by Carolyn Hart
Hal Price, handsome and trim in a blue polo, khakis, and loafers, eyed the body. “Time of death?”
Brandt rolled his eyes. “We’re not on TV. Within the hour, give or take thirty minutes. No rigor yet.” He started for the door. “I got a hot date at home. I’ll do the autopsy tomorrow. I don’t expect any surprises. Somebody came up behind him, pulled out a gun, plugged him without warning. Might have been small caliber. A .38 or .45 would have blown off half his head.” He picked up a small black bag, strode toward the door, his expression smooth and untroubled. His job was done for the night. Death had been officially declared, the investigation could begin.
As the ME reached the hall, Hal nodded at the crime techs, a fortyish woman with a blonde ponytail and a slender young man with a military crew. “Check for prints on the desk and chairs first.” Hal looked at Officer Roberts. “What’s the demeanor of the witness?”
Roberts was thoughtful. “She acts shocked at the crime. She claims he was dead when she got here. She claims she didn’t make the call to nine-one-one. She has an explanation for everything, including bloodstains on her clothing. She said she used some newspaper sheets and a hand towel from the half bath to clean up her hands, then dropped the sheets and towel on the floor. There are no bloodied newspaper sheets or a messed-up hand towel in this room or in the bath.”
Hal looked interested. “What was she doing here?”
“She received a text from Graham that told her to come here.” Roberts flipped open her notebook, read the text to Hal. “She clammed up when I asked her to explain what Graham meant by Will otherwise pursue termination. Sounds to me like he intended to fire her. She claims not. Burke’s interviewing her now. Name’s Megan Wynn. She also claims she was going to call nine-one-one when she heard sirens. According to dispatch, a nine-one-one call from the landline in this house came in at 9:04 p.m.”
Hal held up a hand. “What was the delivery time on the text she received?”
Roberts didn’t have to look at her notes. “Text received at 9:01 p.m.” A sardonic look. “Maybe she thought if she received a text before the nine-one-one call was made that would prove she wasn’t here. She could have shot him, used his cell to text her cell, then called nine-one-one. We’ll check his cell for fingerprints. She says she heard the sirens and walked out on the drive and stood there waiting for us.”
“Where’s the gun?”
“We haven’t found a gun yet. Definitely there’s no gun in the room where he died.” Roberts squinted in thought. “Maybe she knows the house inside out. She’s a looker. Maybe she and the guy had something going on. We got here about six minutes after the nine-one-one. She had plenty of time to get rid of a weapon before we arrived.”
Roberts’s cell rang. She answered the call, listened, looked at Hal. “Wynn’s asking to be driven to her apartment to change out of the bloody shirt, said she’ll turn it over to us.”
Hal was quick. “When Burke finishes interviewing her, he can follow her home, take the shirt, tell her we’ll be in touch tomorrow.”
Roberts replied to Burke, and then picked up where she’d left off. “She had time to hide the gun in the house or maybe she ran out to the end of the lot and threw the gun into the woods by the golf course or maybe she had a hole already dug out there and the gun’s buried with leaves sprinkled on top of it. We can use a metal detector out there if we don’t have any luck in the house.”
“Why hide the gun?”
Roberts had an answer. “Create confusion. Same with the nine-one-one call. For her, the more confusion the better.”
Hal was equable. “You think she’s the perp.”
“Seven-to-one odds.”
“Why not admit to the nine-one-one? And why tell you about wiping blood off her hands yet you didn’t find any newspaper sheets or a hand towel?”
Roberts was laconic. “Smoke and mirrors.”
Hal persisted. “She could have walked out, not made a call.”
“There was that text on his cell and hers.”
Quick steps sounded and a hulking officer with a receding hairline and large paunch stood in the doorway. “No sign of a break-in. No one found in the house. No apparent damage or disarray. Hurley canvassed the neighbors. Nobody heard or saw anything unusual. Neighbor across the street saw the Dodge arrive around the time Wynn claims. Another car was here a little earlier and some guy went up on the front porch, rang the bell, but nobody answered.”
I hovered for a moment for a last glimpse. Except for the bloodied chair and the body, the room appeared absolutely normal, a man’s comfortable enclave, a half-finished drink on the table next to his chair, the baseball game on the big wall screen. I pictured Doug Graham in his last moments. If he was aware of his would-be killer’s presence, it was no cause for alarm. I rather thought he was not aware of a guest. I glanced toward the door to the terrace. It was perhaps two feet behind the chair. Someone who knew him well, knew where he would likely be on a summer evening, may have silently crossed the terrace, eased the door open, crept up behind him, gun in hand. The banter of baseball announcers or the louder background of commercials would mask any sound. The intruder slipped across the den, came up behind the chair, lifted the gun, fired. Then the TV was muted, his cell phone eased from his pocket, the text sent to Megan, the call made to 911, the television turned back on. Before Megan arrived, before the police came, sirens wailing, the murderer hurried out into the night, unseen.
I believed in Megan’s innocence. I had no proof. I felt somber as I rose through the house and out into the star-spangled night.
Lights flooded the pool area. Two patrol officers stood at the cabana door. “Police.” The voice was loud, stern. A rattling knock. “Open the door.” In the drive, officers spoke in muted tones, a police radio crackled, an occasional car door slammed, a distant owl whooed. A stocky officer knocked again on the cabana door. He turned the knob and at the same instant moved to one side, shielded from the interior. No movement. No sound. The light of the officers’ flashlights illuminated the entry. The officer in the lead turned on lights. Doors banged and in a moment, the officers came out.
I understood that it was necessary to be sure, that they had to check out the entire house and grounds, but a murderer wasn’t waiting for them with a welcome sign. Doug Graham’s clever killer had moved fast, and there would not be any trace of his or her presence now.
I hovered near the far end of the yard, beyond the pool, peering at the darkness of the golf course. The golf cart path was dimly visible in the lights from the pool. No one moved on the path.
I was sure Megan Wynn hadn’t hurried into the thick cluster of trees to bury a murder weapon, but I rather suspected a murderer walked this way. I didn’t think a murderer parked in Doug Graham’s driveway. Why drive through a neighborhood if you are on a mission to commit murder? The golf course was right behind the Graham house. Tomorrow I would look, but I didn’t doubt there was access from a nearby street to a golf cart path. Anyone intent on remaining unseen would find it easy to park in a quiet spot, perhaps pull off into the woods, go to the cart path, follow the path to the fairway behind Graham’s home.
Doug Graham had been enjoying a ball game with a drink. I didn’t think he expected a guest. That was another good reason for his murderer to avoid the driveway. Doug Graham might have heard a car arrive or seen headlights flash. Instead, he had no warning before his life ended in a burst of pain.
One telling fact might ultimately lead to the murderer’s identity. Only someone who knew Graham well could be aware of the confrontation this morning between Graham and Megan.
I had a swift memory of Anita leaning against the wall outside his office door, listening.
Chapter 6
Megan’s Dodge was no longer parked behind the silver Porsche.
Tires squealed. A shabby green Plymouth slammed to a stop behind a patrol car. A thin fi
ftyish woman with straggly brown hair bolted out of the driver’s seat, rushed up the drive. The lights illuminated a sharp, bony, intelligent face. Her gaze flicked all around, not missing the crime scene van.
A tall, dark-haired officer stepped in her path. “Sorry, ma’am, crime scene.”
“That’s why I’m here, sonny. Who’s in charge?” She stood with arms akimbo and a take-no-prisoners attitude.
The officer’s bulldog face stiffened. “Detective Sergeant Price.”
“Tell him Joan Crandall’s here for the Gazette.” She didn’t wait for a response. “He doesn’t want the lead story to announce the Adelaide Police Department refused to speak to the press about the murder of a leading citizen.” A hard stare.
“That’s telling him, Joanie.” Jimmy Taylor’s young voice sounded pumped up.
I was perhaps twenty feet above the driveway. Jimmy’s voice was nearby. If not an answer to a prayer, Jimmy’s arrival solved one problem for me. I spoke before I thought, “Jimmy, where have you been?” then held my breath. The last thing I wanted was for him to flit away and do Heaven knew what on his own.
“I could ask the same about you.” His tone was combative. “You’re supposed to be looking after Megan, but I’m the one who thought ahead and got rid of those crumpled-up newspaper sheets and the hand towel.”
“Where did you take them?”
“Someplace nobody will ever find.”
“Okay.” There was no point in revealing that Megan had told the police about the crumpled newspapers and the towel. He was exuding pride at his cleverness. “Then you left?”
“Sure did.” He was still pleased. “I went to the Gazette. Whoever took my place kept my Rolodex. Yeah, I could have kept all the numbers in my cell but I liked having them handy on my desk, too. Anyway, I got Joan’s cell, used the landline, told her we had a tip Doug Graham had been killed, hung up before she could ask who was calling. Joan never heard a siren she wouldn’t follow. I knew she’d come. Nobody’s savvier about Adelaide and its upper crust and, for that matter, its crummy crust, than Joan. She’ll be on this story like a cat on fresh liver. I don’t trust cops. They like everything nice and easy. Man shot. Woman found at scene. Threat in text message.”
I reassured him. “I’ll make sure the police investigate everyone around Doug Graham.”
“You’ll make sure— Oh, you have some kind of direct line to the cops? They listen to voices in the air?”
“I have a contact.” I wouldn’t, of course, reveal that Chief Cobb and I had an understanding. Of sorts. Sam was quite open to information received in an unorthodox fashion.
“Yeah.” Jimmy didn’t sound convinced. “Good luck this time. They’ve got everything but a gun with Megan’s fingerprints on it. I’m counting on Joan. She’ll turn over every rock— Oh hey, look. I told you. That cop’s taking Joan inside. I’m all ears.”
He was gone.
I wondered how he’d feel when he discovered Megan had described cleaning her hands to both Roberts and Burke, and the missing news sheets and towel had fueled suspicion of her.
Likely I could set everything right tomorrow.
For now, I hoped to reassure Megan.
Megan’s purse was again on the side table in the entry of her apartment. The book she’d been reading was lying on the coffee table. Sweetie was burrowed into a corner of the sofa. The living room lights blazed. Through the open door to the bedroom, I heard the rush of a shower.
I glanced at the clock. Twenty past ten. I strolled into the small kitchen, opened the refrigerator. Several cheeses, longhorn, cheddar, Gouda. I shook my head. I opened the freezer door and smiled. I didn’t think Megan would begrudge a snack. I found a bowl, a spoon, and soon I was seated at the small white wooden table with a bowl of vanilla—two scoops—and a chocolate chip cookie from a cookie jar on the kitchen counter.
I took another spoonful of ice cream—
“I’m glad you found the ice cream.” Megan walked across the room, sat across from me. Damp hair curled around her heart-shaped face. She wore a fresh blouse and shorts.
“I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“Certainly I don’t mind.” Her reply was courteous. “But I rather prefer, if you’re going to be here”—she stared at the spoon level in the air—“that you are here.” Emphasis on here.
I chose a lacy hand-stitched short-sleeve pale lime pullover with a delicate central panel and white linen trousers. To be festive, I added high white heels.
She watched me without evincing pleasure in my arrival. “You have a lot of clothes. Do you just reach into an invisible closet and pick out a gorgeous outfit?” She sagged back against her chair. “Did tonight really happen? Did I go to Doug Graham’s house and find him dead and get blood on my blouse? It seemed real enough at the time. And that cop followed me home and waited in the living room while I changed into a clean top. I watched him put my blouse—and it was a good blouse, I bought it up in the city at Macy’s—into a plastic bag. Bye-bye, blouse. Bye-bye, police.” A sigh. “But it isn’t going to be bye-bye, police. I won’t tell them what he meant by termination and they’re going to be sure he was threatening to fire me. I never thought how hard it is to prove a negative. No, he wasn’t going to fire me, but I can’t prove that. I can hear it now, the Miranda warning. It never occurred to me in criminal law class that the Miranda warning would ever be directed at me.”
I took a last spoonful of ice cream. Very satisfying. “We just have to make sure the police find the murderer.”
“Oh sure. Wave a wand—” She looked at me intently. “Oh hey, can you get the inside scoop? I mean, you’re dead. You better be dead or I am absolutely loony, but maybe I’m loony anyway. I know Jimmy’s dead. Why don’t I see him? Never mind. Please scratch the thought. That would be the toothpick that toppled this overburdened camel. Jimmy was— Anyway, you have a lock on the hereafter. Can you go ask Doug Graham who killed him?”
It was not a question I’d heard before. Could I—
A harrumph. Wiggins’s mustache tickled my cheek as he whispered, “Roof.”
“Excuse me,” I blurted. “I’ll be right back.” I hoped.
I disappeared. The night breeze on the roof was warm but summer cheerful with a grassy scent from a recent mowing. “Wiggins?” I spoke cheerily.
“I fail to see progress with James.” Wiggins sounded stern. If he was attired in his usual thick white shirt and heavy flannel trousers, he was likely also decidedly uncomfortable. I decided to attribute the dour note in his voice to the heat.
“Once a newshound, always a newshound.” My reply was insouciant. I hoped putting a good face on Jimmy’s decision to stick close to Joan Crandall would pacify Wiggins.
A sigh. “I know you’ve done your best—”
“Wiggins, all is not lost. In fact, I am confident Jim—James will rise to the occasion soon.”
No chuckle from Wiggins.
A rumble coming nearer and nearer and the clack of wheels announced the arrival of the Rescue Express. I had perhaps a moment or two to change Wiggins’s mind.
“Wiggins”—my tone was urgent—“Jim—James will never desert his post. As long as Megan is in peril”—if my language appears a bit florid, trust me. I know my audience, I could not overdo the Victorian prose—“James will hew to the course, carry the flag, lead the charge.”
Coal smoke wafted through the night air. Wheels clacked. Whooo-whooo.
“I can do no less than he.” My husky voice rose, a noble proclamation. “Wiggins, freeing Megan of Jim—James’s presence will avail her nothing”—I am steeped in Trollope—“if she is unjustly accused, imprisoned, her career destroyed.”
“Oh my.”
I heard distress in his kind voice. I pressed on, wondered why this idea hadn’t occurred to me before. I could take a quick trip on the Express, discover the identity o
f Doug Graham’s murderer, be back in a flash. Megan’s worries would be at an end. “If I popped up to Heaven and asked Doug Graham who killed him—”
A sharp intake of breath. “Bailey Ruth.” Wiggins was scandalized. “That would never, never, never do. Such an inquiry would trumpet a serious lapse in emissary decorum.”
I wasn’t quite sure what Wiggins meant, but clearly I’d punched the wrong button. “I certainly wouldn’t want to do that.”
“The Precepts. Two, Three, Four.” A swallow. “Seven.”
I quickly reviewed the Precepts in my mind: Two, “Do not consort with other departed spirits.” Three, “Work behind the scenes without making your presence known.” Four, “Become visible only when absolutely necessary.” Seven, “Information about Heaven is not yours to impart. Simply smile and say, ‘Time will tell.’”
“Perhaps it is my shame that I have overlooked your frequent deviations from the Precepts on previous missions.” Wiggins’s voice had the lugubrious quality of an echo from a cavern. “I understood you needed to appear to Jimmy but I didn’t intend carte blanche.”
The Rescue Express engine roared, but English teacher moxie gave me volume.
“Of course”—I was fervent, which is easy when shouting—“it is always my intention to be faithful to the Precepts. I value the Precepts. I take the Precepts to my heart. Especially Precept Six, ‘Make every effort not to alarm earthly creatures.’ Think of poor Megan, unnerved by unintentionally disturbing manifestations. I thought it only kind”—Wiggins has a heart as big as a galaxy and I was shameless in giving it a tug—“to appear and reassure her. Surely, Wiggins, you agree”—I increased the decibel level—“that in person I am not the least bit frightening. As for Precept Seven, I absolutely understand. An emissary would be remiss to share information known only in Heaven.”
