Murder In The Family

by Leonie Mateer

  “Of course. Thank you, Audrey. Oh, one last question. The night you found your brother and his housekeeper dead, did you see anyone else leaving the house, a car driving away? Anything?”

  “No, I didn’t see anyone. Do you think someone was in the house before I got there?”

  Greta Baywater was poisoned either by her own hand or by someone else’s.” The detective looked intently at Audrey. “It seems she was poisoned by ingesting Oleander plant.” He waited for her reaction.

  “Oh, I thought her death was caused by a heart attack?”

  “Apparently brought on by the poison in her system.”

  “Do you think Deacon James might have something to do with her death?” Audrey asked.

  “We have no proof. But he certainly had good reason to want her gone. But so did a number of members of his congregation.”

  Audrey was pleased when the detective took his leave. She poured herself a very large glass of Wither Hills Sav and took a well-deserved rest on her chaise chair.

  She knew Deacon James had nothing to do with Greta’s death but wanted to plant the thought in the detective’s mind. She presumed he was already looking in James’ direction. As for Detective Higgins’ untimely death, she now knew that her sister, Becka, was responsible for that. But how? She obviously had not returned to London when she said she had. In fact, she was most likely responsible for her ex-boyfriend and his wife’s deaths in Christchurch last week, too.

  Why did Becka take her, Audrey’s, yellow dress and hat? Why was she wearing the outfit the day she lunched in Mangonui with Eric Chapman? How did she meet him? Did she think she was doing Audrey a favor by killing him? Or was she framing Audrey?

  And where was the dress now?

  C H A P T E R 8 4

  Naomi James sat in deathly silence as her husband of fifteen years confessed his love for someone else. “I am so sorry,” he kept repeating. “I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. You have always been there for me. I am so sorry.”

  She waited to hear who it was. She knew she had married one of the best-looking men in the city. Women were constantly coming on to him but he had never looked at anyone but her. She had prided herself on keeping her figure, her looks. She was a woman of substance. A professional. Well respected in her field. A partner in a prestigious law firm. She was born into a life of affluence. Both her parents came from wealthy backgrounds. They were constantly in the public eye. How would she explain this? How could he, after all these years?

  She finally spoke. “Is it someone I know?”

  “No, you have never met them.” He couldn’t say the word “he”. He hoped she would never find out about Craig. “I think it’s best if I stay in a hotel tonight. I have applied for the position of Deacon at the Dunedin Baptist Church and it looks as though I might be accepted.”

  “So you have it all planned. You’re running away. You are a coward, Steve. Running away won’t solve anything. How do you think you will survive without the luxuries you have become accustomed to? Good luck living off a Deacon’s wages.”

  Naomi left her husband sitting on the sofa sniffling like a lost dog. Bloody men! She had spent the best years of her life with this man. Admittedly, he wasn’t much in bed but he looked good on her arm.

  She had liked his calm manner and natural humility. These were two qualities she lacked. Tomorrow she would ask her partner to handle their divorce. No use stringing it on. She expected the divorce would cost her plenty. She earned four times his salary.

  She went into her office and opened up the case she was working on. Naomi often worked into the wee hours of the morning. Half an hour later she heard the door lock and his car drive away.

  C H A P T E R 8 5

  Deacon Steve James called Craig the moment he arrived at the Madison Hotel. Finally he was free. No more lies. The phone rang and went to voice message. “Craig, it’s me. I have left her. I am staying at our hotel, room 23. Call me as soon as you get this message.”

  He lay back on the bed and sighed. It would only be a matter of time before the police pressed him further about his association with Greta. He was an obvious suspect. He would leave Northland and move down south. A new beginning.

  He tried Craig’s number again. Still no answer. He left another message and poured himself a drink out of the hotel’s mini-bar.

  He remembered the first time he saw Craig. It was at one of his wife’s office parties. Craig was the new, up-and-coming lawyer. Tall, lean, gorgeous – with masses of blonde curly hair. He was young; too young. Naomi introduced them. Steve James couldn’t take his eyes off him all night. He had followed him out onto the balcony where Craig was leaning over the balcony smoking a cigarette. Steve hated smoking but this beautiful young man gave cigarettes a whole new meaning. He had watched him as he slowly exhaled, blowing smoke into the cool night air. For an instant Steve imagined he could feel his breath on his cheek.

  “Want one?” he asked Steve, without turning around.

  “I don’t smoke,” he had replied rather guiltily, having been caught staring at him.

  “I don’t either,” he laughed turning to face Steve. “Well, I am giving up. But I hate this type of event.”

  “Me too,” he replied.

  When Craig had asked, “Are you here with anyone?” he had lied and said he wasn’t.

  That was the first lie of so many. Steve had also lied about the evening Greta died. He had gone around to talk to her in the early evening. He was tired of her constant threats of exposure. He had threatened her. They had shouted at each other. A neighbor was mowing his lawn across the street. Steve was sure the man had seen him come and leave. He wondered if Ben Brown was already dead at the time of his visit. Greta seemed perfectly fit and healthy when he left. He was surprised to learn that she died shortly afterwards. Had someone else called on her after he left?

  He tried Craig’s number one more time. Still no answer.

  C H A P T E R 8 6

  Audrey stopped by her letterbox on the way into town. A large package was stuffed into it. She sat in the car and tore open the parcel. Her yellow dress and floppy hat peered out from the torn tissue paper. There was also an envelope. It contained Eric Chapman’s receipt from the Hihi Motor Camp, and a note.

  Thanks for the loan, Audrey. I thought you wouldn’t mind. After all, they were used in a good cause.

  She stared in disbelief at the collection of items in the envelope. She had known when she discovered her dress was missing that Becka had been the woman in the photo. How she got back to London before Honey arrived Audrey couldn’t imagine. But she was there and Audrey was here. Why had Becka used her dress? Did she want to implicate her in the crime? Why the receipt? Proof she had been with Eric? Fuck! Now what?

  Audrey knew the grocery shopping could wait. She returned immediately to Tiromoana and to an empty trash can in the back of her garden shed. She placed the items alongside Detective Higgins’ wallet and Greta’s purse and bus ticket to Auckland. Now she had everything she needed.

  She heard a car pulling into her car park and returned to her office in anticipation of the arrival of another guest. The cabins had been busy. She wasn’t expecting the last guest to check in until early evening. She looked at the time. It was two o’clock.

  She was surprised when her visitor opened the office door. She was beautiful. Immaculate. Obviously a businesswoman. Dressed to kill in an expensive tailored suit and extraordinarily high heels that made Audrey cringe thinking of the pain she must be enduring to submit to such torture in the name of vanity.

  “Can I help you?” Audrey asked.

  “I understand you know my husband, Steve James?” the woman accused as she tucked an escaped red curl into her strangled bun. A gesture not lost on Audrey.

  Audrey paused for a moment, “Oh, you mean Deacon James,” she said. “I can’t say I actually know him. I met him only once.”

  “That is hard to believe,” the woman scoffed. “I know he has been up here rec
ently. I spoke to his assistant at the church. She said he was here shortly after your brother and that awful fortune-telling woman died. He came to pick up some sort of diary. I hear you took a copy of the diary and I would like to see it.”

  “What makes you think I have kept a copy?” Audrey asked. “And, if I did, why should I give it to you?”

  The woman handed her a business card. “I am asking as my husband’s lawyer. I have a right to know if any information in this so-called diary could implicate my husband in any way with her death.”

  Audrey looked at the card. “I’m sorry, I cannot help you. I have handed everything I have over to the police. You can ask them for a copy if you are so worried.”

  The woman was obviously pissed off. She turned on her heel and strutted out of her office. Audrey watched her get into her Mercedes and slam the door.

  A few minutes later the woman returned to the office carrying a computer bag. “My bloody car won’t start. Damn technology. I have called the AA but they said it will take about an hour to get a mechanic here. Can I hire one of your little cabins for an hour so I can do some work?”

  Audrey smiled. “By all means. You are welcome to use the Kiwi Cabin. Here is the key.” She handed the woman the key to the cabin furthest from the office and out of sight of the car park. “There is no charge.”

  Naomi James took the key without a thank you or a kind word and disappeared down the ridge towards the cabins.

  Audrey wasted no time. She knew what she must do. Putting on her gardening gloves, she removed the items from the trashcan in the shed and placed them in a large paper bag. She waited until she was sure Mrs. James was settled in the cabin and then made her way to the Mercedes. Thank God it was unlocked. Opening the passenger door, she stuffed the brown bag under the passenger’s seat and out of sight, quietly closed the door and returned to her office.

  A couple of hours later she watched Mrs. James pay the mechanic and follow him down the driveway.

  C H A P T E R 8 7

  Detective Bromley finally had some quiet time to read Greta’s notes. He noticed that the pages were not in chronological order. In fact they were not in any particular order. He decided to scan the pages and then cut and paste them into order by name, date and time.

  He began with Deacon James. There were so many entries. Some were just a line or two. Some were more detailed. He had visited her almost every Wednesday for over a year. Greta Baywater was a strange woman. She didn’t appear to offer any opinions on what her clients were telling her, but instead just documented the facts. Detective Bromley guessed it was her way of collecting damaging information in order to blackmail them.

  He looked at the lines of facts relating to Deacon James. They were revealing. There was no doubt the man was wracked with guilt. Ashamed of his homosexuality. As he neared the end of his session notes, Bromley gasped. Bloody hell! The man was there the night of Greta’s death. It was there in Greta’s own handwriting.

  The deacon stopped by without an appointment tonight. He didn’t want a reading. He was angry. Threatened me. Said he would see me dead before he paid me any more money. I have to leave. My bags are packed. I have my ticket to Auckland.

  Bromley took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It felt so good he did it again. All the pressure of the past few days had been overwhelming. His job, his reputation and his livelihood were on the line. For the first time he had some concrete evidence that Deacon James not only had a motive but also that he was there the night Greta Baywater died.

  This time he would keep his Super in the loop. He would request a search warrant for Steve James’ home, office and car. They would need to be careful. All the t’s crossed and i’s dotted. James’ wife was an influential lawyer and she would be fighting them every step of the way.

  He dialed the Super’s number. This call he was looking forward to.

  C H A P T E R 8 8

  Naomi James was more than pissed off. She was livid. Bloody woman. I should have known she wouldn’t give me the damn copies of the notebook. What was I thinking? It is not like me to act irrationally. I should never have driven there. Now the fucking car needs servicing. I will have to take it in tomorrow. Damn Steve. His timing couldn’t be worse. I am up for a senior partnership at the firm. My bosses like a women to be free of family problems. They have no tolerance for divorce. “It shows weakness,” they say. Well, fuck them!

  As she passed the “Welcome to Whangarei” sign, her cell phone rang. She pushed the button on the console. “Naomi James,” she spat into the phone. “I will be in the office in twenty minutes,” she said, and hung up.

  I can’t even get away for a few hours without them checking on me. She had hoped that Audrey Wetherby would give her the information she desperately wanted – the name of the slut her husband was screwing.

  As she drove into her office car park, she saw two detectives entering her building. She knew them. They often worked on cases together. She followed them in. When they saw her they looked embarrassed.

  “I’m sorry Naomi, but we wanted to give you the heads-up. We have a warrant to search your home, your husband’s office and your vehicles. We cannot locate your husband and were hoping that you could tell us where he is?”

  Naomi’s professional world collapsed in that moment. Bringing her personal life into the office was a major no-no. Bringing scandal into the office would be sure to jeopardize her senior partnership.

  She ushered the detectives into her office while her bosses stared in disbelief. They had heard every word. It would be all over the town now.

  “I don’t know where Steve is. He left last night and said he was staying in a hotel. You could try the Mayflower or the Madison on Main. Have you checked the church?”

  “Yes, they say he has not been in today. If you hear from him, please ask him to contact us immediately.”

  “Can I ask what this is about?”

  “Will you be acting as his lawyer?” the detective asked.

  “Yes, but I will need to know why you are searching our home. What are you looking for?”

  “At this time, your husband is a person of interest in the death of Greta Baywater. We cannot tell you anything more. Please have your husband come down to the police station. We need to ask him some questions.”

  “You have to be joking. There is no way Steve would commit a crime. He is a religious, kind man. Ask anyone.” Naomi knew her husband might be a cheat and a liar, but a murderer he was not. He didn’t have enough balls to kill anyone.

  When the detectives left she grabbed her keys and told the receptionist she would be at home if anyone was looking for her.

  C H A P T E R 8 9

  Deacon James was beside himself with worry. Craig had not returned his calls. He must have called twenty times and left twenty messages. Nothing. What was worse, James could not go to his home and ask where he was. Craig was not only a new lawyer in his wife’s firm, but he was also a parishioner’s twenty-five-year-old son. James knew he had broken his marriage vows, committed adultery, performed homosexual acts and lied before his God. How could he possibly consider carrying on in God’s work? He looked at the gun lying on the bed beside him. He held it in his hand. It was cold, unfamiliar, and heavy. He had never used a gun in his life. Could he use one now?

  The phone on the bedside table rang. The piercing sound shook him to his core. He didn’t want to talk to anyone. Then he felt a sudden rush of expectation. Putting down the gun he reached for the phone. It must be Craig. He’d told Craig where he was staying. Maybe he was downstairs. Then he realized it wouldn’t be Craig. He would come to the room. He left the phone in its cradle, unanswered. He looked at his cell phone. Nothing. Not even a call from Naomi. His hopes squashed. The phone went silent. He picked up the gun and opened the box of cartridges. The gun belonged to Naomi. She was a gun fanatic. He had watched her load it many times.

  They were in the room before he had a chance to load the gun. “He’s got a gun! Put your han
ds in the air,” they shouted. He obeyed. They handcuffed him, took him downstairs and put him in a police car.

  Sitting in an interview room, he waited. They had his cell phone. They would see all his text messages to Craig. He was screwed. They would know. Naomi would know. The whole congregation would know.

  He looked up as Detective Bromley entered the room.

  C H A P T E R 9 0

  Waking up at the crack of dawn was something Audrey didn’t do. At least not anymore. Her days of rushing to O’Hare airport at four in the morning had been replaced with a comfortable seven o’clock start at Tiromoana Cabins.

  Today was different. She had agreed to be interviewed on the morning’s Breakfast Show on TV One.

  “So, Audrey, we understand the thirty-year-old case of your parents’ murder has finally been solved. It must be dreadful for you to have it all resurface and your personal life be exposed so publicly?”

  “We were just children at the time our parents were killed. We are just pleased it is now over and we can get on with our lives.“

  “I understand a movie is going to be made telling your story of the awful events?”

  “Well, that is not decided yet. Right now I just want to live quietly, finally forget the past and look forward to the future.”

  “Your sisters must also be relieved the case is closed. You have three sisters?”

  “Yes, they just ask to retain their anonymity. I have agreed to answer any questions on behalf of my siblings.”

  “So tell us about your brother. Were you a close family growing up?”

  “Yes, prior to our parents’ deaths, we were all pretty close. Although my brother and my older sister had left home by the time of the incident. As we became adults, we became estranged. The past was too horrific. It was not until our brother’s death that we were reintroduced to one another’s lives.”