Double Duplicity: A Shandra Higheagle Mystery #1

by Paty Jager

  One, on the floor headed to a door.

  A push on the unlatched door revealed a small restroom. He crossed to the sink, pulled out the luminol spray and sprayed the rim of the drain for blood. Shining his black light flashlight on the drain, he snapped a photo of the luminesce image circling the drain. The killer had washed the weapon or their hands or both before leaving.

  He placed everything back into his bag, except for the luminol. It was time to talk to the one witness they had and test her hands for traces of blood.

  Chapter Three

  Shandra fidgeted on the hard chair. She pulled out her cell phone and checked the time. 3:45. She had a forty-five minute drive to her place, pack seven vases, and drive back down here to deliver them to Ted and Naomi before they closed the gallery at six to open for the special twilight showing tonight from nine to midnight. She didn’t want to drag them to the gallery during their three hours to get dinner and dress for the special show. They’d had a rough year with business and personal turmoil.

  The tall detective came out of Paula’s office. He carried a spray bottle and stopped in front of her chair.

  “Ms. Higheagle, would you please hold out your hands?” He said it as a request but his tone sounded like a demand.

  She had nothing to hide and held her hands out palm up. He sprayed the cold liquid on her hands. It stung a cut she had from her carving utensil. She winced and he frowned.

  “Sorry to do that, but I had to rule you out as a suspect. Whoever killed the victim—”

  “Paula Doring,” Shandra said. It made the whole episode seem less vile by calling the dead woman by her name and not “victim.”

  He nodded and wrote the name in a small notebook he’d pulled from a pocket on his backpack. “Whoever killed Ms. Doring would have blood residue on their hands. She was killed at close proximity.” His dark brown eyes scanned her hands before he turned his attention to Officer Blane.

  “Get the local M.E. over to substantiate the death and call the forensic lab in Coeur d’Alene to let them know I’m bringing them a body.” Detective Greer waited for the officer to walk to the front of the gallery talking on his radio.

  “Ms. Higheagle, please tell me exactly what you saw and did when you arrived.”

  “Call me Shandra if you don’t mind. Ms. Higheagle was my grandmother.” She’d only started using her father’s last name after high school. Before that she’d gone as Shandra Malcolm, using her stepfather’s last name even though he never legally adopted her. Ella, her paternal grandmother, made a fuss any time Shandra’s mother suggested her stepfather might adopt her. Ella never said anything outright, but her actions showed she didn’t care for Shandra’s stepfather.

  “Shandra, you said earlier Ms. Doring called you. Why?”

  “There is a large art event happening this weekend in Huckleberry.” She crossed her arms. “In fact, it starts tonight at nine. I should be home packing pieces to bring to the Dimensions Gallery across the street.” She tipped her head toward the side street. Her mind flashed to the sight of Naomi jogging across that same street as she’d parked the Jeep.

  “What are you thinking? Did you see someone?” The detective jumped on her momentary flash like a ravenous dog on a bowl of kibble.

  “No. I-I had an idea for a new piece.” She wasn’t going to give up her good friend until she had a chance to find out why Naomi was hurrying from this side of the street. “Anyway, Paula called me to come by and discuss placing a few of my vases in her gallery for this weekend. She said she had some new Native American pieces come in and wanted to display my latest gourd vases with them.”

  “Was it normal for her to call you?”

  His intense gaze made her feel like she was on trial even though he’d pretty much admitted he believed her innocent. That irked. She didn’t lie, but could skirt the truth a fraction until the right moment to tell the truth presented itself.

  “You had to know Paula. She liked to make you feel inferior, and she did it best face to face.” Oh, that wasn’t good. Her irritation at him made her sound like a suspect.

  His left dark eyebrow rose. “That’s not a very friendly image of the woman.”

  Shandra stared him straight in the eye. “You’ll find she had few friends. I wouldn’t say she had enemies, but anyone who has ever dealt with Paula didn’t come out of it a friend.” Several stanzas of a jazz classic boogied in her purse. She pulled the phone out and looked at the number.

  Ted.

  “Can I answer this? It’s the gallery that’s waiting for my vases.”

  Detective Greer nodded once.

  She pushed the button and answered. “Hi, Ted.”

  “Shandra, I saw your Jeep parked across the street for a couple hours. Why haven’t you brought the vases in?” Ted’s frazzled tone made her wish she hadn’t taken the call from Paula earlier.

  “I’m actually at Paula’s gallery—”

  The detective cleared his throat and shook his head.

  She held the phone against her thigh. “It’s not like he can’t see the crime scene tape, you know.”

  “Just tell him you’ll be detained for a little while longer.”

  “How long? It’s a forty-five minute drive to my ranch.” She held up her fingers. “Figure one hour there, so I don’t speed—” she tossed him an ingratiating smile—“half an hour to pack the vases unless I call Lil and have her get them packed…” That was a thought. Her housekeeper/groundskeeper knew the pieces she wanted to have at the show.

  “Ask him to wait for you.” Greer motioned with his hand to speed up the conversation.

  “Ted, I’m sorry. I’ve been detained. But I promise I won’t be there any later than six-thirty. I have to go.” She pushed the end button to Ted’s stammering. She hated to be so short with such a good friend, but she had no choice at the moment. She’d call him back on the drive home.

  “I’m sorry this is bad timing for you, but you’re the only witness I have so far. I need your statement before I escort the body to the coroner.” He leaned against the door jamb.

  “Paula called when I was about twenty minutes from here.”

  “What time was that?”

  “About one-thirty or one-forty. I’m not sure. I didn’t really pay much attention.” She hadn’t even looked at the time when she answered the call; she just knew the road well enough to know how long it would take.

  “Where were you coming from?” His head remained bent as he scribbled in his notebook.

  “My grandmother’s funeral in Nespelem, Washington.”

  His face tipped up, and his eyes softened. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.” She stared into his dark eyes. He’d suffered a similar loss. It was in the look and the softening of his expression.

  He dropped his gaze to the notepad in his hand. “So you arrived here at two or a little after?”

  She shrugged. “I guess so. I didn’t look at the time, just parked, crossed the street, and walked in the door. I thought it odd Paula didn’t meet me since she had requested my visit. I called out, didn’t hear anything, and worked my way through the gallery back here to the office. I saw the light on and called out again.” She squeezed her eyes shut to push the sight of Paula from her mind. “She didn’t answer, so I pushed the door open, and saw her.”

  “Did you enter the room?”

  Shandra thought back. “No. I backed out and pulled my phone out of my purse to call nine-one-one. I punched in the nine and heard the sirens. This town rarely has anything happen that warrants a siren. I figured someone already called this in and headed to the front of the gallery. That’s when Roscoe P. Coltrane jumped through the doorway with his gun pointed at me and handcuffed me without getting my side of the story.”

  “So you’re a Dukes of Hazard fan.” Detective Greer smiled at her. “I’m thinking it was his first call of this nature since putting on the suit. Don’t hold his overachieving attitude against him.” The levity of the moment
passed when he glanced up and speared her with a dark brown gaze. “Did you see anyone else in the vicinity when you arrived?”

  A flash of Naomi crossing the street caused her to drop her gaze. She couldn’t implicate her friend without questioning her first. “I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.”

  Detective Greer took a step closer to her. She’d have to tilt her head back to look him in the eye. She preferred to stare at the black snaps of his western cut shirt.

  “I asked if you saw anyone in the vicinity. Who did you see on this block or the next?”

  His calm tone and deep voice, only made her feel worse about withholding information.

  “There were some tourists, I guess, on the sidewalks. Anyway, they weren’t people I know.”

  He placed a finger under her chin, raising her face to look up at him. “I don’t know who you’re covering for, but I’ll find out.”

  Looking into his confident dark eyes, she didn’t doubt he would, but she’d talk with Naomi before he figured it out.

  Chapter Four

  Ryan watched the flimsy leopard print skirt swish as Shandra Higheagle sashayed out the front door of the gallery, her boot heels clicking on the tile. The woman was hiding something. She’d stared him straight in the eye and been defiant until he asked if she saw anyone. Then she’d evaded his question and looked everywhere but at him.

  He pivoted back to the office and the dead body. There wasn’t anything more the body would tell him until forensics discovered the weapon that made the wound. He strode to the desk and thumbed through her day planner. She’d had lots of appointments today. It would help if someone could tell him who the people listed in the book were; clients, artists, or what. He should have asked Shandra if the woman ran the gallery by herself.

  Two contracts for consignment of art pieces signed today sat in a wire box labeled to file. He looked down and noticed a drawer pulled out an inch. Did someone pull it out, take something, and then not get it shoved back in? He dusted the handle and front of the drawer for fingerprints and came up with several from the flat front surface.

  Hooking his fingers through the handle on the drawer, he tugged. A cash box, ledger, and several files rested in the drawer.

  Could this have been a robbery gone wrong? The cash box was average sized and not locked. The lid lifted easily, revealing several hundred dollars and a handful of checks. If this had been a robbery, the cash would be gone. He closed the box and pulled out the ledger.

  Names graced the left column in the book and rows of numbers lined the pages. Some were dates, some dollar amounts. Red, blue, and black dollar amounts. He’d never liked accounting. He placed the ledger on the desk along with the cash box.

  The files held artist brochures. The bright red words “GET” and “NO” were sprawled across each sculpture or painting on the brochures. Either these were pieces already in the gallery or ones she planned to acquire. He matched several of the names on the brochures to the names in the ledger. In doing so, he noticed large sums of money being logged into the ledger at the beginning of each month but no notation as to where the money came from.

  Ryan placed the ledger and the files in his backpack. He’d have time to go through them thoroughly after the body was examined by the coroner and he spent the night in Coeur d’Alene. The trip wouldn’t be a bust. He could crash at his sister’s place and not add to the county’s expenses.

  Voices and muffled footsteps along with the whir of rubber wheels on tile grew near. The medical examiner and the local funeral home had arrived. Now he’d get more answers about any employees and the woman.

  A man, a few years younger than Ryan’s thirty-two years, walked toward the office as Ryan stepped out to greet the doctor who worked as the county coroner. Dr. Maynard Porter was not a typical coroner or rural doctor for that matter. He was of slender build, so blond he appeared almost albino, and dressed like a model from some fancy men’s magazine. Ryan had only met the man once before, when a body had been found by hunters. He’d bet the ink hadn’t dried on Dr. Porter’s medical license yet.

  “Dr. Porter,” Ryan extended his still-gloved hand.

  The doctor shook hands and nodded toward the open doorway. “Tell me it isn’t the owner of the gallery.”

  Ryan perked up. The doctor knew his victim. “Wish I could. It’s Paula Doring, and it’s not a pretty sight.”

  Porter shook his head. “This is going to slow up my purchase of a painting I’d planned to buy this weekend.” With no remorse for the woman, he sauntered into the office.

  Ryan motioned for the funeral home attendant to wait with the gurney and hurried in behind the doctor.

  “Did you know the victim well?” Ryan pulled out his pencil and notepad.

  “Only well enough to know she drove a hard bargain and wasn’t well liked. But she was respected by both the patrons and the artists.” Dr. Porter picked up her arm to feel the pulse. His white eyebrows rose. “She’s fresh.”

  “From my calculations she was killed three hours ago.” He jotted down the doctor’s reaction to the time. “Does she run the gallery alone?”

  Dr. Porter closed the victim’s eyelids. “She has a part time employee. Juan something. I’ve only talked with him once. Nice enough guy but not really personable. By his attitude, I’d say he was more an artist who worked here to supplement his income.”

  “How’s that?” The doctor seemed well educated on the local scene.

  Porter looked up from writing on a paper on a clipboard. “If you go to one of the art events here you’ll see what I mean. The owners and employees of the galleries are talkative, smiling, wanting to draw you into their little world and buy from them. Most artists are all about the art and while they are required to be at the events, they stand to the edges, talking with other artists or staring at their own work. They don’t mingle, don’t do idle chit-chat.” Porter clicked his pen closed. “Juan is hard to talk to, moody, and only had eyes for Paula. He’d watch her moving around in here and at events like she was his work of art.” The doctor nodded to the body. “She’s all yours. Hope you find the person responsible.”

  “Me too.” Ryan closed his notepad. The doctor’s information gave him more to examine about the woman and her employee.

  Dr. Porter picked up his leather bag and exited the office. Ryan poked his head out. “Come get the body.” He stepped back as a large man, as opposite on the color spectrum from the doctor as he could get, entered the room.

  “Maxwell Treat, at your service,” said the man, smiling and showing off a mouthful of large white teeth.

  “Detective Ryan Greer.”

  The man’s large hand gripped firm and decisive. “Pleased to meet you. I heard there’s a body needs hauled to Coeur d’Alene.”

  Ryan stepped aside, revealing the victim.

  “Well now, I expected her to be stabbed in the back not the front.” Treat pulled the gurney into the room.

  “You know the victim?” Ryan dipped into his pocket for the pencil and pad.

  “She turned down Naomi’s sister and gave the assistant job to some Hispanic that can barely speak English.” Treat unzipped the body bag, pulled on latex gloves, and none-to-gently shoved the body in the bag.

  “Naomi’s sister have a name?”

  Treat turned large dark brown eyes on him. “Joyce Carter. If you plan to talk with her you’ll need to hold a séance.”

  His pencil stopped. “What happened?”

  “How long you been living in these parts?”

  The disgust in the man’s voice and visible anger on his face led Ryan to believe the death wasn’t from natural causes. “Three months give or take a couple weeks.”

  “Last year, Joyce was getting her life back together after being hooked on drugs and having her boyfriend locked up for distributing. Naomi and Ted took her in when she came out of rehab. Things were looking good until she applied for a job with Paula and the woman dug up all Joyce’s back history and spread it aro
und town until no one would hire Joyce and the guy she’d been dating dumped her.” Treat shook his head slowly. “I tried to get her on at the funeral home but it barely keeps my family in food and a roof.

  “Two months after Paula turned her down and spread the rumors, Joyce was found in an alley. She’d overdosed.” Treat glared into Ryan’s eyes. “I ain’t never believed she’d slip back into drugs. When we became friends, she told me it was her boyfriend who forced her to take drugs. She never wanted to.”

  “Is he still in jail?”

  Treat nodded. “Yes, sir. I made Chief Sandberg check on that first thing after she was found.”

  “Is Naomi’s last name Carter, too?”

  Treat smiled and shook his head. “No. It’s Norton. She and Ted own the gallery across the street.”

  Ryan added Naomi Norton to his list as Treat rolled the gurney out of the building. Ted and Naomi Norton own the gallery across the street. Ms. Higheagle had talked to a Ted about her vases. Ryan had a hunch he’d found what Ms. Higheagle was reluctant to reveal.

  He’d follow the body to the State Examiner’s office, gather what information he could, then spend the night at his sister’s and get back here first thing in the morning. He had several suspects to interview and an art event to attend.

  Chapter Five

  Shandra called Lil the minute she was headed out of town, instructing her to get the seven vases ready to transport. She was halfway between her ranch and town when she returned Ted’s call.

  “What is going on?” he asked, without a greeting.

  “Paula called me as I was coming into town and asked me to meet with her at the gallery. I arrived and found her dead.”

  The intake of breath on the other line was an uncharacteristic show of emotion from Ted. He was the cool, never flustered guy who settled those around him. “What do you mean found her dead? Was it like a heart attack or something?”