by Carolyn Hart
Hal was curious. “Why a quarter past nine?”
The crime techs continued their work, one creating a meticulous drawing to scale of the room and its contents, including Ross’s body, another dusting for fingerprints. A low hum of conversation.
Sam tapped his wristwatch. “Jake pegs him as dead by nine forty-five. If he’s right, the killer probably got here around nine thirty. I doubt they talked long. The killer had already decided Ross had to die. Besides, if Bai—” He caught himself. “—if Gilbert isn’t the perp, the killer had to have time to get her here and then hang around long enough for her to arrive, shoot the gun, get the hell away. Tomorrow I want the woods searched for a gun. And a cartridge. And any traces a car was parked off the road.”
“If the killer isn’t Gilbert”—there was definite doubt in Hal’s voice—“you’re talking a heavy-duty planner.”
“If the killer isn’t Gilbert”—Sam was grim—“somebody did a lot of planning, starting with a fake ransom call to get her to the Fitch study Tuesday night and some kind of call to get her over here tonight.”
“Without leaving a trace anywhere?” Hal was dubious.
“A call to get her here tonight . . .” There was a musing tone in Sam’s voice. He looked at a plump tech with unlikely purple hair and green harlequin glasses. “Abbott, check the phone receiver for prints.”
She nodded, gestured at a table a few feet from her where a landline telephone sat. “That’s next, sir. Almost finished here.”
Hal squinted at the body. “I talked to Ross earlier today. Pretty big guy. Strong. Seemed smart. Pretty stupid to think he could handle a murderer.”
“Terminal mistake.” There was no commiseration in Sam’s voice. Sam didn’t like killers or blackmailers.
Abbott dusted fingerprint powder on the arm of the sofa that sat at a right angle to the chair near the body. She stared at the arm, then pushed her glasses higher on her nose as she turned to look at Sam. She pointed at the sofa. “The armrest doesn’t have a single print. No prints. No smudges. Somebody polished the wood clean.”
Sam looked satisfied. “Alert us if you find any other clean areas.”
“Like you said.” Hal’s gaze was impressed. “Ross in the chair, killer on the sofa.”
Sam pointed at the sofa. “Ross’s guest stood up, walked toward him, reached into a purse or jacket, pulled out a gun, pulled the trigger. That doesn’t square with Gilbert as the perp. She didn’t have time to sit down and have a chat before Warren and Porter heard a shot.”
Hal shrugged. “Maybe she blew in through the door and Ross stayed in the chair, too cool to get up. As for the armrest, maybe somebody started dusting the place and only did the sofa arm.”
Sam gestured at the room, now more than three-fourths vetted. “Warren and Porter were in here like June bugs on an oak leaf. Where’s the gun?”
An officer stepped in from an adjoining room. “Got an open window in a bedroom, Chief.”
Hal glanced from the chair to the bedroom door. “She was fast if she got to a window in the bedroom and was back in here by the time Porter came in. She could have managed it. They were approaching a cabin with a live shooter, so they took a few minutes.”
Sam’s stare was thoughtful. “They found her at the sink. She said she was washing blood off her hands. Maybe she was washing away gunshot residue.”
• • •
The door to Carl Ross’s garage apartment was unlocked. That wasn’t surprising. He’d gone to the cabin intending to return soon. The upstairs apartment was behind a mansion in a fine neighborhood, not a likely target for a stray thief.
A lamp on a side table was turned on. The living room was spacious, the walls painted a light blue, a braided gray and blue oval rug on the floor, a leather sofa, two easy chairs, a huge wall TV screen. No books. No magazines. A whisky glass sat on a coffee table in front of the sofa. I bent near, sniffed. Scotch. The ice had melted. There was nothing dropped casually on a chair. The neatness was almost regimental.
I moved around the room, stopped in a corner next to a treadmill that faced a wall of framed photographs and memorabilia. Ross in fatigues, Ross in a Marine uniform, a bronze medal with an eagle in the center hanging from a dark green ribbon with a narrow stripe of white near each edge, Sergeant Ross receiving commendation as a drill instructor, Ross standing in front of a brick wall with a Marine symbol to the right of large letters:
CAMP LEJUEUNE
HOME OF
EXPEDITIONARY
FORCES IN RESIDENCE
I understood why Ross didn’t worry about meeting Wilbur’s murderer. Wilbur had been caught from behind, unaware. Ross had no intention of turning his back on his guest at the cabin, and he likely figured he could physically handle the murderer. I slid over the possibilities in my mind, that short list from Wilbur’s luncheon where he displayed the Roman coins: Ben Fitch, Alan Douglas, Harry Hubbard, George Kelly, Todd Garrett, Minerva Lloyd, Juliet Rodriguez. Certainly the butler/former DI had no fear of either woman. Ben Fitch was lighter than Ross but he was lean, wiry, and young. Alan Douglas was tall and weedy. Harry Hubbard looked like the guy who would melt into the distance when a badass slammed through the saloon door. The lawyer appeared in good shape for a middle-aged man and was taller and heavier, but no match for Ross. Todd Garrett was an old football player, but he was thirty years past his playing days and flab had replaced muscle.
Ross was counting on his strength and combat training. He forgot only one point. If the other guy has the firepower, you’re a dead man.
I was at the door, making one last survey, when a car horn blared. The sound was piercing, strident. In an instant, I was outside on the landing next to the second-floor apartment door. The huge house loomed between me and the squall of the horn. Abruptly the horn beeped four times in succession, then once again was pressed and held.
I came over the top of the three-story house.
The front porch was dark, but night-lights flared every few feet along the rim of the third floor. An ornate iron lamppost spread a golden glow near the front steps. Sylvie Gilbert, blonde curls stirred by the wind, stood next to her Camry. The motor was running. The driver door was open, and she leaned inside to hold the car horn down. The Camry headlights threw a harsh white light across the front of the house.
As I dropped down beside her, the front porch lights were turned on and the door opened.
Sylvie’s young face looked frantic. She jerked away from the horn, and in the sudden silence her shoes thudded as she shot up the stone steps.
A scowling, barefoot Ben Fitch in a sweater and jeans met her at the top of the steps. His face changed abruptly. Shock and concern replaced the scowl when he recognized her. “You’re Susan’s sister. What’s wrong?”
A police cruiser screeched into the drive, slammed to a stop behind the Camry. Two familiar officers climbed out. Both looked wary and approached cautiously. Officer Porter’s hand hovered near his holster. Officer Warren’s gaze flicked in every direction. Both men obviously had an indelible memory of the man who had been shot to death not more than a quarter mile distant.
Sylvie glanced at them, but it was as if they were background figures, unimportant to her. Instead she took a step nearer Ben, gripped his arm. “Where’s Susan? She said she was coming here. She got a phone call, and I wanted to come with her, but she said she had to come by herself. She left a few minutes before ten and now it’s almost eleven.” Sylvie’s voice quivered.
“Here?” Ben repeated blankly.
Officer Warren reached them, looked from Ben to Sylvie, demanded, “Who honked the horn? What’s going on?”
Sylvie whirled to him. “Why are you here?”
Warren’s broad face was impassive. “Who honked the horn?”
Sylvie poked her hands on her hips. “Nobody answered the door. So I honked. I’m looking for my sis
ter, Susan Gilbert. She got a call and she told me she was going to the Fitch place. I’m not leaving here until I find her.” Sylvie wasn’t far from tears.
I felt a sinking sensation. I was sure Susan said the Fitch place instead of the Fitch cabin because of the cabin’s remote location. Susan wanted to forestall Sylvie demanding to accompany her. Now this discrepancy would likely be used against Susan: Why did you lie to your sister, Ms. Gilbert?
“You looking for her here?” Warren took a step nearer, his blue eyes intent. “Maybe I can help. Start from the first, miss. Your name.”
Susan was a person of interest now en route to the jail to be held as a material witness so, of course, she had been read her Miranda rights. Sylvie, so far as the police knew, was not involved with the murder at the cabin, but she was seeking Susan not far from the site of the murder. Warren was as alert as a coon dog on a hunt.
“Sylvie Gilbert.” She swung toward Ben. “Are you sure she’s not here? She was coming here.”
“Now, miss.” Warren was as charming as only a cop scenting pay dirt can be. “Let’s calm down. I’ll be glad to help if you’ll just tell me what happened. When did you last see your sister?”
“A little before ten. The phone rang and I answered and this man asked for Susan so I gave the phone to her. . . .”
I had a dire sense that Sylvie might be digging Susan a very deep hole. But there was nothing I could do to stop Sylvie’s well-meant revelations.
• • •
I was familiar with the long hall of cells in the Adelaide City Jail. The door between the police department and the jail required the correct code punched into a keypad to gain entry. Not, of course, an impediment for me. Cells lined both sides of a long hallway. Stark fluorescent ceiling lights burned day and night.
Susan was in the cell nearest the door. She was lying on the bunk attached to the back wall. A toilet and washbasin were in one corner. In the light from in the hallway, I could see that her eyes were open. I was pleased that she still wore the tan sweater and long skirt. One suede shoe sat on the floor next to the bunk. The other likely was in an evidence bag and would be tested to see if the bloodstain matched Carl Ross’s blood. A thin cotton blanket covered her feet. The air in the cellblock was dry and the temperature warm.
I stood next to the bunk, whispered, “Did you contact Megan Wynn?”
She stiffened. Her gaze jerked toward me but, of course, she saw only empty space.
“It’s all right. I’m here beside you.”
She swung her legs over the edge of the bunk, sat up. “I told Megan you were Jimmy’s redheaded friend. She said, Tell her Blaine and I are getting married next month. Thanks to her. I told Megan everything. She said I was to decline to answer any questions and that she’d be back to see me tomorrow. You know what she didn’t tell me?”
“What?”
“She didn’t tell me I was a done duck, but I watched her face. I think that’s what I’d look like if somebody unshackled a bear in front of me and told me the bear was my problem. But she said when this was all over, we’d have lunch and she’d tell me things she’d never told anyone, and she bet I had some interesting experiences, too. So if I’m crazy, she’s crazy, too, and she doesn’t seem at all crazy. I know she’ll do her best, and I appreciate your trying to help, but I don’t think anything anyone does will matter now. Megan tried to sound encouraging. She said miracles happen. I thought about it after she left. You have any miracles tucked in your purse?”
“Saint Jude is in charge of miracles.”
At her blank look I continued hurriedly, “Tell me what happened tonight.”
She sighed. “Dumb me. I should have known better. I was feeling kind of upbeat after you left this afternoon. You seemed so certain that a luncheon guest killed Wilbur that I thought maybe the police would realize a bunch of people had motives and I was a kind of innocent bystander. Of course it didn’t help matters that I filched the money box from the safe even though I thought I had to. Cops take safecracking seriously. But still I thought maybe everything would work out. Sylvie and I went to the new steak place and it was nice.” A sudden smile. “The waiter was probably nineteen and he talked in a stilted voice. I am Jacques and it is my pleasure to serve you. I could tell Sylvie thought he was cute. The steaks cost a fortune, and I can fix a better one for half the price, but the music was cheerful, show tunes, and for a little while I didn’t feel like a face on a wanted poster. We’d only been home a few minutes when my cell rang. I’d dropped it with my purse on the table by the door. Sylvie popped up and answered. She covered the receiver and whispered, It’s a guy and he’s calling from the Fitch house. Maybe it’s that cute Ben. Ben Fitch came over to the house this afternoon—”
“I spoke with him.”
“—and I guess I think he’s cute, too, because I was kind of excited. I took the phone and—”
I interrupted again. “Try to repeat exactly what was said.”
“A man’s voice. Very low, quiet. He said, Miss Gilbert? I said, Yes. He said, Carl Ross. I know something that may help you with the police, but I don’t want to get involved. Come to the cabin at ten. I’ll be watching. If anyone’s with you, I won’t show up. He hung up. Of course Sylvie was looking at me and she knew from my face that the call was something odd, something disturbing. I told her I needed to talk to someone about the murder. She wanted to know who called and I told her it was Wilbur’s butler, that he knew something but he didn’t want to get involved with the police and I was going to go over to the Fitch place for a few minutes. She would have insisted on coming with me if I told her I was going to the cabin. She wanted to come with me anyway, but I told her I had to go by myself, he wouldn’t show up unless I was alone. I told her I’d be back soon and made her promise she’d stay home. Does she know where I am? She’ll be panicked.”
“She went to the Fitch house. No one answered the door so she leaned on her horn until Ben Fitch came out. I expect she may know you are here by now.” I didn’t doubt Officer Warren alerted Sam Cobb. “I’m sure she will try to see you tomorrow.” Not tomorrow now, actually today.
Susan sat up straighter. “I don’t want her to come to the jail. Please, tell her not to worry, that everything will be all right, that I want her to stay home.”
“She’s tougher than you think.”
“She’s eighteen years old. She shouldn’t have to see me here. Please, will you talk to her?”
“I will.” I remembered Sylvie’s fierce attack on the front steps of the Fitch house. I had confidence in Sylvie. She might always see the world in a different way, but she was nobody’s pushover.
“I can’t bear seeing Sylvie here.”
I heard tears in her voice.
“In that event, let’s get busy and get you out of here. Did you recognize Carl Ross’s voice?”
“The caller said he was Carl Ross. I thought he was speaking quietly because he didn’t want to be overheard. Could the caller have been Carl? Yes. Was it Carl? I don’t know. I rarely spoke with him. Carl had a very soft voice. That always seemed odd for such a tough-looking man. He made me think of a cottonmouth slipping through water, dangerous if you got in his way. Maybe I thought that because I knew he was a Marine. Tonight the voice was—” She pressed fingertips against each temple, then her hands fell and she sighed. “I don’t know. Low. Soft. Almost a whisper.”
“Could the caller have been a woman?”
“It was definitely a man. But it may not have been Carl.”
“I don’t think the caller was Carl.” I was frank. “Carl was already dead and the killer called you, wanted you to come.”
“Is that why there was a gunshot after I went into the cabin?”
“Exactly.” My eyes were grainy with fatigue. There was something about the cabin. . . . Oh yes. “When was the last time you visited the cabin?”
“Ne
ver. I worked up at the house. I don’t even know if the cabin was used much. Anyway, I never had occasion to be down there.”
It was as energizing as a jolt of Mountain Dew. “Describe what you did when you got out of your car at the cabin. Everything.”
“The cabin lights were on. That was reassuring, meant he was already there. I parked in front. When I got out of the car, I remember thinking it was awfully quiet. An owl whooed. I’m scared of owls. They’re so big and they swoop so fast. I hoped the owl wasn’t coming my way. Anyway, it was very quiet. It sounded loud when I went up the steps. The door was ajar. I called out, Carl? No answer. I went up to the door—”
“Did you touch the knob?”
She frowned. “I knocked and the door swung in. There isn’t a screen door, just this big wooden door. I looked inside and didn’t see anyone. I called out again. It was very quiet. I almost didn’t go inside, but I thought he was in the woods watching me to make sure I was alone, so I decided to go in and wait for him. When I stepped inside, I saw him. I ran across the room and reached down.” She shuddered. “That’s when I got blood on my hand. I heard a shot outside and that was terrifying. I knew I needed to get help. I went over to the sink and I was washing my hands so I could call and then somebody yelled, Police, and the door banged open and he shouted at me to get my hands up.”
“Did you touch anything?”
“The cold-water handle at the sink. Nothing else. I never had a chance. That gun was pointed at me and I had to raise my arms and then the other policeman put those handcuffs on me.” She sagged back against the plastered wall.
“You heard the shot. Where did it sound like it came from?”
“Outside.” Her answer was quick and definite. “Someplace outside. Maybe closer to the lake. I was afraid someone was going to shoot me. I kept thinking I had to get the blood off my hands and call for help, but the door banged back against the wall. I whirled around and a policeman was aiming a gun at me and shouting. And now no one will listen to me. What am I going to do?” She was scared, could foresee arrest, a trial, prison. Perhaps worse.
