Hoofprints (Gail McCarthy series)

by Laura Crum

  She nodded. "It's kind of a funny story. We never did find any paperwork to identify her. But today, after an article that included their pictures was run in the newspaper, a man called in and said he was her father. He was real cagey about the whole thing, didn't want to talk to us or come down to the office or anything. I more or less forced him into this interview."

  "Oh." I took that in, wondering how it connected to everything else I'd heard. "How are you doing with Ed's relatives?" I added, curious as to how much information she'd feel comfortable giving me.

  Jeri grimaced. "You mean Ms. Anne Whitney?"

  "Sure. Wouldn't she be your number-one suspect? Two million plus seems like a motive to me."

  "It's a motive all right," she answered. "The trouble is, she's also got an alibi. Medical evidence says that Ed and Cindy Whitney were murdered between six P.M. and midnight, at the latest. Anne Whitney was at a company party during the whole of that time. Dozens of people saw her.

  They also saw her uncle and two cousins. Prominently on display. The whole Whitney family has an alibi."

  "How convenient."

  "Oh, that isn't lost on us, believe me. She has the money to hire someone to do her killing for her-no two ways about it. That's part of the problem. Her lawyer says her finances are in excellent shape; she might enjoy another couple of million, but she didn't have any pressing need for it. Two million isn't as much of a motive for her as it might appear to be."

  Jeri peered out through the car window as she spoke. The evening fog was coming in and gray plumes twined between the dark Monterey pines and oaks that lined the narrow curves of Pasatiempo Drive, making visibility difficult. Big substantial houses, most of them set well back from the road, hid behind walls and hedges, giving an impression of prosperous secrecy. We were about at the fourth tee when I spotted the number 36 on a side hill, half-concealed by a clump of wild lilac. Jeri turned up a short, steep driveway that ended in front of a house you couldn't see from the road.

  You couldn't see much of the house when you were parked right in front of it. A high hedge of barnboo reached to the eaves, and a brick front porch with a light on over the door was the only obvious feature.

  Jeri and I looked at each other. The long summer day was drawing to an end, and the fog was steadily turning a darker shade of gray.

  "Do you want to come in?" she asked.

  "Yes, I would, if you don't mind." I couldn't tell by her face if she minded or not, but I didn't really feel like waiting alone in the car. Also, I was curious to see Cindy's parents, especially in light of what Bret had told me. I got out of the sheriff's car and walked with Jeri to the door, grateful that the khaki-colored blouse I was wearing didn't show the dirt that was undoubtedly on it. My jeans and boots were a little grubby, but, oh well.

  Jeri knocked and we waited. After a minute, the door was opened by a man in late middle age. He had a rounded, pugnacious face with an upturned nose, like an angry pig, and tightly curled brown hair heavily flecked with gray. He was running to fat, and his polyester shirt and leisure slacks were too tight.

  "Dr. Earl Ritter?" Jeri asked.

  The man nodded slightly.

  Jeri introduced herself and then introduced me as Dr. McCarthy, giving no further explanation.

  The man listened, his small eyes wary and unfriendly. For a moment I thought he was going to shut the door in our faces, but he held it open, as if on second thought. "You' d better come in, I guess."

  We walked through a front hall and down some stairs into a sunken living room. There was a grand piano in the corner, an enormous brick fireplace, and lots of ankle-deep dark brown carpet. I sat down on a gold-colored velvet couch and thought I detected signs of money. Not too difficult, Sherlock.

  Jeri started to speak, but Earl Ritter held up his hand with a kind of pompous authority. "Just a minute. I have something I want to say." He paused and cleared his throat. "Cindy Whitney was not my daughter."

  "You called in and said ..." Jeri began, but the man held up his hand again. "The woman whose body is in the morgue is my daughter by birth, yes, but we disowned her from this household when she was eighteen. It was the Lord's will," he added piously.

  I could feel Jeri's eyes rolling mentally, but her face stayed neutral. "Could you tell me the whole story, please?"

  The man looked resentful. "There's nothing to tell. This is a godly household. My daughter, whose God-given name was Barbara Jean Ritter, defied the Lord and her parents and came under Satan's influence. I was forced to cast her out. That would be twelve years ago."

  I was trying not to stare at the man in disbelief. He looked smug and justified, to all appearances completely unmoved by his daughter's death.

  "I claimed the body," he went on, "because I felt there might be legal complications if I didn't."

  "Am I to understand," Jeri spoke slowly, "that you haven't seen or spoken to your daughter in twelve years?"

  "That's right." Earl Ritter's eyes shifted slightly when he said that. He's lying, I thought.

  Jeri watched him closely. "Your wife, does she live here?"

  There was a definite hesitation now. "Yes, she does. But I don't want her bothered. Her health is very poor. I've told her Barbara's dead, but I'm not sure she's really grasped it. I can't have you questioning her."

  "I'm sorry, I'll have to speak to her."

  Earl Ritter started to bluster, but Jeri cut him off. "This is a murder investigation. I will be talking to anyone and everyone who might have some bearing on the case."

  The man clamped his mouth with a snap and seemed to consider whether Jeri had enough clout to enforce her words. After a minute, he got up without saying anything and left the room.

  Jeri and I glanced at each other briefly and then waited quietly in our respective places. When Earl Ritter came back, he had a woman with him.

  She was middle-aged and overweight, with faded brown hair and vague-looking eyes. After murmuring a conventional greeting at us, she sat down in an armchair next to her husband, like an obedient child.

  "Mrs. Ritter," Jeri asked gently, "are you Barbara Jean Ritter's mother?"

  The woman nodded. "Barbara's dead. She's been dead a long time," she added.

  "She was killed two days ago," Jeri said slowly.

  The woman kept on talking as if she hadn't heard. "She was dead, but she came back. I couldn't understand it. Ask Earl. She didn't look like Barbara."

  Earl shifted in his seat uncomfortably and said, "Hush, Jeannie, you don't know what you're talking about." To us, he added, "She's confused, as I said."

  Jeri spoke to the woman again. "You say she came back?"

  She nodded with a vague sort of enthusiasm. "She didn't look like Barbara. But she said she wanted to make peace. Earl said she was dead."

  Jeri looked at Earl Ritter, whose face was turning red. "It sounds as though your daughter did come back here."

  "Now you listen here." Ritter's face was suffused with color. "I told you what you need to know. My poor wife is not healthy, as I said. Why don't you just get out of here and leave us alone."

  There was an edge in Jeri's voice. "Cut the crap, Dr. Ritter. If your daughter came back here, I can find out about it. Why don't you make this simple and tell the truth. You don't want to be run in as a material witness, do you?"

  The threat seemed to take all the air out of Earl Ritter. He blew his breath out through pursed lips. "I didn't want to speak of this," he said heavily. Amazingly, he managed to continue to convey his air of smug righteousness, despite the fact he'd been caught out in a lie. "Barbara came to this door a week ago. I told her she was not welcome here, that as far as I was concerned, she was dead. She then left. The whole thing took about five minutes. This is a godly household," he repeated. "Barbara was under the influence of Satan."

  Unexpectedly, Jean Ritter giggled. "She wanted to see us again. She said she needed help. But Earl said she was dead. Dead to us. Now he says she's dead; I don't understand."

 
; "Hush, Jeannie," Earl Ritter said nervously.

  Jeannie giggled again. The giggle had a hysterical note. "Once upon a time, Barbara caught Earl. Earl was with his secretary. He was ungodly. Barbara told me and Earl threw her out. He said she was influenced by Satan." The giggles were becoming uncontrollable now, swallowing up the words. "He said ... she was ... dead."

  Abruptly she was sobbing and laughing at the same time. Jeri stood up. "I'm sorry," she said simply. "We'll go now." She gave Earl Ritter a cold look. "We'll talk to you tomorrow. Down at the sheriff's office."

  The man didn't say a word. He was staring at his wife as if he couldn't believe what she'd said, his self-satisfied dignity gone for the moment, anyway.

  Jeri and I walked up the stairs and let ourselves out of the house. When the door was shut behind us, I looked at her. "Poor thing," I said.

  "Who? The mother?"

  "No." I shook my head. "Cindy. That explains a lot."

  FOURTEEN

  What do you mean?" Jeri asked as we got back in the car.

  "It's a long story." I recounted Bret's revelations as talk I had heard and ended, "I had no idea Ed Whitney sold cocaine or that Cindy used to be a hooker, but I checked with someone else, whom I promised not to mention, and he confirmed it."

  Jeri's eyes moved to my face for a second, serious and unsmiling. I could feel the intensity of her mind working.

  I went on. "What I meant back there is that I understand, now, what might have driven Cindy to become a whore. Shit, a father like that-a religious fanatic right out of a right-wing Bible show. And the mother-she's let her husband make all the decisions, overriding her own sense of right and wrong, until she's completely lost touch with reality. Poor Cindy. Even being a hooker looked good next to that life."

  We were out of Pasatiempo now, Jeri driving slowly through the foggy darkness. She didn't say anything, so I went on talking. "Does the sheriff's department know that Ed Whitney sold cocaine?"

  There was a long silence. I stared at Jeri's profile while she drove; it was as tight and emotionless as ever. She glanced at the watch on her wrist and then at me, and instead of answering my question, she asked me another. "Do you mind waiting through another visit?"

  Hunger, though still present, seemed to have taken a backseat to curiosity. "Sure. What did you have in mind?"

  "Dropping in on Carl Whitney."

  Carl Whitney turned out to live in Scotts Valley-the town he'd almost single-handedly transformed into a city-at the top of a largish hill; he appeared to own the entire hill. His house was the only building on it-a sprawling one-story structure with lots of glass and plenty of outdoor floodlights illuminating a wide concrete drive. The house, once we were inside it-ushered in by an actual servant, for God's sake-proved as large and rambling as it appeared, and not as well lit as the driveway. I had a confused impression of brightly colored furniture that seemed oddly tasteless in a house that featured a door-opening servant, and then Jeri and I were invited to wait in a room with big windows overlooking Scotts Valley-the lights floating below us on a sea of darkness as if they'd been laid out there to improve Carl Whitney's view.

  The room itself was well proportioned, with typical rich man's touches--cathedral ceiling, hardwood floors, built-in oak cabinets. The furniture, as in the rooms we'd walked past, seemed out of sync. Arranged around a gigantic TV, a mustard yellow Naugahyde couch battled with a couple of aqua-blue-flowered armchairs, a shiny cranberry-colored velour recliner, and a glass and wrought iron coffee table. None of it fit the big dramatic room; the pieces looked as though the Whitneys had moved them straight from a tract home to this mansion, their taste not having caught up with their wealth.

  Carl Whitney walked into this incongruous room wearing a bright red flannel shirt tucked into baggy slacks-clothing that seemed more in harmony with the furniture than the house. He appeared to be in his seventies, and one hundred percent there. His eyes, under bushy brows, were bright, and the white hair that sprang off his brow was thick and abundant. He shook first Jeri's hand and then mine firmly, accepted Jeri's introduction of me as Dr. McCarthy, and invited us to have a seat.

  Jeri reminded him briefly of an interview that had apparently taken place at the sheriff's department that morning and then went straight for the jugular. "Mr. Whitney, do you know of anything in your nephew's or his wife's past that might be unusual or disturbing?"

  Carl Whitney stared at Jeri under and through the camouflaging screen of his brows, his eyes keenly aware. I could feel the snap decision in his mind. He knows that Jeri knows something, I thought, and he's too smart to lie.

  The old man spoke without undue hesitation. "I know Cindy was once what you might call a lady of the night."

  "You didn't mention this earlier when we asked for any relevant information about her." Jeri's voice was uninflected, not accusing. Would it have been different, I wondered, if the person being questioned was one of the homeless instead of possibly the richest man in the county?

  "No, I didn't see that it was relevant-I still don't, for that matter-and it wasn't a thing I cared to spread around."

  "How did you happen to know this?"

  Again, the instantaneous calculation. The old man was very smooth; it was clear the Whitneys had not acquired their wealth solely through the luck of being in the right place at the right time. There was only a heartbeat pause before he answered. "I hired a private detective to look into her when Ed decided to get married. My brother, Ed's father, was dead, as was his wife, and Ed was always a little wild. I knew he wasn't likely to listen to my advice, so I simply checked on the girl to make sure she wasn't an out-and-out fortune hunter." He smiled without malice. "There is, after all, a considerable fortune to be hunted."

  "And what did you learn?"

  "That Cindy had been, and I quote, an 'out-call massage girl, advertising in the papers under the name of Diamond.' That her parents are a wealthy fundamentalist doctor and his wife who disowned her and whom she never saw. That was it, more or less. She wasn't a fortune hunter in any sense that concerned me."

  "Does anyone else in the family know this?"

  The shrewd old eyes watched Jeri unwaveringly. For some reason, this question was more difficult than the others; when he spoke it was slowly. "My niece, Anne, knows. My sons, Pete and Jim, don't, as far as I'm aware."

  "Anne knew about Cindy?" Jeri stiffened like a pointer scenting grouse.

  "Yes."

  "Did you tell her?"

  "No, I didn't," he said heavily. "She found out some other way, but she did let me know that she knew." There was a faint distaste in his tone.

  "Did Anne imply that she was hostile to Cindy because of her past?"

  The old man's face was set in careful, give-nothing-away lines. "Anne wasn't pleased about Cindy's past, as you would expect. She certainly never threatened her." There was a hint of steel in Carl Whitney's voice. "Anne did not always get along with Ed-none of us did, for that matter-but she would never, under any circumstances have considered threatening him or harming him or his wife."

  Do-I-make-myself-clear was implicit in his tone.

  Jeri nodded coolly, her eyes fixed on the old man. "What was your nephew's source of income before he turned twenty-five and inherited the income from his trust fund?"

  She had done it perfectly, sliding the question in when he didn't expect it, and I saw the brief flash of apprehension in Carl Whitney's eyes before he answered calmly. "I have no idea."

  This time he's lying, I thought. If he could hire a detective to find out about Cindy, he could certainly find out what Ed was up to. And he'd never admit it, I realized a split second later. Cindy's past was one thing, but a nephew who was a drug dealer would be something he would not want to come out.

  Jeri was watching Carl Whitney as closely as I was. "So you have no idea where your nephew acquired his money prior to six months ago?"

  "No, I do not. Presumably he worked for someone. In sales, I believe. As I told you, I did no
t see Ed often and we were not on friendly terms."

  Jeri spoke slowly. "Would it surprise you to hear he sold cocaine?"

  A long silence. When Carl Whitney spoke it was in measured phrases-a businessman discussing a controversial contract. "Detective Ward, I expect you to conduct this investigation in thorough detail; I want my nephew's murderer found." Cindy, I noticed, wasn't mentioned. He went on. "I will not, however, allow you to ruin my nephew's reputation with unfounded accusations. I have a right to put a stop to it and I will." I could hear the power, well-used, well-controlled, that this man still wielded, seventy or not.

  Jeri's voice was civil but unintimidated. "We do our best to protect the rights of citizens, Mr. Whitney, particularly their right not to be murdered in their homes. That's our first priority here, as I'm sure you understand. I'll ask any questions and follow any lines I think are necessary." Do-I-make-myself-clear? was implicit in Jeri's tone this time.

  They stared at each other for a second, facing off in the most civilized possible way. Neither smiled. The message passed unspoken: Stay off my turf. After a minute, Carl Whitney nodded urbanely. "If that's all, then?"

  Jeri nodded back. "Yes, for the moment."

  The patriarch-that was how I'd started to think of him-escorted us to the door himself, ushered us out politely. Once we were back in the car and down the driveway, I said, "Whew."

  Jeri looked at me questioningly.

  "He's very good. If he killed Ed and Cindy I bet you never find out about it."

  "What reason would he have to kill them?"

  "Who knows. Maybe Ed was trying to take over the business; maybe Carl didn't like having a hooker and a drug dealer in the family. All I can say is, there's a man who knows how to get things done; it's written all over him."

  "I agree with you, but Carl Whitney doesn't have any obvious motive. Neither do his sons. His wife died two years ago. Anne Whitney is the only one who stands to gain in any way by her brother's death."