by Carolyn Hart
“I suppose she went and came right back.”
“I guess.” Suddenly she was tired. She sighed and sank back on the pillow. “I don’t know when she came back. I fell asleep and I woke up this morning in my bed. Mom carried me there.”
The front door opened. Anita stepped inside, looked at me in alarm.
I stood, made sure my voice was relaxed, nonthreatening. “Hello, Mrs. Davis. I’m Detective M. Loy.” I had the leather folder out. “I’ve been having a nice visit with your daughter. I explained to your daughter that I’m a lady who asks questions and you are being very helpful about the break-in at the office last night.” My eyes told Anita that there had been no mention of murder, that there would be no mention of murder. I didn’t know how someone from Sam’s department would have handled this moment, but I had no intention of frightening a child.
Steps sounded from the kitchen. The gray-haired woman stood with a tray. “I fixed tea and a limeade for Bridget.” Her gaze at Anita was uncertain.
Anita spoke carefully. “That’s very kind, Lela.” She crossed the living room, bent down to gently kiss her daughter’s cheek. “You okay, honey?”
Bridget’s smile was bright. She sat up straighter. It was as if her mother’s touch infused her with strength.
Lela placed a glass on a small table next to me, carried the other glasses to the coffee table in front of the sofa. Bridget smiled at Mrs. Ellis. “Thank you.” She picked up the glass, drank. Anita settled next to Bridget. She ignored the tea, stared at me. “I just spoke with the police.”
“I know, but their time was limited. I’m simply here to get a little more background about the office. How long have you worked there?”
“Sixteen years.” She was wary, worried.
“Do you remember the occasion when Mr. Layton and Mr. Graham were involved in a car accident?” I drank the tea, perfect with a little wisp of mint.
She looked bewildered. Whatever she’d expected, perhaps feared, this question came as a total surprise. The tenseness eased from her shoulders. “Yes.”
“After the accident, did there appear to be a change in the relationship between Mr. Graham and Mr. Layton?” I lifted the glass again. The sweet tea was refreshing.
Anita’s eyes widened. She squinted in thought. “I never thought about it before. Things did change about that time. But Mr. Layton’s had so much happen to him. His wife died the year before that and—” She broke off.
“Julie died in April.” Bridget’s young voice was thin, but steady. “She stopped coming to school about the same time I did.”
Anita turned, took her daughter’s hand, held it tight. “She wasn’t like you.” Her voice was fierce. “There wasn’t any medicine that could help Julie. She needed a new heart and there wasn’t one. You have a great heart. The doctor said so. You’re very strong. The doctor says the new medicine will make everything all right. You are going to get well.”
I wished I could wrap my arms about them both, the little girl who knew she was very sick and her mother who willed her to live. I did the next best thing. “That’s right. All it takes to get well is the right medicine.” And faith. And luck.
None of us knows the number of our days. I always held to the belief that each life is lived until that particular life is complete, whether measured in months or decades. In Heaven each person realizes every gift, every grace, every happiness, and they are the creatures they were destined to be, now perfected, beautiful in God’s image. And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes, and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things have passed away. And if you thought you knew happiness on earth, well, just wait— But I must remember Precept Seven: “Information about Heaven is not yours to impart. Simply smile and say, ‘Time will tell.’”
Anita shot me a look of gratitude. “Exactly. The right medicine.”
Bridget looked at me, too.
I nodded vigorously. “You’re obviously a very good patient. You’ll be amazed how things will change with the new medicine.” I hoped the sudden light in her eyes was renewed hope.
I looked at Anita. “After the accident occurred, Graham and Layton began to avoid each other.”
Anita slowly nodded.
“And recently?”
Her expression was troubled. “I like Mr. Layton. He’s always been wonderful to me.”
I waited.
She shook her head. “I haven’t paid much attention lately.”
She had said all she was going to say.
I like the way the British call a mobile home a caravan. The noun has such a jaunty tone. The drawback to mobile homes in Oklahoma is their tragic vulnerability when tornadoes strike, usually in late spring, sometimes in summer, always a possibility. Tornadoes usually hop and skip, though sometimes massive wall clouds destroy everything in a several-mile swath. Those without shelters and those in mobile homes look at a purple sky, hope for good luck.
But trailer parks thrive. Some dare fate because of necessity. Some shrug away spring storms because they’ve always lived in a trailer and never been hit. Some see the trade-off between safety and the lure of hitching up and moving on.
This trailer park was cheerful, with a small central playground and lots of shade trees. I passed over several sycamores. A red Camaro was tucked into the parking slot next to Geraldine Jackson’s silver trailer. To one side, a bright red awning offered shade for two wicker chairs and a small plastic outdoor table.
Geraldine looked comfortable in a loose blue cotton top, white cropped slacks, and ruffled flip-flops. She was absorbed in hand stitching. I looked over her shoulder, admired the half-finished tree of life in delicate shades of pale green, soft ivory, sunrise rose. The embroidery was elegant and lovely.
I moved to the far side of a weeping willow, checked to make sure no one was near, and appeared. I came around the tree and followed a neat graveled path to her trailer.
She looked up at the sound of my footsteps. Her plump face held no concern, only polite inquiry.
I pulled out my leather folder. “Detective M. Loy. Chief Cobb has a few more questions about Mr. Graham that he didn’t have time to cover this morning.”
Geraldine placed her wood hoop on the plastic tabletop, gestured toward the wicker chair opposite her. “Sure. Glad to help. It’s a real shocker. Then to have that ring disappear!”
I had my notebook on my lap and was writing as she spoke.
Her gaze was shrewd. “Lou’s on her high horse. How dare you search my desk. But it looks like a pretty short list of people who knew where that ring was. We all heard Jack Sherman stomp into Doug’s office and open the desk drawer. I don’t suppose”—she squinted at me—“you people found the ring at Doug’s house? Maybe it’s like one of those boxes in boxes in boxes. Somebody shot him and got the ring out of his pocket and then broke into the office to make it look like one of us had to be a thief.”
“We’re considering every possibility. The ring may or may not have been the cause of his murder, and the shooting and theft may or may not be related.”
She looked a little confused and I didn’t blame her. I was far from certain about cause and effect, though I agreed that the likelihood of anyone hearing gossip and breaking in and going directly to Doug Graham’s desk and finding the ring was unlikely in the extreme. Geraldine was right. Knowledge mattered, and the location of the ring was known to Jack Sherman, Brewster Layton, Winifred Kellogg, Anita Davis, Geraldine Jackson, Sharon King, Nancy Murray, Lou Raymond, and, through Lou, Rhoda Graham. Jack Sherman was occupied last night with a rig fire. It bordered on the absurd to envision Winifred Kellogg skulking down an alley with her walker, breaking a window, and swinging her walker and herself into Doug’s office.
“We are pursuing several leads. Now we need to flesh out our picture of Doug Graham.”
“You said Doug Graham was careful to make sure Mr. Layton wasn’t looking?”
“You better believe it. Turns out there was a lawyer at the firm, this was before my time, who had it going hot and heavy with a secretary. Mr. Layton busted him out of the firm and fired the secretary. Mr. Layton”—now her voice was softer—“is a good, good man. He’s had a sad life. No”—now her tone was serious—“everything was on the up-and-up in the office. Doug might have gotten a little too close when we stood at the copier, but he knew where his bread was buttered.”
“We’d heard Graham was having an affair.”
She shrugged. “Usually it’s another woman when there’s a divorce.” Now her green eyes were thoughtful. “But about that time was when Mr. Carew was real sick and Doug was doing a lot of work for them. I’d see Mrs. Carew come to the office, and you would have thought Doug was running for class president and she had all the votes. Man, was he nice.” Her voice reflected disdain.
“Did he display a suggestive attitude with all the women in the office?”
“Depended. When Brewster wasn’t looking, he was a little flirty with Nancy. He always treated Sharon like she was a spinster teacher. Guess that makes sense. She’s the kind of woman who always has her legs crossed. No wonder she never got married. But she took care of her old mother, who died last year. He used to play up to Anita, but after her little girl got sick, he stopped hanging around her desk. Kind of hard to be a sexy dude when a woman’s been crying. Of course, Ginny Morse is in the clear because she’s in Italy. She’s a looker. Not that I ever saw him play up to her. Carl’s a pompous ass, but he’s pretty possessive and right there on the scene. As for Lou, Doug treated her with kid gloves. Lou and his ex-wife are good friends. Doug knew better than to act like an ass with Megan Wynn.” She hitched forward in her chair. “I don’t know what’s going on, but Megan never shot him. If she said she went to his house because of a text about work, that’s why she went. She’s not a liar. As for that gun in her desk drawer”—Geraldine’s green eyes narrowed, one red-tipped finger tapped on the tabletop—“how about somebody shot him, broke in the office, and put the gun in Megan’s desk?” Now she drummed her fingertips on the tabletop, continued almost as if talking to herself. “That would have to be someone familiar with the office, knowing Megan’s desk. But her name’s on the door.” Abruptly she shivered. “Kind of scary. I guess whoever put the gun in that drawer killed Doug.”
“Do you know of any reason anyone in the office might have shot him?”
“Not a one.” Her answer was a little too quick and a little too smooth.
“Where were you last night at nine o’clock?”
“Right here. I’m working on an embroidery for my granddaughter. She’s four. Lives in Amarillo with my daughter and her husband.”
I glanced down at my notepad. “I think that covers everything. Oh”—I was casual—“I need a brief personal bio, your background, marriages, divorces.”
She arched a dramatically dark brow. “If you want the long version, I’ll go in and get a résumé for you. The short? Born in Lawton. Dad in the Army. Grew up, went to school at OSU. Married three times. One daughter. Been in Adelaide eight years. My third husband’s hometown. He wanted to move back to the old home place but his idea of comfy was rocking on the front porch and drinking beer while I worked. I liked the job, decided to hang around without him. I moved out here. The living is cheap.” She pointed at the sky. “The stars at night knock your socks off. For fun, I run out to the casino and bet a little, have a few drinks at the bar, talk it up with some cowboys.”
“Any romantic interests?”
“I’m always ready for a good time. Right now I’m on the lookout.”
The trailer park was on a rural road, not far from Sharon King’s home. Sharon’s modest A-frame cottage was tucked at the end of a straggly gravel road. The structure wasn’t visible from the blacktop. The cottage was surrounded by trees, the woods crowded close to a picket fence. Rosebushes bordered the house. The small front yard was enclosed by a picket fence heavy with blooming wisteria. A rocker on the porch afforded a view of the thick woods. The cabin was secluded in its enclosure. Tall evergreens screened a parking area. In the backyard, a stately sycamore shaded a small pond and several Adirondack chairs. An outdoor gas grill stood at one end of the pond. The only sound was the cackle of crows, the chitter of squirrels, the rustle of breeze-stirred leaves. It was a lovely retreat.
The interior of the cottage surprised me. In the living room, the Scandinavian-style furniture was austere. There were no trinkets. One bookcase held mostly histories, classical Rome, medieval England, colonial America, and a few novels, Green Mansions, To the Lighthouse, The Great Gatsby, and The African Queen. A framed Still print, irregular swaths in varying shades of sepia and one splotch of ice blue, was the only decoration. The print hung above a spare sofa with thin beige cushions.
The repressed motif was the same in the single bedroom and a second room used as a study. In the bedroom, the walls were the pale blue of a robin’s egg. A delicate white frieze emphasized the coolness of the blue. A silk cover on the bed was a matching blue. The vanity held only a silver comb and brush, a porcelain tray with a single perfume atomizer. The closets were neat, blouses, skirts, slacks on one side, dresses on the other. Shoes lined on shelves at the back of the closet.
A car door slammed.
I was in the front yard as Sharon King came around the evergreens. She moved slowly, as if each step required special effort. I looked at her closely. I’d not studied her carefully at the office. There she was a secretary. Here she was a woman who lived alone in meticulous, orderly surroundings.
She reached the gate, one hand on the latch. She gazed about, her dark eyes flicking from the woods to the ground to the small front porch. The gate opened, closed.
I rather thought she had looked for any sign of intrusion, anything out of the ordinary since her departure that morning. She lived in isolated surroundings. She took no chances. Satisfied, she walked slowly toward the steps, her pale face grim and preoccupied. She used the key, opened the door, closed it behind her.
This morning she’d reflected the shock of a woman who’d learned from bright impersonal chatter on a radio newscast of the violent death of someone she knew well. Obviously, she’d been fond of Doug Graham. Her response suggested she’d been employed there for a number of years. Secretaries know a great deal about anyone for whom they work, whether a person is honest, fair, reasonable, thoughtful. Or not. Marital tensions likely were communicated either by occasional comment or overheard phone conversations. I thought Sharon might be just the person to help me discover more about Doug Graham’s private life. Was he involved with another woman when his marriage faltered? What kind of communications did he have with his children? Was she aware of any quarrel that would explain the notes he’d begun, crumpled, and discarded? Graham had clearly wanted to appease someone, set some matter straight, resolve a disagreement. Had he said anything to her indicating if he’d contacted the intended recipient of the notes?
I was on the porch, ready to appear, when the silence wrapped itself around me, the midday quiet in the woods emphasized by the high, sweet chatter of birds, the rasp of cicadas. If I appeared, knocked on the door, she would likely answer, though there was no guarantee. There was a peephole in the door. She was a careful woman. She would look. I would present my creden
tials.
But there was the silence of the country. No sound of a car arriving, the wheels crunching on gravel. No sounds of a car door shutting. No sound of footsteps climbing to the porch. No police cruiser in the drive.
Much as I wanted to talk to Sharon King, I would have to figure out another way.
Brewster Layton’s two-story Georgian brick home was on one of Adelaide’s older residential streets. Elms and maples shaded stately structures built in the 1920s, some with screened-in porches that afforded respite from sweltering heat in an era before air-conditioning.
There was no car in the drive. I checked inside the garage. It, too, was empty. Tools hung from pegs on a cork wall in the neat space. There were no oil stains on the concrete floor.
Inside the house in the central hallway, I admired an ormolu-framed mirror above an early American maple side table. There were two lace doilies on the table, one bronze bowl. Several envelopes rested in the bowl. I picked up mail, realized none had been opened. An electric bill, a cable bill, a reminder postcard from a chiropractor, a square white envelope in richly textured paper, likely a wedding invitation. I liked to think perhaps sometimes there was personal mail to carry to a comfortable chair, enjoy. But no one had mentioned family other than his late wife and daughter.
I looked into the shadowy unlit living room. I walked a few steps. The formal living room reflected interest in antiques, a Sheraton secretary, Chinese plates on the fireplace’s marble mantel, a collection of China thimbles on a small marble-topped table. Rose damask hangings framed the windows.
Brewster lived in the midst of beauty, but the house felt lonely and quiet. One chair, larger with sturdy arms, was placed in a direct line with the fireplace. I sat down and looked up at a woman’s portrait above the mantel. Was this where Brewster spent his evenings, perhaps holding a drink, looking up at a well-loved face, looking at intelligent gray eyes and softly waved brown hair and a gentle smile?
