Camilla left to greet the last of the guests, and I moved over to Jill’s side. She linked her arm in mine.
“Dr. Wallace was just telling me about his service in the Navy,” she said.
A slim man with long fingers and strong hands, he seemed like the right type for a surgeon. “I never made it past lieutenant,” he said with a chuckle. “I just didn’t fit in with the military psyche.”
I grinned. “A lot of people thought I didn’t fit in too well, either.”
“Greg had a bad habit of pressing forward on an investigation,” Jill said, “regardless of whose toes got trampled in the process.”
The doctor reached over to pat my shoulder. “Good for you.”
Camilla came back with the last couple, the head of a large accounting firm and his wife, a woman with a girlish face and a body that showed obesity was alive and well.
“Now that we’re all here, everybody help yourselves to the buffet,” Camilla said. She began ushering us toward the table.
I followed Jill around, filling my plate with canapés, Swedish meatballs, shrimp, cheese chunks, and mini kabobs. We sat at a table with Dr. Wallace and his wife and were soon joined by Camilla Rottman, who took the chair next to me. Her husband sat with another group of guests.
“Frank, I trust you know Greg is a former Air Force investigator,” Camilla said.
“Oh, yes,” said the doctor. “And he and his wife now run their own detective agency.”
“Isn’t it exciting?” Camilla turned to me, eyes fluttering. “Roger said you were an OSI agent. That sounds like some kind of spy.”
“Sorry,” I said with a laugh. “OSI is the Office of Special Investigations. I had a few undercover assignments, but mostly I did gumshoe work. Like pounding the pavement looking for witnesses. Not much of it was the sort of thing you read about in detective novels or see on TV.”
She nudged me with her shoulder. “You’re just being modest. Tell us what goes on behind the scenes in one of your fascinating murder investigations.”
I caught Jill putting a hand to her mouth and giving a slight shake of her head. Most of my cases hadn’t been all that enthralling, though some had their captivating aspects. What the hell, I thought. If flyboys like Warren Jarvis could wow audiences with their war stories, why couldn’t I?
“Well, I worked a case down in Texas one time that involved a bit of intrigue,” I said. “Most homicides these days are drug related, but this one was a family affair. The agent assigned to the base had been sent out on another mission, so they flew me down in a T-Bird to handle it. That’s a T-33, a two-seat jet trainer.”
I didn’t bother to explain how I kept my eyes closed and sweated the entire flight, which was mercifully short thanks to the T-Bird’s speed. I didn’t look at Jill, knowing she was inwardly laughing her head off at my nail-biting plight that day.
“I was taken to the scene as soon as I arrived. It seems a pilot taking off early that morning had spotted something odd in a lake next to the golf course, which sat to one side of the base.”
“Had somebody run his golf cart in the drink?” asked Dr. Wallace.
“Good guess. The security police had pulled it out and found a body behind the wheel.”
“The plot thickens,” Camilla said, eyes glowing.
‘The victim was a young sergeant from the motor pool. When I questioned his co-workers, I learned he had recently married, but things were not moving smoothly. They said his wife was off visiting a friend in San Antonio. She had been notified and was on her way back to the base.”
“So she obviously wasn’t the murderer,” Camilla said.
“When you’ve been in this business a while, you learn not to jump to obvious conclusions,” I said.
Camilla turned to the bartender. “Phillip, another round for everyone. Greg has us thirsting for more.”
Jill and Mrs. Wallace declined, but the doctor and I accepted. We would let the wives drive home. Camilla grabbed a fresh one.
“What was the cause of death?” Dr. Wallace asked.
“The medical examiner ruled it a severe blow to the back of the head with a blunt instrument, probably something metallic.”
Camilla took a generous sip of her drink. “So the mechanic did it?”
“Patience,” I said, grinning. “In questioning acquaintances, I learned the wife had broken up with another airman not long before she married the sergeant. This guy belonged to the weather detachment. When I interviewed him, he obviously lied about where he’d been the night before. Then I discovered his best friend was in charge of maintenance on the golf carts. We took a wrench from the mechanic’s tool kit, and the medical examiner matched it to the wound on the sergeant’s head.”
“Forensic pathologists can do some amazing things,” Dr. Wallace said.
Camilla gave me a questioning look. “Was it the friend?”
“When I confronted the friend with the ME’s findings, and threatened to charge him with murder, he confessed. There were probably dozens of wrenches like his on the base, but he didn’t know we couldn’t link his specifically to the case. He admitted he had lured the sergeant to the golf course in the middle of the night and provided the wrench to the jilted lover. He claimed he had no idea his buddy would deliver such a sharp blow. Said he was horrified when it happened. ‘I could have killed him for getting me into this’ was his comment.” I chuckled. “He might have gotten away with it if he had.”
“Was the wife innocent?” Mrs. Wallace asked.
“No. The weather guy admitted she begged him to do something so they could get back together. He sent her off to San Antonio to avoid suspicion. We charged him with murder and the wife and friend with being accessories.”
Camilla looked around the table with the smug air of a queen viewing her court. “So all was again right with the world.”
“Would that it were so,” Jill said.
I nodded. “The same old problems keep cropping up again and again. I don’t envy the job of homicide detectives these days.”
As I looked at Camilla, her mood shifted suddenly from carefree to concerned. She stood, eyes fixed on the doorway. “Please pardon me,” she said in a flinty voice I hadn’t heard before. “I have a little motherly business to take care of.”
She walked quickly toward a stocky young man standing in the doorway. He was dressed in jeans and a tee shirt that read: “I only came for the beer.”
Chapter 23
Our table companions looked around as Camilla Rottman strode toward the door, grabbed the young man by the arm, talked to him a couple of minutes, a stern look on her face, then steered him into the foyer, out of sight.
“That’s her son, Kirk,” Mrs. Wallace said. “He doesn’t live here, but I think he’s been a frequent visitor of late.”
Dr. Wallace changed the subject in what seemed reluctance to pursue any discussion of his friend’s son. “Do you play golf, Greg?”
“Sorry,” I said, “but I never found the time to get into sports. I guess I’m a failure at learning to appreciate leisure pursuits. Reading is my main hobby.”
“It’s a good one. But I’ve been looking for a golfing partner with a low handicap, somebody who can help me get some of my money back from Roger.”
“He must be pretty good.”
“He plays like a pro.”
Mrs. Wallace looked at Jill. “What do you do for leisure?”
“Just trying to keep Greg out of trouble keeps me busy.”
That brought a round of laughter, though I suspected Jill hadn’t meant it all in jest.
“Actually, I have friends at church I do things with occasionally,” Jill said. “And, of course, I enjoy attending symphony concerts. Greg sometimes watches the Titans on TV, but I can’t get him interested in going to a game.”
“Cavorting in a crowd of fifty-thousand-plus people doesn’t do much for me,” I said. “I’m not a crowd person.”
Dr. Wallace pushed his empty glass aside and le
aned on the table. “You’ll have to join us sometime in the friendly confines of the Hedrick Industries club suite at the stadium. I’m sure Roger would be happy to have you enjoy a game with us.”
“I appreciate the offer.”
I’d seen pictures of the glassed-in boxes nestled high in the stadium but had never been inside one. I glanced about for Roger, finally spotting him near the door. He looked somewhat deflated as his wife gave him what seemed to be an angry lecture. I turned away for a moment. When I looked again, I saw Camilla heading our way, the smile plastered back in place. She stopped beside our table.
“To quote the Bard, ‘All’s well that ends well.’ Greg, you’re the airplane pro. Come let me show you something you should find fascinating.”
I cut my eyes toward Jill, who I knew was fighting to contain herself at that “airplane pro” remark. Camilla reached for my arm as though to help me up. I suspected it indicated a refusal to accept “no” as an answer.
She led me over to a large stone fireplace across the room, where a section of wall displayed framed photographs. She pointed to one of a man in coveralls standing beside a squat, single-engine airplane that sat low on the ramp. It had a long, greenhouse type canopy. The pilot held a leather helmet and goggles.
“That’s my grandfather back in the thirties,” Camilla said. “He was in the 105th Observation Squadron of the Tennessee Air National Guard.”
I was sure I had seen an aircraft like that, probably at the Air Museum in Dayton. “What kind of plane is it?”
“You’ll find it on the picture caption.”
I looked closer. It read: “Captain Randall Hedrick with his O-47 at Berry Field, Nashville, May 30, 1938.”
I had to admit, I found it quite interesting. “You said he was killed in World War II?”
Camilla linked her arm in mine as she stared at the photo. “He flew in China with the Flying Tigers, Claire Chennault’s American Volunteer Group of former Army and Navy pilots. My grandfather joined the group a few months before Pearl Harbor. The Japanese shot him down not long after the U.S. entered the war.”
She seemed pretty well versed for a woman who professed to know little about the military. I had a feeling she knew a lot more about a lot of things than she cared to admit. I looked around at some of the other photos. I pointed to a picture of two men with rifles, a large wild boar at their feet. Menacing tusks curled out of its mouth. “Somebody likes to hunt. Who are they?”
“The younger one on the left is Randall. The other one is my great-grandfather, Samuel Hedrick. He was named after Samuel Adams, the hero of the Revolution who started the Boston Tea Party. Samuel Hedrick started the company back during World War I.”
The mansion and all the trappings of wealth began to come into focus. Hedrick Industries had a long, and no doubt lucrative, history.
“I suspect Randall was in the prime of life when he was killed,” I said. “Wars are filled with that kind of tragedy.”
Camilla glanced up at me, then away with a look I couldn’t fathom. “I’m afraid tragedy has become rather commonplace in our day. Like that tragic turn of events you told about in your Texas murder case.”
“True. It’s really a shame when an innocent guy gets his life taken for no good reason. We’re involved in a case now where a man was apparently killed because he had something somebody else wanted. And he really didn’t know the significance of what he had.”
“Is that the case you and your wife were going to the police about after I was in your office yesterday?”
“You’re pretty sharp,” I said. “You should have been a detective.”
She turned until I felt her breast nuzzle against my arm. “I’ll bet you could teach me how to be one.”
Camilla ranked as an attractive, well-endowed woman, but she was beginning to meddle in my comfort zone. I had an attractive, shapely wife with whom I had been quite happy for nearly forty years, and I was not about to get involved with a rich woman who believed she could buy anything she wanted. I slipped my arm away from Camilla’s and nudged her in the direction of our table. “I think we’d better rescue the doctor and his wife. Jill is the real pilot in the family. She’s probably boring them to death with her tales about flying.”
I lied. Jill would never mention her exploits as a commercial pilot unless somebody brought it up. I found it a good excuse, however, to steer our tipsy hostess back to a safe harbor.
Dr. Wallace pushed his chair away from the table as we walked up. “The camaraderie has been great, and we’ve really enjoyed the party, Camilla. But I need to get home and take care of some things before bedtime.”
“Don’t wake me up when you leave in the morning,” his wife said. She added for our benefit, “Frank has an obscenely early tee time. I prefer sleeping late on Saturdays.”
Camilla looked downcast. “Surely you don’t have to leave us so early.”
He stood and pushed his chair under the table. “I’m afraid so. Greg, Jill, it was certainly a pleasure meeting you.”
Jill and I stood for the farewell formalities, after which I turned to Camilla. “This is a good time for us to bow out as well. We have some commitments tomorrow, including a funeral up in Trousdale County.”
“Not a relative, I hope.”
“Actually, we never met the man,” Jill said. “But he was involved in a case we’re investigating.”
Camilla gave us one of her most congenial smiles. “I hope you’ll come back soon when you can spend more time. It’s been a delight meeting you and getting to know you better.” The last part was accompanied by a glance toward me.
We stopped to thank our host, who appeared to have imbibed somewhat less than his wife. As we started out the door, Jill whispered in my ear.
“While the doctor was gone to the bathroom, his wife gave me the scoop on Roger and Camilla’s wayward son.”
Chapter 24
Jill agreed to drive home. She looked around after I got into the passenger seat. “I’m surprised you were so willing to leave, Colonel McKenzie. You seemed to be having a great time in there.”
I wasn’t sure if she was being serious or facetious. “Just following instructions, ma’am. You told me to be my usual charming self and I’d be the hit of the party.”
“I don’t know about the party, but you sure made a hit with Camilla.”
I chuckled. “Do I detect a hint of jealousy, babe?”
She knitted her brows. “You were too busy to see me making goo-goo eyes at the doctor.”
“Seriously, the lady had spent way too much time at the bar. She was toying with me. I think I did a neat job of cutting her off at the pass. You mentioned learning something about her son.”
I must have defused her momentary displeasure, as Jill calmly related the story of young Kirk Rottman, of whom Mrs. Wallace could find little to extol.
“Kirk is in his late twenties,” Jill said. “He was a rebellious kid, got expelled from two colleges. His parents pulled some strings to get him out of a DUI charge and another related to marijuana. They gave him a job with HI, as the company is called, and he soon got a girl in the office pregnant. They finally exiled him to a company plant, threatened to disinherit him and throw him to the wolves if he didn’t shape up.”
“He sounds like only a step up from some street punks I’ve run into. They get caught up in an endless cycle of what they call partying. Gambling, drinking, prostitutes, and drugs. They spend money like mad. When it runs out, they get into trouble trying to raise more cash.”
“I don’t imagine young Rottman had that problem.”
“No. He probably bummed cash or borrowed from his parents. But they finally got tired of doling out the cash and gave him an ultimatum—work or hit the road.”
“I’m sure the boy’s antics gave his mother a lot of grief,” Jill said. “I feel sorry for her.”
“You didn’t sound like that a few minutes ago.”
She gave me a look. “It was just that she made such
a spectacle of herself fawning over you, but she obviously has problems.”
“Well, I hope she keeps them to herself. I’d prefer not to have to listen to them.”
Back home in Hermitage, we found the answering machine winking like a creature with one bleary red eye. Warren Jarvis had left a message to call him. I had turned off my cell phone at the Rottmans’ and forgot to switch it on again.
“Sorry we missed your call, Warren,” I said when I got him on the line. “Anything new?”
“Kelli’s missing.”
I sat there for a moment, unsure what to make of it. “You mean you don’t know where she is.”
“I don’t. And for me, that means she’s missing.”
“When did you last see her?”
“The middle of the afternoon. She spent the morning with her grandfather, then came back here and we ate lunch. She seemed a little distant, preoccupied. When I asked about Mr. Liggett, she said her talk with him gave her an idea.” He sounded both worried and annoyed.
“What kind of idea?”
“She didn’t say, just that she needed to find a Wal-Mart and she’d be back around three.”
I was beginning to get the picture of a covert operator preparing to step back into the shadows. “Did you see her at three?”
“I think so.”
“What does that mean?”
“I was in the lobby getting a cup of coffee when I looked up and saw this woman walking toward the door. I thought it was Kelli. I was about to say something when I realized the hair color was wrong.”
“What color?”
“Red. She wore faded jeans, a dark blue shirt, a ball cap and sunglasses. I was about to turn away when I saw her step into a cab and realized the black bag she carried was Kelli’s.”
Just as I suspected. “What kind of bag?”
“Like a carry-on. I have a key to her room, so I went up and checked. Her bag was gone.”
“I don’t imagine she left a note.”
“No. But something else was missing, too.”
4 The Marathon Murders Page 12
