by Maggie Pill
It felt like I was being manipulated, but I remained polite. “Then I will listen.”
He touched the patch of hair at his lip. “Your client took some items that belong to me. I want them back.”
My expression remained impassive, but my mind began working overtime, considering new possibilities in the death of Stacy Darrow. “What items?”
A look put me in my place. “All you need to know is that if you help me, you will receive a reward.”
I felt my eyebrows rise. “And what would we do to earn this reward?”
He raised his palms, indicating a piddling amount of effort. “Take a proposal to Darrow.”
“A proposal?”
Basca shifted again in his chair, and the image of a tiger flexing its shoulders before lunging at prey rose in my mind. “Your client is in a great deal of trouble. I can help, but I require a sign of good faith from him.” Taking a small, unpadded mailer from his jacket pocket, he set it on the desktop. “Tell him to write down the location of my property and seal it in this envelope.” He smiled a tiger’s smile. “I leave it to you to avoid the local sheriff as you do this. Bring the envelope to me, and I will send someone to retrieve my property. Once I have it, the police will find evidence that Darrow did not kill his wife.” He paused before adding, “At that time, I will pay you a finder’s fee of one thousand dollars.”
“If something was stolen from you, Mr. Basca, why haven’t you gone to the police?”
He dismissed the question with a smile. “Who can say when I’ll get my property back if they are involved?”
“It sounds like you don’t want them to know about it.”
His gaze turned cold. “Your concern should be returning stolen property to its rightful owner.”
Doubtful about the “rightful owner” part, I asked, “How would you prove Darrow is innocent?”
A gentle shrug. “I have helped the police see things differently in the past.” He returned to his point. “You will save your client from prosecution and at the same time earn for yourselves a substantial amount of money. I ask you, where is the disadvantage to that?”
I was trying to figure that out, but I wasn’t tempted to take the guy’s offer. He gave me a huge case of the creeps. Some of what he said might be true, but how much? A sickening thought hit me. Had Basca killed Stacy Darrow to make Winston give up whatever it was he’d stolen?
Basca stroked the soul patch again. “Will you do this?”
“No.”
He seemed surprised. “Perhaps you don’t understand.”
“Oh, I understand. You’re asking us to be complicit in a criminal exchange.”
Touching his jacket pocket he said, “I can offer two thousand dollars.” The smile remained in place, but his eyes were hard as granite. “Do not press for more.”
“No was my answer, Mr. Basca, not a step in negotiations.”
His nostrils flared at my tone, but then, I didn’t like him, either. Rising, he zipped the leather jacket and fastened the bottom and top with quick, sharp snaps. “I suggest you convey my proposal to your partner. She might be more experienced in practical matters.”
“I doubt she’ll be any more willing than I, but I assure you, she’ll hear about your visit.”
With an angry frown he left, closing the door more firmly than necessary. I watched him go, thinking of things I should have said. The main one was, “I’m calling the police.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Barb
When I left Rory’s office, I punched the address for Winston Darrow’s house into my GPS. They’d charged him with failure to report a murder and released him, but the sheriff told Rory he’d almost certainly face more charges as the investigation proceeded. Darrow had hired a local attorney with a decent reputation, Byron Glass. If the Darrow assets weren’t already frozen they soon would be, but Glass was apparently willing to work on spec.
The sky was gray, but Michigan winters have multiple shades of gray. Today’s tone was steely and flat, filtering the sun’s light to a somber glow that said It’s January. Get used to it, because there’s still a long way to go.
Darrow lived a few miles east of Lawton, on Morning Glory Lane, which meant I had to navigate an irritating succession of smaller and smaller roads without one straight mile the whole way. At this point in the winter, four-foot snow banks lined the way, narrowing the roads until it felt like I was on a luge run.
Caving to the demands of Michigan winters, I’d bought an SUV and stored my beloved ’57 Chevy to protect it from salt, sand, and snow damage. The Ford Edge kept me firmly on the road, but the drive was dull under the black-gray-white landscape people of the Midwest are used to in January. Following the GPS directions, I turned onto the lane where no morning glories would be seen for months.
Rural with a capital R, the Darrow home was the perfect place for someone who wanted to get away from it all. Unlike the closely nestled cottages I’d pass along the way, the house was set apart from others by some distance. It was situated on the far side of a small lake, so I was able to see it for over a mile before I actually arrived. The ground floor, lined with glass doors, had a cantilevered deck overlooking the lake. Above it, the second floor had its own deck, also fronted with glass. Above that was a sharply slanted roof of cedar shakes, its various peaks signaling rooms with many different views. A manor house for the gentry of Bonner County.
I rang the bell, and Darrow answered with a glass of wine in hand. When I’d called to say I was coming, he hadn’t responded until I identified myself. He knew enough to screen his calls, but it was only a matter of time until the press showed up on his doorstep.
“Mrs. Evans? Please, come in.” He glanced across the lake, checking the road for traffic before closing the door after us. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
“No,” I said brusquely. “I’m here to give you a second and final shot at telling us the truth.”
He peered into his glass. “I never lied to Mrs. Burner.”
“But you failed to tell her some important things.”
Darrow set the glass down on a marble-topped end table, making a sharp clink. “I thought if you found who killed Stacy it wouldn’t matter that I left some things out.”
“It doesn’t work like that.” I glanced at the deck, visible through French doors over Darrow’s shoulder. “She was leaving you.”
He gestured angrily. “I don’t believe that.”
“You told Faye your marriage was less than idyllic.”
“Well, yes, but Stacy liked things the way they were.” He folded his arms around his ribs, as if he’d caught a chill. “She liked it here.”
“In Michigan?”
“In this house out in the middle of nowhere.” He glanced around, obviously unable to comprehend his wife’s choices. “No friends, no culture, no summer—not what I call summer. She had her computer and her horses. That made her happy.”
I heard a note in his voice. “You’re not a horse person.”
He waved toward the barn dismissively. “They don’t like me. The stupid red one always tries to bite me if I get too close. One time—”
Uninterested in livestock stories, I asked, “If Stacy didn’t intend to leave, why did she buy an airline ticket?”
“No idea.” He rubbed his chin. “Just a few weeks ago she told me this was the best life she could hope for. That doesn’t sound like she planned to leave, does it?”
It didn’t sound particularly positive, either. The best one could “hope for” wasn’t the best that could be. I went on to the other lie. “You went to the bank instead of calling the police.”
Darrow raised a palm as if that was easy to answer. “I had to get the cash I had access to before the cops froze everything.” He tilted his head to one side in a pose he apparently thought was appealing. “It’s not like an hour was going to change anything.”
The death of a loved one—or in this case, a liked one, can create strange behavior. A friend onc
e told me that when she learned her husband been killed in an accident, her first thought was, “I have twenty-two dollars in my purse.” Though Darrow’s story was plausible in that light, I’d already figured out that in this case there was truth and there was Win-spin.
Picking up his glass, Darrow took a hefty swig. I watched as he wiped his lips delicately with a knuckle. Despite my objections to Retta’s pushiness and her obsession with social status, I consider her a pretty good judge of character. She admitted Winston was shallow, but she insisted he wasn’t a killer, and honestly, he didn’t seem like one to me, either.
“Did you and your wife get along, Mr. Darrow?”
He thought about that. “It sounds weird, but we did. I didn’t like living in this cultural vacuum, but when I got bored, Stacy would just say, ‘Go someplace warm for a week or two!’”
“She paid?”
“Always.”
“But she had no interest in going along.”
“She said I’d earned it.” Darrow gestured vaguely toward the kitchen. “Before I left, I’d make meals and freeze them.” He chuckled dryly. “I put notes on them: Thaw for three hours. Cook at 350 for thirty minutes. The most food preparation Stacy ever did was filling the coffeemaker with water. We were different, but we did okay together.” His eyes teared up, and I turned away to give him a minute.
Darrow seemed truthful, at least at that moment, and I wondered what kind of woman his wife had been. Glancing out the windows, I concluded she’d sought solitude in this very rural setting. What had she thought of her philandering husband? Who aside from him might have wanted to chase her through her house, onto the deck, and shoot her dead? Had she been afraid of someone?
I turned to Darrow again. “You traveled while your wife stayed home alone, and she was fine with that.”
“Right.”
“And when you flirted with other women, was she okay with that, too?”
He put out both hands in a plea for understanding. “Would she leave over a few dinners with Retta when she didn’t object to me taking river cruises in Europe and month-long trips to the temples of Vietnam?”
He was correct. A wife who encourages her husband to go off on his own might expect he’ll find more than beautiful vistas along the way. If she was upset he’d found a woman close to home, why not demand he end it? Those who allow extramarital affairs often set conditions like “not in the neighborhood” or “not among our friends.” Darrow probably would have complied, being fond of Stacy and more than fond of her money.
I took Darrow through his story again, this time following as he recreated his movements. I spent a few minutes in Stacy’s room, but nothing struck me as unusual. Loaded bookshelves, a computer, a queen-sized bed. Neat but not obsessively so. I ran a finger lightly over a row of books, recognizing some authors Faye liked.
As Win acted out what he’d done, I listened for false notes, but he seemed to be telling what happened as he remembered it. I heard real distress in his voice when he came to the part about finding Stacy’s body. As far as I could discern, it was a truthful account. What was he leaving out?
When I could think of nothing else to ask, we returned to the living room. I picked up my coat, which Darrow took and held for me. “The press will be here soon,” I warned as I buttoned up. “You should close the blinds.”
He glanced out the window again. “Glass says they’ll interview anyone who ever spoke to Stacy or me.”
I nodded agreement. “People who aren’t even sure what you look like will gladly offer their opinions of you, your wife, and the way you treat your horses.”
He moaned softly, and I felt a little sorry for him. Until they’ve been hounded by the press, few understand how intrusive it is. “Stay low for a day or two,” I advised. “We’ll see what we can find out. Oh, and let Glass know we’re working for you.”
“Already did,” he said. “I appreciate you coming out here, and Mrs. Burner was really nice.” His mouth drooped. “She’s the only person so far that said she was sorry for my loss.”
That was Faye. Though she didn’t particularly like Darrow, she’d still had the decency to offer condolences while everyone else, including me, had ignored a human being who might—just might—be shocked and grieved by his wife’s death.
I arrived home to find the Closed for 20 Minutes sign on the front door. Knowing Dale seldom went far, I walked through the house and out the back door. While Faye laid claim to the yard, her husband had taken over a garage too small to be of much use for modern vehicles. I’d had a carport built and stored my Chevy in a shed just out of town, leaving him the eight-by-eight structure for a workshop. He’d installed a small pellet stove and now spent his days out there, repairing small engines for neighbors, family, and friends.
Peering in the window, I knocked once then entered. Dale was at the back, bent over a snow-blower. Once a strong guy who’d operated an impressive array of forestry equipment, Dale was left with brain damage after a tree branch—a much-dreaded “widow-maker”—fell on him. He has to wear dark glasses all the time, and in the workshop, he uses earmuffs to deaden sound. He managed to keep his sense of humor, which I appreciate.
Though he didn’t hear me knock, Dale looked up at the flash of light as the door opened. “Hey, Barb,” he said, removing the muffs. The space heater wasn’t very efficient, and the room was nippy. He wore gloves, which no doubt interfered with his work. I wondered if there was a way I could provide a better heater without insulting his pride.
“Where’s Faye?” I kept my voice low. High pitched noises are hardest on him, which is why he spends as little time as possible with either his mother or Retta.
“She went to get the dog. Vet said he can come home.”
The dog. Home. We had a case, and Faye’s mind was on the dog. “Okay, thanks.”
As I entered through the back, I heard steps at the front. Hurrying forward, I found Retta on the porch. She wore a blue coat over a soft sweater of emerald green that set off her honey-blond hair, leggings I wouldn’t have attempted in my twenties, and stunning jewelry in gold and tiger eye. Despite the fact that she lives out in the country, Retta gets up every day, showers, fixes her hair and make-up, and puts on pretty clothes, just in case.
Honestly, I don’t get it.
I unlocked the door, and after tapping her toes on the frame to shake off the snow, she came in. “Hi, Barbara.”
“Hi.” Closing the door behind her, I shrugged off my coat and hung it on the hall tree. When I turned toward Retta, she reached out and straightened the collar of my shirt, pressing it with her hand until it laid the way she wanted it to. She didn’t notice my annoyance, or if she did, she ignored it.
“Where’s Faye?”
“She went to get her new dog.”
“A dog?” Retta’s face lit. “What kind did she get?”
“I haven’t seen it yet, but I gather it’s a mutt.”
The light dimmed. “She’s adopting a stray?”
“It has a broken leg.”
“So she’ll take it to the Humane Society now?”
“I think she plans to keep it if no one claims it.”
Retta touched the side of her face as if to assure herself this wasn’t a dream. “If I’d known she wanted a dog, I’d have helped her find one.”
“She wasn’t looking for a dog. This one was hit by a car, and she couldn’t leave it lying in the road.”
“But a stray?” She shuddered. “It might have a mean disposition or a personality quirk or some nasty disease.” Shaking a finger at me she advised, “You need to find out what kind of dog she’s bringing into your home.”
I had an unusual feeling of warmth for Retta. Reluctant about having a dog around, I’d been feeling guilty. Now I could console myself with the thought that at least I’m not a canine snob like Baby Sister.
Dropping the topic of dogs, I filled Retta in on what we’d learned about Darrow. She asked intelligent questions from time to time, but mo
stly she listened, which was refreshing. When I told her the extent of his lies, she didn’t seem hurt, just irritated.
When I finished, she asked, “Should I go talk to him?”
“There’s nothing you can do for him right now, and he can do you tons of damage.”
“But I’m not one to desert a friend in need.”
“A friend, Retta? He’s lied to you for months.”
“I know.” She ran a hand over her hair. “It was hard to accept, but I get it now. Faye says he and his wife had separate lives, so he felt like he was single, you know?”
Oh, the deceptions we allow ourselves! Already leaning toward forgiveness, Retta had decided to “be there” for Winston, a term I despise as unspecific and maudlin. There was one thing that might stop her, and that was the bald truth. “Do as you like, but if you go—” I gestured a banner headline. “Hero Cop’s Wife Tied to Murderer.”
“I didn’t think about them pulling Don into it.” Her nose wrinkled. “What can I do, then?”
This was also refreshing: Retta asking for advice from the sister she considers dowdy and hopelessly out-of-touch. I did, of course, have decades of experience dealing with crime and the media. “You might call a reporter you trust and offer an exclusive interview. You knew Darrow as a friend, you and he shared an interest in…something boring, like philately.” Leaning back in my chair I asked, “Did anyone ever see the two of you being affectionate?”
She thought about it. “I don’t think so.”
“Good. Without saying you weren’t having sex, try to give the impression you weren’t.”
She raised perfectly-shaped brows. “How do you know we were?”
I chuckled. “I’m a single girl, too, Retta. I suppose when an attractive man comes along, we both make the same choice.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Faye
When the vet called to say I could bring Buddy home, I locked the front door again and went to get him. I’d already prepared a spot in our bedroom that was comfortable and stocked with toys, and I was anxious to see him snuggled in and content.
