“But he didn’t do it,” Phyllis said.
“I don’t think he did, either, but without any proof . . .” Frank shrugged helplessly.
Even though Phyllis didn’t like to think about doing it, she brought up what Frank had suggested earlier. “If I told the police I was sure it wasn’t Randall who hit me—”
“It wouldn’t do any good now,” Frank broke in. “They’ve got their minds made up. They’d never put you on the witness stand.”
“The defense could call me as a witness.”
“And the district attorney would break you down on cross-examination and make you admit that you never really saw who hit you, because that’s the truth. You’re just not the type of person who can lie under oath. I realize that now.” He summoned up another faint smile. “But don’t think I don’t appreciate the offer, because I do.” He put out his hand. “Well, so long.”
“Good-bye, Frank,” Phyllis said as she shook his hand.
As he started down the porch steps, she called after him, “We’ll keep an eye on the house for you, since it’ll be sitting there empty.”
He paused long enough to turn and lift a hand in farewell. “Thanks.”
Phyllis closed the door and shook her head. She hated to see Frank and the others go. In her mind, at least, whether she wanted to or not, she still considered them suspects in Agnes’s murder. The members of the Simmons family had alibis, but not ironclad ones. And from everything Phyllis had learned about the family history, some of them had motives, too. Old grudges that had festered for years could lead to unexpected outbreaks of violence. So could the desperate need for money—and the anger at being turned down for help.
But Frank had been right about one thing—the police probably weren’t looking for any other suspects now. They thought they had their man in Randall Simmons, and they would be concentrating on building a case against him, rather than seeking out other possible killers.
It wouldn’t be too difficult to build that case, given Randall’s criminal background and the fight he had put up when he was taken into custody. Throw in the jailhouse suicide attempt, and barring a rock-solid alibi or eyewitness testimony, a conviction was almost a certainty. The fact that Jimmy Crowe ought to be considered a suspect, along with some of the other people in the neighborhood, wouldn’t even come into play.
That was unless Phyllis revealed the secrets she had uncovered and shared her suspicions with the authorities, most notably Detective Isabel Largo.
And who, exactly, did she have for suspects? Well, there was a widower who enjoyed dressing in women’s clothing; a young single mother who had acted to defend her own mother; a woman who battled the twin demons of alcoholism and depression; and possibly her husband. Then there were the other members of the murdered woman’s family, who had allegedly been twenty-five miles away in Fort Worth at the time of Agnes Simmons’s death.
Detective Largo would probably be too polite to laugh in her face, Phyllis thought . . . but the detective would feel like doing just that, more than likely.
She could talk to Mike, though. If she laid out the whole story for him, especially the part about Jimmy Crowe, he might be able to convince Detective Largo to take those things seriously.
Nothing was going to happen about any of it until after Christmas. The fact that December twenty-fifth fell on a Saturday this year meant that everything would come to a halt for the weekend. Even today, on Christmas Eve, a lot of offices and other businesses were closed so that their employees could have a long holiday weekend. The state and federal governments were shut down, so that meant the banks were, too. No mail would be delivered today.
The stores were still open, although most of them would close early, probably at six o’clock. Between now and then they would do a booming business, especially Wal-Mart, as last-minute shoppers descended on the place in search of gifts and food they had forgotten to buy. Phyllis had planned carefully. She had everything she needed for Christmas dinner the next day. There was no way she was joining that last-minute mob unless an actual emergency required it.
She was sitting in the living room, looking through a magazine, when Carolyn came through the hall and stopped beside the table. “What’s this?” Carolyn asked as she picked up the envelope Blake Horton had left with Phyllis.
“It’s a check Blake wants to give to the church, in appreciation for Dwight’s help with Lois last night,” Phyllis explained. “He’s going out of town, so he dropped it off and asked if I’d see to it that it gets to Dwight. I told him I would, but I didn’t see any point in making a special trip today, since the banks are closed anyway.”
“Yes, the government will seize any excuse for a long weekend, won’t it?” Carolyn said as she turned the envelope over in her hands.
“Well, Christmas isn’t really an excuse. It’s a good reason, as far as I’m concerned.”
“I suppose so.”
“Anyway, I thought I’d just take it to church with me Sunday and put in the collection plate. I don’t have any idea how much the check is for, of course, but I thought that would be all right. It has Blake’s name on it, so they’ll know who it came from.”
“I’ll tell you how much it’s for,” Carolyn said as she switched on the overhead light in the hall. Then she held up the envelope so the glare shone through it, and squinted at it as she tried to read the numbers on the check it contained.
Phyllis started to tell her not to be so nosy, but then Carolyn lowered the envelope abruptly and turned toward her.
“You really don’t know how much this check is for?”
“I don’t have any idea,” Phyllis said again. She guessed, “Fifty dollars? A hundred?”
“Try five thousand,” Carolyn said.
Chapter 19
Phyllis was hardly aware that she set the magazine aside as Phyllis was hardly aware that she set the magazine aside as she stood up and stared at Carolyn. “Five thousand dollars?” she said in disbelief.
Carolyn gestured toward the light. “Come and see for yourself.”
Phyllis had never considered herself a snoop—despite the fact that she had solved several murders in the past six months—but she went over to Carolyn and took the envelope from her, anyway. Surely Carolyn had to be making a mistake about the amount on the check. She had just looked at it wrong; that’s all. It was probably for fifty dollars. Phyllis held the envelope up to the light and squinted just as her friend had a moment earlier.
There was the five . . . and she made out three zeros after it . . . then a dot and two more zeros. . . .
“Oh, my Lord,” Phyllis said. “It is five thousand dollars.”
“Just like I told you,” Carolyn said.
Phyllis lowered the envelope, put it back on the table, and stepped back quickly, almost like it was some sort of wild animal. “Blake didn’t tell me how much it was. If he had, I would have asked him to take it on over to the church right then and there. I don’t want the responsibility for that much money.”
“Where did Blake get that much?” Carolyn asked. “He’s an accountant, isn’t he? Do you think he could have embezzled it from some of his clients? Maybe he’s laundering money through the church!”
“Stop that,” Phyllis said. “Blake’s not an embezzler or a money launderer.”
Carolyn crossed her arms over her chest. “Then where did the money come from?”
“I assume he makes a good living at his job. They both drive fairly new cars. And five thousand’s not really that much, this day and age. It just seems like a lot to us because we remember when that was a year’s salary.”
“You could buy two good cars for that amount,” Carolyn said. “Now you can’t even get a very good used one for five thousand.”
From the other end of the hallway, Sam asked, “What’s this about five grand?”
Phyllis and Carolyn both started a little and looked around hurriedly at him. As he ambled toward them, he smiled and went on, “You ladies look a mite guil
ty about something. What’re you up to, if you don’t mind my askin’?”
“Nothing.” Phyllis pointed to the envelope on the table, still not really wanting to touch it. “Blake Horton stopped by and left this check. He wanted me to give it to Dwight.”
“I didn’t think preachers took pay like that.”
“It’s an offering for the church.”
“Five thousand dollars,” Carolyn said.
Sam’s bushy eyebrows rose slightly. “That’s a lot o’ money. I’m sure the church can put it to good use.”
Phyllis nodded. “That’s what Blake said. I just wish he hadn’t entrusted it to me.”
“Oh, I think you’re trustworthy enough,” Sam told her. “It’s not like you’re going to run off to Las Vegas with it or something.”
Carolyn laughed. “The very idea! Phyllis in Las Vegas?” She shook her head. “No, I can’t see that.”
Phyllis wasn’t quite sure whether to take that as a compliment or an insult. It wasn’t like she didn’t have a wild side. . . . Well, actually, she didn’t, she supposed. . . . She said, “I just don’t want the responsibility for that much money that belongs to somebody else.” She reached a decision. “I’m going to take it over to the church now, instead of waiting until Sunday.”
“Will the office be open today?” Carolyn asked.
“I don’t know, but even if it’s not, the parsonage is right next door.” Phyllis looked at Sam. “Would you mind coming with me?”
“I was about to suggest the same thing,” he said. “Lemme get my coat.”
“I’ll need mine, too.”
“I’ll guard the money,” Carolyn offered. She planted herself in front of the table, arms crossed and a fierce glare on her face.
Phyllis didn’t think masked bandits were liable to break down the front door and try to steal the check, but she had to admit that she would feel better if someone was keeping an eye on it while she and Sam got ready to go. She told Carolyn, “Thank you. We’ll be right back.”
Sam was ready by the time Phyllis had her coat on and came back downstairs. In jeans, boots, and a brown leather jacket, he looked quite rugged and masculine, she thought. He picked up the envelope from the table and asked her, “My pickup or your car?”
“Let’s take your pickup,” Phyllis said. “If you don’t mind.”
“Wouldn’t have suggested it if I did.” He handed her the envelope.
“Be careful,” Carolyn cautioned. “There’s a lot of crime this time of year.”
“I don’t think desperadoes will be roaming the streets between here and the church,” Phyllis said. “It’s only a few blocks. We could walk it if the weather wasn’t so cold.”
“Just be careful—that’s all I’m saying.”
Phyllis nodded and said, “We’ll be back in a little while.” This errand shouldn’t take very long. She hoped not, because she planned to make the stuffed zucchini this afternoon.
Sam’s pickup was at the curb. He unlocked it and they climbed in, with him holding the door for her and then closing it when she was in. Such politeness wasn’t put on with Sam; it was just his nature.
When he turned on the engine, country music blared from the speakers. “Sorry,” he muttered as he pushed the button that turned off the radio. “I like to crank it up when I’m by myself. I know you don’t care much for that goat-ropin’ music.”
“I just never understood the appeal of all that honky-tonking, getting drunk, and cheating on your spouse.”
“I never did any of that myself. I guess people like to listen to that broken-heart stuff so they can say, there but for the grace o’ God, go I. Their own lives don’t seem so bad when they hear about how bad other folks have it. That’s why some people like the blues, too.”
“I suppose so,” Phyllis said. “I like music that makes me feel better. Why don’t you turn the radio back on and see if you can find some Christmas music?”
Sam grinned. “I bet I can do that. Some of the stations around here went all Christmas, all the time, before Thanksgivin’.”
The velvety notes of Mel Tormé singing “The Christmas Song” filled the pickup’s cab as Sam drove toward the church. Since it was so close by, he reached it before the song was over. Phyllis felt a little disappointed. She liked Tormé’s version—not quite as much as Nat King Cole’s, but it was still very good.
The church offices were in a converted house next to the sanctuary. The parsonage was on the opposite side of the church. Sam parked in front of the office building, and he and Phyllis got out of the truck and went up the walk. No other vehicles were parked there. Phyllis didn’t see any lights burning inside.
“Looks like they may be closed up,” Sam observed.
“I was just thinking the same thing. But we can try here first, anyway.”
The front door was locked when Sam tried it, and nobody responded to his knock. He turned to Phyllis and said, “Guess we’ll try the parsonage.”
Phyllis had already seen that there was an SUV parked in the driveway of the house where Dwight and Jada Gresham lived, so she figured someone was home. If Dwight wasn’t there, she would give the check to Jada. All Phyllis cared about was that she didn’t have to hang on to it until Sunday.
They walked across the lawn in front of the church and across the parsonage driveway, then followed the walk to the front door, which had a large wreath hung on it. That was the only Christmas decoration on the house, although a large manger scene was set up on the church’s front lawn.
Sam rang the doorbell, and a moment later Dwight Gresham appeared, carrying a book in one hand with a finger stuck in it to mark his place. He looked surprised to see Phyllis and Sam, but he smiled at them as he said, “Hello, you two. What are you doing out on Christmas Eve?”
Phyllis held up the envelope. “We brought you something.”
“A Christmas present? Really, you didn’t have to—”
“It’s not from us,” Phyllis said. “And it’s really not a Christmas present. It’s from Blake Horton. An offering for the church.”
Dwight frowned. “From Blake . . . ? Goodness, where are my manners? I’m keeping you folks standing out in the cold. Come in; come in.” He stepped back from the doorway and used the book to motion them inside the house.
Phyllis couldn’t help but glance at the volume in Dwight’s hand as she and Sam stepped inside. She expected it to be a book of sermons or some other religious tome, but instead she saw it was a thriller by a popular author. Dwight saw where she was looking and chuckled as he closed the door. “Pure entertainment,” he said. “Can’t study the scriptures all the time, you know.”
“No, of course not,” Phyllis said, vaguely embarrassed that he had caught her checking out his reading material.
“Come on into the den,” Dwight said as he led them down the hall. “I want to hear about this offering from Blake.”
The house was spotless as usual and smelled of pine. Phyllis glanced into the living room as they passed it and saw that it looked almost like a museum display. There was no indication that anyone actually lived there.
The den was a little more cluttered and homey, but not much. As Dwight set his book down on a table beside a leather-covered recliner, Jada called from the kitchen, “Who was at the door, Dwight?”
“Phyllis Newsom and Sam Fletcher, dear,” he replied. “They’re here in the den with me.”
“Oh.” Jada came into the room, wiping her hands on her apron as she did so. She smiled a greeting to Phyllis and Sam and asked, “Can I get you anything? I have eggnog . . . nonalcoholic, of course.”
Phyllis shook her head. “No, thanks. We won’t be here but a minute. I hate to intrude on Christmas Eve, but I wanted to give this to Dwight.”
She handed him the envelope Blake Horton had left at her house.
As Dwight opened it, Phyllis went on, “Blake’s going out of town, and he wanted to leave this to thank you for everything you did to help with Lois.”
> “He didn’t have to do that,” Jada said as she came forward to her husband’s side. “Dwight’s job is to help people.”
“Well, Blake thought this could do some good for the church.”
Dwight let out a low whistle of surprise as he slipped the check from the envelope and looked at the amount. “I’ll say it can,” he said.
Jada leaned closer. “Does that say five thousand dollars?”
“It does.” Dwight looked up at Phyllis. “Did you know how much this was for?”
She hesitated, then nodded and said, “Yes, that’s why I brought it right over. I didn’t want to have that much money lying around over Christmas.”
Dwight didn’t ask whether Blake had told her the amount of the check, and Phyllis didn’t explain that she had learned how much it was through snooping, first Carolyn’s and then her own. He said, “Well, it’s not like it’s cash. The check is made out to the church. Anyone who stole it would have a devil of a time cashing it . . . so to speak.”
“Yes, I know, but I still didn’t want anything to happen to it.”
“Of course not.” Dwight tucked the check back into the envelope. “Thank you, Phyllis. It was very thoughtful of you to bring this over.” He tapped the envelope against his left hand. “You know, I really ought to take this over to the office and lock it up in the safe. After you’ve gone to this much trouble to get it to me, I don’t want anything to happen to it, either.”
“That sounds like a good idea, dear,” Jada told him. “It can go into the bank with the regular deposit first thing Monday morning.”
Dwight nodded. “That’s what I’m going to do.”
Phyllis said, “We’ll be running along, then.”
“Before you go,” Jada said, “did Blake tell you how poor Lois was doing?”
“As well as can be expected, I think. She’ll be in rehab for a while, and Blake’s not supposed to see her again right away, so he was going to spend Christmas with some of his relatives up in Gainesville.”
The Christmas Cookie Killer Page 20
