“She didn’t go home,” he said.
“Where did she go?”
“Don’t know. Haven’t arrived yet.”
“In hot pursuit?”
“You betcha. We’re really out in the country this time. Old Highway 29 going north.”
“Let me know when you arrive.”
“If I can. You know how sporadic cell phone service can be. By the way, she drives an old Mercedes. Something from the 1970’s,” Rosey said.
“And this means?”
“She got good taste.”
29
Rogers was not happy when she learned that we were not returning to Norfolk today. She seldom used subtle ways to display her frustration with me. I figured that Sam was handling this disappointing news in stride. He was likely asleep on the sofa.
“You’re needed here,” she said emphatically.
“More so here.”
“I need you here.”
“This coming from a self-reliant, independent and technologically advanced machine?”
“I am not as self-reliant as you believe.”
“What’s Sam doing?”
“Whataya think he’s doing? And don’t change the subject.”
“Yes ma’am. Look, we’ll be back in another day or so. But for the moment, there’s been another murder and I need to stay.”
“You working on clues or hunches?”
“Sometimes they’re the same thing.”
“With you. Many detectives, I have read recently, actually have solid clues to work from.”
“I am not part of the many. I work with what I have. Speaking of which, what do you have for me by way of clues?”
“Alas, I have nothing,” Rogers confessed.
“Empty as a pocket, huh?”
“Metaphorically speaking, you could say that. Actually I have quite a lot of data that could be processed if only you would provide me the correct parameters.”
“I’m sure you do. My bad. I’ll get back to you when something further develops. In the meantime, remain vigilant.”
“Give me something to go on.”
“Okay. Let’s see… how about checking into Joy Jones’ prior employments.”
“How far back?”
“Start back around 1970.”
“I’m on it.”
I thought I could hear her network gearing up before she turned off the phone line. The world would likely be more transparent if everyone owned a computer like Rogers. But on second thought, if the villains of the world had something like her, then my work would be even harder. Her secret was worth preserving.
When I entered the house, my mother was nowhere to be seen or heard. I took a walk to clear my mind, not that it was overly cluttered with an abundance of clues to run down. I did need to rethink what little I knew and what I might delve into next. I think this is what other super sleuths refer to as making a plan. I never took much stock into making plans. Most cases I have ever worked led me along and I merely did what came naturally for me. I nose around and ask questions. I rattle a few cages. I disturb the equilibrium. I make a nuisance of myself. I touch a lot of nerves. Generally my style of aggravating people is sufficient for uncovering the truth. If I agitate folks long enough, they usually do something stupid just to get me off of their backs.
I missed Sam. I now wished I had brought him along this trip. His presence had a way of helping me think through the stuff that clouded my mind. The two of us would often debate the finer points. I talked and he listened. Best male listener I have ever known.
There was a warm breeze blowing at my back and the fall colors were still coming along. Nothing extravagant as yet, but they soon would be. Clancyville had some great, old maple trees mixed in with some ancient oaks, which created a picturesque landscape along most streets. Some memories from my girlhood never diminished.
I thought of Sarah as I walked along. Occasionally she and I would walk the streets of Clancyville whenever my mother would have one of her famous tirades over something my brother Scott or I had done. Sarah would say something like, “Let’s walk, Miss Clancy. Time to skedaddle.” We would rush out of the house and down the street before my mother ever knew we had gone. By the time we returned, she was in control of her faculties and no longer seeking blood vengeance. Sarah had done this often enough that the memory was burned into my databank. She had no doubt rescued me from my mother’s invectives, or at least salvaged the top layer of skin that covered me.
Now I had the daunting task of keeping Sarah safe from whoever was trying to eliminate the jurors from that infamous trial long ago. Eight people were dead. All were former jurors in that trial. Two of them were killed right under my nose. I could as yet prove nothing. I was still waiting on the toxicology report from Mildred’s demise. They were dying too fast for modern science.
I turned down another street, not really thinking where I was going. Just walking and pondering the little I knew. I had a woman who was somehow connected, but I had no hard evidence to suspect her of anything specific. Yet, she had lots of money pouring into her bank account around the time of each of the suspected murders. Lots and lots of money, as far as she was concerned. I had a syringe wrapper that this same woman had discovered and given to me. Why would she do that if she were involved? Throw me off the scent? Is she that smart? And I had one of those ubiquitous cards often left by ministers or other church people when they visit folks in nursing homes. Somehow this one seemed different. The message on the card was not soothing to my way of thinking. It had to be a clue. I wanted it desperately to be a clue.
On the surface, I had nothing. Nothing solid, just a lot of circumstances. Circumstances that were only loose ends. I could feel that it all connected, but I could not make the connections as yet. And I had the fact that someone was trying to kill me. Whoever was behind this had sent out some goons to eliminate me unsuccessfully. Then, had sent out, perhaps, someone with a little more skill and stealth, to finish what the goons could not do. Perhaps this second killer was indeed a professional. The rifle of his choice pointed in that direction. I was lucky to be alive. Cinder blocks and cartridge shells were adding up. I had the suspicion that I was getting closer to whoever was behind all this, all the while some assassin was getting close to me. The most frustrating thing of all was that I had nothing that I could put my hands on to prove anything.
Sam, where are you? What would you tell me to do next? Where would we go? I need your direction. I need your nose. I need your uncanny ability to stumble onto the next thing. I feel like I am sitting at a dead end sign after coming down this long road.
The cell phone interrupted my wishful thinking.
“Whataya got?” I said. It was Rosey checking in.
“Mansion in the countryside. Appears to be a rather large estate type place. White fence around a few hundred acres, stuff like that.”
“Her first stop.”
“Her only stop, so far. She drove up to the house and then walked around towards the back. I followed her with my trusty private-eye binoculars as far as I could see her.”
“Still inside?”
“As far as I know. I have to assume she went inside, unless she met with someone on the back porch or in the yard under a shade tree. I’ll snoop around to see what I can see.”
“Veranda, “I said.
“Beg your pardon.”
“If it’s an estate, they would not refer to it as a back porch. My mother has a back porch. If the house you are viewing is a mansion, then it’s a veranda.”
“Sorry ‘bout that. I be ignorant of white folks and yo culture. I calls it like I sees it.”
“Just updating that Harvard and UVA education.”
“I ‘preciate the schoolin’, ma’am.”
“No other news?”
“Nothing. I’ll just wait here and see what happens next.”
“Who owns this estate?”
“No name on the box. Let me see …. 5-4-9-7 is the number.”
“You still on Old Hwy. 29?”
“No, we turned off of that and are on White Horse Lane. That would be 5497 White Horse Lane.”
“Be careful snooping,” I said.
“You’re talkin’ to a trained S.E.A.L., lady.”
“Yeah, like I said, be careful there buddy. I’ll check that address for ownership. Might be helpful.”
“You don’t mean another clue, do you?”
“One can hope.”
30
The eight tall windows should have allowed the room ample light, but the darkness was ever present since there was no benefit from the unlit massive chandelier. It could have been the sad, heavy gray, wormy chestnut walls which thwarted the light each day. There were also a few thousand books lining the shelves which fought against whatever light entered from the outside. In addition to the three, dark cherry tables established around the room, there was an excessive cherry desk in the center. When he sat in the black leather, high-back chair at his immense desk, his back was to the tall windows and his face was toward the center door that led to the hallway. Another door, to his right, led to the gun room. The third door, to his left, permitted passage to the master bedroom suite when it wasn’t locked from the other side.
He sat in his high-back chair without benefit of the chandelier’s light. He was staring out one of the many windows, nursing his pain and anger. He was stroking the back of one of the two Pekinese dogs sitting in his lap. One was asleep. The other was enjoying the attention she believed necessary for her well being. Despite the attention he was giving to the contented dog, the man in the black leather chair was lost in his own self-imposed trance. His insatiable dream of vengeance was close to completion; satisfaction would soon arrive along with its related companion, exhilaration. He contemplated sweet revenge. Once upon a time he actually thought that joy might return to his world, but not now. Perhaps it was too much anger over too many years. Maybe it was simply nothing more than that miscarriage-of-justice conviction that roamed the corridors of his mind. For whatever reason, joy had long since passed from all possibilities. Revenge was his only true companion during the long, dark nights and the intolerable, dull days, and they were intimate.
There was a knock on the door to the hallway. The sleeping dog was roused. The one being stroked made no movement at the sound from behind her.
“Yes?” he said without turning his swivel chair to face the sound.
The door opened. It was Marie, his housekeeper, maid, and nurse. She took one small step moving just inside the threshold. She spoke softly as if afraid at interrupting him.
“Miss Saunders is here.”
“Show her in.”
A tallish, thin woman slid easily through the doorway past the maid. The woman was wearing a dull gray suit with low, black heels. Her starched, white blouse stood out from the gray suit and the heavy gray walls of the room. Her salt and pepper hair leaned heavily towards the pepper side. The stern expression on her face seemed to be permanently fixed.
When the maid closed the door behind her, she stopped about ten feet from the desk. There was an awkward distance between them.
“I want you to stop the hit,” he said. He slowly swiveled his chair around to face the thin woman.
“I don’t believe I can,” she answered hesitantly knowing that it never was fruitful to deny him any request.
“Why not?”
“It’s a contract.”
“Void the contract.”
“It doesn’t work that way. It goes until the job is done.”
“Call her and tell her to stop.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I have no way of calling her.”
“You set up the contract. Why can’t you stop it?”
“I contacted her through a mutual acquaintance in Chicago. The number given me to call initially is no longer valid. Throw away cell phone. It’s the way she does business.”
“Do you know what she looks like?”
“No.”
“You could follow Evans and hope to spot her.”
“I’d have to have a death-wish, sir. No one tries to follow an assassin. I am told no one talks to them, no one contacts them … they are ghosts, if you please. She could be anyone. I have no idea who she is.”
“This is absurd. There has to be a way to stop her.”
“You have changed your mind about Evans?”
“Temporarily. I want some time to pass. She’s getting close, too close. I don’t think she realizes just how close she is. I want to back off for a while. That’s all.”
“But if you back off, will that not allow Evans more time and opportunity to discover your identity?”
“Are you questioning me?”
“No, sir. Just posing a possibility. Evans is smart.”
“But not smarter than me.”
“No, sir. Perhaps we could turn her attention elsewhere.”
“What do you mean?”
“We could create a distraction. Something that has nothing to do with what we are actually doing. A diversion. We could draw her attention away from Peace Haven and create some additional work for her.”
“You have an idea?”
“I do.”
“Let me hear it.”
31
It was dusk and Rosey was strolling along the streets of Clancyville with me. Mother had fixed another delicious meal for us and we both could feel the weight gain.
“Do we know yet who owns the property on White Horse Lane?” Rosey said.
“A retired minister named Robert Lee Rowland.”
“That’s quite a spread for the reverend.”
“So you say.”
“So I say. Yes, ma’am. We’re talkin’ serious money to buy such a place. How do you suppose the reverend came by all of that?”
“Playing the market?”
“Could be. No law against preachers owning stock. So what’s his connection with Joy Jones?”
“Mother thinks that Joy worked for Reverend Rowland once upon a time.”
“Old friends?”
“I have the computer doing some research on Joy Jones’ employment, but we might need to check out any specific connection between those two.”
We walked along a couple of blocks without talking. The street was quiet. Some leaves were rustling because of the slight breeze tonight. It was peaceful and calm. This was the way I remembered Clancyville.
“Question, super sleuth,” Rosey said. “By your theory there are four jurors left on this hit list. One of them is Sarah Jones.”
“Correct.”
“Is Sarah the only one of the four remaining living in Peace Haven?”
“Good question. No. One other lives there, J.R. Blair.”
“And we have no idea the order the killer has selected for the victims.”
“Or if there is an order.”
“Or if our theory holds water.”
“It has so far.”
“True enough. But more to the point, is the killer waiting until each of the old jurors ends up in Peace Haven and then kills them? Leaving a lot to chance, don’t you think?”
“I hadn’t thought of that. What are you thinking?”
“Why Peace Haven? Why not just kill each one of them somewhere else?”
“In other words, what is the connection with the jurors and Peace Haven?”
“Super sleuth does it again.”
“And this is important because?”
“If the killer wants to actually kill these people, after all these years, he seems to be leaving a lot to chance by waiting until they arrive at Peace Haven. In the world of possibilities, some of them may not make it to Peace Haven, or could possibly go elsewhere to live out their days. In other words, there seems to be too much stock in Peace Haven to make sense here.”
“I’m impressed with Harvard reasoning.”
“You shouldn’t be. We should have considered this.”
“T
rue. But we’ve been busy with some murders and dodging bullets.”
“I think we checked our brains at the door, though. I feel stupid, like we’ve missed something significant in all this.”
“What do you think we missed?”
“I’m thinking that there is a vital connection between the killer and Peace Haven.”
“You going psychological on me here?”
“Maybe. But if the shoe fits…,”
“Okay. Where to next, Rosey my man?”
“You be the detective. I jus cum up with idears.”
“But this is your theory. So you need to create some strategy.”
“I need time to think.”
“Good. I’m returning to Norfolk tomorrow to get Sam. He can help us think.”
“The dog.”
“Only Sam I know right now. Besides, this will give you some alone time. You can start thinking while I am away. And …” I paused to construct my next idea.
“And what?” he said.
“Two jurors in Peace Haven and two elsewhere. I think we need to stay close to both of the ones in Peace Haven for now. If you keep an eye on J.R. Blair, I will ask my mother to stay with Sarah. At least we can prevent any unnatural demise for those two. If your psychological angle holds sway, then the two jurors not currently living at Peace Haven are quite safe for the moment.”
“I’ll begin tonight. Take no chances.”
“Agreed. It may take some convincing, but my mother is a good watchdog.”
“I would approach her from a different angle.”
“No doubt. One more thing. I need to borrow your car.”
“The dog don’t ride in no Jag.”
“Wouldn’t think of it. I’ll leave your car in Norfolk and return in mine.”
“I be grateful. Likewise the car be grateful, too.”
32
I was wrong about my mother. She readily agreed to stay with Sarah. I did have to convince her that she could not carry a shotgun with her into Sarah’s room at Peace Haven.
The Peace Haven Murders Page 12
