Murder Is No Accident

by A. H. Gabhart

  Two Bits, his cat, came out of hiding to climb into Reece’s lap. Reece stroked the cat and fed him a crumb from the sausage biscuit.

  “What am I going to do?” Alex looked back at Michael, a hint of desperation in her voice. “There’s no way I can make chicken soup.” A tear slid out of her left eye.

  Michael reached to brush it away. “Call Aunt Lindy. She’s not the greatest cook, but she knows how to make soup.” He knew she was talking about more than chicken soup, but he didn’t have answers for her other worries.

  “Dear Malinda. She did say she’d help however she could.” She surprised him by capturing his hand and kissing his fingers. “Thank you, Michael. I don’t know what I’d do without you here. You and Malinda.”

  He didn’t like the way she paired him with Aunt Lindy. But then, there were a lot of things he didn’t like. A lot of things they needed to make clear. He’d been afraid to ask too long. Still, she was right. They were tired.

  He brushed her hair back from her face and kissed her forehead. “Get some rest. I’ll come by after church tonight.”

  “If it’s not too late,” she said.

  If it’s not too late. The words trailed after him to his cruiser. Was it too late?

  Malinda came around her house carrying a pot of vegetable soup to Reece’s just as Michael came out of the house. She called his name, but he didn’t hear her. His head was down, staring at the ground. No energy to his steps. Her heart gave a little lurch. Alexandria must have sent him away.

  Those two infuriated Malinda. She had thought for sure after the trouble last summer they would finally admit they were meant to be together. For a few weeks, her prayers for them seemed to be seeing fruition. But the long arms of Alexandria’s attorney firm had reached out and pulled her back to Washington, DC. Michael hadn’t gone after her.

  Now Michael wheeled his car around to go the other direction, still without giving any sign of noticing her there. His powers of observation were lacking.

  She wanted to set the soup pot down in the grass and run after him. Make him talk to her the way he used to when he was a boy. But boys grow up. Shoulder their problems on their own. As they should. Even so, when he hurt, she hurt. No way could she change that. That was how mothers were. No matter that she hadn’t actually given birth to him, he was her son. That might have been different if his parents hadn’t been killed when he was a teen. Might have been.

  No need to think about might-have-beens. Things happened and life went on. Sometimes you could make things better and sometimes you couldn’t, no matter how much you wanted to. Just like now. Reece had had a stroke. He couldn’t go back a few days and avoid that somehow. And whatever Alexandria had said to Michael to make his shoulders slump like that had been said. The words couldn’t be taken back.

  Standing there in the yard like a clothesline post, wishing things different while the soup got cold, wasn’t helping a thing. She could at least send up a prayer for the silly children. That’s what they were acting like. Children. Fighting and making up and fighting again. You’d think they would have grown out of that long ago.

  As she headed on toward Reece’s house, she looked up and whispered her plea. “Lord, you know best. I know you do. But can’t you give those two a little shove or something? Please.”

  15

  Michael checked in with Sally Jo before he headed home. Nothing going on, she reported. No wrecks. No crimes. No fights. Although she was sure speeders were burning up the road out around the interstate.

  “Somebody else will have to catch them today. I just hope they don’t run into one another.”

  “If things go haywire, you’ll be the first to know.” Sally Jo laughed. “So don’t get too comfortable down there fishing off your dock.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” Michael signed off.

  Things had already gone haywire. Geraldine Harper dead. Reece having a stroke. Alex in Hidden Springs. That had changed his plans. Fishing wasn’t on the top of his list anymore. Alex was.

  But she had practically pushed him out the door. She was tired. He was tired. She was glad he was there. She wanted him to leave. She loved him. She didn’t love him enough. He felt like he was plucking the petals off a daisy. She loves me. She loves me not.

  At his house, Jasper bounded off the porch to greet him. At least somebody was glad to see him. He looked past the dog toward the log house and imagined Alex in the door waiting for him. Maybe a little girl on a swing hanging from a maple branch. A little boy pushing a truck in the dirt by the porch.

  He must be asleep. That was a dream, for certain. The chances of Alex living here on the lake were nil to none.

  Jasper made short work of his food while Michael downed a couple of the cold sausage biscuits. He was kicking off his shoes to grab a nap when the radio crackled awake. Sally Jo was sorry but T.R. Boggess said somebody filled up at his station out by the interstate and took off without paying.

  Michael looked at his bed with longing, but even though the guy would be in the next state by the time Michael got there, he pulled his shoes back on. T.R. should stop trusting people and make them pay before they pumped, like the new Stop and Go with its bright lights and self-serve drinks.

  T.R.’s drink machine was so ancient it only took quarters. When he started losing money on the sodas, he unplugged the machine and loaded a shelf inside his station with canned drinks. They weren’t cold, but they were wet. T.R. didn’t do convenience. He had his wrecker and a few customers at his gas pumps to keep him going. But he couldn’t stay in business if people didn’t pay.

  T.R. told him as much when Michael got to his place a half hour later. Loudly and more than once. Right after he told him a business owner shouldn’t have to wait an hour for the police to show up when he’d been robbed.

  Michael nodded now and then and let T.R. get it all out. When the man finally calmed down enough that Michael could write up a report, he didn’t have much to report. His surveillance camera had gone on the blink a month ago, and he hadn’t gotten around to fixing it. He was busy changing the oil in Mrs. Paxton’s Ford and had barely looked at the man at the pumps. He did know it was a blue Plymouth. Or maybe a Dodge. 2002 model. Or 2003. He hadn’t paid much attention until he heard the guy slam his door and start the motor up. Then he’d run to the door to get the license plate. Except he hadn’t been wearing his glasses. Didn’t need them for changing oil but he did for reading license plates. He thought it might have been a Tennessee tag.

  Michael took it all down but both of them knew the only way T.R. would get paid for that tank of gas was if the guilty party had an attack of conscience and came back. That wasn’t likely to happen. Attacks of conscience seemed to be out of style.

  The day went downhill from there. A fender bender in the First Baptist Church lot after a deacons’ meeting. Both Stanley Campbell and Bill Ridner claimed the other man should have been paying more attention. But that was the way of parking lot accidents. Nobody was ever at fault if you listened to the drivers. Then he drove downtown and saw Betty Jean’s car parked behind Bygone Treasures. He resisted the urge to stop and do a security check on the store.

  He didn’t know what bothered him about Betty Jean and Vernon Trent, but something did. He shook off the feeling. If Betty Jean had found love or at least was tiptoeing toward it, that was good. Better than good. The girl had been hunting love a long time. His foul mood had more to do with the feeling that love was tiptoeing away from him. No, not tiptoeing. Walking away. Maybe running.

  He considered turning toward Keane Street, but he had called when he left T.R.’s. No answer. He left a message to call him back. Alex hadn’t.

  That didn’t mean he couldn’t go to Aunt Lindy’s and catch a nap before church. No time to drive to his house. But Aunt Lindy would ask about Alex. She’d think it was simply a matter of adding one plus one to equal two. Alex plus him. The formula worked for Michael. But he was pretty sure Alex was adding a few unknown x’s and y’s to the equatio
n.

  The same as he seemed to keep adding a few unknowns to Geraldine Harper’s death. He was passing the Chandler house and on impulse turned into the driveway. He should make a drive-by now and again since the place was empty. Could be he might catch whoever had been in there on Friday.

  After the fishing outing yesterday, he was pretty sure who that was. Could Geraldine have caught Maggie Greene in the house and that was why she was rushing down the steps? To throw Maggie out. Maybe threatening to call Maggie’s parents.

  The girl might have been scared silly even before Geraldine fell, but he couldn’t believe Maggie had done anything to make the woman fall. Even so, she needed to admit being there if she was in the house.

  Michael climbed out of his cruiser, relieved to see the front veranda empty. Miss Fonda must be safely ensconced at the Gentle Care Home. When a blue jay squawked a warning overhead, Michael looked up. No way to spot anybody in the tower room from here. If Maggie was the intruder the way he suspected, she probably wouldn’t be brave enough to come back for a while. At least, not alone.

  The house wasn’t all that far from the street, but the old trees in the yard gave it a secluded feel. The cemetery that bordered the side yard increased that feeling. Quiet neighbors for sure. An archway in the wrought-iron fence had a gate that opened into the graveyard.

  When Miss Fonda’s calico cat darted out from under a forsythia bush to race past him, Michael followed it around the house. There, on the back porch, a woman leaned close to a window with her hands cupped around her face to peer inside. Perhaps he was wrong about Maggie being the intruder after all.

  The cat that paid no attention to Michael ran straight for the woman to rub against her legs. The woman jerked back from the window to look around. Lana Waverly, tea shop owner and aspiring mystery writer, gasped and slapped her hand against her chest when she saw Michael. As she stepped back, she tripped over the cat and grabbed at an old lawn chair to keep her balance. But it folded and fell with her. The cat scooted out of the way.

  Michael ran up the porch steps to lean over the woman. “Are you all right?”

  “Oh my! How embarrassing.” She laughed slightly as she pushed up to sitting position. “I’m not usually so klutzy.” She reached up toward Michael. “If you could give me a hand.”

  “If you’re sure you’re not hurt.” Michael took her hand.

  “No damage to anything other than my dignity.” With his help, she got nimbly to her feet and looked around. “Wherever did that cat come from? And where did it go?”

  If any dignity had been lost, Lana Waverly had recovered it. She didn’t seem a bit concerned to be caught trespassing on someone else’s property. She lightly smoothed down her shoulder-length blonde hair before she brushed off her crisply pressed pants. She was an attractive woman at that age where it was difficult to guess exactly how old she was. Forties, maybe. Everything about her was polished to its highest gloss.

  “Miss Marble has a way of appearing and disappearing at will.”

  “Miss Marble. What a delightful name for a calico cat!” She flashed him a smile. “Does she live here even though the place is deserted?”

  “The cat’s usually around somewhere.” He kept his eyes on Lana. The cat belonged here. Lana Waverly did not. “But why are you here?”

  Her smile didn’t waver. “I suppose I am trespassing. But when I saw the gateway out of the cemetery, I couldn’t resist the urge to take a peek at the house.” She held up her hand to stop him from speaking. “Wait. I know your next question. Why was I in the cemetery?” Her smile got a bit wider. “I thought it would be a good way to get a feel for the history of the town.”

  “Oh?”

  “Come now. That’s not so strange.” Her smile dimmed as she looked toward the graveyard. “What better place to get to know about the people here? Their names. Their heritage.” Her eyes turned back to Michael. “Since I plan to use your town for the setting of a whole series of mystery novels, the more I know about this place, the better. Don’t you think the town’s name practically shouts mystery? Hidden Springs.” She drew out the name in the air with her graceful hands. “I can hardly believe some of the things I’ve been told happened here in the last couple of years. Definite inspiration for a mystery writer.”

  “Bad things happen everywhere.” That didn’t mean Michael wanted to talk about them. Could be he was getting more and more like Aunt Lindy. Wanting to bury everything except the good about Hidden Springs.

  “Sadly, that’s true, as Mrs. Harper’s tragic fall proves.” She looked toward the house again. “They say it was an accident.” Her words carried an unspoken question.

  “Yes.” Michael spoke the word flatly.

  “So sorrowful for her family.” She kept her eyes on the house as she spoke. “Do you think history repeats itself, Deputy?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She pulled her gaze from the house to look at him. “You do know that another woman died in a fall in this house, don’t you? Down a flight of stairs too.”

  “So I’ve been told, but that happened a long time ago.”

  “Yes.” The lines of her face tightened as her hazel eyes grew more intense. “But I’m sure you are aware there is no statute of limitations for murder.”

  16

  “Murder?” Michael didn’t like hearing that word. Never mind the uneasy feelings that had been poking him ever since Friday. “Whose murder?”

  “Audrey Carlson’s.”

  He shouldn’t have been surprised by her answer. Aunt Lindy had already told him the woman had asked her about Audrey. But it seemed so strange. As if Geraldine’s death had shaken awake long-forgotten ghosts in the Chandler house.

  “The coroner determined her death was accidental.” Michael stressed the word “accidental.”

  “Coroners make all sorts of convenient findings.” Lana lifted one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Especially if the death investigation involves a person of importance.”

  “Decisions are based on the facts available.” He didn’t like what the woman was implying.

  “Please, don’t misunderstand. I don’t mean to disparage your current coroner, who no doubt performs his duties to the best of his ability. Did he rule Mrs. Harper’s death an accident?” This time both of her eyebrows shot up.

  “Yes.” While Michael didn’t care for her condescending tone, he had no reason not to answer her.

  “Perhaps it was. People do fall down steps, I’m told. Accidentally at times, even in mystery stories.” Her smile returned. “Or not. A murder mystery must have some sort of wrongful death, now doesn’t it?”

  “If you say so. I don’t read mystery novels.”

  “You don’t like mysteries?” Again the lifted eyebrows. This time with an amused look.

  “I see enough of that on the job. I prefer history.”

  “Truth rather than fiction.” She pulled a little face. “How disappointing. I was thinking you’d make the perfect first reader for my books. To check the accuracies of police procedure.”

  “Not qualified for that.”

  “How better qualified could one be? A bona fide police officer.” Her smile changed as she stepped closer to him. “I could make it worth your time. A dinner out perhaps? Your aunt says you aren’t married.”

  He didn’t back away from her, even though she was near enough for him to catch a whiff of her perfume. “I doubt my aunt told you that.”

  She laughed. “Come to think of it, I don’t think it was Miss Keane who gave me that information. But plenty of the ladies in my shop discuss their handsome deputy sheriff and his bachelor ways.”

  He did step back then. Time to get this encounter on firmer footing. “You spoke about Audrey Carlson. What makes you think her death was anything other than an accident?”

  “I’m acquainted with Bradley Carlson.” The woman’s flirtatious smile was gone in an instant. Now her face looked hard enough to crack. “Too acquainted.”

  “Do
you want to explain?”

  “He killed my mother too.”

  “Your mother?” Michael frowned. “Are we talking about the same Bradley Carlson?”

  “The one and only. Longtime member of Congress. A man of importance. Good at getting rid of wives.”

  “What happened to your mother?”

  “Which do you want? The coroner’s version after his long talk with my stepfather or the true version?”

  “Which do you want to give me?”

  “It hardly matters.” She stared off toward the cemetery. “No one wants to listen. They never have.”

  Michael didn’t say anything, simply waited her out. She wanted to tell him.

  The silence that wrapped around them must have encouraged Miss Marble to come out of hiding. The cat sauntered back up on the porch but kept her distance. The woman didn’t notice her. She was peering into the past.

  Finally she spoke. “The coroner said my mother committed suicide. An intentional overdose. That could have never happened. Not my mother. She loved me. She wouldn’t have hurt me that way. Bradley Carlson did it. Ready to move on to another woman. Another step up. That’s all his wives were for him. A step up. First, Audrey here with her family fortune.” The woman waved her hand toward the house. “Then my mother with her inheritance and property from my father. My father’s death in a private plane crash devastated Mother. She had married young and didn’t know how to live alone. That made her easy pickings for a man like Carlson.” Her words crackled with bitterness, but she didn’t allow any expression to show on her face when she turned back to Michael. “It takes money to get elected these days.”

  “What makes you think Audrey’s death wasn’t an accident?” He moved the conversation away from her mother.

  “A man kills once, he will do it again.” She seemed to dare Michael to deny that. “Especially when he not only gets away with it but wins the sympathy vote. Believe me. Bradley Carlson knows how to play the part of a grieving widower. Voters love that.”