He touched only one of the steps as he bounded up onto the porch.
An officer Mike didn’t know stood at the front door. “We got this, Deputy,” he began, jealously guarding the crime scene from any unwanted incursion by the sheriff’s department.
Mike forced down an angry response, telling himself that the officer was just doing his job. But if the guy didn’t get the hell out of the way—!
“I’m Mike Newsom. It was my mother who was attacked.” His voice sounded a lot calmer than he felt.
Understanding dawned on the officer’s face. He stepped aside and said, “Oh. Sorry, Deputy. I didn’t know. Chief Whitmire’s already inside.”
Mike’s instincts as a lawman came to the fore for a second. “What about the crime scene?”
The officer nodded toward Agnes Simmons’s house and said, “Over there. Don’t worry; you won’t mess up anything by going in here.”
That was good, because Mike was going in, one way or another. Nothing was going to keep him from getting to his mom.
Mike opened the door and went inside. Chief Ralph Whitmire, a stocky veteran cop, stood in the living room talking to Sam Fletcher. Mike couldn’t stop himself from interrupting.
“Sam! Is my mom okay?”
Sam and Whitmire turned to face Mike. It was the police chief who answered the anxious son’s question. “I think she’ll be fine, Mike,” he said.
Sam’s craggy features bore a worried look, though. “She got hit on the head pretty hard,” he said. “I reckon she’ll probably need to go to the hospital.”
Mike’s eyes widened. “The hospital!”
“Just as a precaution,” Whitmire said. “There’s always the danger of concussion with a head injury.”
“Or worse,” Mike said.
“Better not go borrowin’ trouble,” Sam advised. “Gettin’ walloped like that is nothin’ to take chances with, but your mama’s a strong lady.” He managed a faint smile, even though he was obviously concerned. “Some might even say hardheaded, which comes in handy at a time like this.”
Mike felt a flash of irritation that Sam could be making jokes like that, but he eased off the angry response he almost made when he realized that Sam was just trying to get him to settle down a little.
“Where is she?”
“In the kitchen,” Whitmire said. “The EMTs are still examining her. When they’re done, I hope I can ask her a few questions before they take her to the hospital.”
That reminded Mike of the other bulletins he’d heard on the radio while he was driving over here. “Is it true?” he asked. “Somebody killed Agnes Simmons?”
Whitmire nodded. “It’s true. Someone choked her to death with the belt from her housecoat. At least, that’s what it looks like. The medical examiner will have to confirm that.”
“Phyllis found her,” Sam said. “It was right after that, somebody hit her on the back of the head.”
“The killer.” A shudder went through Mike at the thought. “She was right there in the house with the killer.”
“Looks like it,” Whitmire said. He frowned. “I don’t have to tell you to keep all this to yourself, do I, son?”
“No, sir,” Mike said. “I understand.” This was the Weatherford PD’s case, and while Chief Whitmire and Sheriff Royce Haney were friends and had a long history of cooperation, both men could be a little territorial at times. Whitmire had opened up to him more because he was Phyllis’s son, not because he was a deputy.
One of the emergency medical technicians came out of the kitchen and started for the front door. Whitmire intercepted him before Mike could and asked, “How’s Mrs. Newsom?”
“Her vital signs are good and the bleeding from that laceration on her scalp has stopped. She’ll need a couple of stitches, but we’ll let them take care of that at the hospital.”
“You are taking her to the hospital, then?” Mike asked.
The EMT nodded. Mike didn’t know him, but that wasn’t unusual. Parker County was growing so fast that he didn’t know a lot of the public safety personnel. “Yeah,” the man said, “I’m on my way to get the gurney. I’m sure the ER doc will want to admit her for observation overnight.”
“Just as a precaution?” Sam said.
“That’s right. Now, if you’ll excuse me, sir . . .”
“Can I ask her a few questions?” Whitmire asked.
The EMT nodded on his way out the door. “Sure. She’s conscious and coherent now.”
“Now?” Mike repeated as he, Sam, and the chief started toward the kitchen. “What did he mean by that?”
“She was pretty shook up when she got back over here,” Sam explained. “I could tell somethin’ was wrong as soon as I saw her. I got her sittin’ down at the kitchen table and she started talkin’ about somebody bein’ dead. Then I saw the blood on her head and hollered for Carolyn and Eve to come take care of her. That’s when Phyllis passed out cold. While I called the cops and an ambulance, she regained consciousness, so she wasn’t out long. By the time the first officers got here, Phyllis had told us about Agnes Simmons bein’ dead. She didn’t know exactly what had happened, but she was clear enough about that.”
Whitmire stopped them just outside the kitchen. “I know you’re gonna be glad to see your mom, Mike, but after you’ve given her a hug, you let me ask the questions, okay?”
Mike nodded. Normally some of the detectives would handle the interview with a witness in a homicide case, but there was nothing that unusual about the chief taking a hand in the investigation himself, especially in a case like this that might turn out to be rather high profile.
“All right,” Whitmire said. “Let’s see what the lady has to say.”
Chapter 3
Phyllis was still seated at the kitchen table when she looked up and saw her son come into the room, followed by Sam and Chief Ralph Whitmire. “Mike!” she said.
He hurried over to her and bent down to put his arms around her. “Are you all right?” he asked in a strained, worried voice.
“I’m fine,” she told him. “My head hurts a little, that’s all. Oh, and my knees are bruised, I think.”
Mike looked at the EMT who had stayed with Phyllis, a tall woman with long blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. “What’s wrong with her knees?”
“From what she said, she banged them pretty hard when she fell on the floor, over there in the kitchen next door,” the EMT said.
Phyllis nodded. “That’s right. I probably would have skinned them up if I’d been wearing a dress, but since I had on jeans . . .”
“They can check that out at the hospital.”
“I told them I don’t need to go to the hospital,” Phyllis said with a sigh. “All I need is some aspirin for this headache—”
“That might be the worst thing in the world for you, Mrs. Newsom. If you’ve got a bleeder in your brain, aspirin would just make it worse. You need an MRI to make sure there’s no serious damage.”
Phyllis made a face. She didn’t like all this fuss, didn’t like putting people to so much trouble. But she supposed she didn’t have much choice. And it was better to be sure nothing serious was wrong.
Chief Whitmire said, “I need to ask you a few questions, Mrs. Newsom, if you think you’re up to it.”
“About the murder, you mean?”
“You’re sure it was murder?”
“Agnes didn’t tie that belt around her own neck like that,” Phyllis said. “For one thing, I don’t believe she was strong enough to pull it that tight.”
Whitmire nodded. “Understand, I’ve just barely glanced at the scene, but is it possible she could’ve tied the belt around her neck and used it to hang herself? Her weight could have drawn it tight.”
Phyllis frowned as she thought about the question, and that made the wound on the back of her head twinge a little, or maybe it was the thinking that did that. Either way, after a moment Phyllis said, “No, I don’t think that’s possible. There was nothing right above her
where she could have tied the belt, like a light fixture or something like that, and also it would have had to have broken in order for her to fall where she was lying. I saw both ends, and it wasn’t broken.”
“That’s pretty observant of you,” Whitmire said with a smile, “especially considering how scared and shocked you must have been.”
“I wasn’t really all that scared. Not then. I was just worried about Agnes.”
“What did you do after you found her? Tell me everything you can remember about it.”
Quickly, Phyllis told him about her actions, about trying to untie the belt and then going to the kitchen to look for some scissors when that failed.
The other technician rolled the portable gurney from the ambulance into the kitchen and said, “All right, Mrs. Newsom, let’s get you on here and take you to the hospital.”
“Wait just a minute,” Whitmire said. “I’m not finished talking to her.”
“Well, no offense, Chief, but you’d better make it fast. This lady needs some more medical attention.”
Phyllis wanted to tell the man that she didn’t, either, but she knew it wouldn’t do any good. “I heard something behind me,” she told the chief. “Maybe it was a footstep; I don’t know. Then something hit me. I fell on my knees and then went the rest of the way to the floor. I guess I passed out then.”
“There was just one blow?”
“That’s right, as far as I know.”
“You didn’t see your assailant?”
“No, not at all. He was behind me the whole time.”
The female EMT edged forward. “Chief . . .”
“All right.” Whitmire nodded and stepped back. “Thank you, Mrs. Newsom. You’ve been a big help.”
“Not really,” Phyllis said. She sighed. “And I was no help at all to poor Agnes, I’m afraid.”
Mike rode with her in the ambulance, holding her hand the whole way. That made Phyllis feel better. It wasn’t like Mike had been a clingy little mama’s boy growing up; far from it, in fact. But they were close and she was glad to have him with her now.
She was glad, too, that as she was being wheeled out of the house on the gurney, Sam had patted her on the shoulder and said, “Carolyn and Eve and I will be right behind the ambulance, and we’ll see you at the hospital.”
The neighbors who had been at the cookie exchange were gathered on the lawn, and several of them called out encouraging words to her as she was being brought out and loaded into the ambulance. Since there were quite a few police officers also standing around, Phyllis wondered briefly if everyone had stayed because they were worried about her—or because they weren’t being allowed to leave just yet. She knew from experience how the police liked to question everyone who had been in the vicinity of a crime. Canvassing, they called it.
She summoned up a smile and lifted a hand, waving at Lois and Blake Horton, who lived directly across the street, and Monte and Vickie Kimbrough, who lived next to the Hortons, opposite Agnes. Oscar Gunderson, the widower who lived to the left of Phyllis’s house, was there, as were the Chadwicks, the Ralstons, the Stephensons, the Paynes, and half a dozen other couples from up and down the block. You’d never know that divorce was so prevalent from the people who lived in this neighborhood; the only people with failed marriages behind them were Eve, and Helen Johannson, who lived in the next block with her two children. And it wasn’t so much that Eve’s marriages had really failed. It was just that, as she liked to say, they all had expiration dates.
Helen and her kids hadn’t been at the cookie exchange, though they had been invited, so they weren’t standing on Phyllis’s lawn. Phyllis waved again at the others as she was lifted into the ambulance. Mike climbed in behind her, along with the female EMT; Sam called, “See you at the hospital,” from just outside the emergency vehicle; and then the doors were closed.
Phyllis heard the driver’s door open and then close with a solid sound, and a moment later the ambulance pulled away from the curb. Phyllis smiled and asked, “What, no siren?”
The EMT chuckled. “I don’t think we need it, Mrs. Newsom. Even without it, it won’t take long to get to the hospital.”
That was true. Campbell Memorial was less than a mile away.
That was far enough for a frown to appear on Mike’s face while they were getting there. He squeezed her hand and said, “You told the chief you never got a look at whoever hit you because he was behind you the whole time.”
“That’s right. He certainly was.”
“Why ‘he’?”
It was Phyllis’s turn to frown. “What?”
“You keep saying he hit you; he was behind you. How do you know it was a man?”
“Well . . . I don’t suppose I do. I just thought . . . well, it doesn’t seem likely that a woman would have hit me like that.” Phyllis paused. “But I suppose it’s possible. It’s just . . . I was so sure. . . .”
“I know,” Mike said. “And it’s not really like you to jump to conclusions. I think maybe you did see something, and you’re just not remembering it yet. Something that convinced you your attacker was a man.”
“His shoe,” Phyllis said. The words just sort of popped out of her mouth and made her add, “Oh,” in surprise.
Mike leaned forward. “You saw a man’s shoe?”
“Not even the whole shoe. Just the heel. When I fell on the kitchen floor, my head twisted a little. From the corner of my eye, I saw the heel of a man’s dress shoe, just for a second. Just a glimpse, really. And I had forgotten all about it until you reminded me, Mike.”
“A black dress shoe?”
“The heel was black,” Phyllis said. “I suppose the rest of the shoe could have been brown or some other color.” She closed her eyes. “Let me think. . . .”
But no matter how hard she racked her brain, she couldn’t come up with any more details. She opened her eyes, shook her head, and said as much.
“That’s okay,” Mike told her. “That cuts down on the number of suspects, anyway.”
They arrived at the hospital then, and the next hour or so was a hectic blur that started off with a blizzard of paperwork to be filled out and signed. Mike took care of most of that, for which Phyllis was grateful. Then the emergency room doctor examined her, clipped off a little of her graying light brown hair so that he could get to the cut on her scalp, and took a couple of stitches to close it up. He sent her to X-ray for pictures of her skull and her knees; then she was taken for an MRI on her brain. Even over the music piped in through earphones, she could hear the clanging of the machine, and it didn’t do much for her headache.
But it didn’t last forever, and when the MRI was finished she was taken to a regular patient room, rather than back to the emergency room. Someone must have gone to the ER and gotten Mike, because he was there waiting for her when she was wheeled in. A couple of nurses shooed him out, got Phyllis into a hospital gown, and put her in the bed. She didn’t have an IV, but they did attach a pulse, respiration, and blood oxygen monitor to her.
“All this bother really isn’t necessary,” she said when Mike was allowed back into the room.
“Until we know for sure that you’re all right, it is,” he insisted.
A moment later, Carolyn and Eve came into the room, followed by a clearly uncomfortable Sam. “What’s wrong?” Phyllis asked him.
He glanced around the room, which was a semiprivate one with the other side unoccupied at the moment. “I don’t care much for hospitals,” he muttered.
“Oh!” Phyllis said as she remembered that Sam’s wife, Victoria, had died of cancer. She wasn’t sure how long and drawn out the ordeal had been—Sam didn’t talk much about that part of his life, although he didn’t mind telling stories about better times with the pretty, redheaded Vicky—but even if her passing had been relatively quick, Phyllis was sure Sam had spent more than enough bad times in hospitals—this very hospital, probably. “Oh, Sam, I’m sorry.”
He waved a hand. “Don’t worry about me
. How are you doin’?”
“I’m fine,” Phyllis said.
One of the nurses was still in the room. She said, “We’ll know that once the doctor gets your test results back, Mrs. Newsom. Until then, you need to rest, which means you don’t need a lot of company.”
Carolyn fixed the woman with a glare. “This happens to be our best friend,” she said.
“We won’t tire her out,” Eve added.
The nurse gave in. “All right, but y’all don’t stay too long, hear?”
She left the room. Carolyn and Eve stood on one side of the bed, Mike on the other, and Sam stood at the foot with his hands awkwardly tucked into the hip pockets of his jeans.
“I’m sorry about ruining the cookie exchange,” Phyllis said.
“It certainly wasn’t your fault,” Carolyn said. “You didn’t have anything to do with poor Agnes being killed.”
Phyllis sighed. “No, but the way things like this keep happening, I’m starting to think that I’m jinxed! Did everyone at least take some cookies home with them?”
“Don’t worry about that, dear,” Eve told her. “People managed to split them up before the police started questioning everyone.”
Carolyn frowned. “I’m not sure why they were interrogating our guests. It’s not like any of them could have had anything to do with Agnes’s death. I swear, sometimes the authorities go overboard. . . .” She looked at Mike. “I mean—”
“That’s all right, Miz Wilbarger,” he told her with a smile. “I know what you mean. Chief Whitmire just wants to make sure the investigation doesn’t overlook any important information. You never know where it’ll turn up.”
“I suppose.” Carolyn had fallen under suspicion of being a murderer herself at one point in the past, so Phyllis understood why she was a little leery of the methods employed by the police. “Anyway,” Carolyn went on, “it’s obvious that Agnes was killed by a burglar. One of those home invaders, isn’t that what they call them these days?”
The Christmas Cookie Killer Page 3
