by Carolyn Hart
“Think you can do my job?” The tenor voice behind Sam and Hal was cocky.
The two men moved aside for Jacob Brandt, the brash young medical examiner who was smart, quick, and flip. His Flaming Lips tee was too big, his age-whitened jeans had a hole in one knee, but his eyes were appraising as he looked at the body. The physical investigation of the scene couldn’t begin until he certified death.
He pulled a pair of crumpled plastic gloves from a pocket, knelt by Jay. He slid on the gloves, touched a bare arm. “Rigor mortis well advanced. Dead eight to ten hours. From appearances, looks like blunt trauma. I’ll tell you more after the autopsy.” He popped to his feet, yanked off the gloves, stuffed them in a pocket. “Have at it, guys. Got to get to the morgue.” For once his face looked bleak. “Happens every summer. Somebody loses track of a toddler. Pool in the backyard. God, you’d think they’d learn.” He turned and strode away, head down, face drawn tight.
A careful investigation began, officers measuring, photographing, searching. I recognized Judy Weitz, a self-effacing yet impressive detective. She knelt, took a close-up of the body with a video cam. Slowly she rose, took one step back, filmed, took another step, filmed. When she could move no farther, she would have the body in the context of the room, its position clear, every piece of furniture and all visible objects recorded in specific relationship to the body.
Sam stood in the doorway with the overwhelmed hotel employee. I guessed he was the manager.
The man pulled at the neck of his shirt, looked queasy.
Sam pointed at the body, likely seeking formal identification.
But I was focused on two items. Each posed possibly horrific problems for Deirdre Davenport.
The champagne bottle lying in the shadow of the television set was almost certainly the same bottle that Deirdre grabbed by the neck and thrust at Jay last night in her room. I glanced at the glasses, sparkling in the morning sunshine streaming through a window. Deirdre had also picked up the glasses. The bottle and the glasses would be fingerprinted. Jay’s fingerprints and unknown prints that belonged to Deirdre would be lifted and preserved.
If there came a reason for the police to request her fingerprints, the match would be made. Sharp, probing questions would follow. When did you hold the bottle? What was your relationship to Mr. Knox? Had you and Mr. Knox quarreled?
Unfortunately, I foresaw a reason the police would go to Deirdre. I looked at the telephone sitting at the end of a wet bar. The red message light blinked, blinked, blinked. Now I knew the answer to my casual interest in whether Jay got my message. He had not. But that message was a place for an investigator to start. Sam Cobb would want to know all about Deirdre. It wouldn’t take long to discover she was vying for a job, that she desperately needed a job. How much longer would it take Sam to determine Deirdre’s whereabouts last night? Had anyone seen Jay carrying the champagne bottle, walking toward her room?
I hovered over the phone with its incessant blinking red light. I looked at Sam. He was facing the wet bar. Sam was talking to the hotel clerk, but Sam was always aware of his surroundings. He was also watching the investigation unfold. He would see a telephone receiver rising in the air of its own accord. But there would be a phone in the bedroom.
I was at the bedside table. I lifted the receiver—
“Hey.” The voice was deep, commanding.
Startled, I dropped the receiver. It clattered on the bedside table, plummeted over the side, hung dangling a few inches above the floor.
Hal Price crossed the room in three long strides. He fished a handkerchief out of his pocket, gingerly lifted the receiver. In an instant, he was punching buttons. He listened, and I knew he was committing to memory the message I’d left for Jay.
Why had I not remembered Precept Five? Of course, I rationalized, I hadn’t intended to confound Jay with the message. Oh drat. Honesty compels me to admit I definitely intended to confound Jay. I was trying to make certain he selected Deirdre. I wanted to warn Jay: Watch out, buddy, you’re boxed in. Dr. Randall expects Deirdre Davenport to be selected.
Instead the message was going to embroil Deirdre in a murder investigation. And her fingerprints were on the champagne bottle. . . .
Hal punched speakerphone.
I heard my voice. I must admit it’s rather distinctive, low and husky.
Sam was in the doorway, looking sharply around.
Hal pointed at the phone. “A message left at 11:28 p.m.” He played the message.
Sam’s expression was hard to decipher. “Sure sounds like her.”
I knew he meant Officer Loy.
Hal nodded. “Yeah. Uh, Sam? When I came in the bedroom, the receiver was kind of like, up in the air.”
Sam nodded. “When we finish here, see what you can find out about this Deirdre. Check the front desk, see if she’s a guest. When you’re out and about, keep an eye peeled for her.” He didn’t have to specify. I knew Hal would definitely be on the lookout for me.
Hal replaced the receiver, turned to go.
Judy Weitz entered the bedroom, her gaze roaming from the side table to the beds to the chest. “Chief, I’ve checked the victim’s pockets. No cell. We didn’t find a cell phone anywhere in the living room. How about in here?”
Sam’s eyes were intent. “Good thinking, Judy. Everybody has a cell. Check in here—drawers, floor, everywhere, then scour that room again. Let me know.”
Outside, a crowd was gathering. It was already hot, the scent of fresh mown grass hanging in the air, the smell intensified by the heat of blazing sunlight, a summer day in Adelaide. Onlookers stood in the shadow of white oaks and a gnarled magnolia. Voices were subdued, but the watching eyes were excited. An officer looped crime-scene tape around a stanchion, moved to stick another metal pole in the ground.
Rapid footsteps clattered on the sidewalk. Maureen Matthews hurried around the bend. She was dressed for the conference, a silk blouse with a delicate crochet at the throat and a long slim skirt, both in sunrise pink. She stopped at the turnoff to cabin 5, her way barred by the tape, and looked at a burly officer. “What’s happened?”
“Sorry, ma’am. Crime scene.”
“Crime?” Maureen looked past the balding, red-faced officer. She took a deep, uneven breath, forced out the words. “Who . . . ?” She lifted a hand to her throat.
“Sorry, ma—”
Maureen broke in. “I have to know if something’s happened. That cabin . . . Jay Knox should be there.” Her voice was shaky. She stared at the open door of cabin 5. “Professor Knox is scheduled to speak at ten o’clock.”
The officer reached up, flicked a switch to the mic clipped to his shirt pocket. “Chief, lady out here says she has to know about the occupant of the cabin. He was expected to speak at some program.”
Maureen stared at the officer, pressed her fingers against her cheeks, began to tremble.
Her slender hands planted on the windowsill, Deirdre stared down at passing blue uniforms and at clumps of interested watchers. The sunlight was unsparing to Deirdre, her expression drawn, her eyes sunken.
I felt a wrench inside. I didn’t have to ask. The hollowness in her eyes meant she knew the reason for the gathering below. She knew Jay Knox was dead. That was why I’d shocked her when I said he would announce her selection today. I grasped at a straw. Maybe she’d talked to someone, been told that Jay Knox was dead.
But I blurted out sharply, “How did you know?”
She jumped, looked wildly about. “That’s all I need—a voice out of nowhere, a voice of doom. But hey, things can’t get any worse. Are you here or in my head? I don’t know that it matters. All I know is I am dumb and I am in big trouble. I should have called the police.” She turned away from the window, walked to the sofa, and dropped in one corner, clapped her hands over her eyes. “Come out, come out, wherever you are. If you have handcuffs, I won’t be s
urprised.”
I swirled present, enjoyed the flash of colors in the mirror on the wall. I took an instant to admire my blouse, then I settled on the sofa beside her.
She reached out to touch me, flinched. “The voice. Then you come. Maybe I can just tell the police I’m nuts. Maybe I am nuts.”
“Why should you have called the police?”
She rubbed knuckles along a suddenly quivering chin. “I went to the cabin last night. It was awful, Jay lying so still with that awful bluish mark on his face. I looked and looked but he wasn’t breathing. Nothing. His chest was still. I knew he was dead.” A ragged breath. “I was in school with his big sister. Cathy thought he was magic, and maybe he was as a little kid. None of them knew how he bullied people. He could be an ass, but everybody said, ‘Oh Jay, he’s such a kid. But so much fun. So handsome. So smart.’ He was dead. On the floor. I thought I was going to be sick. Then I realized what it might look like, my being there. I thought about my kids and what the police might think and I turned and ran. I should have called the police. I’ve always told my kids, ‘Do the right thing and you’ll be all right.’”
First things first. “Did anyone see you at the cabin?”
“I don’t think so. But probably somebody was lurking in a bush and the cops are on their way up here right now.”
The cops would be here soon enough.
“Anyway, I should have called the police. If they’d known sooner”—her voice was small—“maybe they would’ve caught whoever”—she took a breath—“hurt him.”
I shook my head. “I’m sure it wouldn’t have made a difference. But you will need to be ready for the police.”
“Maybe no one noticed me.” She looked brighter. “And I don’t know anything that would help. Maybe I’ll be okay.”
“I’m afraid not.” I was regretful. “Surely you saw the weapon?”
Her blank look was my answer.
“The champagne bottle.”
I watched the words register, her eyes widening, her lips parting.
“Oh no.” She sagged against the sofa. “I didn’t think it could get worse. This is worse. Much worse. Are you telling me Jay was hit with the champagne bottle?”
“It hasn’t been proven yet, but the bottle was lying on the floor a few feet away from the body. The police will check the bottle against the wound, but right now the assumption is that the bottle was the weapon.”
“The bottle that I picked up.” Deirdre’s hand touched her throat. “That tears it.”
Her fingerprints on the weapon was bad news, but even worse was the fact that Deirdre had gone to the cabin. If that was discovered, she would become a serious suspect. Her presence at a murder scene had to be dealt with.
Deirdre spoke through stiff lips. “What am I going to do?”
“Tell me exactly what you did last night.”
Deirdre jammed her hands together, looked both defensive and beseeching. “I was upset. I couldn’t relax. I kept thinking about Jay and tomorrow and the job and I finally decided I was going to have it out with him. I got dressed. I decided at that point I didn’t have anything to lose by talking to him.”
If only I had returned to Deirdre’s room last night. I had no doubt she’d intended simply to talk to Jay, but leaving her room to go to his cabin wouldn’t look good to the police.
Deirdre was somber. “I wish I’d gone sooner. Maybe whoever killed him would have been scared off.”
“I think it is better you weren’t there any earlier.” I kept my tone mild. A murderer would not have been diverted by Deirdre’s arrival, and she might well have put herself in danger. “What time did you go?”
“About eleven.”
“Did anyone see you leave your room?” I suspected I already knew the answer. It might have been eleven p.m., but attendees at conferences don’t roll up the sidewalks at nine.
Her expression was resigned. “Oh, sure. Before I got halfway down the hall, two doors opened. Almost everyone in the place is here for the conference. A tiny little woman darted out, said she was thrilled to meet me and if I just had the teeniest minute she had a copy of her manuscript in her room. I told her I was sorry but I was on my way to meet with Professor Knox—”
I pictured handcuffs.
“—and I got away from her. That worked, so I told the second woman the same thing.”
I could imagine Sam Cobb’s skeptical reaction. A lone woman going to a man’s cabin at a late hour suggested more than a chat. But what was done was done. “Did you go straight to the cabin?”
“Yes.” Deirdre nodded, her eyes dark with memory.
“Did you see—”
A tinny voice blared. “All hotel guests and staff—”
The announcement, with attendant buzzes and rattles, issued from a grille above the bed.
“—are asked by the Adelaide Police Department to proceed to the main auditorium immediately. Repeat, all hotel guests and—”
Chapter 4
The auditorium was housed in a one-story structure east of the gardens and cabins. A signpost pointed the way from the main path. Women in black and an occasional male in brighter colors streamed through the doors. High, excited chatter in the auditorium sounded like starlings stirring in treetops.
I hovered on high.
Dr. Randall stood by the steps at the foot of stage left. White head bent, face somber, he appeared to be in deep conversation with Chief Cobb. Maureen Matthews watched and listened. She was pale, her haggard beauty drained. Last night Maureen had delicately, blandly pointed me toward Liz Baker and Professor Ashton Lewis to gain information about Jay’s character. I felt sure she had done so with malice aforethought, which suggested the young woman or Jay’s colleague had reason to dislike him and Maureen harbored a grudge of some kind.
I estimated the audience, which half filled the auditorium, at about 125. Several rows from the back, Cliff Granger’s smooth face seemed curiously untouched by the circumstances. I saw no evidence of sadness or even dismay. Yet he must have known Jay well. But perhaps the relationship was solely business. Next to him, Jessica Forbes gazed steadily at the stage, a woman who appeared in complete command of herself, poised to deal with whatever happened. Her expression was serious, as befitted the circumstances, but again there was no evidence of personal distress.
Harry Toomey was two rows behind them. He wriggled, as if unable to relax. His right knee jounced, jounced, jounced. One hand scrabbled at his indeterminate mustache.
Last night Liz Baker sat in the shadows with a sullen companion. This morning she huddled in a seat, slid a nervous glance at the sandy-haired man beside her. She again wore a dress. Instead of the sleeveless white of last night, she wore a navy knit with a placket at the throat and short sleeves. Her companion looked grim, but it wasn’t the grimness of bereavement. The thin, tight line of his mouth indicated anger. She looked tense, perhaps frightened. What had been their connection to Jay Knox? Or was the connection only to her?
Did one of these people know the truth of Jay’s death? Or was his murderer a conference attendee unknown to me?
I linked his murder to the conference because his death occurred at Silver Lake Lodge, not at his home. The use of the champagne bottle as a weapon suggested immediacy, some trigger that dictated murder at that particular moment.
I thought about Jay and what this day should have held for him. He was scheduled to announce his choice for the new faculty position. He had clients, writers whose manuscripts he promised to connect with an agent or editor.
And there was Deirdre.
Deirdre sat stiffly in an aisle seat on the fourth row from the back. She was especially attractive in a printed patchwork dress with alternate white and black patterned squares. She was thin enough that the dress flattered her. Her frizzy hair, a rich mahogany, was drawn back in a ponytail. Her long, expressive face ha
d an appeal of openness, spontaneity, intelligence, but, at the moment, her eyes looked huge and she watched the stage with a look of uneasiness.
The crowd began to shush. There was a sense of expectancy and an underlying frisson of nervousness overlain with quivering morbidity. Obviously rumors had spread, flourished. The attendees knew a man had been killed in cabin 5 and many likely knew the victim was Jay Knox.
The department chair mounted the steps, walked to the podium. Chief Cobb, solid and muscular, followed. Professor Matthews was a step behind, her face empty, one hand holding tight to the long loop of a gold chain necklace.
Dr. Randall gripped the sides of the speaker’s stand. His florid face was grave. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am Gilbert Randall, chair of the English Department. It is my unpleasant duty to inform you that Professor Jay Knox, director of the conference and assistant professor of English, has been the victim of foul play. After consultation with the police and with Professor Matthews, the decision has been made to proceed with the program. As the police will explain, Professor Knox’s death does not appear to be the result of robbery or a random attack, which reassures us that our conference attendees are not in danger. Adelaide Police Chief Sam Cobb will explain the investigation.” He stepped back, nodded at Sam.
Bulky and powerful, Sam strode to the podium, looked out at the quiet audience.
I hoped Adelaide’s citizenry appreciated Chief Sam Cobb. Despite the wrinkles in his brown suit, he was a man anyone would notice and judge important, not as the world so often judges, by surface charm or fineness of raiment, but by his presence—confident, commanding, stalwart. His broad face was calm and thoughtful. Big and sturdy, he radiated the right kind of power, that of a man who lived the creed of the Old West: A man’s word is his bond. In another day, he would have pushed through the doors of the saloon to face the outlaw, ready for confrontation, ready for danger.
Sam’s voice was deep and resonant. “Thank you for your attendance this morning. I am Sam Cobb, chief of the Adelaide Police Department. We informed Dr. Randall that this crime does not appear to be the result of theft, nor does it appear to be random. From the circumstances surrounding the crime, we believe the victim, Jay Knox, likely knew his attacker. Mr. Knox died last night as a result of blunt trauma to the head. We have no reason to believe that anyone in the hotel is in any danger of attack and those of you attending the conference should feel confident of your safety.
