The Claudia Hershey Mysteries - Box Set: Three Claudia Hershey Mysteries

by Laura Belgrave

  Claudia smiled. She patted Pyle’s hand and sighed. “Thanks for talking to me, Billy. Good luck with your lawns.”

  Outside the room, Claudia told Carella to have Pyle driven home.

  “You don’t think we should push him a little?” Carella asked. He looked disappointed. “God, that kid’s big enough to bring down an elephant! What if he went nuts when Overton canned him? He might’ve. He might’ve without even knowing it. Look at his priors. Don’t you think he’s got some basic problems? Maybe gets out of control?”

  “I think this,” said Claudia. “He bears a couple of more checks. See if he’s been peeping in other windows. And talk to the lawn service that he works for. But is he a killer?” Claudia shook her head. “I doubt it. He doesn’t even know Overton’s dead and I don’t think he’s smart enough to lie.”

  “Maybe he’s just slick,” Carella insisted.

  Claudia gave Carella a dubious look. Her instinct was rarely wrong, and it told her now that the hulking teen-ager spilling off a metal folding chair was a wrong turn. But experience counted for more, and it told her not to dismiss even remote possibilities out of hand.

  “All right, Emory. Check him out,” Claudia said while she collected her handbag and jacket. “But tread carefully and don’t hold him anymore today. If you push him now with nothing against him but his size, a nickel-dime rap sheet and a small potatoes grudge we’ll have every civil rights lawyer screaming for our throats. They’d claim we took advantage of someone who’s maybe just a hair this side of retarded and they’d be right.”

  * * *

  The Matheson estate was on the outskirts of Flagg County, and was accessible by a quarter-mile, winding paved road. A canopy of trees gave it shade. A mailbox in the shape of a house stood at the end. Claudia thought it must be nice to put that much distance between a home and junk mail.

  Moody whistled appreciatively as he navigated his car around a circular driveway. “Could just about put a third-world village in there,” he said.

  “And then some,” Claudia murmured, mentally calculating that the two-level ranch home boasted some eighteen-thousand square feet. Nice. She could hide in one room here and never hear Robin’s stereo on the other side.

  “A lot of windows to wash,” Moody remarked.

  Claudia clucked. “Nothing like a little reality check, Mitch. Thanks.” She unstrapped her seat belt and got out.

  The threshold to Matheson’s house was of marble. It led to a double-wide teak wood door, intricately carved with a forest scene. Stained glass paralleled each side of the door. Claudia pushed a bell. She bet it was solid gold.

  A woman dressed in a maid’s uniform opened the door.

  “Good morning,” said Claudia. She smiled. “We’re here to see Mr. and Mrs. Matheson.”

  The maid looked from Claudia to Moody, then back. “No solicitations allowed here—there was a sign by the gate—and deliveries go around back.”

  “We’re here on police business,” said Claudia. She opened her identification wallet, watching the maid’s eyes widen at the sight of her shield. “Please let the Mathesons know they have company.” She paused, as if pondering something. “Actually, we really need to see just Mrs. Matheson.”

  The maid’s face radiated curiosity, but she said nothing as she ushered them into the foyer—as large as Claudia’s living and dining rooms put together.

  “I’ll be just a minute,” she said, moving off.

  It was more like five, long enough for Claudia and Moody to peer into a vast room to the right of the foyer, a room Claudia took to be where most entertaining was conducted.

  “Could play basketball in here,” Moody observed.

  The room held three impressive sets of furniture carefully grouped to allow for casual conversation, a white Baby Grand piano, a wet bar built into one wall, and a fire place that took up two-thirds of another. Claudia knew zip about art, but she imagined that the oils she saw, nicely framed and backlit, were originals worth more than the annual payroll at the police department. Claudia lingered at the piano a moment, running her long fingers over the keys. She and Moody returned to their places in the foyer seconds before footsteps heralded the arrival of the Mathesons.

  Although Claudia had seen newspaper photographs of Richard Andrew Matheson and had a verbal description of Eleanor Matheson, both were a surprise. Richard Matheson was outfitted in rugged denim jeans, polished boots, and a long-sleeved cotton shirt that revealed thorny gray hairs at the neck. He was fifty-eight, but looked a decade younger. Muscles pushed at his clothes. His face, though burnished by sun, showed few wrinkles, and his hair was thick, full, and conceding gray only at the temples. Clear blue eyes in an even-featured face boasted good health.

  Claudia looked him over carefully as she extended a hand and introduced herself, and then Mitch Moody. While Moody made nice, Claudia studied Eleanor Matheson.

  The woman was her husband’s junior by ten years, but despite a practiced elegance she looked a decade older. She was thinner than fashionable, and weary lines pulled by gravity fanned out from her eyes. Others radiated from her mouth. The skin at her neck seemed weighted by just a single gold pendant. She blinked incessantly.

  Before Claudia could explain the nature of their visit, Richard Matheson seized control. His voice boomed a welcome, as if it were perfectly natural for two police officers to appear at his door, unannounced, at eight-thirty in the morning.

  “I was just saddling up my horse—Razor’s his name—for a morning ride. Like to do that as often as I can.” Matheson thumped his midsection. “Riding’s what’s kept me in shape all these years.” He offered a genial smile and said, “Well. What brings you two out? Is the PBA campaign already underway?”

  What a crock. The Police Benevolent Association’s annual solicitation campaign didn’t extend door-to-door, and Matheson knew it.

  “I’m investigating a homicide, Mr. Matheson,” Claudia said evenly, her eyes sweeping over both Mathesons. “An Indian Run woman named Donna Overton was killed a week ago in her home. I’m sure you’ve read about it.”

  “Oh, right . . . yes, of course!” Matheson tapped his head with a thick finger. “I should have figured as much when you said you were with the Indian Run Police Department. And you know, I remember thinking at the time how tragic that something that, uh, brutal had come to Indian Run of all places.”

  “Murder happens everywhere,” Claudia said. Her eyes hooked to Eleanor Matheson’s face. She looked waxy and faint. “And murder investigations often cross jurisdictional lines.”

  “Well, I don’t see how I can be of any help—”

  “Actually, I’m more interested in talking with your wife, Mr. Matheson.” Claudia turned squarely to Eleanor Matheson. “I understand you knew the victim, Mrs. Matheson. You might be able to help.”

  “Come on, Detective!” Matheson said quickly, his voice amused. “Eleanor’s not the sort who’d spend time with women like that.”

  “Eleanor might not be, Mr. Matheson, but Eva Matterly is.” Claudia shifted her eyes to Matheson’s wife. “That is the name you used when you saw her, isn’t it?”

  Matheson put a hand on his wife before she could speak. “Let’s continue this on the veranda,” he said. His eyes darted to his wife. Claudia saw his fingers press into her arm.

  Matheson turned Eleanor toward a wide hall. Claudia and Moody exchanged glances and followed. French doors led to a spacious outside patio that overlooked a wide expanse of carefully cultivated lawn. Beyond, Claudia could see the beginning of Matheson’s orange groves. Potted plants in handsome ceramic floor vases pinned every corner of the patio, which extended to the pool.

  Matheson gave an order to his maid. He steered his wife to a seat around a glass table, then gestured for Claudia and Moody to sit. He lit a cigarette with an engraved lighter, then settled into a fourth chair. Buying time. Figuring angles.

  “Should give these things up,” Matheson said. He waved the cigarette distastefully. “It
’s not a matter of health in my case, but you know, it’s not good anymore to be seen in public with a cigarette. A quarter of America still smokes, but no one likes to acknowledge it.”

  Claudia nodded. She ached to bum one.

  Matheson carried on about cigarettes. He told a story about starting off with hard-core Camels. Smoke rose around his face like dry ice. Claudia noticed that he directed most of his comments to Moody, who tapped a pen against the table edge.

  The maid returned with a pitcher of orange juice and chilled Waterford glasses. Matheson thanked her and poured for everyone. “Truth be known,” he said, “the country’d go to financial hell in a hand basket if everyone gave up cigarettes tomorrow. No one wants to think about that.”

  Time to get down to business.

  “Mrs. Matheson,” said Claudia, “records indicate that under the name of Eva Matterly you’d been seeing Donna Overton for readings once a week for seven months, almost eight. For the first three months you paid her forty-five dollars a visit. For the last four months you paid her sixty. She was obviously important to your life. I’d like to know—”

  “For God’s sake,” Matheson interjected. “I can’t see how any of this has any bearing—”

  Claudia’s hand went up. She faced Matheson. “Please—the question is for your wife, Mr. Matheson. I’m talking to everyone who had contact with the victim. It’s routine procedure.”

  A mourning dove cooed. Matheson shook his head irritably. “That whole psychic stuff. It’s just a bunch of crap, Detective.”

  “Evidently your wife doesn’t agree.”

  “A lot of people visit psychics and mediums,” Moody said gently. He rolled the pen back and forth across the table, then set it aside and smiled sympathetically at Eleanor. “Who’s to say there isn’t something to it?”

  Eleanor Matheson twisted a diamond ring around her finger. She blinked furiously, but sought Moody’s eyes. “It’s . . . for me, it was . . . well, Reverend Overton was almost like a . . . a friend.”

  Matheson scowled.

  “My husband doesn’t understand,” she said quietly. “I guess a lot of people wouldn’t. And maybe it is foolish, seeing a medium. But I . . . Reverend Overton was so refreshing compared to the people I ordinarily associate with. You see, I’m on a number of community committees. And, well, given my husband’s position, naturally we host political parties with some frequency.” She shrugged helplessly. “I can’t explain it. It’s just that Reverend Overton was someone I could trust in a way I really can’t trust other people.”

  “It’s not so foolish to want a friend, Mrs. Matheson,” Moody said. “Everybody needs someone to talk to.” He smiled easily. “My wife would go nuts if she was stuck with just me to talk to. Don’t get me wrong; we love each other. But I don’t exactly trade recipes with her and she doesn’t exactly cling to every word I have to say when I get on a roll about the last football game.”

  “What hogwash,” Matheson muttered. He drained his orange juice.

  Claudia watched him. “You have a problem with that, Mr. Matheson?”

  “I don’t have a problem, Detective,” he said. “Not with friendship. But we’re not talking about friendship, no matter what Eleanor would like to believe. We’re talking about fortune tellers who feed off weak wills, who, who . . . summon goddamned spirits.” He lit another cigarette. “That I got a problem with.”

  Eleanor winced. “She didn’t always summon spirits, Richard, especially in the last couple of months. Sometimes we just talked. She was a good listener.”

  “Yeah, I bet she was,” Matheson said bitterly.

  Obviously, it wasn’t new territory for the Mathesons. But Eleanor’s voice had little fight in it.

  “All right, all right,” said Matheson. He took a long drag on his cigarette. “What exactly do you people want? Believe me, I have business a lot more pressing than my wife’s fascination with some foolish woman who talks to ghosts.”

  “You don’t need to stay,” Claudia reminded him.

  But he didn’t leave. Matheson pushed his chair back and put a booted foot across his knee. He sighed elaborately and tilted the chair back.

  “Mrs. Matheson,” Moody said, “what kinds of things did you and Reverend Overton talk about? And did she ever seem nervous to you, especially in the last couple of weeks?”

  Eleanor picked up Moody’s pen. She toyed with it distractedly. “We talked about our lives; mostly mine.”

  Matheson smoked furiously, all cordial pretense gone. Veins stood out on his forehead.

  “It wasn’t anything important, really. Just talk. Sometimes she gave me advice. She’d tell me I needed to relax more, to let myself be more open.”

  “My wife also sees a shrink,” Matheson said. His chair slammed back on all four legs. “Didn’t know that, did you? Didn’t know that she relies on drugs for depression—”

  “Richard—”

  “What, Eleanor? It’s okay to tell them that you sought advice from a crooked medium, but not okay to tell them that you need a shrink, too?” Matheson’s eyes flashed darkly. “The shrink, I’ll go—even at his outrageous fees of a hundred and fifty bucks an hour. But at least what goes on in his office is private. The law sees to that.”

  Bingo.

  “We’re not interested in your private life,” Claudia lied. “This is just part of an investigation. Whatever your wife tells us is confidential.” She watched Matheson for his reaction. “No one really cares—”

  “Detective,” Matheson said, his voice rising, “don’t patronize me. I’m not a stupid man. When the media learned about Nancy Reagan’s sessions with a psychic, the entire country cared! It just about ruined Reagan. For God’s sake, we’re talking about the man who was president of the country! And how will history remember him?” Matheson thumped his forefinger on the glass table. “I’ll tell you how! As the man who ran the country through his wife—which was actually through a ridiculous psychic! And it doesn’t matter a hoot or a holler that it wasn’t true!”

  Moody’s soft voice followed. “I think you’re exaggerating—”

  Matheson stood abruptly. “We’re done. This interview is over. You want to talk to me more—or my wife—get a subpoena. And give it to my lawyer. I’ll even give you his damned name.”

  Matheson began to root through his pockets. Moody handed him a pen and a piece of paper.

  “Here,” Matheson said. He scrawled something on the paper and slammed it with the pen to the table. “I’ve got better things to do with my time.” He turned. Stepped away.

  Claudia and Moody rose. Eleanor remained seated. Her eyes blinked like a venetian blind being adjusted. An egret took flight a short distance off. Magnificent. But she didn’t see it.

  Last shot. Claudia began to move off, then: “Just another question or two, Mr. Matheson.” She called out to his back. “Thirty more seconds.”

  “See my lawyer.”

  “Did you ever meet Reverend Overton yourself?”

  Matheson stopped, half a dozen paces away. He half turned. “Don’t be ridiculous.” His voice was low, on fire.

  “Did you ever give her money yourself?”

  “Get off my property!” he said, whirling.

  Claudia smiled grimly. She moved closer to Matheson, out of earshot of Eleanor. Left three steps between them. Watched closely. Felt Moody in her shadow. “Are you having an affair, Mr. Matheson?”

  Sweat poured from the rancher’s face. “I’ll have your freakin’ badge, Detective.” His fists balled up, but his hands stayed at his sides. “I . . . you . . . ”

  Moody inched closer.

  “You won’t find work in a dime store if you even think about that line of questioning again,” Matheson hissed. He glared at Claudia, shot the same dark look at his wife, turned back. “Don’t underestimate me.”

  “I don’t think I am, Mr. Matheson,” Claudia replied evenly. “We’ll see ourselves out.”

  She nodded at Moody and they left. They stepped t
hrough the French doors. They were halfway to the foyer when they heard a glass shatter.

  Moody hesitated. He looked at Claudia.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “He’s got a few things to work out.”

  “Mrs. Matheson—”

  “She’ll be all right. He won’t dare touch her.” Claudia nudged Moody forward. “He knows we’re keeping an eye on him.”

  A few clouds were starting to gather. The groves looked darker. It was hard to see the fruit.

  “That got a little hot. And, I don’t know, think we really learned anything?” asked Moody. He started the car.

  “Well, we got plenty to think about,” said Claudia. She wrapped the seat belt around her.

  “I couldn’t believe you hit Matheson with that business about an affair.”

  Claudia shrugged. “Just a shot in the dark.”

  “Yeah, well, that was a big one.”

  “Not really. Matheson despises his wife. It doesn’t take a big leap of imagination to assume he’s playing around—or did. Not the kind of thing he’d want leaked to a medium.”

  “Hell, I got the impression he’s terrified just at the thought that someone’ll find out Eleanor’s been seeing a medium at all! Sure would play hell with his climb to Washington.”

  “Uh-huh. Kind of a double whammy for the old goat. Maybe enough to pay off Overton.”

  Moody steered onto the highway. Matheson’s groves began to recede. Traffic took on a city tone. “Enough to kill her?”

  “People have killed for a lot less.”

  “You think his print on the pen will give us a match at Overton’s house?”

  “I don’t know. Worth the check, though.”

  Taking one hand from the wheel, Moody tapped his pocket. “Turned out to be easier than I thought. I was worried I’d have to try and sneak off with their orange juice glasses. Would’ve been hard to conceal.”

  Only half-listening, Claudia nodded. She played the conversation with the Mathesons back. She watched their faces, as if they were on a movie screen. Matheson had money. He had connections. All of it had made him powerful. And it had made him dangerous.