In front of the window stood an antique wooden music stand with sheet music neatly in place. At its clawed feet lay a red stained violin, the only object in the room that appeared out of place. Blake inspected the room further. There were no cob webs hanging from the Baroque era chandelier or the vaulted ceilings, nor were there any boxes, dust or spiders for Blake to dodge. This room was much cleaner than any of the rooms in the main part of the house had ever been. While Aunt Bridgette did a good job cleaning, she had a serious problem with clutter. Why then, if we have all this room up here, did we need to cram up the downstairs? It didn't make sense.
Blake moved to the north wall, walking carefully over the elaborate Persian rug that stood beneath his sneakers. Along the north wall were oil paintings in a variety of colors. Most were the artist’s rendering of the Morrow Manor, from the Haggar Tree and Croft Lake to the original blue stables and barn. One painting that caught Blake’s eye was an oil painting of a man that he recognized immediately. Hung in the center of the wall, the painting looked very life-like. It was as if his father was looking right back at him from the wall. It was one of those paintings in which you felt the eyes following you wherever you went. Blake’s anxiety began to increase the more he looked at the painting. Still, he couldn't help looking. It was as if the artist knew Jack's face so well, as if she had created it herself, having masterfully captured the curve of his nose, the faint scar on his left cheek, even the little bit of brown in his otherwise green eyes. Fixated on the portrait, Blake concluded that it couldn’t be anyone other than his mother who could recreate his father like this.
Finally, he broke his stare from the painting, anxious to see what else the third floor had in store for him. He wandered down the bright hallway that seemed to beckon him. He tried the first door to his right, and turned the doorknob gently to reveal an immaculately clean bedroom. White linens covered a queen-size bed, while silk white flowers were situated in a clear vase and a wicker rocking chair sat in the corner. This was her room. Blake opened the closet door to reveal a closet full of women’s clothing - dresses, pant sets, formal wear, and jogging suits. Below them, pairs of shoes neatly lined the closet floor.
Blake returned to the hallway and went to the door across the bedroom, the only door on the left. Blake entered a large room with a plethora of artwork hanging on the walls. On the far side of the room, under a windowsill, stood a desk overflowing with paint, paintbrushes, and dull pencils.
This must have been where she came to relax.
Perplexed, Blake moved on to the last and final room on the third floor. Boxes upon boxes crowded the room making it hard for Blake to walk.
Finally, something I could use.
But as he looked through the boxes, he didn’t find anything he was expecting, only boxes with picture albums, photographs, old school records and report cards, her yellowing wedding gown and veil, tax and business records. Jack wasn’t hiding anything other than his grief for Catherine. Blake turned the lights off, and slowly retreated downstairs, closing the door shut behind him.
Chapter 12
Interrogations
October 9, 1997
Morrow Manor
The following morning, Sergeant DiNolfo arrived at the Morrow Manor fully equipped with a small team of investigators. Two men and a woman dressed from head to toe in black, carried silver cases with their hands sheathed in rubber gloves. Bridgette swung open the heavy oak door and let the investigators step into the foyer, DiNolfo following behind them. The sergeant stopped in the foyer and scanned the layout of the house with a determined look in her eyes. It gave DiNolfo the appearance of someone who was looking for a particular object. She looked at Bridgette who was beginning to show signs of exhaustion and asked, “Is everyone here?”
“Yes. Jack will be along any minute now. I’m keeping the kids home from school until Tristan is found,” replied Bridgette.
DiNolfo gave her a nod of understanding, her face showing sympathy for the clearly worried aunt of the missing girl.
Bridgette cast a worried glance at the staircase; she could hear floorboards creaking from above. She was not at all happy with how the investigation was proceeding. Instead of wasting all this time asking a million questions, Bridgette thought they should be out there looking for her. She was desperate for Tristan to return home. Bridgette had not slept a wink last night. She went out into the night on horseback, along with Frank and Shane, searching the woods and the orchard by the light of a flood lamp. They called out her name at least a thousand times, but it was to no avail. She did not answer their call.
The investigators split up through the house, two going upstairs while one went to the kitchen.
“We are going to need to clear the house out so that we can properly investigate. I will be asking Jack to stick around for further questioning, but everyone else will need to go elsewhere for the time being,” explained DiNolfo.
Bridgette, taken aback, sighed, “Oh. I guess I can take the kids to the guest house. Frank is about to leave with Liam to ask around town to see if anyone has heard or seen anything.”
DiNolfo replied, “That is a smart idea. I know you are frustrated, but this is officially considered a missing person’s case now, and we have officers on the lookout. It is protocol.”
“Finally,” muttered Bridgette under her breath before walking upstairs to gather the children.
* * *
“Jack, I have a few more questions, if you don’t mind,” said DiNolfo, weariness visible on his face.
“Ask whatever you need to,” replied Jack.
“I was look through your wife’s case file last night and found some interesting information. You didn’t tell me that you were one of the primary suspects in your wife’s death, with the other being your children’s English teacher. What is that about?”
Jack looked surprised and replied, “I assumed you knew. It’s pretty common knowledge around these parts. It’s also common knowledge that the officers who handled the case are more corrupt than the crooks down at City Hall.”
DiNolfo raised an eyebrow, intrigued by Jack’s statement. “Who might they be, the officers who handled your wife’s investigation?”
“Earl Buckley and Amos Cope.” Jack had DiNolfo’s attention now.
“Elaborate,” said DiNolfo, eager to hear more. “Tell me what I need to know.”
“They treated me like I was guilty from the onset. When we couldn’t find Catherine, Earl and Amos came out to the house to take a look around. They said that there were no signs of forced entry, and suddenly I was their main target. They assumed it was suicide at first, but then when they noticed there were some things astray, they began asking questions in what seemed like an attempt to implicate me. One of their first questions was whether or not there was a life insurance policy. That should have triggered a red flag for me. And they did a piss-poor job searching the area. We found her ourselves! Because of those officers, I have a complete lack of trust in the Elkhart Police force. No offense to you,” Jack added quickly.
DiNolfo smiled. “None taken. Go on.”
Jack continued, “They began compiling what they believed was evidence, proof that I harbored some ill will against my wife. Nothing could be further from the truth. They insisted that my wife having her own room on the third floor meant our marriage was in trouble. They questioned the locks on all the doors, and tried to implicate me at the mention of the life insurance policy, even though it was her idea in the first place.”
“That did look awfully suspicious, Jack…” noted DiNolfo.
“Right, “Jack agreed, “but you see, I don’t throw away mail. I have the correspondence from the insurance company and it is addressed to Catherine directly. They couldn’t implicate me, because I was not the one who took out the insurance policy on her. Instead, they froze the funds until the case was resolved. We had another policy that was taken out years prior, which I am using for the children’s education. That account is nearly dry.”
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DiNolfo nodded while as she scrawled something on her notepad.
“They were chasing after the wrong guy all along. Bernard Kendricks is the one you want,” Jack added.
“I recognize his name. Who is he?” asked Jenna.
“He was her friend in high school, but he also happens to be Tristan’s English teacher too. He was obsessed with Catherine and was furious when she refused to be his girlfriend. If anything, he should have been the primary suspect. He’s the one who sent threatening letters for years, showed up unannounced… there was even a restraining order! He’s the guilty party. Not me.”
“Do you have copies of these documents?”
“Yes. In my study.”
DiNolfo followed Jack up the stairs and down the long hallway to his office. She watched as Jack walked to the wall behind his desk and took an old oil painting of Elias and Evangeline Morrow, the original owners of the property and Jack’s great-great-grandparents, off the wall, revealing a black safe built into the wall. He crouched closely to the safe, cautiously entering the code so the sergeant couldn’t see the numbers as the dial turned. It opened with a metallic bang. Jack extracted a manila file folder and placed a stack of letters in front of DiNolfo to review.
“This one,” Jack said, pointing to one of the letters on the desk, “was sent to her just a week before her death.” DiNolfo lifted the letter to get a better look. “In this letter, he writes as if they had plans to run away. Sergeant, my wife was nine months pregnant at that point! She was petrified of the man. He had stalked her relentlessly since high school. There is no way in hell she’d go anywhere with him.”
“What did the officers on the case say at the time? Did you mention any of this to them?”
“Every word of it. They said maybe Catherine was having an affair with Kendricks and I was in denial.”
“That doesn’t seem to be the case here,” observed DiNolfo. “Do you have any samples of your own handwriting?”
“Yes. Like I said, I don’t throw mail away.”
Jack rummaged through his desk. He pulled out a brown metal file box that was crammed full of letters, birthday cards, postcards from vacation spots, even old bills. He sifted through the box until he finally pulled out an old Valentine’s Day card that he had given to Catherine.
“Look,” Jack said, handing DiNolfo the card. “Here is my handwriting. It is completely different than the one in the letter.”
DiNolfo couldn’t disagree. The handwriting on the greeting card was very messy, almost indecipherable.
Jack handed DiNolfo another item.
“Now, here is a note that Kendricks sent home, saying that Tommy was giving him trouble with an assignment in class.”
Jack laid the lined paper in front of DiNolfo. The penmanship was very rich and elegantly curled with a distinct slant to the right, much more refined than Jack’s graceless scrawl. There was nothing similar about the two signatures. As DiNolfo scrutinized the signatures, Jack looked her dead in the face.
“You’ve got yourself a case here,” Jenna agreed. “Did the previous officers do nothing to thoroughly investigate?”
“Oh, they brought plenty of dirt up, but nothing that would implicate the actual criminal. I believe Amos Cope and Kendricks are friends. I had seen them together one night at Shooter’s, a pool hall in Elkhart. They were slamming back a couple of brewskies when they saw me walk in.”
“When was this?”
“During the investigation, about two weeks after my wife’s death.”
DiNolfo raised an eyebrow.
"Why was this case frozen if you have clear proof that this guy was stalking your wife? I would think they should have investigated him just as thoroughly,” she opined.
“He might have been listed as a suspect, but they didn’t drill him like they did me. I think he paid them off.”
"Jesus Christ, that’s some accusation!”
“It’s the truth,” insisted Jack.
“I have some research to do, but we are going to see if we can get this case laid to rest. First things first, I need to find Kendricks, and I need to track down Earl and Amos. They have some explaining to do," said DiNolfo with a bite. "Is there anyone who can confirm your statement?"
“Yeah… Frank, Bridgette… My parents.”
"Hey, Sarge, I think we found something!" DiNolfo and Jack's eyes met, looking alarmed. She followed the investigator down the hallway and into Tristan's room, closing the door behind her.
* * *
Bridgette Kilpatrick stared out the bay window of the guest house, overlooking the lake with a pensive look on her face. Biding the time while the investigators searched the house, she became more nervous with each passing hour. Bridgette knew that the longer Tristan was gone, the less likely it was that she would be found. DiNolfo had questioned her at great length and she had told her everything she knew. She told DiNolfo about the problems Tristan was having at school: the assignment and being asked to stay after class despite her high average. She told DiNolfo about the argument she had with her father the night before she disappeared. She even went so far as to tell her in no uncertain terms that there was no chance in hell that they were dealing with a runaway. Tristan was like a daughter to her and she just wanted her home.
Behind Bridgette, Tommy and Blake sat in sunken plaid arm chairs with sullen looks painted across their faces. "Why aren't they breaking his door down?!" Shane wanted to know, referring to Mr. Kendricks, anger clear in his voice.
Bridgette turned around, exchanging what she really wanted to say with a reassurance, "Apparently they have tried going to the house in Gabbard's Bend several times, but he's not there."
"That's because he doesn't live in Gabbard's Bend," said Adam in a gruff voice from inside in the kitchen. Adam was sitting at the kitchen table with his grandfather Angus, who was on the phone. Papers were sprawled across the dated avocado Formica surface, missing person flyers with Tristan's face on the front, a notepad with leads, as well as several business cards for private investigators.
Bridgette turned towards Adam with a puzzled look, "What are you talking about?"
"Kendricks hasn't lived in Gabbard's Bend for years. That is where his mother lived. She’s dead now. He's got in an apartment in Elkhart."
The expression on Bridgette's face grew incredulous,
"What? How long have you known this?"
"I actually just found out the other day. I told Uncle Frank. We stopped by but it didn’t look like anyone was there. I was visiting Melissa at her flat one night this week, and I saw Kendricks come out of the apartment next door, keys in hand. Melissa said he's lived there for years. She’s keeping an eye out for us.”
“Dad, are you listening to this?!" Bridgette bellowed.
"I'm on the phone!" Angus shouted gruffly.
"Dad, it’s important!"
"So is this!"
"Dad!"
"I know the swine lives in Elkhart, I'm already on it!" Angus roared, pink rotary phone still at his ear.
"The guy you are looking for is at 10 Farringer Road, Third Floor, Elkhart. I'd rather not give my name."
Angus hung up the phone in a huff, glaring at Bridgette. "I know you're upset, we all are, and we are all doing the best we can. Simmer down."
Before Bridgette could reply, Moira came in the room. Still dressed in a floral house coat and hair cap, she was clearly not ready for a house full of relatives this morning. She walked into her kitchen and grabbed her frying pan from the pot rack that hung overhead.
"Who wants breakfast?"
Collectively, all the boys in the house lazily groaned "We do!"' Bridgette looking around, yelled "No you most certainly do not! You all had breakfast already!"
"It was just cereal Mom..." protested Shane.
“He's still hungry... I'm making pancakes” said Moira. Bridgette rolled her eyes as she slumped down into a kitchen chair, too exhausted to argue.
Moira finished preparing breakfast and Bridgette
helped her set the table, placing the pancakes, bacon, hash browns, biscuits, and orange juice on the table. Everyone devoured their breakfast, even Bridgette, who hadn't had an appetite lately due to recent events. After everyone had eaten, they remained at the table, too full to move. Blake kept eyeing his aunt, appearing as if he had something he wanted to say, but too skittish to do so.
"Something on your mind, kid?" Bridgette asked giving her nephew a wary look.
Blake, looking embarrassed that she had caught him, "Err, yeah..."
"It's about last night, isn't it?"
"Yeah. I have some questions."
"Go for it. Things have been kept a secret for far too long in my opinion."
Surprised at their aunt's response, Tommy, Adam and Blake perked up, straightening their posture in their chair, eager to hear what she had to say.
Shadow Dancer (The Shadow Series Book 1) Page 16
