Until Proven Guilty (9780061758225)

by Jance, Judith A.

  “I’ll give you that one,” Peters grinned.

  We turned our attention to Pastor Michael and Suzanne. I’ve already mentioned that I put in some time as a Fuller Brush salesman. In fact, that’s how I worked my way through the University of Washington. I learned a lot about life from a sales manager there. He had a list of trite sayings he would spew with little or no provocation. One that I particularly remember is, “Men change but seldom do they.” Those words flashed through my mind as Pastor Michael cordially extended his hand. “I suppose you have some more questions.”

  My partner shot me a wondering glance. “We certainly do,” Peters said.

  Brodie gave Suzanne a gentle tap on the shoulder. “Why don’t you run along inside with the others.” His smile was benevolent. “They can talk to you later if they need to.”

  Suzanne backed away from him as though she, too, was wary of his change in demeanor. Unconcerned, Brodie picked up the fallen gate and appeared to study the possibility of reattaching it to the fence. There was a long scrape across the back of his hand. Peters saw it the same time I did.

  “Will you be conducting the funeral?” I asked, looking for an opening.

  “The services,” he corrected gently. “In Faith Tabernacle we don’t have funerals. Even though the circumstances in this case appear tragic, it is always an occasion for thanksgiving when one of the True Believers is called home to be with our Maker.”

  “I see,” I said unnecessarily. I was trying to reconcile this seemingly soft-spoken, considerate man with the explosively tempered one I had seen the day before. It was inconceivable that the two could be one and the same. Yesterday he had been out of control. Today he was the picture of unctuous self-confidence.

  “The Thanksgiving Service will be Sunday at two up on top of Queen Anne. You’re welcome to come, if you’d like,” he added.

  Inconsequential small, talk quickly exhausted Peters’ patience. “How long have you known Suzanne Barstogi?” he interjected.

  There was a slight but definite pause. “Eight or nine years, I suppose,” Brodie replied.

  “You’ve known her since before Angel was born?”

  Brodie nodded, and Peters continued. “What became of her husband?”

  Brodie shook his head sadly. “Andrew slipped away from our flock of True Believers.”

  “That’s why Suzanne divorced him?” I asked.

  “Yes.” Again there was an almost imperceptible pause. “There can be no marriage with someone outside the Faith.”

  “Do you have any idea where he is?”

  “No, I don’t. When someone leaves us, we believe they have died and gone to perdition. No contact with any one of the True Believers is allowed.”

  “Will anyone try to let him know about Angel? After all, he is her father. He would probably want to be here,” Peters suggested.

  Brodie looked at Peters as though the detective was a little dense and hadn’t quite grasped the finer points of the conversation. “It would be very difficult for someone who is already dead to attend someone else’s Thanksgiving Service.”

  “I see what you mean,” I said. Peters’ temper was on an upswing again. Maybe control comes with age. I fervently wished Peters could age ten years in about as many minutes.

  “How’d you get the scratch on the back of your hand?” Peters asked.

  Brodie looked at it. “We’ve been doing a lot of yard work around the church,” he said. “It happened the other day when we were pruning.”

  A car pulled up just then. A man and three women got out. They walked past us, nodding to Brodie as they picked their way into the house. “We’re having a prayer session right now,” Brodie explained, backing away from Peters and me. “We’re praying for the murderer’s immortal soul. It’s our way of turning the other cheek.”

  “Is the whole congregation coming?” Peters asked.

  “The ones who aren’t working.”

  “Speaking of working,” I said, “what about Benjamin Mason. Does he work?”

  Brodie’s face went slightly brittle. “He does yard work.”

  “You know where he is now?”

  The pastor shook his head and I handed him a card. “You have him call me when you see him.” Brodie took the card without looking at it, then excused himself to go deal with his flock. The purpose of the prayer meeting stuck in my craw. I would have preferred the prayers be for Angel Barstogi or even Suzanne. I didn’t think the scumbag who murdered Angela deserved any prayers. I didn’t then, and I don’t now.

  Chapter 4

  We were standing with the doors open, ready to climb into the car when a voice hailed us. “Yoo-hoo,” a woman called. “Over here.”

  Gay Avenue looks as though it started out to be an alley for another set of streets. Everyone, except the builder of 4543, seemed to understand that. Suzanne Barstogi’s house was the only one that fronted on Gay Avenue. All the rest showed reasonably well-kept back doors and backyards. It was one of those backyards, across the street and down one house, to which we were summoned.

  A five-foot cedar fence provided an incongruous foundation for a massive wild blackberry bramble. The bush and the fence were like two drunks holding one another up, the resulting wall totally impenetrable. “Over here.” It was a quavery, old woman’s voice. At the far corner of the fence, the bramble had been cut back enough to allow a wooden gate to open ever so slightly “You are the cops, aren’t you?” she asked.

  “Yes ma’am,” Peters answered. The gate opened a little further, wide enough for us to ease into the opening, but not without picking up a couple of thorny jabs in the process.

  Inside, we found ourselves in a weedy yard, facing a diminutive old lady with bright red hair and a spry way about her. She wore old-fashioned glasses with white harlequin frames and narrow lenses. She gave the heavy wooden gate a surprisingly swift shove and padlocked it in one easy motion. “Go on, go on,” she said impatiently, motioning us up an overgrown path toward her back door. Peters gave me a slight shrug, then led the way.

  “You certainly took long enough over there,” she muttered accusingly as we climbed a flight of steps. “I didn’t enjoy a single one of my TV programs today because I was watching for you. I was afraid I’d miss you when you left.”

  We entered through the kitchen. A large gray cat, standing in the sink lapping water from a leaky tap, eyed us speculatively. Our hostess made no effort to chase him out of the sink. “That’s Henry, Henry Aldrich. He doesn’t talk much but he’s good company.”

  She directed us into a living room. On a blaring black-and-white television set an announcer was gearing up for another episode of “General Hospital.” So she had been willing to risk missing her soaps in order to catch us. I gave her credit for making a considerable personal sacrifice.

  She settled into an ancient rocking chair, while we attempted to sit on an overstaffed and lumpy couch that had been built with no regard for human anatomy. “Since you’re not wearing uniforms, I suppose you young men must be detectives. I’m Sophia Czirski,” she announced, “but you can call me Sophie. What can I do for you?”

  Peters looked at me helplessly. It was time for him to earn his keep. I shrugged and said nothing. Peters cleared his throat. “I don’t know, Mrs. Czirski…Sophie…. You invited us.”

  “Oh, that’s right. How stupid of me.” She wore ill-fitting dentures that rattled and clicked when she spoke. I was afraid they might fall out altogether. Bright red hair gave the illusion that she was much younger than she was in actual fact. Upon close inspection I would have guessed she was pushing the upper end of her seventies. She was tough as old leather, though, and any lapses in thought were only temporary.

  “Did you arrest her?”

  “Arrest who?” Peters asked.

  “Well, Suzanne Barstogi, of course. Her and that phony preacher friend of hers.”

  “No ma’am,” Peters said carefully. “We haven’t arrested anyone. This is Detective Beaumont, and I’m Det
ective Peters.”

  “Well,” she sniffed, “I’m glad you have enough good manners to introduce yourself. What about your friend—Beauchamp, did you say? Can’t he talk?”

  Peters looked at me and grinned. “Beaumont,” he corrected. “No, he’s really shy around women. I usually have to do most of the talking.”

  “You go ahead and ask me anything you like then, Detective Peters. Your friend there can take notes.” Obligingly I got out a notebook and a stub of a pencil. Somehow I knew I’d get even; I just didn’t know when.

  Sophie Czirski didn’t require any prompting. “I saw that child outside in February. February, mind you! Without so much as a jacket or a pair of shoes! I could see her, you know.” She indicated the living room window, which, from her chair before the television set, offered an unobstructed view of Barstogi’s front yard. “I can see everything that goes on there, people coming and going all hours of the day and night. All that stuff about prayer meetings and fellowship. I don’t believe it, not for one minute.”

  “Excuse me for interrupting,” said Peters, “but you asked if we had arrested Suzanne Barstogi. Is there some reason you feel she should be under suspicion?”

  “Goodness, yes. People who would mistreat a child like they have wouldn’t hesitate to kill her. And all the time they pretend to be so holier-than-thou. But they don’t fool me, not for a minute.”

  The gray cat meandered in from the kitchen. He favored us with an insolent look, then leaped to the back of the couch. Once there he stretched out, languidly settling himself directly between Peters and me. I wondered how much gray cat hair would be on my brown jacket and trousers when I stood up. Sophie focused on the cat for a moment, then jumped to her feet.

  “Good gracious, talk about manners, now I’m forgetting mine. I haven’t even offered you coffee or tea.”

  I thought about the cat in the sink. “No thanks,” I said. “I’m fine.”

  “I’ll have some tea,” Peters said agreeably, “but I like the water boiling.”

  “Absolutely,” Sophie said, hurrying into the kitchen. “Tea doesn’t steep properly if the water’s only lukewarm.”

  I didn’t trust myself to say anything to Peters in her absence. What I did do was check the notes I had taken from the previous day’s statements. There was no mention of Sophie Czirski.

  She returned a few minutes later with a tray and three chipped but dainty cups and saucers. If she had heard my polite refusal, she ignored it. She passed me a cup and saucer without asking. Peters winked at me behind her back as she placed it in my hand. There was a cat hair floating on the surface of my tea. I discreetly removed it with my spoon once her back was turned.

  She settled comfortably into the rocking chair with her own cup. “Now then, what was I saying? Oh yes, I called Child Protective Services right then, that very day. I’m sure they thought I was just a nosy old biddy, although they said they’d look into it. I don’t think they ever did, at least not then.

  “About a week later I was just finishing watching “Good Morning America” when she came wandering down the street. Henry was outside. She went up to try to pet him, but he doesn’t like children. When he wouldn’t let her touch him I could see it almost broke her heart. She didn’t cry, though. I never did see her cry. She looked so lonesome that I just couldn’t help myself. I went to the door, my back door, the one you came in by, and asked her if she’d like to have some cookies and milk.

  “She did. She marched right in as if she owned the place.” Sophie stopped, put down her cup, and wiped her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. “She talked a blue streak. She called me Soapy.” Sophie sniffed noisily and wiped her eyes again. “She loved to talk. She talked about that church her mother goes to, meetings every night until the wee hours. She came to see me every morning for almost two weeks, but she was always careful to be back home before her mother woke up. Can you imagine a mother sleeping until eleven or twelve every single day and leaving that poor little tyke on her own?”

  “Did she ever say anything about her father?”

  Sophie wrinkled her forehead in thought. “No, she never did. She talked about her mother, and an Uncle Charlie, and that minister fellow. I don’t know this Uncle Charlie.”

  “She talked about Brodie?” Peters asked.

  Sophie nodded. “Yes, a lot. She was afraid of him.”

  “I can’t say that I blame her,” Peters said.

  “One day he drove up while Angela was still here. I never called her Angel. I think that’s a terrible name to pin on a little girl. Anyway, she tried to run home, but he caught her coming through the gate. He grabbed her and dragged her home by one arm. The next day she had a cast on it.”

  “You mean he broke her arm?”

  “That’s not what they told Child Protective Services. Some young investigator, a snot-nosed kid still wet behind the ears, came out then to look into it. I talked to him, told him what I had seen, but it didn’t make any difference. He insisted Angela said she had fallen down. He didn’t care that I had seen a handprint on her face or bruises on her arms.”

  I had been taking notes the whole time.

  “You said she talked about Uncle Charlie. Who’s he?”

  Sophie glowered. “How should I know? He’s probably from that group. She never came back again after that, wouldn’t even wave to me from the yard! I know they killed her though; I’m just as sure of it as I can be. And you can write that down, young man!” Sophie Czirski put down her teacup and wept into her handkerchief.

  We sat and waited for her to finish crying. “If only Child Protective Services had listened to me, she wouldn’t be dead right now. I have half a mind to call the governor’s office and complain.”

  That seemed like a splendid idea to me. “We had officers in the neighborhood last night, asking questions. I didn’t see your name on any of the reports.”

  “Oh no,” she said. “Thursday I have my doctor’s appointment; then I go to Bainbridge on the ferry and stay overnight with my son and his family. That’s the one night a week I baby-sit my grandchildren.”

  We asked more questions, but she could add no more details, at least not then. The doctor’s appointment had prevented her from seeing any unusual vehicles the day of the murder. I couldn’t help but marvel that so far Maxwell Cole had overlooked Sophie. I hoped that would continue to be the case, but I didn’t want to trust to luck.

  “Did you happen to notice the Volvo that was at Barstogi’s house when we drove up?” I asked as we were getting ready to leave.

  “A what? Oh, the brown car. I haven’t seen it before.”

  “It belongs to a reporter. His name is Maxwell Cole.”

  “Is he the one who wrote the article this morning?”

  She was a sharp old dame. Nothing much got past her.

  “Yes,” I answered. “He was over there talking with Suzanne Barstogi and Brodie when we drove up. If he comes nosing around asking questions, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t say anything to him. I’d especially like it if he didn’t learn any of what you’ve told us.”

  For the first time she looked at me as though I might possibly be a member of the human race. “You mean you think this might be important?”

  “I’m sure it’s important, and I don’t want the papers to get ahold of it until after we have a chance to check it out.” Unexpectedly, Sophie Czirski started crying again. They seemed to be tears of gratitude that at last someone was taking her seriously, paying attention. I was grateful we had gotten to her first.

  “I wouldn’t give him the time of day,” she said determinedly when the third bout of tears finally abated. She pulled herself together long enough to let us out. We heard her padlock the gate behind us.

  It was getting on toward afternoon. The storm that had been hinted on the breeze the night before finally drifted in off the Pacific, kicking up the wind and bringing with it a drenching downpour. Seattle is used to the kind of gentle drizzle that lets people walk in the ra
in for blocks without an umbrella and without getting wet. This was not that kind of storm. The wind would have gutted any umbrella we had tried to use. We were glad to retreat to the car.

  We had barely gotten inside when Peters picked up the preliminary report that had been carelessly dropped in the backseat. He studied it for a few minutes, then handed it to me, pointing at a paragraph close to the bottom. It was something we had missed the first time, and Maxwell Cole evidently hadn’t given it any notice either. In her death struggle, Angela’s Barstogi’s left arm had been broken. Actually a recent fracture had been rebroken. In addition, X rays revealed an old break in her right arm and one on her left leg.

  “Must have been a really accident-prone kid,” I said sarcastically.

  “Right,” Peters replied. He was looking at Suzanne Barstogi’s house. Like me, he was probably thinking about the living room full of kneeling supplicants. “I’ll just bet that asshole’s our man.”

  “Could be,” I said. “Sounds more plausible all the time.’

  “And Suzanne Barstogi’s an accessory!” Peters ran his hand over his forehead and hair in a gesture of hopelessness. For a time he was quiet, waging an internal war.

  “You ever hear of Broken Springs. Oregon?” he asked at last. It was an off-the-wall question. I thought for a minute, then shook my head without making any connection. He continued. “It’le place in central Oregon south of The Dalles that’s been taken over by a cult. The peons eat long-grain rice and go without, while the swami or whatever the hell he is rides around in one of his thirty or so Cadillacs. My ex-wife and kids are there.”

  He stopped. For a space there was no sound in the car but the rain slapping the windshield and the roof. I had worked with Peters for the better part of two months without a hint that something like that was in his background. Now he had dropped the whole load at once.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Me too,” he responded bleakly. “I can’t understand how it happens, how people put themselves totally under someone else’s control. That’s the way it is with Suzanne Barstogi. She probably stood right there and watched, maybe even helped.” It was a chilling, sobering possibility.