Kemp winced.
“An overdose of tranquilizers is what killed the dogs, if that’s of any interest.”
“Why not use the knife again?” Kemp asked.
“Maybe the death of the dogs was accidental.”
Kemp looked surprised. “How do you figure?”
“There was really no need to kill them, only to quiet them. . . . Who knows how many grams of Valium a German shepherd can safely handle?”
“A vet,” Kemp said.
“Well, then, we know that our killer is probably not a vet, don’t we?” Little asked facetiously.
Above them a red-headed woodpecker bored into the bark of a tree. A brown squirrel sat on his haunches, nervously nibbling an acorn while a swarm of gray-and-white pygmy nuthatches pecked among the fallen pine needles. Actually, the yellow ribbon cordoning off the area was the only sign that a murder had been committed in this peaceful grotto.
“Nothing more here.” Little took a final look around. The large blank eyes of the Madonna reminded him of Laura Purcell’s eyes. “Maybe we should talk to the girlfriend,” he said, although he wasn’t looking forward to it. Too much like torturing a wounded animal. The two officers descended the steep path toward the main building.
“Did you find anything on Beverly Benton?” Little still could not place her, although he’d known from the moment he laid eyes on her that he’d seen her somewhere before.
“Nothing much more than we already knew, except that she has no outstanding warrants for her arrest.”
“Too bad.” Little ducked his head to avoid a tree branch. “At least we’d have accomplished something.”
“Maybe when we’re finished here, I can run over and talk to some of Benton’s neighbors, if you think it’s necessary.”
Little grunted. He wouldn’t know that until after he’d questioned Laura Purcell.
Kemp pointed to the massive shape of Eric Loody guarding the entrance to the parking lot. “At least we’re safe from intruders and the press,” he quipped.
“Maybe it’s the people already in here that we should be afraid of,” Little said. “Which reminds me, see if you can find Sister Felicita and ask her to gather up all the retreatants’ car keys. I’ll call the boys at Crime Scene.”
Watching Kemp disappear into St. Agnes’ Hall, Little placed his call. “I want all the cars on the property checked for hair, fiber, dirt, leaves, bloodstains, anything that could be used as evidence on how the victim was transported,” he said.
He was relieved when the deputy answered. “Yeah, yeah, yeah! You don’t have to tell us how to do our job. And, by the way, we found the victim’s car.” Little listened eagerly while the officer filled him in on all the details.
When Kemp returned, his coat pocket jingling with car keys, Little pulled back the door to St. Philomena’s Hall and gave him the news about Johnson’s Camaro.
“Where’d they find it?” Kemp asked.
“In the emergency parking lot of Dominican Hospital, right here in Santa Cruz.”
“Find anything?” Kemp stamped dust from his polished shoes.
Little shook his head. “Nothing much. The keys were still in it. The complete door, including the handle on the driver’s side—all wiped clean.” A trickle of sweat ran down his back and he wondered how long before he could shed his sport jacket.
“He must have met his murderer there,” Kemp muttered. “Did anyone remember seeing anything unusual?”
“Nothing. A deputy asked around, but no one remembers seeing him either. Emergency was exceptionally busy on Sunday night, what with it being Father’s Day. It was pretty much what you’d expect. Broken bones from hikes and picnics, burns and cuts from kitchen accidents, traffic accidents, domestic violence. One dear old drunken dad even got himself shot by his son-in-law. I imagine by three in the morning, the emergency staff was too tired to notice if Jack the Ripper was in the parking lot.”
Kemp smiled. “Not your typical Hallmark holiday, right?”
“Not at the emergency room anyway,” Little said.
“Any signs of Johnson’s blood in the area?”
“None, so far.”
“Then Johnson must have gone in another car with someone he knew. Someone who could make his getting in seem plausible. Or maybe that’s when he got the bump on the head.” Kemp unhooked his bow tie and the top two buttons of his shirt. “God, it’s hot!” he said.
“The autopsy report shows our boy consumed quite a bit of alcohol. There is the possibility that he was a bit sloshy when he met his murderer.”
“I wonder where they went.”
“No one knows,” Little said. “Not yet, anyway.”
Softly, Little knocked on Laura Purcell’s bedroom door. The nervous knot in his stomach reminded him of how much he was dreading this interview. He wondered what her reaction to him would be this morning.
During his years with the Sheriff’s Department, he had been the bearer of bad news to dozens of next of kin and it never got any easier. It was impossible to predict reactions. Shock made some stoic. It made others babble, while still others refused to believe the news, as if denying it made it disappear. Some cried. A few, like Laura, became hysterical. One thing he had learned was that the initial reaction was no indication of whether or not the person had committed the crime. One case in particular he remembered. A distraught husband, hellbent on avenging his wife’s violent death, turned out to be her murderer.
Little knocked again.
“Just a minute,” a hoarse voice called out.
When Laura Purcell finally answered the door, she was wrapped in a pink chenille bedspread with clearly nothing underneath it. Embarrassed for her, Little watched her pad barefoot across the room, then settle herself, cross-legged, in the middle of the rumpled bed.
All the color drained from her face, she clutched the spread under her chin and stared at him. Long strands of auburn hair pulled by static electricity took on a life of their own. Her whole pose took on a Medusa-ish appearance.
Little tried his friendliest smile. Eyes glassy-green, Laura continued to stare. Obviously she was waiting for him to speak first. “Were you able to get any sleep last night?” Little asked. One look at her and you wouldn’t have to be a detective to know the answer.
“Some.” She sounded as if someone had opened a spigot and drained out all her energy.
“Do you feel up to telling me what happened Sunday night?” Little asked gently.
“I guess,” Laura said.
Kemp took out his notepad. Fear skittered across Laura’s face. It was the first bit of emotion she’d shown since the two detectives entered her bedroom.
“Do you mind if Dave takes a few notes?” Little asked.
Laura shook her head, although everything about her shouted Yes, I mind very much.
“Sunday night? After you left here?” Little coached. “Can you remember what happened, Laura? Try not to leave out anything. Even if it doesn’t seem important to you, you never know what bearing it might have on the case.”
In a flat, detached voice, Laura recited the events of Sunday night as if she’d done it all before: the movies, stopping for champagne; the details of their lovemaking.
Kemp coughed nervously. My fault, Little thought, avoiding his partner’s glance. I asked her to be specific. Laura continued, zombielike. A single tear ran down her cheek when she told him about the early morning phone call, waking and finding both Greg and the car gone. She didn’t make a move to wipe it away.
“You know the rest,” she said, and fell into a brooding silence.
“What do you think, Dave?” Bob Little asked, once the two men were outside the building.
“You got what you asked for, all right. And then some!”
Even through his tan, Little felt his face burn red. Terry thought that this blushing business was sweet. He thought it was a damn pain in the butt and he had no desire to find out what Kemp thought.
“Well, she pinned down th
e time. Right on the mark with the coroner,” he said, pretending that was what Kemp meant. “And the phone call. What do you think about that?”
“It sounds to me like a ploy to get him away from Laura’s house.” Kemp wiped his forehead with a clean handkerchief. “Let’s get the hell out of this heat.”
“Unless his mother really was in some kind of an accident.” Little thought he smelled the aroma of sizzling bacon coming from St. Jude’s.
“Which can be easily proven with a couple of phone calls.”
Little nodded. “I’m starving,” he said, hoping Kemp hadn’t heard his stomach growling again.
In silent agreement, the two men started toward the air-conditioned dining room. “One thing for sure,” Kemp said, “whoever placed that call is our killer.”
“Unless, of course . . .” Little paused and pulled back the heavy dining room door. “Our Miss Laura made up the whole damn thing.”
When the nuns stepped out of St. Agnes’ Hall, Sister Mary Helen spotted Sergeant Little as he and Deputy Kemp strode across the parking lot. She froze. They were headed for the dining room; exactly where she intended to go. She could not investigate with them hanging about, listening. How could she ask her next “unsuspect” questions in front of two detectives? They’d surely never stand for that.
“What’s the matter, old dear?” Eileen asked.
“Our plan has been foiled.”
“Which plan?”
“To go through the list of the least likely suspects.”
“Whom were we considering next, Felicita or the monsignor?”
“Exactly,” Mary Helen said.
Eileen’s bushy gray eyebrows shot up. “Are you listening to me?”
“Of course I am listening.” Mary Helen hoped she looked offended. “It’s just that to my mind those two are neck and neck. I’m not sure which I’d consider first. I was going to let the Spirit lead where She will. But if they’re both in the dining room . . .”
Eileen sniffed. “Do you smell it?”
“Of course!” Mary Helen said with a sudden surge of high, if not holy, spirit. “It’s Yardley’s Lavender.”
Just then, an unsuspecting Sister Felicita rounded the corner.
Even in the dim hall light, Felicita’s face shone red. From her glare, which easily could have singed them, Mary Helen guessed that the high color was a mixture of anger and frustration.
“What is it you want?” she snapped, proving Mary Helen’s theory.
“Nothing, really.” Mary Helen tried not to sound too calm. She knew from experience that when you are in a dither, there is nothing like saintly serenity to send you right over the top.
“How are you doing, Sister?” Eileen asked gently.
“Terribly, if you want to know.” Felicita, eyes blinking furiously behind her rimless glasses, dared either of them to say something pious.
Both nuns knew better.
“My phone has not stopped ringing since it woke me up at six,” she said. “I’m lucky I even had a chance to get dressed.”
Wisps of ash-blond angel hair sprang over the rim of her coif as if the whole headpiece had been hurriedly set in place. Even her scapular hung a little crookedly, bearing out the truth of her statement.
“Sister Timothy is calling every few minutes, acting as if it’s my fault that they’re all stranded. From what she says, Mother Superior is about ready for apoplexy over the scandal this incident will cause. She can’t even bring herself to say the word murder.”
Mary Helen doubted that any mother superior worth her salt was that delicate and was about to say so, but she wasn’t given the chance.
“According to Timothy, I am to avoid all contact with the press. Do you know how difficult that is to do?” Felicita’s eyes leveled on Mary Helen.
Mary Helen nodded. If anyone does, I do, she thought, remembering her own uncomfortable notoriety.
“Have you any idea how many reporters have called?” The question was obviously rhetorical. “If that big Sergeant Loody wasn’t at the entrance, the place would be swarming with them. Every time I hear an airplane, I’m afraid they’re taking aerial photos.”
“No one could blame you for that,” Eileen said reasonably.
Felicita gave her a decided “it shows what you know” look.
Eileen refused to be put off that easily. “The best thing to do is forget about Sister Timothy and Mother Superior, in fact all the nuns at St. Anthony’s.” She waved her chubby hand as if to encompass all the nuns in the entire world. “Forget about the press. There is nothing you can do about any of them. Deal with what’s going on here and now.”
“Here and now?” Felicita winced as if Eileen had hit an exposed nerve. “Here and now?” She pointed to the parking lot, where an official-looking car and three equally official-looking men stood with satchels and brown bags. Sergeant Little must have ordered some further investigation, Mary Helen thought, momentarily distracted from Felicita’s ravings.
“Those men are going to search the priests’ cars,” Felicita said in the same tone she might use to denounce a sacrilege. “And the young officer, that Kemp with the bow tie, came to my room. I didn’t even have my coif on yet.”
Deputy Kemp has seen much worse sights, Mary Helen thought but knew better than to say.
“He asked me to get their keys! As if I don’t have enough to do, I have to do his job, too!”
That was puzzling! What was he looking for? “Did you?” Mary Helen asked.
“Did I what?”
“Get the keys?”
“Indeed I did. Although I must admit Father Tom was a little short when I asked him for his.”
Mary Helen perked up. Could his reluctance to part with the keys to his new Mazda be significant?
Felicita let out a noisy breath. “From the looks of him, I woke him up. Although I don’t know how anyone could sleep with the phone ringing and the doors slamming.
“And on top all this, as if I need another thing, the man from D-Pest Control called.” Felicita’s apple face blazed. “It’s time for our monthly spray. If Detective Sergeant Little allows it, we are scheduled for tomorrow morning.” She stared, waiting for the two nuns to get the full impact.
Whatever it was, it completely skimmed past Mary Helen. This morning she’d noticed one tiny spider in the corner of her bedroom, which seemed pretty normal for a mountain retreat.
“Have you a serious bug problem?” Obviously Eileen drew a blank too.
“Actually, it may be fairer to say that the bugs are having a human problem, since they were here first.” Felicita’s blue eyes sparked.
A novel approach, Mary Helen thought, waiting for Felicita to continue. It didn’t take long. The bug man really stuck in her craw.
“Do you have any idea how much time it takes to go with the bug man from building to building showing him every new problem area?”
Both Mary Helen and Eileen readily admitted that they didn’t. If Mary Helen remembered correctly, the pest control company at Mount St. Francis College simply sent out a fellow holding a cylinder with a long, thin pipelike squirter attached to it. He walked around the buildings’ foundations and did just that, squirted. Next time she saw him, she’d have to look more carefully. Obviously, she was missing something.
“It’s an all-morning job!” Felicita’s lips stretched in a thin, angry line. “Sister Timothy’s all-morning job! That was her last message. She had a list of trouble spots on her desk.”
She pulled one hand from beneath her black scapular and waved the offending paper at them.
“And as if I didn’t have enough to worry about!” By now Felicita had a full head of steam and apparently no complaint whatsoever was to be left unstated. “Beverly just phoned!”
Beverly! Mary Helen had completely forgotten about Beverly.
“Do you know where she is?” Felicita’s voice was trembling. “Here! She is here in our very own kitchen demanding that I get over there. She shouted somethin
g about needing more supplies if she’s expected to feed the Sheriff’s Department as well as the priests and nuns.
“That woman!” Felicita strained the words through her teeth.
“Calm down, Felicita,” Eileen said. “You’re wearing yourself to a frazzle!”
Mary Helen held her breath. If anything could really agitate her, it was being told to calm down. Much to her surprise, Felicita did.
Deliberately she let her stiff shoulders sag, and glanced down at her wristwatch. “You’re right. It’s not even ten o’clock in the morning and I’m ready to go back to bed and stay there.”
“How about a cup of coffee?” Eileen’s gray eyebrows shot up. “I bet you haven’t eaten a bite yet. We’ve an old saying back home,” she began with a bit of a brogue. “There’s no tragedy that doesn’t seem worse on an empty stomach.”
Mary Helen was almost certain that Eileen had made that up to fit the moment, but her point was well taken. Furthermore, Mary Helen herself was hungry.
Whatever its origin, Eileen’s “old saying” seemed to be working. Together the nuns crossed the parking lot. The whole place was so idyllic, so tranquil. The sword fern and bracken cast lacy shadows along the edges of the blacktop. Mary Helen stopped and took a deep breath. Fragrant yellow scotch broom gave the air a sweetness. Violets grew in wild clumps and bright blue periwinkle spread up the hillside where chattering birds swooped between the tall trees and bounced on the branches of the oleander. The statue of St. Philomena with her anchor and her martyr’s palm watched over it all with blank plaster eyes.
The crime team, absorbed in picking, dusting, measuring, and bagging things, was the only reminder that a grisly murder had taken place.
The sudden slam of a car trunk sent Felicita’s roller-coaster emotions soaring again. “What will Mother Superior say when she finds out they went through trunks?” she wailed. “We’ll lose all of our clients!” Frustration was driving her close to tears.
“If Mother Superior has any sense at all,” Eileen said gently, “she’ll know you are doing the very best that you can. Even angels can’t do better than their very best!”
Death Goes on Retreat Page 13
