by Risner, Fay
Well, looks like I'm right about the nightgowns folded up in her drawer. Remember to get me those tickets to the Iowa Minnesota game when the time comes.”
Briceson snorted. “I didn't except that bet. I now better, because I'll always loose.”
I eyed the bagged gun on the bed. “Does she own that gun?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll check the serial number on it and find out if the gun is registered to her,” Briceson assured me.
“Don't forget to check it for her prints and any that aren't hers,” I reminded him.
He nodded with a sigh that sounded like a long note out of a bagpipe.
Chapter 5
Bill Hutson came to the doorway. His eyes stayed on me to avoid looking at his mother's body in the bed. “Detective Brown, I’ve checked. So far I see nothing out of place and nothing missing in her office.”
“Okay, I'm not really surprised. Thieves these days take television sets, computers and guns. Maybe expensive jewelry. They can fence those items easy. Since I didn't see any vacant spots downstairs on the shelves I thought this might not have been that kind of break in. All her drawers are neat inside. No one rifled through them,” I told him. “Did your mother lock her doors at night?”
“Of course, she did. Mom was nervous about living here alone. She had three yard lights put up so the grounds would be lit at night. She didn't fail to lock her doors before she went to bed,” Hutson said.
“How did you get in the house this morning if the door was locked?” Briceson asked casually.
I could see through the officer. He was trying not to aggravate Bill Hutson anymore, especially with me listening.
“I have a key so I can come in when I need to,” Hutson said. “Also, there's a spare key hidden under a rock by the back door. That key is there so if Mom got locked out she could get back in the house.”
“Anyone else have their own key besides you?” Briceson asked.
Hutson shrugged. “I don't know of anyone, but that doesn't mean much. Mom may have given out other keys and just didn't tell me.”
“Anyone else besides you know where that spare key is hidden,” I quarried.
“I don't know,” Hutson said. “I do know I didn't mention it to anyone.”
“Well, if you don't see any items missing it just means we have to dig deeper. My guess is, if this was a robbery, she had some quick cash hid in something or behind something. That money might be missing now.”
“I don't know about any hidden cash. Don't you think a robber would have been a little messy if he was searching through my mother's things?” Hutson suggested.
“Yes, unless it was someone that knew this house well enough to know where almost everything of value might be kept. Maybe there wasn't much searching required. So no mess made,” Briceson said.
“Did your mother own this gun?” I picked up the evidence bag and held it out for Hutson to verify. I didn’t see any reason to wait for Briceson to check on the gun. I had a hunch as upset as the son was, he was truth worthy enough for me to believe his answers. He knew his mother better than anyone else did, or at least he thought he did.
Hutson sighed. “Yes. I talked her into buying that pistol for protection. She was nervous at night out here alone since my dad died a couple years ago. I even taught her how to shoot it.”
“Was she a good shot?” Briceson asked.
“At close range she could hit the target. Whether she'd shoot a human being or not is another thing. She did shoot a skunk once that was in the yard.”
“She didn't want to just wait for the skunk to wander off on its own?” I asked.
Hutson shook his head no. “Usually a skunk or coon that roams in broad daylight is rabid.
Anyway, between the yard lights and the gun, I thought she had been able to sleep easier.”
I agreed. “I sure understand how she felt. I'd say it could be lonely out here without close neighbors to depend on.”
“Oh, the nearest neighbors, Henry and Mabel Baxter live just over the rise in the hill across the road. Mom wasn't likely to ask them for anything if she could help it.”
“Why was that?” I questioned, sensing a negative attitude about the neighbors.
“They stick to themselves. Not friendly at all. Mom wasn't comfortable associating with them.”
“Did your mother mention anything else in particular that made her nervous or bothered her?”
Hutson looked puzzled. “Like what?”
“Strange noises, weird phone calls, an unusual amount of traffic on the road,” I listed.
“She didn't talk about anything in particular like that. You know how it is these days with crazy people looking for money or ingredients to make drugs. It wouldn't take long for that kind to figure out Mom lives ...,” Hutson paused and corrected himself, “lived out here alone.
Mom's neighbors and people at church are always talking about break ins when they weren't home during the day. Not in the night with the people in bed like my mother was,” exclaimed Hutson. “I should have talked to her again about moving into an assisted living apartment in town.”
Briceson perked up. “You mentioned to her she should move out of here sometime or other? She turned you down I take it?”
“Sure she did. Mom didn't want to live in any other place but this one. This has always been her home,” Hutson said.
Briceson looked at me. “Maybe Mrs. Hutson didn’t want to leave her home so she ended her life.”
Hutson's face turned beet red. “I told you before Mom wouldn't have done that. She knew we wouldn’t make her leave here until she said she was ready to go.
As bad as she hated to buy that gun a couple years ago, Mom did it, because she wasn’t ready to move to town. In fact, lately she was more upbeat than I'd seen her for quite some time.
You know when she was sick, I think she was coming around to thinking she might need a smaller place closer to her doctor in town. She said she felt like a bother to me when I had to come check on her so much and worry about her.
She had trouble keeping this place as neat as she once did. That worried her, because she'd always been a neat person, but my mother was not the kind of person to take her own life.”
“Was she having trouble making ends meet? That might worry her?” I wondered.
“No, my father left her financially in good shape. She didn't have to worry, and she was a bit of a penny pincher,” Hutson said.
“Did your mother get her hair done often at a hairdresser's shop?” I inquired. “Her hair is neat like a fresh do.”
“Mom must have had her hair fixed yesterday, but she didn't mention to me that she was going into town. She didn't go on a routine basis. Only when she had a reason for her hair to look nice. When she was here where no one saw her but me, she didn't bother,” Hutson answered. He thought a minute. “Might have been because she felt well enough she decided to go to church next Sunday morning.”
“Know which beautician your mother used?” I asked.
Hutson pondered. “Barb's City Salon. It's a small shop on a side street off Main Street.”
“Was there anyone she was upset with lately or someone upset with her?” Briceson asked.
“No, everyone liked my mother. She was kind to everyone,” Hutson defended.
“Do you ever park in the empty garage space when you're here?” I asked.
“No, I always park where I am right now. I'd never use that space. It was Dad's. After he died, Mom had me sell his truck. Still today it seems funny to see that area empty when I drive in.” Tears glistened in Hutson's eyes.
I believed the man was truly fond of his parents so I patted his arm to let him know I sympathized with his loss. “Thank you so much for all the information. You can leave if you want to now, Mr. Hutson. For what it's worth, I believe you're right about your mother not wanting to take her own life.
I'll released her body to the morgue for testing right away. After we get the coroner's findings, we'll h
ave a clearer picture of what happened last night. We'll have to wait for the coroner's van to come, but we'll remember to lock up when we leave.”
I watched from the window as the man trudged to his car like his feet were too heavy. As Bill Hutson drove away, I said, “Briceson, put on gloves and take that door key from under the rock. We need to get fingerprints off it. Should only be Mrs. Hutson's prints on that key if it wasn't used by anyone else. While you're taking pictures snap the tire tracks in the garage.
It rained last night. The ground will be muddy. I'm going to walk around the house to look for foot prints after I make the call to come get the body. Maybe someone had been peeking in the windows at the old lady.”
I wasn't expecting to find any foot prints other than Alice Hutson's. Her flower beds were clean which meant she spent time weeding them. Truth was I just wanted to get out of the house into the fresh air, clear my head and mull over the information we'd attained from Bill Hutson. That's why I was totally surprised when I found shoe prints in the flower bed below the living room picture window.
“Briceson,” I squalled. Yelling wasn't absolutely necessary, but when I heard Briceson running around the house I knew I had been effective.
“What's wrong?”
“Another picture for you to take. Footprints in the flower bed.” I pointed out.
Briceson peered over a bush to get a look at where to point the camera. His mouth fell open. “Those prints were made with high heels.”
I laughed. “Good deduction. The shoes were the four inch heel type from the depth of the holes in the mud.”
As soon as the body had been removed, we headed back to the police station. As I came to the end of the driveway, I studied the back of the bean field across the road. Bill Hutson was right. The green shingles on a house roof appeared just above the soybeans. Later on when the bean plants were taller, the roof probably couldn't be seen at all.
I sent Briceson to get us each a turkey breast sub sandwich and ate lunch at my desk while I typed his notes into the computer.
As soon as Briceson finished his sub sandwich, I had him run a records check on the neighbors across the road from the Hutson farm to find out if they might be plausible suspects.
My shift ended at five, and I was ready to go home. I stopped by Pizza Hut and picked up a personal pan sausage mushroom pizza to warm up later.
As quick as I unlocked my apartment door and tossed my purse on the desk, I slipped into my running outfit. A three mile jog, across the street from my apartment, in the park was part of my evening routine. Thinking ahead, I always vary the route when I jogged so if anyone wants to jump me they wouldn't be able to figure out where I headed each evening.
Sitting in a car and at a desk for most of a job wasn't anyway to stay physically fit. Jogging rebbed my motor up so to speak and kept the pounds from collecting on my hips. I didn't want my mother pear shaped figure in middle age if I could help it.
After a quick shower, I stuck my pizza in the microwave, poured me a glass of milk and went into the living room to put my feet up and read. I have a fondness for books, mostly mysteries. The library had a book sale a couple weeks ago. I came home with four shopping bags full of books, paperbacks and hard covers.
The book I just started is The Comatose Cat by Sandy Dengler. Sounded like a book that would be good for a few laughs. Heaven knows, I could use something to smile about after today's investigation. So far I know the cat's name is Gooseberry, and he hasn't passed out yet.
Wednesday afternoon, Coroner Klink called the police station. I happened to pick up the phone. Brusquely, he said, “Detective Brown, lab results are back,”
“Be right over, Doc,” I told him and left the police station for the morgue.
Before long, I stood by the autopsy table, looking at the victim’s V shape stitched chest. “What you got for me, Doc?”
“I'm sure her death occurred between seven and nine in the evening.” Doc removed his safety glasses and eyed the body.
“Did you find gunpowder residue on her right hand?”
Doc waved his glasses toward the hand in question. “No powder.”
I figured he wouldn't. “So Mrs. Hutson didn't fire the gun to kill herself?”
“Now that I can't rule out for you,” Doc said.
“Why not?”
“That right hand was the cleanest part of the woman's upper body. Someone went to the trouble to wash the blood off her hand, and even cleaned the blood out from under her fingernails,” Doc explained.
My eyebrows shot up as high as they could go. “Really! Why do you suppose the killer did that?”
“That's a good question. One I can't answer unless it was to destroy evidence,” Doc said.
I puzzled over the revelation. “Say the victim did shoot herself, would gunpowder be on whatever was used to wipe the victim's hand?”
Doc shrugged. “Sure if you could find what was used. At the very least the material would be covered with blood stains.”
“I'll take another look in her room. Was there signs of a cold or allergies?” I asked.
“No, her lungs and nasal passages were clear.”
“I'll send over a cotton handkerchief I saw wadded up on her bedside table. I'd like to know what's on that hanky if Mrs. Hutson wasn't using it to blow her nose,” I said. “What did the tox panel show?”
Doc leaned against the table. “The usual meds that women her age take. For blood pressure and cholesterol but not more than the required dosage.”
“What was her stomach contents?”
“Toast and coffee partially digested and floating in wine.”
That surprised me again. “Really! I wouldn't have taken the woman for a drinker.”
Doc snorted. “One glass of wine doesn't make her the kind of drinker you mean, and the wine content measured out 4 ounces.”
“Drinking wine at all just doesn't fit her life style the way I see it,” I exclaimed.
Doc went to the sink and washed his hands. “That's about all I can tell you about this victim right now.” He turned and leaned against the counter as he dried his hands. “Now I got a question for you. Want to go to dinner with me tonight?”
At that moment, I was concentrating on the body so hard I almost blocked out Doc's invitation. Suddenly what he said sank in. My head shot up. I found myself looking into the coroner's bemused blue eyes. “Dinner with me? Did you just ask me out on a date?”
Doc shrugged with a take it or leave it look. “Call it what you want. I'd enjoy your company for an evening meal if you're willing.”
“Well, if you put it that way, I'd be delighted to join you for dinner tonight,” I said, smiling at him. “On one condition.”
“What's that?” He asked wearily.
“That we don't talk shop. Now can we get back to my investigation of this murder case? I won't be enjoying my evenings much until I figure out what happened to this poor woman.”
“I'll agree to no shop talk. As for Mrs. Hutson, you know everything I've found at this point.” Doc covered up the body. “I'll pick you up at six. Now you get back to work. I'm busy. Got my own work to do.”
Chapter 6
After I left the morgue, I put in a radio call to Briceson to alert him I was headed downtown to Mrs. Hutson's beauty shop.
A little voice in my head said I might have moved too suddenly, answering yes to the date with Doc. I was having second thoughts about dating Ross Klink. I didn't know anything about the man.
For some time, I'd felt destined to growing old alone since so far I hadn't been a good judge of men as suitable dates. I came to that conclusion after being burned a few times. That's why my evenings were all the same routine, jogging, supper of sorts and reading until bed time. All right, that's what you would call a rut, but hey, I've never minded my own company.
Barb's City Salon had parking spaces along the side of the building that didn't have windows. No one inside could see me drive up and park by the two other cars
.
I slipped my badge off my slack's belt and my gun holster and dropped them in my large purse. Those items tend to make people nervous. They are too on edge to talk when I want to find out information.
The shop was small just like Bill Hutson had said with two chairs and two dryers. A frilly haired bleached blond in her thirties looked up when the bell above the door jingled. She smiled as she secured the last roller in a gray haired customer. With an hand under the woman's elbow, the beautician helped study her as she nodded at me. “Come on in. Be with you in a minute. Now, Mrs. Baxter, you sit under the dryer.”
The woman did as she was told. The beautician flipped the switch on the dryer, creating a blowing roar.
She shoved a Good Housekeeping magazine in the woman's hands, before she turned to me and visually evaluated my shoulder cropped hair. “I'm Barb Hanson. How can I help you?”
“My name is Renee Brown. I have sort of an emergency. I wondered if you take walk ins. I've suddenly found I have a dinner date tonight, and I'd like my hair styled,” I said truthfully. I'd found I sounded more convincing if I added some truth to my undercover lies.
Barb glanced at the appointment book on her counter. “Sure, I can take you. I have a space right now that hasn't been filled before the next appointment. Get in the chair and tell me what you'd like me to do.”
I said, “I don't know exactly. Some sort of uplifted set that would look good for an evening dress up date.”
While the woman washed my hair with good smelling shampoo, I said conversationally, “Too bad about what happened to Alice Hutson. I hear she was one of your customers.”
“Sad, sad, sad,” the beautician repeated, shaking her head. “She should have moved to town instead of staying in the country alone. Poor defenseless woman didn't stand a chance.”
“You could be right,” I agreed. “Had Mrs. Hutson thought about moving to town?”
Mrs. Baxter dropped the magazine in her lap and shouted, “I wouldn't go feeling sorry for the woman. She hasn't been so lonely lately. Not for quite a while as a matter of fact.”
