Bill Hopkins - Judge Rosswell Carew 01 - Courting Murder

by Bill Hopkins

  Nathaniel handed Rosswell the card. Rosswell said, “Blessing Land Company is owned by Nadine Blessing, not Nadine Dumbarton.”

  “I’m sorry.” Nathaniel chuckled. “I knew her when we went to college. Her maiden name was Dumbarton.”

  Rosswell choked. The card crinkled when he crushed it in his hand. He felt as if he’d broken the neck of a baby bird. Nathaniel backed away a couple of steps. A crazy judge in his house. First, he wads up a business card for no reason. What will he do next? That’s what Nathaniel was thinking, Rosswell was sure of it.

  And what had propelled Rosswell into the weird action?

  N. D. Nadine Dumbarton? Nathaniel Dahlbert?

  The murderer arranged the bodies with the initials ND. Bragging about her work. Or his work. One of the two is the killer. Or maybe they worked together, thinking it was cute to make a subtle ND clue.

  From somewhere back in the recesses of Nathaniel’s house, Rosswell heard a telephone ring. Nathaniel made no move to answer it. The telephone by his recliner was not ringing. He had two telephones with two different numbers. After three rings, the telephone stopped. If it was hooked to an answering machine, Rosswell couldn’t hear the message.

  Nathaniel returned to his recliner, sipped from his cup, remained silent. His eyes never left Rosswell. Now, Rosswell assured himself, if Nathaniel felt he was a threat, he’d splash lukewarm tea in his face. A lot of good that would do. Rosswell’s skin would merely soak up the caffeine which would give him a burst of energy.

  Rosswell pulled himself away from the distraction back to the main point. Nadine Dumbarton Blessing was the murderer. Or at least she was the first name on Rosswell’s really good suspect list. Dampening his thrill and agitation was a Herculean task. Rosswell didn’t want Nathaniel to see his excitement. Nathaniel could be involved with the murders. Nathaniel had known Nadine since college. Perhaps he and Nadine had cooked up some scheme to murder two people, for what reason Rosswell didn’t yet know. Warning Nadine that Rosswell would call on her, to snoop in her business would be the first thing Nathaniel would do if the real estate agent and the bookseller were cohorts in crime, but there wasn’t much he could do to prevent that.

  Another thing bubbled to the surface of Rosswell’s brain.

  He concluded that Nathaniel Dahlbert had shot at both Tina and him.

  Or Nadine Dumbarton had shot at them.

  One or both of them wanted Tina and me dead. We were snooping and getting close to the truth. ND would risk killing us before we could discover her guilt. Or his guilt. Or their guilt.

  Either way, Nadine and Nathaniel were in cahoots. Rosswell couldn’t turn his back to the man. And he couldn’t leave Tina alone for another second. He’d talk to Frizz and tell him what he’d learned, but talking to Nadine could wait until morning, His wounded arm hurt and he felt close to collapsing.

  Rosswell graciously excused himself from Nathaniel’s presence, with a recollection of an urgent appointment, and headed back to the hospital.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Saturday, early morning

  Saturday morning, Rosswell left the sleeping Tina in the care of the city cop, who’d groused about not getting enough sleep the night before. Rosswell went to gather Ollie at Merc’s. Crowded as usual, Merc’s smelled of bacon and eggs, the breakfast special.

  “Mabel, I need six chicken biscuits to go.”

  Rosswell sat and spilled the news about Nadine to Ollie.

  Ollie asked, “We’re going to talk to her?”

  “Right now.”

  “I’ve got news on the Cadillac owners,” Ollie said. “Rasmussen is home in bed with both the flu and his wife’s sister, conning her out of money while he’s screwing her and passing on the flu. Bitti is in the Bahamas on vacation, undoubtedly looking for a new line of furniture. Ambrosia’s in North Carolina at a legal seminar. Reynaud is supposedly out of town, but no one knows where. Probably at a bank convention.”

  “Maybe Susan Bitti and Trisha Reynaud are lovers, and they’re sunning themselves on the beach at St. George’s.”

  “That’s in Bermuda, not the Bahamas. But I have heard some rumblings that they’re both lesbians hot to trot.”

  “And this valuable information came from Merc’s?”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  After a few minutes, Mabel brought the chicken biscuits, hot and fresh from the smorgasbord.

  Ollie had been talking to Nadine about buying her car, so she’d not think it odd that the pair of them showed up at her office to talk some more about the vehicle.

  Standing outside, Rosswell asked Ollie, “Doesn’t Mabel ever go home?”

  “She’s got a lot of bills to pay. She needs to work as much as she can.”

  “She won’t be able to pay many bills if she falls over dead from exhaustion.”

  “She’s young.”

  Before they boarded Vicky the Volkswagen, Rosswell tapped her peace symbol for luck.

  “I’ve seen you do that several times,” Ollie said. “Why do you touch that chicken claw?”

  “It’s to bring good luck. Get in the car. We don’t have time… .” Rosswell choked again. “What did you call that?” He indicated the peace symbol.

  “A chicken claw. Some people think the peace symbol represents a chicken claw.”

  Rosswell laid a hand on Vicky’s peace symbol. “That’s what Hermie called it. He said that the silver car that he saw out at the park had a chicken claw on it.”

  “You know where I’ve seen one of these, don’t you?”

  “On Nadine Dumbarton’s car.”

  Nadine’s assistant said she’d taken Saturday off, which Rosswell thought was odd for a real estate agent. There was an abundance of potential customers milling around today. He asked for Nadine’s home address, but the girl refused to provide it, handing over Nadine’s cell- phone number instead.

  Ollie and Rosswell went back to the courthouse, fired up Rosswell’s computer, and Ollie found Nadine’s address within seconds.

  “Ollie, can you find anything and everything on the Internet?”

  “Sure. Give me something to find.”

  “Find my cellphone number. It’s unlisted.”

  About five minutes later, Ollie displayed Rosswell’s number.

  “Crap,” Rosswell said. “Let’s go.”

  The real estate agent lived off the Confederate Trail on a gravel road that wound up a small hill. The log house was isolated, nestled in the deep forest, its nearest neighbor three miles away.

  By the time they pulled up to her house, Rosswell had wolfed down all six of the chicken biscuits. Fortunately, none of the chicken had claws. However, his greasy hands messed up Vicky’s steering wheel. After her soaking at the park and his assaulting her with greasy paws, tomorrow he’d have to do a complete detailing on her.

  Rosswell recalled that Nadine’s husband, Guilford Blessing, had died three or four years ago, leaving her the sole owner of the small residence. She’d never remarried and had never latched on to a boyfriend. Or girlfriend. That he knew of.

  “Do you have your gun?” Ollie asked when the house came into view.

  “Hell, yes, I’ve got my gun. I’m not getting caught with my pants down around my ankles again.”

  “I prefer you never use that figure of speech in my presence again. How I’m going to stop that visual from rattling around in my brain, I don’t know.”

  Rosswell checked his cellphone. No service. What else could he expect? That would’ve been too convenient. When he stuck the thing back in its holster, it beeped. Nothing like a sarcastic cellphone.

  A porch ran the full length of the front of the house. The sidewalk leading from the driveway to the porch was lined with lilac bushes in full bloom, pumping a sweet aroma into the air. Their smell reminded Rosswell of Tina’s perfume. Every log of the house shined. The lawn, although small, had been freshly cut without the least sign of a dandelion or any other weed. There wasn’t a garden gnome in sight. Nadi
ne clearly had good taste.

  Nadine’s silver Buick Regal was parked in the double garage. The garage door shuddered down. Rosswell mulled it over. Either she’d seen us coming and closed the door or she’d just arrived and was closing up. She could’ve been hiding. Or setting up an ambush.

  A red-winged blackbird, clinging to a cattail growing in the ditch in front of Nadine’s house, screamed an alarm. The bird probably knew something they didn’t. At least the bird wasn’t out trying to capture bad people.

  What Nadine was doing inside the house was anyone’s guess. But they didn’t have to wait long before they found out.

  Nadine bounced out her front door, waving to them, smiling broadly. “How nice of y’all to come over.” Perky as hell, dressed in tight white shorts and a loose blue kind of a blouse thing.

  Rosswell said, “Ollie wanted to look at your car again if that’s okay.”

  “Yes, oh, yes. Get out. I’ll open the garage.”

  Nadine disappeared into the house, pulling the front door shut. When the door closed, it boomed, sounding like a thunderclap.

  Ollie said, “Little house, damned big door.”

  “Let’s stand over there, where we can’t be seen from any windows.”

  “Or be fired at from any windows.”

  Ollie and Rosswell jumped out of Vicky and scuttled to the front of the garage door. Rosswell kept a watch on the windows of the garage door while Ollie surveyed the rest of the area. Ambushes were Rosswell’s least favorite activity, especially if he was the ambushee.

  After a moment, the garage door rumbled up. Rosswell found his gun but kept it hidden. No use telegraphing his intentions.

  Nadine had come out her kitchen door into the garage. “Come on in.” She waved at the two men.

  Ollie mumbled, “Said the spider to the fly.”

  The garage smelled of fertilizer and bug spray. Fifty-pound sacks of white sand and pea gravel lined both sidewalls. Small barrels of potassium nitrate, calcium nitrate, potassium phosphate, magnesium sulfate, and other chemicals lined the back wall. There were two five-gallon cans of gasoline and a lawnmower. There must’ve been one hell of a garden out back. Odd. There weren’t any shovels, rakes, hoes, things you’d associate with gardening. And no weed killer. On one shelf, sat a row of diaries, the year number stamped on the spines, beginning ten years ago and continuing to the present.

  Nadine said, “You want me to back it out?”

  “No,” Ollie said. “I’ve already had a pretty good look at it.”

  Beef stew was cooking in the kitchen. The odor of something else—cherry pie?—had wafted out the kitchen door when Nadine opened it.

  She flicked on the garage lights. Like Nathaniel, if Nadine were trying to hide anything, she did a lousy job of it.

  Brushing a smudge off the SAVE THE EARTH bumper sticker, Rosswell asked her, “Where did you get this bumper sticker?”

  “I bought it from the Greenies.”

  “Greenies?” Ollie said.

  “It’s the Ecology Club at Sterling Price,” she said, referring to the local high school. “Or maybe it’s the Environmental Society. Something like that.”

  Rosswell said, “They were selling these stickers?”

  “That’s what the woman said,” Ollie said unnecessarily.

  Nadine said, “Yes, oh, yes. They sold around a thousand of them.”

  The stickers were the peel off plastic kind, the ones that would clog up a garbage dump for five or six hundred years.

  Ollie said, “What’s that slogan mean? Save the Earth.”

  Nadine said, “I have to be careful with my politics. I don’t want anyone knowing how I vote or what I think about controversial subjects. You have to do that when you want everyone of every persuasion using your services. Those kids, though, they’re cleaning up creeks, maintaining abandoned cemeteries, stuff like that. I thought Save the Earth was so general that no one could be against it.”

  “Yes,” Rosswell said. “No one’s in favor of destroying the Earth. It would be hard to keep track of your stuff.”

  Ollie and Nadine gawked at him. Neither one laughed. Oh, well. I thought it was funny.

  “Then,” she said, “there’s the real reason I bought the bumper sticker.”

  Ollie said, “Which is?”

  “My initials.”

  Playing dumb would be a good idea here, Rosswell thought, so he said, “Nadine, you lost me there.”

  “This is the letter N and this is the letter D.” She semaphored N and D with her arms. “Some people think ND stands for nuclear disarmament. But I think it stands for Nadine Dumbarton, my maiden name.”

  Superimpose the N and the D and you get a chicken claw. Or peace symbol.

  Either way, the murderer had left that clue. The answer shone clear and bright in Rosswell’s mind.

  “Nadine,” Rosswell said, “you’re under arrest.”

  Nadine froze in position. Rosswell had his hand on the gun, resting in his back pocket, just in case. He would never shoot anyone, but if he aimed at someone, that person wouldn’t know that he couldn’t shoot him, her, or it.

  Then she burst out laughing. “You looked so serious, Judge. You do have a reputation for being a joker. Now I know how you got it.”

  Ollie said, “He’s not kidding.”

  “Get in my car,” Rosswell said. “We’re going to see the sheriff.”

  “You want to carry me to jail in a red Hyundai? That’s even funnier.”

  Rosswell said, “Vicky is not a Hyundai and she’s not red. Vicky is a 1972 Volkswagen Cabriolet, colored Monarch Orange Pearl.”

  “Vicky?” Nadine clapped her hands to her face, shrieking. “You’re too precious for words! You named your car?”

  Each of her fingernails was painted with a different color and a different design. On each ear, she had a couple of earrings, all of varying hues. Five rings with unusual gemstones. She must’ve been going through a rainbow stage.

  Rosswell said, “My mother named that car.”

  Nadine said, “What’s a Cabriolet?”

  Ollie said, “It’s from a French word that means leap in the air like a goat.” Rosswell thought Nadine would choke to death, she laughed so hard.

  Ollie said, “Rosswell, get her in the car.”

  Nadine stopped laughing long enough to threaten Rosswell and Ollie. “Do y’all have handcuffs? I’m not going anywhere with y’all. Judge, if you want to carry me off anywhere, then you and this rat-faced drunk are going to have to handcuff me and drag me to wherever you want to take me. And after my lawyers get through with you both, y’all won’t have a straw to piss through.”

  Ollie said, “Rat-faced drunk?”

  Rosswell said, “I think she’s insulting us.”

  Nadine started again, leaning against her car in a paroxysm of laughter that threatened to cripple her. If it kept up, she’d slither to the driveway. Rosswell signaled to Ollie, and each of them grabbed one of her arms.

  “Rape!” she yelled.

  She tried to yell it again but fell to guffawing. Nadine’s threshold for humor was exceptionally low. It’s difficult to arrest someone who’s laughing at you.

  The surreal scene turned deadly when a gunshot shattered the back window of her Buick.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Saturday morning, continued

  Nadine shrieked again, but there was no humor in this scream. “My God, they’re shooting at us!”

  “They?” Rosswell said. Why had Nadine referred to more than one shooter? Had some of her disgruntled clients paid a visit?

  Ollie and Rosswell hustled her to the passage door leading to the house. Rosswell slapped the garage door switch. Before the door hit the ground, another bullet screamed into the garage. Another round hit the outside of the garage door but didn’t penetrate it. Rosswell found it odd that the door was so exceptionally strong. The three of them bolted into the kitchen. Nadine clicked off her oven. Someone was trying to kill them and she worried
about her baking. The cherry pie or whatever it was that smelled so good would have to wait.

  “Where’s your phone?” Rosswell said. She pointed. He lifted the receiver, praying that the bastard (or bastards) shooting at them hadn’t destroyed the phone service. The receiver had a slight odor of perfume. His sweaty palms would soon obliterate the pleasant aroma. The receiver grew slick with sweat while he waited. Then, a dial tone. Thank you, Lord. He dialed 911. The phone rang. Thank you again, Lord. And rang. And rang. No one was at the sheriff’s office. He clicked off and then dialed the operator.

  “Operator.”

  Rosswell told the man on the other end the situation, gave him directions, and told him to call the highway patrol.

  The operator said, “Dial 911 if you have an emergency.”

  Rosswell said, “What’s your name?”

  “Sir, I’m not allowed to give out that information.”

  “Operator, I don’t want a date. I want to beat you senseless unless you call the highway patrol.”

  Another gunshot slammed into Nadine’s front window, yet it only spider webbed the glass without breaking it. Who puts bulletproof window glass in a house? Was Nadine connected with the mob?

  The operator said, “Was that a gunshot?”

  Rosswell said, “You’re damned right that was a gunshot. There have been lots of gunshots out here, and three people are the targets.”

  “I’ll connect you with 911.”

  Rosswell yelled, “You call the highway patrol or I’m going to personally cut your nuts off.”

  A gasp, followed by, “You can’t talk that way to me.”

  “Operator, I’m going to castrate you and make you eat your testicles. Then I’m going to—”

  “I’m putting you through to my supervisor.”

  “About time.”

  After a few clicks, a lot of static, and what seemed like a century, a woman came on the line. “My operator tells me that you’ve threatened him with bodily harm.”

  Roswell said, “Then call the cops and report me. Call the highway patrol. Call the FBI and the Secret Service. Someone is shooting at us. Call the CIA. Call NATO and the UN.”