by Carolyn Hart
The kitchen door swung out. Elise held it open as Kathleen entered with a serving tray.
“I’ll get the door, Kathleen.” The newcomer spoke with a brisk assumption of authority. The directress of the Altar Guild no doubt.
As to the manor born, she strode to the door, flicked on the porch light, and opened the door. “Hello, Sam.” There was the faintest edge of surprise in her voice.
The police chief squinted in the sudden glare. He straightened the baggy coat of his suit and cleared his throat. “H’lo, Rose. The reverend here?”
“Father Abbott isn’t here.” Rose emphasized the title.
It was the old chasm between the evangelical brethren and the Episcopal congregation. The police chief, likely a stalwart Baptist, wasn’t about to call any man Father.
“Come on in, Sam. We’re just finishing our Thursday-night Bible study.” Rose held the door and turned toward Kathleen. “Chief Cobb is looking for Father Bill.”
The chief stepped inside, looking exceedingly masculine and large.
His leathery complexion reflected years of too much sun. Another fisherman, I decided. Bobby Mac would have liked him. Cobb’s gaze was steady. His broad mouth looked like it could curl into a big grin as well as straighten into toughness.
Fortunately, my gaze also encompassed Kathleen. I reached her just as the tray began to tip. I steadied it. This time I tried to keep my whisper gentle, but to the point. “Look lively. No one knows. Find out what he wants. Act normal.”
Elise’s head swiveled back and forth, seeking the source of the soft murmur.
Kathleen thrust the tray toward Elise, walked to the door as if facing the guillotine. What was I going to do with her! I flowed alongside and breathed in her ear. “Relax. Smile.”
Kathleen looked up at the police chief. She managed a tight smile.
“Bill’s not here right now. He’s at the hospital. I can give you his cell number.”
The chief’s big head bent forward. He looked uncomfortable.
“You can help me, Mrs. Abbott, same as him. Thing is, we’ve had a crime in the cemetery. The body of Daryl Murdoch—”
Shocked cries rose.
“—was discovered near the Pritchard mausoleum.”
Rose stepped forward. “Sam, what happened?”
The chief was brisk. “He was found dead with a bullet wound. We’ve been attempting to contact family members but haven’t had any success.”
Rose looked at Elise. “Do you have Judith Murdoch’s cell number?”
Elise pointed toward the living room. “I’ll get my purse, check my address book.”
I perched on the hideously uncomfortable red plush chair next to the étagère.
I heard a click and looked down. Spoofer moved purposefully across the floor toward me. Some insist that cats’ claws always retract and can’t click on a hard surface. That is not true of all cats and Spoofer proved my point. He looked up at me, flowed through the air, and settled on my lap. I gave him a swift hug. Heaven knows that cats are God’s most elegant creatures.
Chief Cobb nodded. “That would be helpful. However, I’m here because we got an anonymous call that a weapon was hidden on the back porch of the rectory. I know it’s Halloween and crank calls can happen, but this one sure came fast. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to—”
I came to my feet. Spoofer twisted in surprise, but landed on his feet. He gave me a reproachful glance, but I wasn’t there.
Once on the porch, I turned on the brilliant overhead light.
Kathleen might be puzzled, but that didn’t matter. I doubted I had much time and I must be able to see. The anonymous call proved how fast word travels in a small town. The murderer had heard that Daryl was found in the cemetery and knew immediately that the body had been moved. That must have caused consternation, but the murderer was resourceful and determined. Obviously, the gun was hidden somewhere on the porch. Had Kathleen called the police to report the murder, a search would have ensued and the gun would have been found. Now the murderer was taking Daryl’s removal and turning it to his or her advantage. Everyone with access to the rectory would be under suspicion if the gun was found here.
Kathleen and I hadn’t made a search. We’d simply noted there was no gun near the body. Now I looked carefully. The porch ran the length of the house. The counter and sink were handy to the kitchen door. I knelt to peer underneath, noted with approval that the pipes were wrapped for winter. I poked a hand in a dark corner, not an exercise I would have undertaken had it been a hand of flesh.
Brown recluse spiders do not take kindly to trespassers.
I scrambled past the sink and counter, ran my hand behind the rolled-up tarp. Nothing. The gun was not behind the stack of garden pots or tucked in a mélange of rubber boots or nestling in the drawers of a dilapidated desk or wedged among the pumpkins. I sped to the other end of the porch.
Voices sounded and the kitchen door swung out. “Sure appreciate your cooperation, Mrs. Abbott.” The chief looked back at the gaggle of women surrounding the kitchen door. “Ladies, if you’ll stay in the kitchen, I’d appreciate it. This will only take a minute.” He tugged a pair of plastic gloves from his pocket, pulled them on, then turned to his left, the portion of the porch I’d already checked.
I don’t know what I would have done if he’d turned toward me.
Another pinch? Three bulging black garbage sacks were clumped against the south wall. I loosed a tie to peer inside the first one. Unfortunately, I might as well have picked one up and spilled out the contents. The cans banged and clanged. I was almost startled into my skin. I tried frantically to quiet the surging metal. Heaven knows I applaud conservation, but the collection of empty soda-pop cans might be my undoing.
Chief Cobb swung around. “Nobody’s supposed to touch—” He broke off.
Of course nobody had.
He gazed at the south end of the porch, the quivering sack and cascading cans, his face puzzled.
Kathleen bent down, picked up Spoofer, who was edging past her ankle. She held up the wriggling, offended cat. “He hates it when garbage bags are closed.”
Elise bent forward. “But the cat wasn’t—”
Kathleen’s voice rose, drowning out Elise. “He probably heard a mouse. That’s what it was. Mice. Come on, Spoofer.” She hurried across the porch, opened the door, and put him out. She turned back toward the kitchen door, one hand behind her, waggling frantically.
I understood it was some kind of warning to me, but I didn’t have time to figure it out. The chief was moving purposefully along the counter, stopping to check beneath with a flashlight he’d pulled from his suit coat. Not, of course, the Maglite he’d used in his search for the missing telephone.
I tiptoed past the trash bags. A gym bag rested next to a bag of golf clubs. I knelt by the sleek plastic bag, edged the zipper open.
Empty. I lifted it up. Nothing underneath.
A piercing voice demanded, “I don’t think it’s mice. Kathleen, do you have a rat? I swear that gym bag moved. It would take a rat.”
There was a hurried shuffle as the Bible study group members moved away from the kitchen door.
Kathleen gave an unconvincing laugh. “Things have been moving about out on the porch. Maybe that’s it.” She was backing closer to the bags of cans, trying to interpose herself between me and the women. Abruptly, she pointed toward the chief. “Look, he’s found something!”
I hoped her ploy was successful. In any event, I took advantage of the momentary distraction to plunge my hand into the golf bag.
I tried not to rattle anything, but the clubs clattered together. Heads swiveled in my direction. I tried to still the quiver of the clubs. I pushed my hand deeper and felt the barrel of a small gun. My fingers closed around it.
Kathleen surged toward the screen door. “Someone’s out there. I heard someone outside. Oh dear, should we check? Oh, Chief, you said there’d been a crime. Do you suppose the criminal’s come back?”
>
High gasps and startled cries rose from the churchwomen.
Chief Cobb moved fast for a big man. He was at the screen door and pushing it wide. The beam of his flashlight crisscrossed the yard.
He plunged down the steps.
While everyone’s attention was focused on the chief, I yanked the gun out. It seemed incredibly small to me, scarcely larger than the palm of my hand. However, had anyone glanced in this direction, the gun would have been instantly visible, apparently dangling in space. Quickly, I dropped my hand behind the golf bag. This could only be a temporary respite. Somehow I had to remove the gun from the porch before the chief completed his circuit of the backyard.
I looked toward the kitchen, but the house offered no sanctuary.
Once within, I would again face the conundrum posed by the physics of a nonmaterial being transporting a material object. Besides, it would be even more damaging to Kathleen if the gun were found in the house.
Chief Cobb banged onto the porch, his face creased in a forced smile. “Nothing untoward outside, ladies. Now I’ll finish my search. Please feel free to return to your—uh—meeting.”
Not a woman moved.
He looked from one to another, gave a short nod. I assumed he had a long acquaintance with women. He accepted inevitability with grace. He moved fast, perhaps regretting his visit and certainly not giving any indication he felt the search was going to be productive.
He upended the rubber boots, gave each a shake. “This won’t take much longer.”
His audience observed him closely.
I studied this area of the porch. It was about six feet to the screen door. I had to put myself and the gun out into the night without anyone noticing. There had to be a way. I looked at the golf bag and at the trash bags filled with cans. I snaked my free hand back into the golf bag, yanked a head cover from a wood. It was a tight fit, but I managed to squeeze the gun into the head cover. Cautiously, I unzipped a side pocket and retrieved two golf balls. With the golf balls in my left hand and the lumpy head cover in my right, I slid above the floor close to the east wall.
I was almost to the screened door when Elise cried out, “Those golf balls. Where are those golf balls going? How are they going?”
It was no time to hesitate. I placed the head cover next to the door and stood. As I did, the golf balls rose.
Elise gave a sharp squeak.
With a mighty heave, I launched the golf balls at the sacks filled with discarded cans. One bag broke. Cans bounced onto the floor.
Someone screamed. Chief Cobb thundered across the porch.
I reached down, grabbed the head cover, eased open the screened door, and slipped outside. I rose almost to the roof, the head cover well out of sight near the guttering.
“Who moved those cans?” Chief Cobb roared.
“A rat,” Elise shouted. “I saw a rat. I know it was a rat.”
“How did it open the back door?” the imperious woman with silver hair asked politely, her tone reasonable, puzzled, and verging on nervous.
“That door opens in the wind.” Kathleen was studiously casual.
I didn’t think she had a future in acting, but she was doing her best.
“It does it all the time. Don’t give it a thought.”
“The wind is out of the north,” the reasonable voice observed.
“How can it bounce open a door on the east? Chief, are you sure no one was out there?”
“Absolutely.” His voice lacked certainty. He made a grunting sound. “Almost done. Let me see about that golf bag.”
He stuck his hand into the bag and rattled the clubs. He checked the zippered side pockets. He stepped back, glanced up and down the porch, gave an irritated shake of his head. “There’s no weapon here. Looks like we got a crank call.” He nodded toward Kathleen.
“I appreciate your cooperation, Mrs. Abbott. Please ask the reverend to call me tomorrow. I understand Daryl Murdoch spent a lot of time at the church. Maybe the reverend might have some idea why he was in the graveyard. I’ll make another check of the backyard and be on my way.”
As the screen door opened, I was up and over the guttering. I nestled the swaddled gun next to the telephone. Objects were accruing.
I must deal with them. And with Kathleen. As soon as possible. But perhaps I’d better keep tabs on the investigation in case the murderer had other surprises in store . . .
CHAPTER 6
Ilightly touched the meshed grille as the police cruiser turned east on Main Street. Riding in a police car was a new experience.
I would have preferred to be in the front passenger seat, but it was occupied by a grease-stained sack from Braum’s, a sixteenounce plastic malted-milk container, several file folders, a wrinkled windbreaker, and a can of mixed nuts. Chief Cobb lifted the yellow plastic lid of the latter, fished out a handful of nuts.
A sudden crackle and a voice spoke from the dashboard. “Chief, Anita.” Her voice was low and hushed, her words quick. “Mrs. Murdoch just came home. I’d say she hasn’t heard. Saw her face when the garage door opened. She looked tired, but no sign of emotion. She had on her uniform. She’s a nurse. I’d guess she just got off duty. You’d think somebody would have called her on her cell, but maybe she has it turned off.”
Chief Cobb’s face was somber. “I’m on my way. Keep watch until I get there.”
I sank back against the slick, plastic-sheathed seat. I’d not thought beyond saving Kathleen from her perilous predicament, but tonight marked trouble for others as well.
The cruiser picked up speed. We headed out Broadway. Everything seemed different. Littleton’s Lumber Yard was gone. There were a series of big buildings with fancy signs—Home Depot, Wal-Mart, Circuit City. Parking lots teemed with cars. Many of them seemed to be an odd hybrid between old-fashioned pickups and sedans. About the spot where I remembered the turnoff to a drivein movie, there was a cluster of houses. We passed more and more houses, many with amazingly peaked roofs. High ceilings were obviously in vogue, but heating and cooling costs must be huge.
The cruiser turned in between two stone pillars. A discreet sign on one pillar read KENSINGTON HILLS. The street wound in a rambling fashion with offshoots every block or so. A half mile into the hilly development, the cruiser turned onto Laurel. We drove a half block, then slowed as the chief pulled up beside another cruiser almost hidden in deep shadow beneath a cottonwood. He pushed a button and his window came down.
Officer Leland—aka Anita—who was in the second cruiser, opened her door, stepped out. She bent to look inside his car.
The chief grabbed at the stuff lying on the seat, pushed it onto the floor. “Get in, Anita. I haven’t had a chance to ask about your trip. When did you get back?”
She came around the cruiser to the passenger door, opened it. In the brief flash of the interior light, I had a better glimpse of her face, somber blue-gray eyes, thin high-bridged nose, pointed chin with the hint of a cleft. If she smiled, she would be pretty in an old-fashioned, understated way. She was a little older than I had realized, possibly her late twenties or early thirties. She looked tired.
“Yesterday afternoon. Murray took my shifts while I was gone. It’s good to be back at work.” She sounded distant and I wondered if it was fatigue or if she was keeping some emotion under tight control.
The chief reached out, awkwardly patted one hand. “Guess the news wasn’t what you’d feared.”
She shivered. “Every time they turn up an ID that sounds like Vee, I think maybe this time I’ll find her, know what happened to her. But it’s always some other dead girl and I wonder where her family is, if anyone’s looking. So”—she drew a deep breath—“Vee’s still lost.”
“You’re worn out.” His smile was kind. “You shouldn’t have tried to come straight back to work.”
“It’s better to be busy.” Her tone was strained. She clasped her hands, tight and hard.
“Well, I can sure use you. There’s going to be plenty to do.” He c
leared his throat, was once again brisk. “Get word out to everybody to come in tomorrow morning, then knock off for tonight.”
“You’re sure you don’t need me here?” She gestured toward a Tudor-style house. The light from living-room windows suddenly lessened as the drapes were drawn.
He shook his head. “It doesn’t take two to bring bad news.”
She nodded. “Good night, Chief.”
He waited until she was in her cruiser, then eased his car down the street. He pulled into the driveway and parked.
I was right beside him when he reached the top of the bricked steps. He pushed the doorbell.
The porch light came on, brilliant as a stage spot, throwing the chief’s face into hard relief, emphasizing the deep lines that grooved from lips pressed tightly together. He looked like a man bringing bad news.
The door opened. A stocky middle-aged woman looked out, her face inquiring. The RN badge on her wrinkled white uniform read JUDITH MURDOCH. Blond hair braided coronet-style made her plain face look severe. She had an air of weary competence.
I was surprised. Even dead, there had been a sporty attitude about Daryl Murdoch. There was nothing sporty about the woman staring out with a puzzled face. “Yes?”
“Mrs. Murdoch? Mrs. Daryl Murdoch?”
She looked anxious. “Yes.”
He pulled out his wallet, flipped it open to show his shield. “I’m Chief Cobb of the Adelaide Police. I regret having to inform you—”
“Has something happened to Kirby?” Her voice trembled. “Is my son hurt?”
“I’m here about your husband, Mrs. Murdoch. His body was found tonight in St. Mildred’s cemetery.” The chief’s voice was gentle, but his eyes never left her face.
She looked dazed, uncomprehending. “Daryl’s dead?” The words were slow and painful.
“Yes, ma’am.” He spoke quietly. “His body was discovered near the Pritchard mausoleum. He died as the result of a gunshot wound, an apparent homicide. His body has been taken to the hospital. The law requires an autopsy. Is there someone I can call to come and be with you?”
