She picked up another paper. It was much the same. The third was from Kentucky, dated two years earlier than the rest. She scanned the yellowed and stained pages for anything related to archaeology or Hank Roy Creasey. She read the obituaries. The fourth entry caught her eye. A Henry Ray Creasey had died in a mine explosion. His body had not been recovered. The obituary gave no other information, not even the next of kin.
Lindsay carefully examined the rest of the paper. On the back page was part of an article about the mine explosion. It had killed several men: Henry Ray Creasey, Homer Timmons, Lonnie Cross, and Ruddy Stillman. Lindsay turned back and looked again at the obituaries. None of the men except for Creasey were there. Henry Ray, Hank Roy-Lindsay bet they were the same person. The last paragraph in the article said that a plaque had been placed at the mine to mark their grave. Lindsay looked over the list of names again. Lonnie Cross, she thought. That name sounded familiar.
Lindsay took a stack of index cards and began labeling them with headings on the upper left corner for the three main mysteries: Artifact Theft, Shirley Foster, Creasey. She mentally crossed off Gloria Rankin. There was probably no way of knowing why Gloria had been coming to see her. But what was her umbrella doing in the tree? That was easy: When she was hit, it was knocked into the street and someone came by later, picked it up, and hung it in the tree. Why? Who knows why students do what they do? Not a good answer. They didn't want it. A guy found it and it was a girl's umbrella. He didn't want people to stumble over it, so he hung it in the tree. Okay, he walked into the bushes and hung it in the tree instead of just laying it on the wall. Lindsay picked up the telephone and called Eddie Peck, the medical examiner.
"Eddie," she said when he answered the phone, "that bruise on Gloria Rankin's back. Could it have been made by the tip of an umbrella?"
"Well, yes. Why?" Lindsay told him about the stray umbrella belonging to Gloria. "Hmm, interesting. Are you thinking that someone hid in the bushes and pushed her in front of the bus?"
"I don't know."
"A bold move," said Eddie. "But she was on the sidewalk. Wouldn't she be too far away?"
"Not in that particular place," said Lindsay. "The wall is low and there's a profusion of bushes and trees. It would be risky, but someone could have stepped forward out of the shelter of the trees, pushed her in the back with the point of the umbrella, and stepped back into the cover of the shrubbery. Didn't someone say it looked like she just jumped out in front of the bus?"
"Do you have any idea why someone would do that?" asked Eddie.
"I have no idea. It's just something nagging me. Like, why was she coming to see me?"
"I'll discuss the umbrella with the detective in charge," he said.
"Have you gotten any reports back on the tissue and clothing samples from Shirley Foster yet?"
"Yeah. One, and it's kind of strange. Arsenic."
"Arsenic? Was she poisoned?" asked Lindsay.
"I don't think so. It doesn't seem to be that much," Eddie said. "She could be one of those people who eat it. You know how strange you university people are."
"Yeah, I do. Have you heard about the woman who witnessed Shirley Foster's death?"
"I didn't know there was a witness. Tell me about it," Eddie said, and Lindsay told him the entire story. He whistled into the phone. "I take it back. It's not just you university people who are crazy. It's everybody."
"You don't think her story is true?" asked Lindsay.
"That Foster just burst into flames? No. People don't do that."
"That's what my brother says."
"Smart guy."
"What about napalm, or some substance like it?"
"It would account for part of what the witness saw. Another thing, if she was standing when she was burned, it would account for the burns being on her back as well as her front."
"Yes, it would, wouldn't it?" said Lindsay.
"There are several ways to make napalm," he said. "I'll have the lab check the samples for residue. That still looks bad for Luke Ferris."
"I know, but the witness was sure she didn't see him throw anything."
Lindsay hung up the phone and went back to her index cards. She made a set for Gloria Rankin. On the upper right side of the cards, she put subheadings: forensic evidence, interviews, rumors. She began filling out all the cards, listing everything she knew about each case, every mention anyone made about any of the cases. She then organized them according to their headings and subheadings. There was really quite a lot of information, but there also was quite a lot of information missing. And there were those things in her brain just out of reach of her conscious mind. Those annoyed her the most.
Lindsay shuffled through the cards. The only person she hadn't talked to about Shirley Foster was Will Patterson, and he probably knew her best. Lindsay put the index cards in her purse and looked up his address in the phone book.
Will Patterson had an office downtown in one of those buildings with a very narrow entrance and flight of stairs that led to the upper floors. If she were doing a film noir, Lindsay couldn't have picked a better place for a detective to have an office. He even had a glass window in his door with his name printed in black paint. Lindsay wondered if she ought to go home and change into a dress with shoulder pads and a hat with a small net veil and a single slender feather. She knocked on the door. It opened almost immediately. P.I. Patterson smiled and motioned her into the room.
Will Patterson had probably been a heartstopper when he was in his twenties, and even though the years had taken their toll-creases around his eyes, mouth, and forehead, graying of his hair, a slight roll around his waist-he was still an attractive man. He moved with ease. Lindsay thought she had seen him jogging on campus. He had a scar that creased his forehead and disappeared into his hairline. She wondered if he had been shot. If he had, it had certainly been a close call.
"Dr. Chamberlain. I was just thinking about you." Will stood back to let her enter. "I was wondering when you would get around to visiting me."
His office wasn't a disappointment. Unpolished hardwood floors, an old desk with a green blotter, cluttered with file folders, a spindle skewering several receipts and a letter, and a brass ashtray. One old oak filing cabinet stood in the corner beside a closed door. Along the wall past the door sat a beautiful antique cabinet with a washbowl. A moustache comb and scissors sat behind the basin. Will didn't have a moustache and Lindsay found herself won dering what he would look like with one. Against one wall was a green fake-leather sofa. The bookcase next to it was filled with various reference books.
On top of the bookcase was a violin under glass, which caused Lindsay to raise her eyebrows. Will was full of surprises. He did not look like a man who played the violin. On the wall hung a finely woven tapestry of Sherlock Holmes at Richenbach Falls. The falls, gray in all the drawings she had ever seen before, were a brilliant combination of blues and greens. Lindsay had no doubt that Shirley Foster had woven it.
Will sat behind his desk and Lindsay sat down in a red leather chair. She paused a moment before speaking. She had the strangest feeling, an odd familiarity. She looked at Will. He smiled at her. She looked around the room and then back at him. He was still smiling.
"Do you read mysteries?" she asked.
His smile turned into a grin, then a laugh. "No. Shirl did this. She had the most wicked sense of humor." His eyes took on a moist brightness. "How many detectives do you see?"
Lindsay looked around the room again. "Sam Spade, Hercule Poirot, Sherlock Holmes, Phillip Marlow." She rubbed the arms of the red leather chair. "Nero Wolfe, Lew Archer." Her eyes fell on the spindle with the single letter. .. and August Dupin."
"I believe that's most of them," he said.
Lindsay shook her head and smiled. "It gives an odd sensation, like the ghosts of past detectives hanging about your office."
"I think that was the effect she was after."
"What did you mean when you said you wondered when I'd come t
o see you?"
"I've been waiting for you to interview me," he said, leaning back in his chair.
"You're the detective," said Lindsay. "I've been trying to avoid looking into this case. People just keep coming to me."
"I know," he said. Lindsay was silent. She stared at Will Patterson. The window behind him looked out onto Broad Street, and the light coming through the thin blinds was split into long horizontal shafts. It was hard to see the details of his face with the light behind him. Lindsay wanted to shade her eyes so she could look into his, but instead, she rose, went to the blinds, and turned the wand until the light was deflected away.
"Shirl would have liked you," he said. "I think you would have liked her, too."
"You've been sending everyone to see me, haven't you?" said Lindsay.
"Everyone I could. I had to manipulate Tom a little. Told him we were working together and you would find him out."
"You thought he might be a killer, and you sent him to me?"
"I thought he would come to your office. I didn't know he would drive out to your house."
"Still-" Lindsay let it drop. "Why? You're a detective."
His eyes sparkled under a sheen of moisture. "I'm too close. I don't like Tom. But I want Shirl's killer found, even if it isn't Tom. I know a lot of law enforcement people. They tell me you're good at connecting things. What do you call it-remote association? You're supposed to be good at old crimes. I knew you wouldn't do it if I asked you, so I arranged it so you couldn't help but investigate her death."
What a manipulator, she thought. "Do you think Luke Ferris is Shirley's murderer?"
"Do you?" he asked.
"I don't know. I have a hard time believing it. Have you heard his story?"
"Yes. The kid's lying. Shirl wouldn't have lured him out there for favors. He must be guilty."
"Exactly how do you know his story?" asked Lindsay. "I didn't think you and the sheriff were that close."
"I grew up around here and know just about all the deputies. They talk to me."
"Irene thinks Luke's lying, too. She said Shirl might cheat on her husband but not on you."
"She's right. Shirt wouldn't."
"When was the last time you saw her?"
Will wasn't offended by the question. In fact, he seemed to welcome it. "I have an apartment through that door. Few people know about it. Shirt and I stayed there sometimes. She stayed with me the night before she disappeared. Her children were visiting Tom's parents," he added, as though he wanted Lindsay to understand that Shirley was a good mother.
"What was her state of mind?"
"Happy. The happiest I'd ever seen her. She went to work early. I had a case I was working on and had to be in Atlanta by nine-thirty that morning. I was back by three that afternoon." He shook his head. "She'd left a note on my door. Wanted me to pick up some copies for her at Kinko's on the corner and take them to her office."
"Did she often ask you to run errands for her?"
Lindsay saw him bristle slightly, shifting in his chair. He didn't like any criticism of Shirley. "No. But the copying place was almost downstairs, and her office was just down the street. I suppose her student help wasn't available that day. You know how students are. It was no problem."
"Did you pick up the copies?"
"Of course. I gave them to her secretary. Shirt wasn't there."
"You know that means that Luke wasn't lying," said Lindsay.
"What?" He sat upright in his chair. "How do you figure that?" He glared at her now, daring her to tarnish Shirt's memory.
"The note she put on your door was not something she would ask of you. It was meant for Luke, her student worker. He obviously got your note, which, according to Luke, said something like, `Meet me at Foster's pond at seven. I have a surprise and I intend to correct a mistake.' Luke thought it meant she was going to change his grade, but that didn't really make sense, even to him. The only thing he could figure was that she wanted a date. The note makes a lot of sense, if it was meant for you. She was going to give you $100,000 for something-I don't know what-and she was going to tell you she was leaving Tom to marry you."
Will was silent for a long moment, staring in Lindsay's direction but through her. Finally, he spoke. "I knew I was right to have you investigate this. There are two options, as I see it. Could be that when Luke showed up by mistake and he tried something, she resisted, and he killed her. Or Tom got wind of what she was planning, and he killed her."
"Luke wouldn't have come prepared with napalm, or whatever was used on her," said Lindsay.
"Napalm?"
"I can't think of anything else that would burn underwater, assuming the witness is correct."
Will nodded. "Lila Poole. I hardly credited her story, but you're right. It would have to have been premeditated. That takes us back to Tom," he added almost absently.
"There's another thing, though. My brother, Sinjin, thinks that Luke may have some kind of fascination with fire."
Will sat very still. "That adds a whole other dimension to it." His voice was almost a whisper.
"Maybe, but I don't have nearly enough information to narrow it to Luke, Tom, or some stranger. Do you know if she ate arsenic?" asked Lindsay.
Will wrinkled his brow. "Ate arsenic? No. Why the heck would she do that?"
"Do you think someone might have tried to poison her?"
"What are you saying?" he asked.
"The medical examiner found arsenic in the samples taken from her remains."
"Okay," he said, leaning forward in his chair. "How's this? Tom was trying to kill her slowly, made it look like she was just getting sick, but that was too slow and he made another plan."
Lindsay shook her head. "No one, including you, had any indication she was sick, and arsenic poisoning has definite symptoms."
He sat back. "You're right. But that's very strange. What do you make of it?"
"As I said, I don't have enough information yet."
"You will continue investigating?" he asked.
"I suppose so."
A thin, satisfied smile spread across Will's face. His dark eyes became like dull pools, absorbing all light. As Lindsay looked into their depths, it was as though she glimpsed his soul within, and it frightened her. It came into her mind suddenly and surely that Will Patterson was going to kill Shirley Foster's murderer once he knew who it was, and she was leading him to Luke Ferris. She sat back in her chair as if his gaze pinned her to it, realizing she was holding her breath. If he noticed her sudden unease, he in no way indicated it.
"That's good. I'm glad you are." He relaxed. Everything seemed normal again, and Lindsay wondered if she had only imagined the look in his eyes.
"Why would she give you a hundred thousand dollars?" she asked.
"I had a chance to buy a detective agency in Atlanta. It was a good agency, several operatives, lots of equipment. She offered to loan me the money. I kept refusing. She must have been going to tell me to buy the agency and that she'd marry me." He closed his eyes. "If we can find the money, we'll find who killed her."
"Not necessarily. We may only find who took the money. It may not be the person who killed her," said Lindsay. "Did you investigate any of Tom Foster's family? Could the problem with the Foster land inheritance have anything to do with what happened to her?"
Will shook his head. "I rode that horse pretty hard, but no theory I came up with made sense. They all actually liked Shirley. She thought the land should go to Tom's relatives, since she and Tom had so much money."
"What about people she worked with?" Lindsay asked.
"Another dead end. They liked her. I couldn't find a motive for anyone. Maybe a little professional jealousy here and there, scholarly disagreements, but nothing that anyone would kill for. I checked into their backgrounds. Everything normal. At least what passes for normal on a university campus." He grinned. "Money was the only motive I could find and that led to Tom."
"Tell me about Shirley Foster," Lin
dsay said.
Chapter 20
"SHIRL WAS SMART and funny." Will paused, looking inward. "And a lot of things. How does that song by Billy Joel go? `She's always a woman to me.' That was Shirl. The song describes her to a T."
"Is that how everyone saw her?" asked Lindsay.
"I don't know. Most people liked her. I know most men did. Not that she was a flirt," he added quickly. "She was just ... a man's woman."
Lindsay wondered exactly what that meant. "What was the thing with her parents?"
"I suppose her parents meant well, but they were very controlling. Who doesn't want to control their children? Their respect meant a lot to Shirley, but she was not a woman who liked being dominated, even by her parents, so she lied to them, often. Not to be mean but to maintain her privacy."
"Were they really that bad?"
"They're hardest on Chris. They always wanted him to go into the family business, but Chris didn't want to. Chris's father likes to apply what he calls `economic pressure' on him periodically-you know, threatening to buy out the loan on Chris's gallery, for example. Not that it's much of a business, just local art."
"Local art can be expensive," commented Lindsay.
"If you say so."
"The gallery seems to be doing well. It's been there quite a while, and he's had a number of showings."
"I think Tom Foster has bailed him out a couple of times-and Shirley, occasionally."
"Is that why the Pryors don't like Tom Foster?"
"Part of it. Tom started Chris in business. Got him interested in working with glass. Chris is a talented artist, and it turned out that glass is his medium. Tom gave him space in one of his old factories. The Pryors felt that Tom was interfering in their business. Tom told them that Chris was an adult and to buzz off, only his language was probably a lot more colorful."
"Were you angry when they insisted that Shirley marry Tom?"
Dressed to Die: A Lindsay Chamberlain Novel Page 23
