“Syda, Pat,” Tim said. “Actually, Pat and I already met. I interviewed her about the Garryn Monteith murder case.”
Pat smiled at him and then at Syda. “Yes, he did.”
From the bemused expression on Tim Lindsey’s face, Pat thought he had been blindsided by the setup just like she had.
“Let’s have coffee. I just made a big pot for Pat and me,” Syda invited. “Coincidently, we are working on something related to that murder today.”
Tim didn’t need an invitation. He sat down next to Pat. “Oh yeah? What are you doing?”
“Pat had a run-in with one of the women in the class,” Syda started.
“Her behavior was odd,” Pat explained, “and we’re trying to find out if it was an anomaly or if she has a history of doing similar things.”
Tim looked puzzled. “Why are you doing that?”
“I’ve been hired by Mark Bellows, Joe Wentner’s attorney, to help him defend Joe,” Pat said.
Syda piped up with, “Pat’s a private investigator.”
“Are you now?” Tim grinned.
“Trying to be,” Pat answered.
“Did I give you my card before?” Tim reached in his jacket pocket, produced his sheriff’s contact card, and handed it to Pat. “If you come up with anything the Sheriff’s Department should know, now that you’re a private investigator, will you give me a call?”
Greg started to say, “Or you could tell me,” before Syda kicked him under the table.
After Greg and his partner finished their coffee and returned to their patrol car, Syda pounced. “What do you think? Isn’t he nice?”
Pat tried for a Mona Lisa smile. She wasn’t about to let Syda know her second impression of Tim Lindsey matched her first impression of him: that he was cute and intelligent, traits that made him an attractive man. The fact that he was comfortable in his skin didn’t hurt either.
“He is. Now let’s get to work.”
Syda was the first to get to the third question. “What did she do to you?” she asked as she made frantic hand motions to Pat, encouraging her to listen in.
“Nothing physical, exactly,” the woman said. “Nothing like boiling my rabbit in a pot or anything like that. She sent me a letter telling me something bad was going to happen to me if I didn’t leave Garryn Monteith alone.”
Pat hurriedly turned over the phone-and-name list they were using and scribbled a question on it for Syda to ask. “How do you know the letter was from her?”
“She signed it.”
Pat soundlessly opened her mouth.
“Could I put you on speaker so my associate can hear what you’re saying, too? And ask you a question?” Syda asked.
“Sure.”
“Hi, I’m Pat Pirard. Do you still have the letter?”
“No, I got rid of it. It creeped me out reading it; I wasn’t about to save it.”
“Was that the only contact she had with you after the class?”
“Yeah. What she wrote made me uncomfortable, but nothing came of it, unless you count the fact that I never took another class taught by Garryn Monteith, even though I wanted to.”
“I apologize for having to ask this, but did you have any sort of relationship with Garryn Monteith outside of class?”
There was a long silence before the line went dead.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Pat said.
A pattern emerged as Syda and Pat worked their way through the call lists. Garryn Monteith did have some connection with a woman in almost all the classes he taught. Most labeled what happened between them as a mere flirtation, but some of the pauses and over-explaining Pat heard made her think his reputation as a philanderer was earned.
Women who admitted to receiving any sort of special attention from him, even when they insisted what happened between them was innocent, were frequently harassed, usually in ways that could be written off as accidents or coincidences.
Glass pieces would be accidently knocked off of a worktable and shattered. Air might be let out of tires. The spider poke of a windshield happened to one of the women just like it had to Pat, but the woman attributed it to bad luck and a rock on the road, even though she didn’t remember anything hitting her windshield as she drove to class.
Other than the beginner’s-luck hit Syda had in the morning, none of the women had received a clear threat like a letter from Suzanne Cummings, although a couple of them said she made passing comments, which they remembered because what she said made them uneasy.
One woman, whose finished work was shattered, said Suzanne consoled her and then said, “It’s too bad what happened to your piece, but it’s not like someone broke into your gallery and smashed everything in it.” She said she had hardly spoken to Suzanne Cummings during the class and wondered at the time how she could have known about her owning a glass gallery.
One woman, who discovered her tires were flat, told Pat that Suzanne had flitted by her and said something about it being good it happened where she could call AAA, because if it happened on some of the roads she drove to get home, she’d be stuck.
The woman insisted she hadn’t even spoken to Suzanne Cummings during the class and certainly had never mentioned that she lived a couple of miles up a twisting road in the hills outside Denver where cell coverage was sparse. She felt strongly that Suzanne Cummings could only have known where she lived if she had followed her home. When pressed, the woman admitted that Garryn Monteith had been invited to her house.
“I’m so frustrated,” Pat said. “It’s just like Suzanne’s attack on my car. I know she did it, but it’s a feeling I have, not anything I can prove. I doubt anything we’ve discovered will help Mark get Joe exonerated.”
“You should call Tim. I bet he’ll be able to help.”
“You just want me to call Tim.”
“Of course I do. I think you two have real chemistry, but I meant call him like the deputy sheriff he is. The Sheriff’s Department is working the case, and they can do follow-ups and have more resources than we do.”
“How can you reach the conclusion that we have chemistry? We talked for fifteen minutes with you and Greg watching us as raptly as a Hamilton audience. Besides, doesn’t he have a girlfriend already? I remember he brought a blonde to your barbeque last summer.”
“You remember him from then, when you were still with that loser boyfriend, Rick? Your couple potential is better than I thought,” Syda gushed. “Greg says Tim’s not seeing anyone. Call him. You have a perfect excuse, and he may actually be able to help with your investigation.”
Late that afternoon Pat called Mark Bellows instead of Deputy Sheriff Tim Lindsey.
“You have a follow-up report so soon?” Mark Bellows asked. “You haven’t even given me enough time to ask you out, yet.”
His opening lines flustered her.
“Well, um, I thought you should know as soon as possible, um, so you can work on Joe Wentner’s defense.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. Do you want to come by my office or shall I come by yours?”
Pat looked around her crowded guest-room-cum-office and quickly answered, “Your office.”
“Can you get here by 8:00 tomorrow morning?”
“I can.”
“Great. I’ll see you then.”
The phone call ended, Pat noted, with another tease about a date, but no offer of one. Between that lack of commitment and her dissatisfaction with what she and Syda had been able to discover earlier in the day, she didn’t sleep well.
Her puffy eyes revealed how much twisting and turning she endured the night before, so Pat spent more time on her makeup than she usually did. She combed and fluffed her hair with care—at least my hair is cooperating—and dressed in lavender, not her favorite color, but not one that would play up her marred eyes. She was ready to see Mark Bellows, but not happy about their meeting on several levels.
She arrived at his office promptly at 8:00, but the office receptionist informe
d her that he wasn’t in yet and told her to take a seat in the lobby. A couple of minutes later, he burst through the entry door using his shoulder to push it open. His hands held two cups of Starbuck’s coffee, and one of them also dangled a bag from the same store.
“Sorry I’m late. I got here early and then realized we’d need breakfast. Lead the way; you know where my office is,” he motioned her down the hall. “You’ll have to open the door,” he said when they reached his office.
“I didn’t know how you like your coffee, so I got one black and one with cream. Sugar packets are in the bag.”
“I’m a with-cream.”
“Good. I like mine black, but I’m so gallant, I was willing to sacrifice for you if that’s how you like your coffee. I got us chocolate croissants. I figured everyone likes chocolate and everyone likes croissants, unless they’re some sort of weird gluten-free type. I was worried about you for a minute and then I remembered you liked your birthday cake, which had both gluten and chocolate in it.”
“You’re observant. You’d make a good detective,” Pat giggled.
“That’s your job. What do you have for me?” He handed her the coffee marked “cream,” put his coffee on his desk, and added the pastry bag, which he ripped open to display its contents.
“More tantalizing but useless information about Suzanne Cummings, I’m afraid.”
“Tell me what you have and let me decide if it’s useless, okay?”
“Fair enough. I got Lillian’s records of classes Garryn Monteith taught at the Glass House going back eight years. Suzanne Cummings was at every one.”
“Wow.” He gulped a sip of coffee. “Can you spell stalker in capital letters?”
“I also found other classes he taught in the past, called as many venues as I could find contact information for, and asked the owners to check their class records looking for Suzanne Cummings’s name. There were quite a few who found her in their class lists. Then I called female students and asked if they remembered her from the class.
“Most didn’t, but among those who did, I asked them why, and also if Garryn Monteith offered them any more attention than he did to other class members.”
“And?”
“And I got hung up on a few times, and I had several women say they enjoyed an innocent flirtation with him, and…and I had a couple who said their relationship with him went beyond the innocent.
“Among the women who flirted or more, they all had something happen to them that might have constituted Suzanne Cummings harassing them. One even received a signed threatening letter from her.”
“Can we get the letter?”
“No. She got rid of it.”
Mark looked crestfallen and took out his vexation with a large bite of croissant.
“What about the others? Anything that they kept?”
“That’s the problem. Suzanne Cummings made comments to them that were chilling, implying she had been following them or researching them, but, just like I know she was responsible for my windshield but can’t prove it, none of the comments she made were a proof of action. All the women suspected or even knew she was responsible for broken art work, flattened tires, or a broken windshield, but none of them witnessed her doing anything.”
Mark had finished his croissant and had to settle for chewing on his lip.
“If I could somehow lay a proper foundation and Judge Blaine happened to be feeling liberal, she might consider letting me bring in attendance records and then a string of women to establish a preponderance of circumstantial evidence. But,” he shook his head, “but if I were prosecuting, I’d object and likely win my motion. My foundation would have to be a lot stronger than anything we have now.”
“I don’t know how you build a defense exactly, and I don’t know if you share any information with the authorities. Does letting them know the line of questioning you plan to pursue give too much away?”
“Not necessarily. And when we get to discovery, theoretically things need to be shared anyway.”
“I was wondering if what I discovered about Suzanne Cummings’s stalking might be good for the Sheriff’s Department to know right now. Or not.”
Mark pondered for a moment. “Since I don’t see how I’m going to get her behavior in front of the jury and establish a point for reasonable doubt without help, I don’t see how it could hurt.”
Pat smiled. “Good. I have a connection with a couple of deputy sheriffs, including the one who interviewed me about Garryn Monteith’s murder. If I have your blessing, I’ll let them know what I discovered.”
“Go for it.”
Mark suddenly flipped his watch up so he could read it. “Ahh. We had to get together at 8:00 because I have an early court appearance. I’ve got to go right now. Sorry. Bye.”
He scooped up his briefcase and left her sitting in his office to finish her coffee and croissant alone. Again, no mention of a date. She wished he wasn’t such a busy man.
※※※※※※※※※※※
Pat could have called Greg, but she fingered the card Deputy Sheriff Tim Lindsey had given her instead. He was the one who had interviewed her initially and he had told her to call if she had anything to add to what she told him. It seemed she might. She dialed his number, telling herself calling him was like calling Greg anyway, since he and Greg were still partnering until the end of the week.
“Lindsey,” was how he answered.
“Hello, Deputy Sheriff, it’s Pat Pirard,” she said in a formal voice.”
“I thought we had agreed you were Pat, which would make me Tim. What can I do for you?”
“I have some information that I think your department should know about the Garryn Monteith murder investigation. Has it been turned over to someone in particular or can you help me?”
He cleared his throat. “I can help you. I think we should talk in person. Where are you; can I come by now?”
“I’m at home, I have an office here. You can stop by this afternoon.” Pat gave him her address.
“I’ll be there around 2:00.”
Dot at the door, not barking, but being alert with her tail tucked between her legs in an unsure stance, was Pat’s first indication that Deputy Sheriff Tim Lindsey was prompt. Dot still didn’t bark when he knocked on the door.
Pat had stowed her lavender outfit and changed into yoga pants and a yellow plaid flannel shirt, comfort clothing, and had taken what she intended to be a mini nap to make up for her sleepless night, but she had been so comfortable that she slept longer than she planned. Her cheeks were still flushed from sleep when she opened the door to Officer Lindsey.
“You’re alone? I thought Greg would be with you.”
“Not today. He had to testify at court so I’m working solo.”
“Come on in. My office is pretty full; it doubles as a guest room. We can sit out here,” she pointed to her sofa and quickly moved the throw she’d used for warmth during her nap.
“Fine.”
“I can make coffee if you’d like some. You can drink coffee on duty, right?”
“Absolutely, but only if you’re having some. We’re not allowed to drink alone.” His grin was wicked and his blue eyes twinkled. She knew immediately his answer was a prank response.
His wit was so disarming that Pat giggled.
As Pat headed toward the kitchen, Dot took up mistress guard duty next to the sofa where he sat.
“You know I’m working for Mark Bellows, Joe Wentner’s attorney, don’t you?” Pat used the pass-through to call her question into the living room where Tim and Dot were sizing up one another.
“I do,” he called back.
By the time Pat brought the tray of coffee and fixings into the living room, Dot had her head on Tim’s knee and was enjoying a head scratch.
“I’ve discovered some suspicious evidence about a woman in the class at the Glass House that may point to her being Garryn Monteith’s real killer,” Pat began. “The problem is the evidence is circumstantial—not
hearsay—but not something I can’t prove is true. Mark and I are hoping the Sheriff’s Department might be able to firm it up so he can use it in court.”
“So you want to tell me about it, have me look into it, and see if it helps Bellows defend the man the DA has charged with murder? Is that about it?”
“That’s it exactly, although when you say it,” Pat grimaced, “it comes out like an infringement of the way things work, doesn’t it? It would be in the interest of justice, though,” she added quickly.
He chuckled, “I won’t make any promises, but I always want the right person to be charged.”
Pat poured coffee for them, spread out her paperwork, and went over the same information she had given Mark Bellows earlier in the day. Officer Lindsey focused closely on what she told him, nodding in what she thought were all the right places, and frowning as often as she did.
“I’ll make some follow-up calls, but it seems like you did a pretty thorough job. For a woman who’s only been a detective for a week, I’m impressed with what you’ve accomplished. The one advantage I could have is that with an official inquiry, I won’t get hang-ups. That might shake out some more concrete evidence.
“Do you like Frank Sinatra?” he asked abruptly and without a segue.
“What? I guess so. Why?”
“There’s a tribute to his music at the Kuumba on Saturday night, and I wondered if you’d like to go with me to hear it.”
“Uhh.”
“Don’t worry. It wouldn’t be okay for me to ask you if you were a suspect in the case, but since you’re not, there’s no conflict of interest.”
“You’re sure?”
“Pretty much,” he said and smiled disarmingly.
Saturday night. That was a date night and she had been hoping Mark would ask her out. But he hadn’t, and Deputy Sheriff Tim Lindsey had. And Tim Lindsey was cute…and charming…and funny…and she could wear comfortable clothes around him…and she didn’t have to worry that her office wasn’t impressive enough…and Dot had clearly given him her Dot Seal of Approval… “I’d like that.”
The Glass House Page 11
