I sat at my computer and opened the Internet browser. One of my bookmarks was the local television station and I clicked on the homepage for their news. As I suspected, the murder at Helen’s Bridge was the top story in the video-on-demand replay section. Hewitt bent over my shoulder and we saw a reporter with crime scene tape and a portion of the bridge framed behind him. After briefly describing the dramatic appearance of Molly Staton’s body, he gave a brief background on the charity fundraiser and stated not everyone in the community supported the event.
The video cut to Horace Brooks, a lean-faced white man with dark, narrow-set eyes. He wore a crisp blue suit, white dress shirt, and red tie. Dapper for a backwoods preacher and for so late at night. Framed on either side of him stood the Atwoods. Cletus wore a gray suit and yellow tie; Nelda was in a Sunday dress and her only jewelry was a silver cross around her neck. Each held a framed photograph. Although the single boy in the pictures seemed to be the same, I knew the Atwoods clutched individual portraits of their twin grandsons, Johnny and Jimmy.
“Our hearts go out to the family of Miss Staton,” Brooks began. I paused the video.
“I think they’re wearing TV makeup,” I said.
“Brooks is a slick son of a bitch,” Hewitt said. “He’s staged an appearance that parades Cletus and Nelda Atwood out as the most responsible child-rearers since June and Ward Cleaver. I know for a fact Cletus has been cited for numerous DUIs. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree when it came to him and Clyde.”
I clicked play. Brooks shook his head solemnly. “But as horrible as these events are, we will continue to pursue the Atwoods’ rights to their grandchildren.” He turned his gaze from the offscreen interviewer and peered straight into the camera. “Helen Wilson might have that hotshot Hewitt Donaldson but the Atwoods have Jesus.” The coverage cut back to the reporter at the bridge who wrapped up stating that the investigation was just beginning and that the TV news team would be working around the clock to bring us all the latest developments.
Hewitt snorted. “I can smell a con man through the computer monitor.”
“A con man, yes, but is he a murderer?”
“He is if his rhetoric drove someone to murder Molly. I wouldn’t defend the bastard if he offered me the keys to the Pearly Gates.”
“What do you think about his voice?” I asked.
“Kinda of preachy, but that’s to be expected. The voice on your phone was deeper.”
“Too deep for Brooks to mimic?”
Hewitt moved to the corner of my desk. “Play it again, Sam.” A chuckle broke through his exasperation as he realized he’d uttered the oft-quoted line. “Actually Bogart said, ‘Play it, Sam.’”
We listened again, this time for pitch. And I caught a sound between “your black harlot” and “be warned” that I’d not noticed before.
“I can’t make a judgment since the voice is disguised,” I said, “but did you hear a higher-pitched background sound?”
“All the way through it?” Hewitt asked.
“No.”
I told him the spot where to concentrate and played the message again. Hewitt bent and put his ear next to the blaring speaker.
When the message ended, he said, “Glasses. I think it’s the tinkle of glasses and some distant conversation.”
“I agree. Which means Newly’s more sophisticated audio equipment should be able to enhance the ambient sound.”
Hewitt ran a palm over his gray hair and tugged at his ponytail as if trying to stimulate his brain. “What about Cletus? Do you know if Newland is looking at him for this phone call?”
“No. But frankly the call is a flea on the tail of the dog. His first priority is checking out everyone who knew Molly Staton would be at that bridge. It’s unlikely Cletus Atwood had that information.”
Hewitt stared out the window to Beaucatcher Mountain in the distance. “Maybe. You said you and Newly believe Molly was killed elsewhere.”
“Yes.”
“Then how do we know her murderer didn’t force that information out of her? That could also explain why she wasn’t in the dress she was supposed to be wearing.”
As an investigator, my modus operandi sought to narrow the suspect pool. Hewitt’s question came from the mind of a defense attorney; even though he had no client, his first line of action was to increase the number of possible perpetrators.
“That’s a good point,” I said. “I’ll raise it with Newly.”
He turned to face me. “On the other hand, we have evidence of careful planning. Do we know when Molly was last seen alive?”
“I’m sure Newly’s running that down.”
“The closer to her time of death, the less likely the Helen’s Bridge spectacle was orchestrated after her killer extracted the information. Too much to do and too many props to collect.”
“Assuming it was one killer,” I said.
Hewitt’s eyes narrowed. “And a conspiracy complicates motive. What was gained by her death and who, in the plural, would benefit?”
“How do you see this affecting the custody suit?”
“I’m hoping the good Reverend Horace Brooks keeps on with his media stunts. I haven’t seen the final numbers, but we were on track to raise a sizable sum for the kids’ educational fund. The judge might not look favorably on awarding custody to grandparents who are outspoken obstacles to the boys’ opportunity for a college education.”
Hewitt laid his broad hand on my phone. “And if Newly is able to trace this threat back to Brooks, his heavenly piety and testimony for the Atwoods will be shot to hell. We’ll see who’s spoofed in the end.”
My cell phone buzzed where I’d laid it on the desk. I picked it up and saw the call was from Nakayla. Before I could answer, Hewitt’s rang.
He looked at his caller ID. “It’s Shirley. She never calls on Saturday. I’d better take it.” He stepped into the other room.
“Hi,” I said. “You’re up.”
“Have you heard from Lenore?” Her voice was tense and urgent.
“No. What’s wrong?”
“Shirley just called. She’s been trying to reach her, but she’s getting no answer.”
“Maybe Lenore’s sleeping in.”
“Shirley’s been trying to reach her since Molly’s body was found. Lenore sure wasn’t asleep at eight last night.”
“When was she last seen at the Grove Park?”
“She wasn’t.” The answer didn’t come from Nakayla. Hewitt stood in the doorway, the phone still at his ear. “Shirley’s at Lenore’s. She wants us to come there now.”
Chapter Eight
Hewitt pulled his Jaguar to the curb in front of a story-and-a-half, light blue home with white trim and a manicured yard enclosed by a white picket fence.
Located just a few miles north of town, the nineteen twenties neighborhood was enjoying a resurgence as proximity to Asheville’s vibrant center made the older homes desirable. Lenore Carpenter’s looked like it received tender loving care. The lawn, surprisingly green for October, was raked clear of leaves. A garden shed stood to the right with a greenhouse attached to the rear. Hanging baskets devoid of flowers were lined up on the concrete apron ready to be stored for winter.
Hewitt unlatched the front gate and gestured for me to precede him up the walk. When I reached the first step to the porch, a woman opened the door. I stopped and stared, trying to place the familiar face. Then I made a futile effort to hide my surprise.
“Yeah. It’s me,” Shirley said. “I didn’t have time to dress properly.”
“You look fine.” I meant it. Without the severe white makeup and tar-black mascara and eyeliner, she looked cute. But I had the good sense not to utter that four-letter word to Shirley. Not if I wanted to retain all my teeth.
“Where’s Nakayla?” she asked.
“Meeting us here. He
witt and I didn’t want to wait for her.”
“Have you heard from Lenore?” Hewitt asked.
“No. But come look. Something’s wrong.”
We followed Shirley into the living room. I was aware of a hardwood floor and white brick fireplace, but furniture and artwork passed as indistinct blurs. She quickly led us to a rear bedroom.
A double bed with a white comforter and decorative apricot pillows ran lengthwise beneath a window overlooking the backyard. An antique nightstand and matching dresser were the only other furniture. On the narrow wall facing the foot of the bed was a full-length mirror. Two Japanese prints hung on either side.
The center of our attention lay crumpled atop the comforter. At first I thought it was a piece of the bedding; perhaps a satin sheet to be folded and stored. But even as fashion-ignorant as I was, I noticed a ruffled shoulder strap and realized the pastel pink color went with nothing else in the room. We were looking at the dress for The Pink Lady, the ghost Lenore played the previous night. At least the ghost she was assigned to play.
“Can you tell if the dress has been worn?” I asked.
Shirley pulled back a layer of fabric to reveal a yellowing tag. “The costume identification information is still pinned to the neckline. Maybe Lenore reattached it, but then why didn’t she hang the dress in its protective bag?”
“Is the bag here?” Hewitt asked.
“Yes. I found it in the front coat closet.”
“How about her car?” I asked.
Shirley shook her head. “Gone. And we’d also rented a pair of period shoes to go with the dress. They’re not in the house. Why would she wear the shoes and not the dress?”
“Maybe the dress didn’t fit,” Hewitt suggested.
“We tried the dress on at the theatrical company. Lenore liked it so much she asked if she could buy it.”
Hewitt looked at me and pursed his lips. He was thinking and didn’t like where his thoughts were leading. “And as far as we know, no one saw or heard from her yesterday?”
“I didn’t,” Shirley said.
“Neither did I.” Nakayla answered the question as she entered the bedroom. “And I don’t know if anyone saw her at the Grove Park Inn last night. The first bus scheduled turned around when Molly’s murder brought everything to a screeching halt.”
I looked around the room. Other than the dress, nothing seemed out of place. I dropped to my knees, lifted the bed skirt, and peered under the box springs. Shoved just out of sight were a pair of gardening shoes, the kind with the rubber base and leather upper that goes only as high as the ankle. The small size suggested they belonged to a woman. Flecks of black soil clung to the rubber and a few larger clumps were scattered on the floor. Looking closer, I noticed the dirt protruded a few inches from underneath the bed. A gap of clean hardwood extended another foot and then soil traces appeared again, but now in eight discernible lines about an inch wide.
“Everyone move back against the nearest wall.” I got to my feet and turned to Shirley. “Was Lenore a good housekeeper?”
“Totally. You could eat off the floor.”
“Not this floor. It looks like someone wheeled a small cart or wagon in here. Probably from the garden given the richness of the soil. Her gardening shoes are under the bed.”
“That’s crazy,” Shirley argued. “She keeps her shoes in the shed, and that shed is cleaner than my house.”
“I suggest you all go back to the front porch,” I said. “Watch where you step.”
When they had cleared out, I walked along the baseboard following traces of soil. Four of the lines were darker and I wondered if some of the wheels had been more deeply embedded in one of the flowerbeds. The trail led down the hall, past a bathroom, and through the kitchen to stop at a side door. Through the windowpane, I saw the shed directly opposite.
Concerned that I was in the midst of a crime scene, I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and lightly grasped the doorknob. The deadbolt was already withdrawn and the latch released easily.
A wide concrete walkway spanned about ten feet from the kitchen door to the shed. The outbuilding was constructed on a cement slab with a three-foot apron running along the front. The shed’s roof extended overhead just enough to provide rain protection for several rakes and spades that hung from hooks on the exterior wall.
From this angle I saw the two flower baskets farthest from the street were knocked over. Their potting soil spilled across the concrete like a three-dimensional inkblot. Four wheel-tracks emerged from the dirt but vanished as soon as they left the shelter of the overhang. Directly in front of me, eight tracks, four darker and four fainter, ran from the kitchen door but disappeared after crossing the threshold. Rain, I thought. The tracks had been made before last night’s rain cleaned the exposed surfaces. But why were there only four tracks coming from the shed and eight from the kitchen?
I realized the cart or wagon must have been left somewhere else. I walked into the backyard. The flowerbed next to the rear wall was partially dug up. A trowel and pair of gloves lay against a rock border. There was no other gardening equipment.
The overturned hanging baskets near the shed door looked like they’d been kicked aside. No one would intentionally dump dirt so haphazardly. I knelt down and examined where wheels had rolled through the loose soil. Two impressions were larger and displayed a definite tread pattern. The other two depressions were flat. At the edge of the dirt, the clear imprint of a shoe showed where someone had stepped after the spill. The size appeared consistent with the shoes I found under the bed.
I turned my attention to the shed door. The padlock hung open on the clasp. My chest tightened. Hinges squeaked in mild protest as I pushed my way inside. Morning light shining through the attached greenhouse illuminated the interior brighter than I expected. I exhaled with relief. Sam Blackman, the investigator, had been expecting a body. I was never so glad to see only a lawnmower, edger, and fertilizer spreader on the floor.
The shed had a work sink and counter. Pegboard lined one wall, and trowels, trimmers, and hedge clippers hung from small hooks. A broad push broom leaned against fertilizer bags stacked in the corner. The concrete floor was dry and swept clean.
I moved to the greenhouse. The plants appeared to be orchids spread along three rows of narrow wooden shelves. Overhead, a hose with a misting nozzle dangled from a retractable holder. Heating units were mounted on wooden support posts. Everything appeared to be in order. But two overturned plant holders and a dirt trail through a spotless house told me otherwise.
“Sam!” Hewitt called from outside.
“I’m coming. Stay in the front.”
I heard footsteps approaching. “Keep off the walk!” I hustled out of the shed, angry that Hewitt wouldn’t do what I asked.
“What are you doing?” Homicide Detective Newly Newland gave me the hard cop stare usually reserved for suspects.
“Are you here to talk to Lenore Carpenter?”
“I’m here now to find out why four of last night’s ghost tour participants are at the home of a fifth who’s absent.”
“We’re looking for Lenore Carpenter. Her friend called us this morning because no one’s seen her.”
“Since when?”
“I don’t know for sure. Not since before yesterday.” I was curious as to why Newly had arrived. “Are you here for her statement?”
Newly ignored my question. “Who called you?”
“Shirley. Hewitt’s office manager. She and Lenore are good friends.”
“Was she good friends with Molly Staton?”
“Yes. They’re members of that Asheville Apparitions spiritualist group.”
Newly rocked back and forth on his heels. “Is Shirley here?”
“She’s on the front porch with Hewitt and Nakayla.”
“What’s her last name?”
“I don’t know.”
He gave me a look like I had to be kidding.
“Everyone just calls her Shirley.”
Newly nodded to the open shed door. “What are you poking around in there for?”
I pointed to the dirt from the overturned flower baskets. “Following an odd set of tracks.” Then I talked him through the discovery of the rented dress, the shoes under the bed, and Shirley’s assertion that Lenore would never have brought her gardening shoes and a wagon into the house.
“That’s why they’re standing on the porch?” he asked.
“Yes. This could be a crime scene. I was about to call you.”
He grunted. “That was good thinking.”
“I hope I’m wrong.”
“Don’t kid yourself.” With that comment, he pivoted and headed back to the front porch.
Nakayla, Shirley, and Hewitt stood close to the side banister, watching the detective approach. I stood next to Nakayla as Newly positioned himself in front of the door.
“Sam’s given me the rundown on why you’re here and in light of what you found, I think it’s prudent to keep the house sealed.” He turned to Shirley. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Curt Newland.”
“Shirley. I work for Hewitt.”
“What’s your last name?”
Shirley shrugged. “Lee.”
“Shirley Lee?” Newly asked.
“No. My legal name is Cheryl Lee, but everyone always runs the words together and I got tired of correcting them. So, Shirley is fine.”
One mystery solved, I thought. Now if Lenore would just pull up her driveway.
“And you last saw Lenore Carpenter when?”
“Wednesday. Our planning team had a final meeting and then I talked to her Thursday night. She called to verify that the Grove Park Inn had approved moving her appearance from the grand lobby to the Palm Atrium.”
Newly fumbled in his suit pocket and found a note pad and pen. “Was that a last minute change?”
“Not really. It had been an option we’d discussed with the hotel. When we saw how successfully tickets sales were going, we were afraid the lobby would be too chaotic. Our group would get mixed up with the hotel guests, and Lenore might have trouble getting them to concentrate on her story.”
A Specter of Justice Page 7
