In Plain Sight

by Lorena McCourtney

  Sandy wasn’t home. She’d left a note saying she and Skye had gone to a movie. I was pleased. I’d still been worried there might be friction of some kind between Sandy and Skye, but, if there was anything, they must have smoothed it out.

  Jordan arrived right on time the next morning. I figured he would and had bacon already sizzling. Since it was Saturday morning, Sandy was sleeping late. Jordan was less formally dressed this morning, dark slacks and an open-throated blue sports shirt, but I doubted he was capable of ever looking as scruffy as Mac could. He held out a small sack.

  “I wanted to get something nicer, but the only place open this early was the convenience store at the gas station.”

  I peered in the sack. “A whistle! Jordan, this is so nice of you. And so thoughtful! Exactly what I need most.”

  I pulled the pale blue plastic whistle out of the sack and draped the cord around my neck. I was truly impressed. Not candy or some other useless trinket that might have been suitable for anyone, but this, just for me. Because he’d been paying attention and cared about my losing that old whistle.

  He smiled, and I impulsively gave him a thank-you kiss on the cheek. Which was exactly when Sandy chose to saunter down the stairs, of course.

  24

  Jordan didn’t seem in a big hurry to get on the road after all. He hung around for an hour and a half drinking coffee and talking, so it was after 9:00 before I called Sgt. Yates. He had someone in his office at the moment, the woman said, so I left a message asking him to call me. Then I phoned the Inn at Lost Lake (forever to be known in my mind as Dead Critters Inn) and asked for Shane Wagner. I was told they had no one by that name registered there.

  I answered the phone a few minutes later, thinking it was Sgt. Yates returning my call, but it was Skye asking for Sandy. I chatted with her a minute and then called Sandy down from where she was upstairs doing something gymnastic on the hallway mattress. I couldn’t hear Skye’s end of the conversation, of course, but I heard Sandy make some lame excuse about having things to do. Not untrue, of course. We always have things to do if we want to do them. But I couldn’t help thinking there was more to it than that. I was 205 trying to decide how to ask about the call without being too nosy, but I didn’t have to ask.

  “Skye wanted me to go over to Fayetteville with her and her dad this afternoon. He has a meeting at the college, and Skye said we could wander around the campus.” Sandy still had her hand on the phone, as if she were perhaps uncertain about the answer she’d given Skye.

  “That sounds like fun. It isn’t too early to be thinking about college, you know. And it’s a beautiful day for campus exploring.”

  Which it was. Sunshine sparkling on the lake, daffodils blooming in the yard, cotton-candy puffs of cloud dotting the sky. The kind of day that gave even me some college-girl zing.

  “I’ll probably go to college in Hawaii or out in California where Rick and Rory are, not here.”

  Which had nothing to do with today, of course. “Sandy, are you avoiding Skye?” I asked bluntly.

  Her gaze twitched to the side. “No … Well, kind of, I guess. Today, anyway. It’s just that her dad thinks he’s … so important, and he gets on my nerves. I didn’t want to ride all the way into Fayetteville in the same car with him. And Skye thinks he’s so perfect.”

  She sounded so resentful that I was puzzled, but I just said, “Okay, if you don’t want to do that, how about a row on the lake with me? It’s a perfect day for that too.”

  I thought she’d turn that down, since she seemed in such a negative mood, but she jumped on it. “Yeah, I’d like that. Let’s go.”

  I packed a lunch, we got the life preservers out of the garage, and within twenty minutes we were out on the water. Sandy immediately grabbed the oars, and she whipped the little boat across the water as if pirates were after us. She headed straight north, not crossing over to the Vintage Estates side where we’d rowed before. I finally became concerned about all the energy she was throwing into this.

  “Don’t row so hard you injure a muscle or something. You want to be in top shape for the gymnastics meet next weekend.”

  “I’m okay,” she said and kept rowing as if the pirates were gaining.

  She kept at it full blast for close to an hour, and it was obvious she was using the physical exertion to work off some kind of frustration or anger. Just as obvious it wasn’t something she intended to share with me. Eventually she had to rest, and I took over the oars. I let the boat drift for several minutes, thinking this was a good lull in which to talk, and suddenly she did become very chatty. Mostly to keep me from asking questions, I suspected.

  Animated talk about school, a letter from Rick and Rory, a gig the Christian rock band had with a teen group over in Morrisville, and lots of teasing about my innocent little peck on Jordan’s cheek. She gulped lunch when we pulled into the shore where Mac and I had stopped, took off on a hike while I recuperated from rowing, and then rowed most of the way home herself.

  Carefully leaving no open time for nosy LOL questions.

  I drove into town to pick up groceries, and then, curious about whether Astrid Gallagher had gotten into the house yet, I drove over to the far side of the lake. I had no intention of going in, of course. I’d just drive by and see if the crime tape had been removed.

  As usual, my timing was impeccable. Just as I reached the driveway to 2742, Sgt. Yates stepped up to his sheriff’s department car parked in the driveway, crime tape looped around his arm like a yellow lariat. I wanted to drive on by. Sgt. Yates already thought I was much too snoopy. Maybe he wouldn’t notice me.

  Fat chance. Sometimes I think I really should get rid of this big, in-your-face T-bird. He waved me down, and I turned into the driveway. He walked over and peered in the car, observant gaze immediately covering everything from dashboard to backseat.

  “I tried to return your call, but no one was home.”

  “Sandy and I went out on the lake. Beautiful day for rowing. Lots of people out fishing.”

  If I thought I could distract him with fishing chatter, I was mistaken. “And now you are … ?” he pointedly inquired of my presence here.

  “Fortunate to run into you,” I said blandly. I told him about seeing Shane Wagner at Dead Critters Inn but that my phone call had turned up the information that he wasn’t registered there. “Unless he’s using an assumed name, of course.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “I doubt he’d want it known he was in the area when Leslie was murdered.”

  “Actually, Mrs. Malone, Shane Wagner is registered right here in town at the Shady Lane Motel, under his own name.” His smile was superior, as if he’d put something over on me.

  Which he had. He’d known about Shane Wagner all along and let me make an idiot of myself rattling on about Shane and an assumed name.

  “Mr. Wagner arrived in town yesterday afternoon,” Sgt. Yates added.

  My immediate thought was, Oh yeah? How do you know he just arrived? But I kept my mouth clamped shut since my foot was already wedged in it.

  “He’s been back East on a business trip,” Sgt. Yates went on, “and he stopped here planning to spend more time with Leslie before going back to California—”

  “Spend more time with her? She threw him off the place!”

  Sgt. Yates went on as if I hadn’t interrupted. “He immediately encountered the crime scene tape when he drove out here, of course. Then he learned Leslie had been killed, and he came to see me first thing this morning. He’s eager to assist in any way he can. I was talking to him when you called, I believe.”

  “So he does admit he was here before, and there was that unpleasant scene with Leslie at the house—”

  “He says he stopped to see Leslie on his way back East. He also says it was a cordial meeting, that they were even talking about getting back together.”

  “But that isn’t true! I heard them argue. I heard him threaten her!”

  “He says none of that ha
ppened. He seemed quite bewildered about your version of the meeting. He says no one else was even present when he and Leslie talked.”

  Shane Wagner’s flat-out lies flabbergasted me. Although I had to grant that it was possible he’d simply missed seeing me. I’d been standing inside the doorway, somewhat behind Leslie, and maybe he actually hadn’t seen me. And then, of course, there was always the invisibility factor. But that didn’t change the fact that he was lying about the content of the meeting. Why?

  “Why would I tell some big phony story about their arguing?”

  “As I said, Mr. Wagner seemed bewildered by that. He suggested perhaps you’d witnessed an unpleasant scene between Leslie and someone else and mistook that person for him.”

  “In other words, he classified me as a DOB.”

  “DOB?”

  “Ditzy Old Broad.”

  Sgt. Yates made a noncommittal murmur. Not a denying murmur, I noted.

  “So how does he explain my recognizing him at dinner last night?” I asked.

  “He didn’t know you saw him at dinner, and neither did I at the time I talked to him, so we didn’t discuss that.” Sgt. Yates paused reflectively. “I believe you earlier mentioned seeing a photograph Ms. Marcone had of Mr. Wagner? Sometimes it’s difficult to identify a person from an old photograph.”

  He was politely giving me a way out. Having seen Shane Wagner only in a photo, I’d been mistaken when I saw this person arguing with Leslie.

  “What about the scratch on his face? Did you ask him about that?”

  “The woman who accompanied him, a Lissa Rambough, who was also a partner in the dot-com company, said her cat scratched him before they left California.”

  Lissa Rambough. Apparently the frumpy woman I’d seen with Shane at dinner. “Did they volunteer this information about the scratch?” Meaning they knew it had to be explained.

  “No, I asked.”

  I reflected on the timing. “The cat must have had tiger-sized claws for the scratch to stay visible for so long.”

  “Mr. Wagner said it had become infected, as cat scratches often do.”

  “Did you ask to see his arms?”

  Heavy sigh, as if he carried some big burden. Me, no doubt.

  “No, Mrs. Malone, I can’t say that I did.”

  “Was there material under Leslie’s fingernails that could be used for DNA identification?”

  “Actually, no. No DNA material under her fingernails.”

  Which meant the scratches on Shane Wagner’s face were irrelevant, and Sgt. Yates had just let me blather on again.

  Another pause until he added, “Although there were a few fibers under her fingernails.”

  “What kind of fibers?”

  “Synthetic fibers.”

  “From her home or car?”

  “So far we haven’t been able to determine their origin.” He looked at me as if expecting me to produce some wild theory about fibers, but I was fresh out of theories.

  “Were there fingerprints in the car or on the door handle?”

  “The handle appeared to have been wiped clean. Inside, all that were found were Ms. Marcone’s prints. Although it seems probable that someone else drove the car there, because the steering wheel had also been wiped clean.”

  Why, I wondered, was he telling me any of this? Probably none of it was truly confidential, but I hadn’t any particular right to know. Still, if he’d keep answering, I’d keep asking.

  “What is Lissa Rambough doing here?”

  “She and Shane Wagner are working together on this business deal back East.”

  “They drove all the way across country and back on this business deal rather than flying?” I asked skeptically.

  “I believe so. They were here in a car with California license plates.”

  “Doesn’t driving all the way across country strike you as odd?”

  “Lots of people strike me as odd, Mrs. Malone,” Sgt. Yates said with what I thought was unnecessary meaningfulness, although he wasn’t so blatant as to say, “And I’m looking at one right now.”

  “Can you check and see if their story holds up, that they were definitely somewhere else when Leslie was killed?”

  “We’ll look into that, of course.”

  I had an “ah-ha!” moment. “Except you haven’t been able to pin down exactly what day she died because of the body being in the water. Which leaves the time element up in the air. They could have killed her and left town. And come back.”

  “They? Now you figure the murder was a conspiracy? All the disgruntled ex-partners got together, invested in a pillow, and mapped out a plot to do Leslie in?”

  The part about pillow buying was a bit snide, but I ignored it. “A conspiracy isn’t out of the question. Rambough alibies Wagner, he alibies her.”

  “We’ll do our best with the investigation, Mrs. Malone,” he said. He sounded resigned, as if he figured I was going to be his burden until the case was solved. One hundred and two pounds of LOL on his back.

  “But you don’t think either of them had anything to do with Leslie’s death,” I said.

  “As I told you before, until we have the perpetrator, we don’t rule out anyone.”

  “So who are your front-runner suspects?”

  “Now, Mrs. Malone, you know I can’t discuss that with you,” he chided.

  “Are Shane Wagner and Lissa Rambough going to stick around for a while?”

  “I have no reason to hold them here. They volunteered their fingerprints, which will be compared with those found in the house and car. They left phone numbers and email addresses where I can get in touch with them.”

  “Such helpful folks,” I muttered.

  “I also want to thank you for your helpfulness in calling to keep us informed of your observations, Mrs. Malone. The police always appreciate citizen involvement.”

  He spoke blandly, but I challenged him with the question I’d been wondering about for several minutes now. “Why do you discuss any of this with me, Sgt. Yates?”

  “You did find the body.” He tilted his head and studied me. “And I usually find your questions and observations … interesting.”

  Interesting as in amusing? Was I Sgt. Yates’s comic relief in a mostly unamusing job? He tossed the crime scene tape into the police car and slid in himself, leaving me with more questions than answers.

  Shane Wagner’s contact with the authorities probably looked good to Sgt. Yates. Conscientious citizen trying to find out what’s going on and be helpful.

  Or, less innocently in my mind, it could be a preemptive strike. Shane Wagner surely knew that sooner or later he’d be considered a suspect, so he figured he’d make himself look good by going to them first. It was also possible that Shane and Lissa hadn’t originally intended to go to the authorities, had intended to slip away unnoticed and perhaps contact the police from California, but maybe Shane had spotted me at the restaurant and figured he’d better do it now. It was just my word against his about the content of his meeting with Leslie, of course.

  But the fact that I knew he was lying, even if Sgt. Yates didn’t, was surely important. Very important.

  25

  The week dragged by. Sandy was at the gymnastics studio every evening preparing for the upcoming meet. The Fayetteville newspaper sent someone to interview me, probably because the authorities were being so closemouthed. I politely declined. The last thing I wanted was my name hanging out there for curious eyes to see. I received another card from Mac “the Postcard Man” MacPherson, this time one of the standard scenic variety showing a lot of Montana sky. He said his son-in-law’s broken leg was healing, but he’d be staying with them for several weeks yet. I called the Shady Lane Motel and learned that Shane Wagner and Lissa Rambough were not registered there now. I could see lights in Leslie’s house at night, but I didn’t know if that meant Astrid Gallagher was in residence, dripping bubbles as she merrily dashed from bathroom to bathroom, or if Leslie’s light-timing system was stil
l operating.

  I assumed Sgt. Yates and other members of the county sheriff’s department were working diligently, but lack of visible progress frustrated me even though I knew there were undoubtedly details the police were withholding from the public.

  Shane Wagner’s big lie about his meeting with Leslie put him high on my list of suspects, maybe with Lissa Rambough as an accomplice. Although Astrid Gallagher’s greedy grab for the house also kept me thinking. She, too, would have had an accomplice, the actual killer, who was surely long gone by now. How to run him down? And I kept wondering about binoculars-man Michael, who seemed to have surfaced only the one time and then dropped out of sight. Neither could I eliminate the gate-ramming neighbor or Cass Diedrich’s angry husband.

  I spent a considerable amount of time on the Internet but didn’t dig up anything new on CyberPowerAds. Dead dot-coms fade quickly. Individual searches on the partners’ names turned up Lissa Rambough’s personal website about her cat, some rare, naked-looking breed that the good Lord must have created when he was in a joking mood. The website proved she did have a cat, I had to admit. Which might have scratched Shane Wagner. So what? I wasn’t convinced those weren’t Leslie’s fingernail scratches on his face, even though the experts hadn’t found anything under her fingernails to test for DNA. Maybe whatever DNA material had been there had washed off in the lake water. Although the fibers hadn’t washed away … Well, perhaps synthetic fibers cling more persistently than skin off a human face.

  But I couldn’t do anything but speculate, so Sandy’s big gymnastics meet in Fayetteville the following Saturday was an especially welcome distraction. The meet was scheduled to start at 10:30. After a light breakfast, we planned to leave the house at 7:45. Sandy came downstairs in baggy blue sweats but with her hair pulled into an elegant knot at the back of her head and wearing a bit more makeup than usual. She seemed more somber than excited. Skye was coming over to go with us. She arrived with news.

  “Dad and Tammi are coming to the meet this afternoon! Isn’t that great?”