me as a pleasant man, but I’ve heard rumors about his temperament. I guess he could get a little snappish when things weren’t going his way in business.”
“I’ve heard the same, but—” My phone rang and I reached into my pocket. “But that’s no reason to shoot the man in cold blood.”
I checked the display on the phone. It was my mother, returning my call from earlier in the day.
“Do you want to take that?” asked Cressida. “I can finish clearing those tables while you have a chat.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I won’t be long. My mother has a short attention span when the subject isn’t about her or my father.”
Cressida issued one of her sunshine-filled laughs and went to clear the second table. I swiped the screen, put the phone to my ear and tuned in just as my mother was burping.
“Well, that wasn’t very ladylike,” I teased.
She clucked her tongue. “I’m not in the mood, Katie. I lost one of my diamond love knot studs that your father gave me last Christmas.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Do you want me to fly down and help you look for it?”
“Not! Funny!” she hissed. “And I don’t have all day. Why did you leave a message about Walker Oldham? I haven’t heard from his better half in a couple of months.”
“It’s bad news,” I said gently. “Mr. Oldham was murdered yesterday.”
I heard her gasp. Then I heard her hand slap over her mouth. And then I heard her shout at my father.
“Darren! I’m on the phone with our youngest daughter. Walker Oldham is dead.” There was a pause, but I knew better than to say anything. “Well, how the heck should I know!” she yelled at him. “Do I look like I have all the answers?”
“Mother?” I said when she stopped. “If this is a bad time, maybe we can talk later.”
“It’s fine,” she replied. “Living with your father, it’s impossible to predict when he’s going to go all Chuck Norris on me. I mean, do you think that I’d lose an earring on purpose? Who would do that? Who would misplace a cherished keepsake? And who wouldn’t get emotional when the man she’s been devoted to for more than forty years tells her to pipe down and stop blocking the television so he can watch Sofía Vergara’s shampoo commercial?”
“Maybe we should talk another time,” I said. “It sounds like you and dad need to spend a little quality time together.”
She huffed. “Thank you, but no! I’ve got another thirty seconds for you, and then I need to continue looking for my earring. I’ll die if I’ve really lost it for good!”
“Okay, if we’ve got thirty seconds,” I said, “let me zip through a couple of questions.”
“Twenty-three seconds,” she said.
I gritted my teeth and took a quick cleansing breath. “Did Mr. Oldham know anyone named Natalie Packwood, Lawton Gleave or—”
“I thought you wanted to discuss Walker’s murder,” she interrupted. “Isn’t that what you were talking about?”
“Yes, but do either of those names sound familiar?”
“What was the first one again?”
I repeated the name and waited.
“Did you say Packwood?” my mother asked. “Because there was a girl that I went to school with named Natalie Crenshaw. She changed her last name to Packwood when she got married after college.”
“Natalie Crenshaw?”
“And then she was Natalie Packwood,” she said. “She sat two desks behind me during our first year at Crescent Creek Middle School.” My mother paused. “In fact, if memory serves, Natalie and Walker were boyfriend and girlfriend for a short time that same year. She dumped him when he tried to go from first base to third on their second trip to the movies.”
“That’s a little forward,” I said. “For kids that age, especially back then.”
She snickered. “What about now? I still think it’s moving a little fast f
or kids that are twelve or thirteen.”
I thought for a moment or two about the last story my sister had shared that involved her twin pre-teen boys and a flirtatious girl from their school. I hoped that Olivia hadn’t told our mother. She would be up in arms to learn that her sweet and innocent grandsons had been relieved of their phones for a month due to discussing taboo subjects via text.
“Definitely,” I said. “They need to enjoy the last days of childhood while they can.”
“Nine seconds,” my mother said. “Any more questions?”
“Do you remember any classmates that were particularly close to Natalie?”
“Close?”
“Yes, her best friends,” I said. “Or study partners? That’s the sort of—”
“Oh, my word!” she shrieked. “I hadn’t thought about this in ages, but Natalie was one of a group that everyone called The Four Royals! I always thought it was a ridiculously idiotic name. I mean, considering their rude and vile manners, The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse would’ve been more appropriate. They were snotty, rude and hateful to anyone they didn’t like, particularly heavyset girls and boys, super smart kids and anyone that belonged to the math or astronomy clubs.”
“Okay, that sounds intriguing,” I said. “Who else was in The Four Royals?”
“Well, there was Lawton Gleave,” she answered. “He was on the football and baseball teams. Lawton’s neighbor was also in that clique. Her name at the time was Dixie Martin, but she got married to Chet Corcoran and moved away the second the ink was dry on her diploma. And the last of the Four Royals was—”
“Walker Oldham?”
She gasped again. “Do you think there’s a connection between his school days and the murder?”
“It’s actually four murders,” I said. “And please don’t share that fact with any of your friends here in Crescent Creek, okay?”
“I’m just…” She sucked in a breath. “It’s such a shock. Both Walker and Natalie?”
“Afraid so,” I answered. “I’m sorry to share the bad news, but I’m trying to learn more about those two.”
