High Country Fall

by Margaret Maron

  “I heard he’s responsible for the town’s new senior center.”

  “The Carlyle Grayson Ledwig Senior Center. Oh yes. Lots of brownie points for that.”

  “They say it’s quite a facility.”

  “State of the art,” she agreed. “God knows it cost enough.”

  “What else do they plan to build on to it?”

  “Build on?”

  “I understand Dr. Ledwig left money to expand it?”

  “Expand it? Where’d you get that idea? It’s already three times bigger than this town’ll ever need.”

  “Mrs. Osborne said that’s what she’d heard. That your husband left money to expand the center.”

  “Don’t know where she’d hear that.”

  “From Mr. Osborne, maybe?” Not that I gave a damn. I was just making conversation till Underwood came back and drove me to pick up my car at the courthouse.

  “Not from Norm,” Tina said firmly. “He’s on the current board—was on the current board,” she corrected herself. “Once it was built, Carl turned title, running, and maintenance over to the county. Saint Carl of Cedar Gap.”

  “Sounds like a good thing to have done,” I said.

  She gave a cynical snort. “Good for the clinic, too. Boosted the summer client base. Always kept his eye on the balance sheet, Carl did.”

  “Is that where your daughter gets her business flair?”

  She looked at me blankly.

  “Your daughter Carla.” Did she not know her daughter had opened a café? Was she as in the dark as my cousin Beverly?

  Comprehension dawned in her blue eyes. “Business flair? That little tea room thingy that her friends talked her into blowing her trust fund on? Thank God Carl never found out about that! He couldn’t stand Simon Proffitt.”

  Before I could ask what Simon Proffitt had to do with the price of watercress sandwiches, Joyce came down the stairs, and from outside I heard a shout followed by a babble of voices.

  “Oh,” said Joyce. “Sounds like they found it.”

  CHAPTER 20

  On our drive back to town, George Underwood wasn’t optimistic about lifting fingerprints from the surface of the iron candleholder his men had found.

  “Too rough and dimpled,” he said.

  “That’s the price you pay for handmade craftsy stuff,” I told him.

  He gave a rueful smile. “I doubt if the Ashes were thinking murder weapon when they bought it.”

  “Lucky for the killer, though. He probably wasn’t thinking about fingerprints either.”

  “Just snatched up the closest solid thing at hand,” Underwood agreed.

  “Which probably means he did intend to kill Osborne when he followed him out onto the terrace.”

  “He?” There was an amused note in his voice.

  “Or she. I’m not a member of the PC language police. ‘He’ works for me till we know for sure. Especially since more men kill than women.”

  “More men get caught, anyhow,” he conceded, a definite grin on his face.

  I laughed. “And on behalf of women everywhere, we thank you for that dubious praise.”

  The sun had gone down shortly before we left the Ashe home, but the moon had already cleared the horizon. Nearly full now, it sheathed the hills in a silvery blue light. Leaf people come and go with the sun, and the narrow road was almost deserted on this Tuesday night.

  Only Tuesday? It felt as if I’d been here a week.

  Possibilities from last night played through my mind.

  “Impulsive like Ledwig’s killer,” I mused, “but not in the heat of the moment.”

  “How you figure that?”

  “Would you go out on a deserted terrace with someone you’d been fighting with?” I asked.

  “If it was coming to blows, I might take it outside.”

  “With someone who was bringing along an iron candlestick?”

  “It was dark. The killer could have palmed it.”

  “Then why was he struck on the back of his head? If Osborne expected to fight, he’d be facing his attacker.”

  “Not if he walked out first.”

  “Then you’d have found blood on the terrace near the door, not over at the edge.”

  “True. On the other hand, maybe Osborne thought the fight—argument, whatever—was over and he walked out there to cool off, not realizing his killer had followed.”

  “When I went down to freshen up, that level was almost deserted,” I said. “Osborne could’ve gone to use the lavatory, too, and the killer followed him. If others had been around, Osborne might still be alive. But if the killer got lucky and it was just the two of them, he might have suggested they step out for a breath of fresh air or to look at the moon or a half-dozen other things. Once Osborne was leaning on the railing, looking out over Pritchard Cove—”

  “Then it’s just one good blow to drape him over the railing, up with the legs, and ‘Hasta la vista, baby!’” said Underwood, finishing my scenario.

  “That’s why I think it was pure impulse. Carpe diem.”

  “Seize the day? But why this particular day, I wonder? What was Osborne going to do or say last night or today that made the killer feel he had to do it then?”

  “What I said before. It could’ve been sheer impulse and nothing more. He’d already decided Osborne had to go. What better time than at a large party where suspicion could be spread around? If it were me, I’d start with all the usual suspects—wives, children, beneficiaries, business associates, and enemies—then eliminate any of those who weren’t at the party last night or who had alibis for when Dr. Ledwig was killed.”

  “You really think the two are linked?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Well, Danny Freeman didn’t kill Osborne, that’s for sure. And I’d hate like hell to think we’ve got two killers running around loose. So! Wives? You and Joyce alibi Sunny Osborne, and the bartender out at the country club alibis Tina Ledwig, who wasn’t even at the party. Children? Ledwig’s daughters are in the clear there, and the Osborne daughter’s in DC.”

  “Beneficiaries?” I asked.

  “Well, Ledwig’s medical associates gain his share of the clinic and hospital. The insurance they carried on him pays for that. If the Ashes had the same sort of policy on Osborne, it’ll buy out the share of the business Sunny would’ve inherited. She gets a bundle of cash, they get exclusives to the properties he controlled, and that’s sure a motive for both of them, but there’s no crossover to Ledwig that I can see. Sunny gains nothing by Ledwig’s death and neither do the Ashes. Besides, they were down in Asheville that day for their son’s hearing and—”

  “Hearing?” I asked.

  “Oh shit! Sorry. Forget I said that, okay?”

  “I won’t repeat it,” I told him, “but I won’t forget it, and I am a judge. I can get the details with a single phone call, so you might as well go ahead and tell me yourself.”

  He took a deep breath, clearly annoyed with himself for that slip of the tongue. “Their oldest son, Bob Junior. He and his wife are both hooked on meth. They were cooking a batch last spring and the house went up in flames. Killed one of the grandchildren. The other two are still in a burn unit at the hospital there. They’re going to make it, but I guess Bobby and Joyce are paying all the bills on that, too.”

  “Oh, dear Lord,” I whispered.

  “Yeah.” He paused at a stop sign to make another right turn. “Anyhow, the hearing was the same Monday Ledwig died, and Bobby and Joyce were there all day.”

  A heartbreaking way to collect an alibi. I thought of the photographs of children and grandchildren on the wall of the Ashe den and the love on Joyce’s face when she spoke of them last night. Yet I’d heard nothing in her voice to betray the grief she must still be feeling.

  Denial?

  I know how much it hurts when one of my nephews or nieces messes up. The pain must be cubed when it’s your child.

  And to lose a grandchild like that?

 
Because your son thought he could cook up something as volatile as methamphetamine in the kitchen?

  Joke: How do lawmen find a meth lab?

  Answer: They follow the fire engines.

  For a moment, the only break in the silence between us was when Underwood switched his headlights from bright to dim and back again.

  “So you’re left looking for enemies,” I said. “Tina Ledwig might not’ve loved her husband, but she seems to think everyone else did.”

  “Not everyone,” said Underwood, dimming his lights as another car approached. Now that we were on the main road to Cedar Gap, traffic was picking up. “Simon Proffitt and Billy Ed Johnson both fought with Ledwig before he died.”

  “And you said Proffitt had words with Osborne last night?”

  “According to our DA anyhow. Burke says it was low-volume but intense.”

  As the car passed by, a deer bounded across the highway in front of us. Underwood instinctively touched his brakes, but the deer was gone before we got close.

  “Rutting season,” he murmured before turning back to mull over the possibilities aloud. Ledwig may have quarreled with Proffitt and Johnson, but if Osborne and Johnson had clashed, Underwood didn’t know of it. Indeed, he thought the two men had worked together on a couple of mutually profitable projects without any problems.

  “I talked to Norman Osborne for a few minutes last night,” I said. “He struck me as a good ol’ boy who loved his wife and was loyal to his friends. I got the feeling that he might cut you off at the knees but that there wouldn’t be any malice in it.”

  “That was Osborne all right.” We were on Main Street now. Underwood paused at the red light and a knot of tourists passed in the crosswalk, heading for Roxie’s ice-cream stand. “You never met Ledwig, did you?”

  “No, and I can’t quite get a feel for him. For some reason, though, despite all his good works, that prejudice he felt against Danny Freeman makes me wonder if there wasn’t a coldness at his core.”

  Underwood shook his head. “I didn’t know him either, but I do hear he made sure people heard about all those good works and about his fine upstanding moral character as well.”

  “He didn’t hide his light under a bushel?”

  “Not unless that bushel had his name carved in marble with a spotlight playing on it.”

  “You didn’t like him,” I said.

  “I told you. I didn’t know him.”

  “But?”

  My persistence brought a rueful smile. “Okay. My wife’s uncle was on the town council a few years back. I don’t need to go into the details. Let’s just say he did somebody a minor favor. Something that didn’t hurt anybody or profit anyone monetarily and wasn’t even technically against the rules. Ledwig found out and got all righteous about it. Made a big hoopla. Blew it all out of proportion. Uncle Artie lost his seat on the council and Ledwig got to parade around as a defender of public virtue.

  “And before you ask if Uncle Artie has an alibi for the day Ledwig bought it,” Underwood said as he made a left turn into the courthouse parking lot, “he died last spring.”

  He pulled up next to my car. “Oh well. At least we’ve got a fairly narrow window for when Osborne was killed. Just wish we had the same for Ledwig.”

  “What about the UPS guy?” I asked as I opened the door.

  “What UPS guy?”

  “UPS, FedEx, whichever. Whoever brought those brown envelopes that were on the deck that day.”

  “Huh?”

  “In the crime scene photos Lucius Burke showed me at the hearing Monday,” I said impatiently. “There were several brown mailers on a table by the door. Looked like books or stuff you’d order off the Internet. There would be a time stamp for when they were delivered. Didn’t anyone check?”

  “Jesus!” he swore softly. “That goddamned Fletcher! Nobody mentioned any packages to me.”

  “You weren’t there at all that day?”

  “Nope. Fletcher caught it. It was his big case.”

  “Well, you ought to take another look at those pictures, because now that I think of it, the delivery guy usually leaves them at the front door if no one answers the bell, so why were they on the deck? If they arrived before Tina Ledwig left home, wouldn’t she have brought them inside?”

  “Maybe Ledwig was outside and just stuck them there himself.”

  “Whichever, it might could help you narrow the time,” I said.

  “I’ll get Fletcher on it first thing in the morning,” said Underwood. “Good thing you noticed.”

  Then he ruined the compliment by laughing.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I’m thinking Bryant’s probably braver than I realized.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “A man doesn’t get away with much if he’s got a real noticing wife.”

  “I imagine he’ll survive,” I said dryly and closed the car door behind me.

  The condo was deserted when I got back, although a strong odor of fresh paint permeated the place. The three bedrooms, both baths, the living room, and the kitchen ceiling, too, gleamed in the lamplight. Not only that, but all the furniture had been put back in place. True, there were still piles of books and clothes on the couch, but at least it didn’t sit in the middle of the floor any longer.

  Happily, the pickup paint crew was gone, although, by the look of the buckets and brushes grouped on newspapers on the kitchen floor, they intended to come back tomorrow and do the cabinets.

  My bedroom was disheveled and all my toiletries lay in the sink, but that was okay. The guys had made a surprisingly neat job of it. Beverly and Fred should be pleased when they came up for Parents’ Day.

  I plugged my modem into the phone jack and fired up my laptop. Amid the usual spam were judicial notices, a political cartoon from Minnie, and an inspirational tract that had been forwarded through a half-dozen mailboxes before landing up in Naomi’s and thus to every family member currently online. At least I assume she sends them to everybody else and doesn’t single me out as the Devil’s only playmate. Portland had sent a delicious bit of gossip about a pompous state supreme court justice we both dislike, and there was a funny note of congratulations from Terry Wilson. He’s a special agent for the SBI and a onetime boyfriend who still goes fishing with Daddy and Dwight. He’d just heard about Dwight and me but claimed he’d seen it coming for at least a year.

  Right.

  And from Dwight himself?

  Nothing.

  Nada.

  Zilch.

  CHAPTER 21

  TUESDAY EVENING

  While George Underwood waited for Deborah Knott to start her car and drive away, he called Fletcher’s pager and left a callback message. If that asshole had overlooked something that critical, he was due a serious butt-chewing.

  Underwood’s cell phone rang as he circled the monument and headed on down toward the Trading Post, but it wasn’t Fletcher.

  “Hey, hon,” his wife said. “I’m putting the biscuits in the oven. You gonna be here when they get out?”

  He’d planned to stop and talk to Simon Proffitt, but the judge’s sweet rolls were all he’d had since breakfast and the thought of his wife’s biscuits and smothered pork chops was too tempting.

  “Be there in fifteen minutes,” he promised.

  For once, luck was with him. As he pulled up at the Trading Post, he spotted Simon at the door and waved the old man over.

  “Get out and set a spell,” Simon invited.

  “Can’t stop right now, but we need to talk, Mr. Proffitt.”

  “Mister Proffitt? What’d I do now?”

  “Nothing, I hope, but I do have to ask you a few questions tomorrow. In my office.”

  “’Cause Norman Osborne went and got hisself killed last night and somebody tattled that I told him to go to hell?”

  “I hear you told Dr. Ledwig the same thing and offered to help him along with Lizzie.”

  A nostalgic smile started to spread across the wrinkl
ed face, till a scowl abruptly replaced it as Proffitt realized the implications of what the sheriff’s deputy was saying. “You ain’t trying to hang them two on me, are you? Ledwig won’t shot. Osborne neither.”

  “I know, I know,” Underwood said in a soothing tone. “Be at my office at nine tomorrow. I’ll take your statement. You’ll tell me what you were doing when Ledwig died and who-all you talked to last night before Osborne went missing and then I can cross you off my list, okay?”

  “Go to hell!” Proffitt said and turned to stomp back to his store.

  “Nine o’clock,” Underwood called. He knew he ought to collar that old hothead and get his alibi right then, but it had been a long and hungry day, so he headed on down the hill to Howards Ford, where his wife and children and hot biscuits waited.

  He was just pulling into his own driveway when his phone rang again.

  “Hey, Captain,” Fletcher said. “What’s up?”

  TUESDAY EVENING, 10 P.M.

  “Mom?”

  Tina Ledwig dragged her eyes from the television screen to her younger daughter standing in the doorway of her bedroom. Her new spaniel scrambled off her lap and bounded over to dance around Trish’s ankles, paws in air, till Trish bent down to pet it.

  “Hey, honey. Homework all done?”

  The girl gave the dumb question all the attention it deserved by ignoring it completely. “Have you seen a UPS package from Amazon?”

  Tina looked at her blankly.

  “I ordered some CDs from them, and with all the stuff about Dad and Carla, I forgot till just now. I checked it out on the computer, and according to the tracking number, it came the day Dad died. Have you seen it?”

  Tina tried to focus. “CDs? UPS?”

  “Oh shit!” Disgust and despair filled Trish’s young voice as she turned away.

  “No, wait!” Tina said. “There were some packages and stuff by the deck door that day. I thought they were all for your dad and I put them on the desk in his study.”

  If Trish heard, she didn’t respond, just kept going, the little dog at her heels.

  Tina turned back to the television. Something else that was going to need cleaning out before they could move. Carl’s study. Where he holed up every night after dinner before coming up to bed. Not her bed, the bed in the room next to this one, through that connecting door.