by R. J. Lee
“That makes sense, of course,” Ross said in that impeccably calm tone he used in his interrogations. “Just as it makes sense that your prints and DNA were all over the bar area, since that’s your workstation.” Then he switched subjects. “Did you see anyone or hear anything once you had returned to the bar after your call?”
“Yes, I saw Miz Carly and Miz Wendy, and they came up to me from the locker-room hallway and asked me to follow them. They were both sort of breathless and excited, and I did follow them to Miz Deedah’s office, where they told her and the others about Mr. Ogle, and that is the first I knew anything about it.”
Ross was making mental notes and said nothing for a while. Slowly but surely, a timeline during the blackout was emerging. Carlos insisted that he had not encountered Hollis Hornesby and Carly Ogle or anyone else out on the portico at any time. Carly had said she had left the portico for Deedah’s office shortly after the power outage but that Hollis had stayed out there. Yet the party line seemed to be that Carlos and Hollis had not crossed paths. Were they perhaps in this together somehow as Brent Ogle’s favorite targets? Or was he creating a conspiracy theory by overreacting?
So, Ross did a rewind in his head of the timeline: Hollis and Carly had both said on their taped interrogations Saturday evening that they had left Deedah’s office before the power outage for some air under the portico—then returned at different times. Ross reasoned upon second consideration that Hollis, Carly, and Carlos were all like the proverbial ships passing in the night, just missing each other in a very tight timeline. Which was the more likely scenario? He did not have enough information at this time to reach a conclusion.
“So you state emphatically once again that you did not hit Mr. Ogle over the head with your pestle?” Ross continued.
Carlos held up his hand and then crossed himself. “I swear to God that I did not, Mr. Rierson.”
“In any case, I’m sure you know that we will want you to stay in Rosalie throughout the investigation. Please do not leave for any reason.”
“Where would I take my family and go to? Back to Cuba? ” Carlos said with great intensity. “Castro may be dead now, but Cuba is still not free. And there were people who never got out and paid with their lives at the time of the revolution.” Then he covered his chest with the palm of his hand. “Rosalie is my home now, and it is truly my heart, mi corazón.”
“All right, then. I have one last thing for you. Miz Carly states that someone knocked her down in the hallway after she discovered her husband’s body. I am already going on the assumption that it was not you who did that.”
Carlos nodded eagerly. “It was not.”
“She also says that she gave a little shriek when that happened and that whoever it was ran away in the direction of the great room. If you were there at the bar at that time, then why did you not hear Miz Carly or the footsteps of someone running across the great room? You saw and heard nothing?”
Carlos frowned, bringing out every line in his face as he was obviously trying hard to remember. “Well, there was a period in there that I got enough of a signal to listen to music on my cell phone to pass the time, and it was plugged into my ear. I got tired of standing, so I went over to one of the sofas across the way to lie down for a little while. But I had come back to the bar when Miz Carly and Miz Wendy came out from the hallway and told me to follow them to Miz Deedah’s office.”
“Well, that fits in very nicely with other testimony, but again I must ask you not to leave town.”
After Carlos had left, Ross stayed in the interrogation room and thought even further about the timeline during the blackout. He had come up with a short sentence that he absolutely believed in: Wendy is my constant.
No matter what anyone else had said or would say had happened during that half-hour period, Wendy was the one person he could rely upon for the unvarnished truth. She had no reason to lie about anything, nor did she have any hidden agendas. That was not an advantage he had often enjoyed during his many investigations. Much of the time, a variety of suspects presented their own conflicting versions of the truth; and, of course, the guilty party or parties frequently lied to try to confuse things and escape prosecution.
This constant of his—his very own Wendy—just might give Ross the baseline he needed to solve the murder of Brent Ogle in a timely manner.
CHAPTER 7
Carly Ogle had been right when she had suggested to Wendy that there might be a paltry turnout for her husband’s memorial service at the First Presbyterian Church. In fact, there could not have been more than twenty-five, maybe thirty people scattered around the historic building with its Calvinist lack of ornamentation, plain white walls, and tall, clear windows that disdained stained glass. But it occurred to Wendy that Carly’s had become a self-fulfilling prophecy because she had labored mightily to keep everything somewhat of a secret. Perhaps she simply did not want to deal with tons of people trying to find the words to paint Brent Ogle in the most favorable light. She knew that would be a task for most of them. Or she was not up to standing on her feet, shaking a lot of hands, and smiling obsequiously for an hour or two, pretending that it was the least bit tolerable for her.
In any case, the no-nonsense, iconic Reverend Vernon Foster thankfully had not composed a lengthy, overblown homily to preach from the pulpit. Instead, he had focused on generalities, things that might have applied to anyone who had occupied space during a particular lifetime. These were platitudes with which no one could disagree. And he had ended on a hopeful, though vague, note as well.
“Let us all take this moment to be thankful for life itself as we say goodbye to Brent David Ogle, Sr., of Rosalie, Mississippi.”
Sitting in a pew close to the front with Ross on one side of her and her father on the other, Wendy could not help but find those closing words somewhat equivocal, even slightly disrespectful. It was almost like the Reverend Foster were saying, “Thank God we’re all still alive, no thanks to Brent Ogle.”
Then she caught herself and cringed. This hot tub murder at the RCC was really beginning to do a number on her. It continued to blur the line between the job she was supposed to be doing for pay and the one her father and Ross were doing as part of their job description.
There had been no visitation earlier. Because of the autopsy situation in Jackson, there was no body to view, nor an urn containing ashes on display. Just the brief service. Then, at the Spartan reception in the Fellowship Hall next door—no refreshments other than a pitcher of ice water and plastic glasses had even been provided—Wendy noticed that Carly seemed eager to get things over with as people approached her; she was saying things to them like, “Please don’t think you have to stay any longer,” and, “Thank you for coming, but I know you have things you need to do today.” Taking their cue from her, the sparse crowd dwindled down to practically nothing quickly. In an odd reversal of form, people had come there to comfort Carly, but she had managed to make them feel uncomfortable and drive them away. Funerals were clearly not her forte.
But David Ogle remained by his mother’s side the entire time, his face a study in stoicism. Wendy was impressed with the way he hooked his arm through hers and held her close to his side, as if trying to infuse her with his own strength. As Carly had told her at Brentwood, the young man did not resemble his father at all—neither in looks nor in stature. Though he was attractive, his features were not sharp and angular like Brent’s had been. His hair was light, not dark. His was a softer countenance, not unlike his mother’s, and he was also several inches shorter than his more athletic father. Genes were often more random than people thought, and it was sometimes possible for offspring to have little in common with one or both parents. David Ogle appeared to be one such example, at least where his father was concerned.
Wendy tried at one point to make small talk with him, as Ross stood nearby. “Your mother tells us you’re a teacher. History, I believe.”
“Yes. You can’t really succeed in this world unles
s you have a sense of history. I mourn for today’s generation. Some of them think the world started the day they were born.”
Wendy took the controversial comment in stride and said, “Have you always wanted to teach?”
David bowed his head slightly. “Always. I never understood why some people didn’t share my passion for learning. But I never wanted to teach down here in the South. It’s way behind in so many ways. Maybe even a century and a half behind, and sometimes I think that’s being too generous.”
Carly intervened quickly, forcing a smile. “Now don’t get into all of that, David. The Civil War is over.”
“But the lingering effects from it are not. Nor of Jim Crow. We are all still paying as a country for those sins, and we will for some time to come. Anyway, I’m just answering her question, Mom,” David said, his face now flushed and full of intensity. “I’m telling her the truth. This is not the life I wanted for myself down here. Wisconsin, on the other hand, is in an alternate universe, and I’m proud to live there. At least there, they’ve moved into the millennium.”
Wendy caught Ross’s eye briefly but said nothing further. She was reminded of everything Carly had told her about the strained relationship between David and his father. That Brent had become even more ornery and insensitive because he couldn’t seem to make a connection with his own son growing up and even after the boy had reached manhood. Wendy could see for herself quite clearly after the brief exchange she’d had with David how accurate all that had been.
“David would like to stay with me a little longer,” Carly said. “But he has to be back in Wisconsin for his job. It’s very important to him, of course. It was hard enough for him to get off to come down as it was. Much as I hate to see him go, he’s leaving tomorrow.”
“I’ve been telling Mom to sell the house and come up to live with me in Wisconsin,” David added. “I’m hoping at some point she’ll listen to me and not ramble around the place all by herself. Brentwood was always way bigger than it needed to be. So many rooms, so little time to find a use for them all. It was the ultimate ego trip for my father.”
Carly seemed uncomfortable with her son’s words. “I told him I’d consider it. I just need some time to think things over. I’ve been told you should never make major decisions until at least six months to a year after you’ve lost a loved one, so I’m keeping that in mind as I try to move forward.”
“Neither of us liked the house,” David continued. “It was all about Dad and nothing else. Thus, the pompous name—Brentwood. I always liked to think of it more as Brentpatch.”
The muscles of Carly’s face tightened and she leaned against her son. “I think that’s quite enough of your airing our dirty laundry in public, David. Don’t spoil your visit, please.”
“Sorry,” he said, catching everyone’s gaze in turn. “It’s just that I don’t want Mom to be alone now. I have a good life up there in Wisconsin, and I’d like Mom to come and be a part of it, that’s all. I don’t think I’m asking too much. I’m just thinking of what’s best for her.”
“I’ll work things out my own way in my own time,” Carly told him. “Meanwhile, let’s let these kind folks be on their way.”
Wendy and the two men in her life took their cue and made their manners in short order.
“Please get in touch with me if there is anything I can do for you, Carly,” Wendy said there at the end as the two women hugged.
“I promise I’ll do just that. And thanks again for coming and for your all your kind concern.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, Wendy, Ross, and Bax were all having nightcaps at a Country Café corner table, the cozy little pub with a classic ’50s jukebox just down from Bluff City Bistro on Broad Street that they all sometimes frequented together. Whenever they went in, Bax liked to go over and buy a listen to one of Patsy Cline’s classics—sometimes “Crazy,” sometimes “Sweet Dreams,” or what they were all listening to now—“Walkin’ After Midnight.”
“Glad you insisted we have a bite before the services and not after, daughter a’ mine,” Bax said, contentedly sipping his off-duty beer and tapping his foot to the beat of his favorite music. “We’d be starving to death by now. That’s the first wake I’ve ever been to where there wasn’t even as much as a dish of mixed nuts to snack on or a paper napkin to wipe the salt off your hands.”
“The whole thing was bare-bones and rushed,” Ross added, staring down at his scotch and soda.
“I saw it coming, though,” Wendy said. “Carly was up-front with me about how unhappy she was in their marriage. I guess she felt she had to keep up appearances and have some sort of service for social reasons, but as we all witnessed, her heart just wasn’t in it. Not by a mile.”
“She told me the same thing about her relationship with her husband when I interviewed her Saturday evening,” Ross continued. “Offhand, I’d say most Rosalieans weren’t going to show up and shed alligator tears for Brent anyway and Miz Ogle knew it. She cut ’em off at the pass and avoided embarrassment. At least that’s the way I have it figured. I can’t say I blame her if that was the reasoning behind it.”
Wendy took a sip of her coffee liqueur and quivered slightly as it slid down her throat with a pleasant burning sensation. “That’s one way of looking at it.” She glanced first at Ross, then at her father. “How are you men progressing with this case? What bits and pieces can you share with me? If I might, I’d like to say this about it. It seems there are plenty of suspects, but it also seems like none of them are the type of person who would actually do something like club someone over the head with a pestle. In fact, the only person I can think of who might club someone over the head with a pestle is Brent Ogle, himself. Yet I’m more than reasonably sure this wasn’t a matter of suicide. Do you guys think I have a point?”
Ross caught himself in the midst of a chuckle but repressed it quickly. “Actually, I think you do, strange as it seems. Carlos Galbis comes off like a hardworking saint to me. Hollis Hornesby seems like a bullied innocent with an artistic but completely mild temperament. His mother is obviously quite qualified to run the RCC and has been cooperative with the department in the extreme. We couldn’t have asked for more, the way she let us use her office for questioning. Those golfers are a couple of good ole boys whose worst vice seems to be drinking too much and being a bad judge of character, and that golf pro conducts herself in a very professional manner and doesn’t seem to let anything bother her. None of them seem capable of the sort of rage I see in the blunt force trauma that killed Brent Ogle.”
“Yet we have a dead body,” Bax added. “So somebody is not what they appear to be. There’s a façade and a backstory somewhere out there that we’re missing or not picking up on.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll turn up the truth eventually,” Ross said. “It’s just a matter of time.”
“Speaking of time,” Bax continued, “I called down to Jackson again this morning to check on the status of Brent Ogle’s autopsy. They’re still backed up like you wouldn’t believe down there. The State of Mississippi could stand to give the ME a lot more help than he has now.”
Ross swallowed a healthy swig of his scotch and soda and made a macho face as it kicked in. “I don’t see what difference it makes, though. The coroner said the COD was clearly blunt force trauma. What else do they expect to find?”
“You never know in murder cases, my boy,” Bax said. “The strangest things sometimes turn up. Things you’d never expect. We’ll just have to wait and see before we close that part of the case.”
Wendy had been hanging on their every word and was now thoroughly intrigued. “You said some strange things have turned up in autopsies, Daddy. Can you give me an example?”
Bax sucked in a bit of air, and his mouth hitched up to one side. “Matter a’ fact, I can think of one right off the bat. We had a case once that appeared to be an accident. An older man had walked out onto his front porch, fallen, and hit his head on the front stoop. That
had caused a blood clot to form inside his brain and that took him out. But the tox panel in the autopsy later revealed that he had three times the amount of an antidepressant in his bloodstream than his doctor had prescribed for him. That should never have happened, because his home nurse was responsible for his med schedule. It was up to her to see that he got enough but not too much. Turns out the old man’s son and the nurse were having an affair and the son couldn’t wait to inherit his father’s impressive estate and gallivant around the world with her. So he had the nurse overdose the old man, and that’s what caused the fall, and you can thank the autopsy for that. Both the son and the nurse are in prison now for premeditated murder. So they didn’t get away with anything.”
Wendy looked supremely satisfied. She had always been mesmerized by her father’s stories from the time she was a little girl. He was surely her Svengali. “I had another thought while we’re kicking things around. Has the department done enough so far in regard to backstories?”
“If you mean, have we checked for criminal records among all the suspects, the answer is yes,” Bax told her. “No hits on anyone. But the reality is, someone will end up with a record after we put this one to bed.”
“I didn’t mean that exactly, Daddy. Maybe we should be looking for something else in their background.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know.” Wendy was alive with speculation. “It’s just that something about the term backstory is resonating with me for some reason. Isn’t that what sleuthing is all about?”
“So your puzzle-solving gene is acting up again, I take it? ”
