“I hope you mean the deer,” I say, swallowing hard.
“Of course I mean the deer,” Jordy says. “You think I’d shoot some guy for no reason?”
I kind of do, but I don’t say so.
“You can’t just shoot a deer like that,” Hurley says.
“Yeah, well we know that now,” Jordy says, his eyes big. “But we didn’t know it yesterday. Farming is hard work. We don’t make a lot of money and that there deer was enough food to feed the three of us for a good long while so we decided to load the carcass in the truck.”
“You can’t just take the carcass like that,” Hurley says.
“Yeah, we know that, too, now,” Jordy says, clearly frustrated. “At the time, it seemed like a smart thing to do, you know? All that good meat . . . why just leave it to rot on the side of the road? But then the guy who hit the thing comes backing up along the shoulder and gets out of his truck and says the deer is his. We said it was ours because we were the ones what actually killed it, you know? But this guy didn’t see it that way and afore you know it, we was all arguing pretty loud and Jethro started waving his gun around. He wouldn’t a shot the guy. He was just trying to put the fear of God in him, you know? But I guess someone driving by called the cops and the next thing you know some sheriff shows up and wants to take away our deer and Jethro’s gun.”
“I can see where that might not have gone well,” I say.
“You can say that,” Jordy scoffs. “I thought we was going to have to get Jethro out of jail, but after I got him calmed down, the sheriff was willing to let us go with a warning.”
“What time of day was this?” Hurley asks.
“I think it was right around nine o’clock in the morning,” Jordy says. “Maybe ten?”
“Did the sheriff let you take the deer?” I ask.
“Um, no,” Jordy says, his eyes shifting nervously.
Hurley shoots me a funny look, one I can’t quite interpret. Then he says, “Let me guess. The sheriff told you to leave the carcass on the side of the road so it could be tagged and picked up later. Then he made you leave. And I’m guessing you came back sometime later, saw that deer was still lying on the side of the road, and figured no one would be the wiser if you took it.”
“You can’t prove that,” Jordy snaps. “That meat in our freezer could have come from anywhere.”
“Whatever,” Hurley says. Then he turns to me. “Come on, let’s go.”
Junior gets back into his squad car, turns around, and heads down the driveway. Hurley and I get into his car and do the same.
“Well, that was entertaining, but a total bust,” Hurley says. “If what Jordy just told us is true, they couldn’t have been anywhere near the Twilight Home when Bernard was killed. And it will be easy enough to verify their story with the sheriff’s department because the call should be on record.”
“So what’s next?” I ask.
“Vonda Lincoln and Regan Simmons’s husband. If they don’t look good for this, we’re stuck going through all those files back at the station.” Hurley takes out his cell phone and makes a call. I can hear the distant ring of the other phone as he holds his own up to his ear, but that’s all I hear. There is no answer, no voice mail, no nothing. After a minute, he disconnects the call, tosses the phone on the seat between us, and swears under his breath.
“Let’s go to the Simmons place next. I don’t know how long it will take to search Chase’s house so I want to save it for last.” He picks up his cell phone again and punches in another number. “Junior,” he says after one ring, “what did you find when you ran Mitchell Simmons?”
He listens for a minute, and I struggle to overhear what Junior is telling him, but I can only make out a few words. Finally Hurley says, “Interesting,” then disconnects the call.
“What?” I ask.
“Maybe we’re finally on to something. It turns out that Regan Simmons’s husband has a prior battery offense and a restraining order. His victim’s name was Ron Hildebrand. Apparently this isn’t Regan’s first affair and Mr. Simmons is a very jealous man. Want to guess the name of Regan’s last paramour?”
“Ron Hildebrand?” I guess.
“Bingo!”
Chapter 27
The Simmons home is in a newer development on the east side of town. Hurley’s phone rings as we pull up and park and he grabs it eagerly. I suspect he thinks it might be Kate, but it’s only Junior Feller calling to let us know the sheriff’s department has verified the “incident” and, subsequently, the alibi of the Waldheim boys.
As we sit in the car listening to Junior’s update, the Simmons’s two-car garage door opens and a Mazda SUV backs out into the street. The car zips by us and I see Regan Simmons behind the wheel. She shoots us a dirty look as she passes, which comes as no surprise to me since she must know that we are about to reveal things to her husband that she would rather keep hidden. She’s in a tough position with plenty of contentious days ahead given that she has a murdered lover on one hand and a husband who’s about to find out he’s been cuckolded on the other. Given her husband’s history regarding her last affair, I’m not surprised that Regan is making a run for it.
When Hurley disconnects his call, we get out of the car and head for the front door of the Simmons house. Mitchell Simmons answers, and I’m surprised to see that he is a tall, handsome, blond-haired, blue-eyed man with a deep, sexy voice. Maybe I’m just shallow, but when I look at someone like Mitchell Simmons and compare him to Bernard Chase, I can’t help but wonder what made Regan’s eye ever wander in the first place. Then again, looks certainly aren’t everything. Maybe Mitchell Simmons is a wife beater. Or maybe he’s terrible in the sack. Or maybe he’s a psychotic nut job. Was his one violent episode an anomaly triggered by jealousy? Or is he a cleverly disguised violent psychotic all the time?
If it’s the latter, he hides it well. He is polite and cordial when he answers the door, and even though he seems surprised to see us and puzzled as to why we are here, he doesn’t hesitate to invite us inside. What we can see of the house is neat and clean, and the living room is furnished with an eclectic combination of traditional and transitional mismatched pieces that go together surprisingly well. Mitchell invites us to sit on the couch, which is plush and covered with a soft, textured, plum-colored fabric. As I sink into it, I take in the warm, café au lait color of the walls and the dark stained wood of the floors, both providing a pleasing contrast to the wide, white trim. There is a funky coffee table that appears to be some sort of reclaimed factory warehouse cart complete with large, metal wheels and worn wooden planks. Across from the couch are two chairs: one in sage green, the other in chocolate brown leather, both of them wide, cushy-looking, and inviting. At the end of the room to the sides of the chairs and couch is a large fireplace trimmed in the same wide, white wood as the rest of the room and topped with a large, flat-screen TV. I get the sense that each piece of furniture in the room was chosen for its individual attributes rather than because it would fit into some coordinated display. The room should look like a hodgepodge mess, but it doesn’t, thanks in part to a Persian area rug that nicely ties in the plum, sage, and brown colors and feels like heaven beneath my feet. I can’t help but wonder how much of the room is Regan and how much of it is Mitchell. I get a sense that it’s a mix of both, that the eclectic nature of the room is representative of their mutual respect for one another’s desires and tastes. It’s too bad Regan’s desires went beyond the furnishings and the marital bed. I like this room, and I think that under different circumstances, I might have liked the Simmonses as well.
Hurley takes the lead with Mitchell, who has settled onto the leather chair across from us. “Mr. Simmons, I’m sure you’re aware of the death of Bernard Chase at the nursing home where your wife works?”
“Yes, Regan mentioned something about him collapsing. It’s sad when people so young develop serious health problems.”
“What did she tell you he died from?” I ask.
“How’s your marriage?” Hurley asks, deftly ignoring Mitchell’s own question. “Are you and Regan getting along okay?”
Mitchell frowns. “I imagine we’re like any other couple. We have our ups and downs, but overall our relationship is a solid one. Why do you care?”
His tone of voice has changed; Mr. Nice Guy seems to have left the building. At this point, I’m pretty sure Mitchell has no idea his wife has been having an affair. I’m curious to see how he’s going to react to the news, whether it will be with anger or despair.
“The two of you have no children?” I ask.
Mitchell shakes his head. “Regan says she isn’t ready yet.”
“Are you?” I ask.
“Am I what? Ready to have children?”
I nod.
He shrugs. “I’ve always wanted children, but we’ve got time yet, and obviously Regan and I need to be on the same page with that regard.”
“Did you know Bernard Chase?” Hurley asks.
“I met him a time or two,” Mitchell says. “Once at a Christmas party, once at an employee picnic, and I’ve seen him around town on occasion. I know who he is, but we’re not what I would call friends. More like acquaintances.”
“It seems your wife knew him very well,” I say.
Mitchell smiles, looking a little baffled by the statement. “Of course she did. He was her boss.”
“He was more than that,” Hurley says.
“What do you mean? What are you implying?”
Up until now, Hurley and me taking turns with the questions and comments has forced Mitchell’s focus to shift slowly back and forth between us. It’s a technique that has evolved between us naturally over time as we’ve worked together. It turns out it’s an effective tool, as it keeps people a little on edge, a little unsettled. It appears to have worked on Mitchell, who is more than a little unsettled. Instead of a baffled expression and a slow shift of his attention, he looks panicked and his gaze is bouncing rapidly between the two of us, unsure just who he should settle on. Hurley gives me a subtle nod, and I deliver the coup de grace.
“Your wife was having an affair with Bernard Chase.”
Mitchell practically explodes with nervous laughter. “That’s utterly ridiculous!” he scoffs. “Regan wouldn’t do that to me.”
In my gentlest, kindest voice I say, “You truly didn’t know, did you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s nothing to know.”
“Think about it,” Hurley says. “I’m guessing Regan has had a lot of reasons to be gone from the house lately. Based on what we’ve learned, I’m also guessing she was frequently late getting home from work, or had some explanation for why she needed to go in early.”
Mitchell opens his mouth to object yet again, but something in what Hurley has said finally drives the truth home. It’s painful to watch the reality hit him, and when it does, it’s apparent. His entire body sags with the weight of this newfound knowledge. I imagine the self-doubt, self-recriminations, and anger will come later. They always do. I feel a little sorry for Mitchell, given that I’ve been in his position myself, and it appears that this is the second time for him. His marriage may have survived the first betrayal, but I seriously doubt it will survive this one. Part of me wants to take him off to one side and have a private chat with him, to prepare him for what’s to come, to let him know the despair doesn’t last forever. But I don’t. I doubt it would help, anyway. I think this type of pain is something people have to experience and learn to deal with on their own. It’s an agonizing but necessary part of the healing process.
I feel certain that Mr. Simmons had no idea of his wife’s affair prior to our arrival and as such, he is an unlikely candidate for Bernie’s murderer. I suspect Hurley feels the same way, but we still need to take care of the basics.
“Mr. Simmons, can you tell me where you were between the hours of nine and noon yesterday morning?” Hurley asks.
Mitchell stares at him and blinks hard several times, as if he’s seeing him for the first time and can’t quite believe his eyes. “I was here at home,” he says finally. “I had work I brought home with me and I didn’t leave the house all day. It’s a very busy time of year for me.”
“What is it you do?” I ask.
“I’m a CPA. And it’s tax season.”
“Was your wife here at home with you?” Hurley asks.
Mitchell stares at the floor, still wearing his stunned expression of disbelief. “Part of the time,” he says with a frown. “She said she had some errands to run and she left around nine-thirty. I think it was around noon or so when she came back. She brought me lunch.” He looks at me when he says this, his tone suggesting that his wife wouldn’t have done such a sweet, thoughtful thing if she was sleeping around on him. Would she?
“I think she was home after that until she left for work at a little after two-thirty.”
“You think she was?” Hurley says.
“I never came out of my office, but I heard the TV going, so I assumed she was here. She told me she had to leave a little early for work because she still had some errands to—” The reality hits him and he squeezes his eyes closed.
“Have you ever been to Bernard Chase’s office?” Hurley asks.
“His office?” Mitchell scrunches up his face with the effort of his thinking. “No, I don’t think so.”
“So we shouldn’t expect to find your fingerprints or DNA anywhere in that office?”
He shakes his head. “Nope, I’ve been to the nursing home before, but I’m pretty sure I’ve never been in any office there.”
Hurley gets up and I follow suit. I think we are both satisfied that Mitchell Simmons had nothing to do with Bernard Chase’s death. And now that we have ruined Mitchell’s life—however temporarily—we thank him for his time and depart, knowing we are leaving a trail of emotional devastation in our wake.
It’s not a pleasant feeling.
Outside in the car, Hurley says, “Damn, I had high hopes for that one, but I don’t think he had any idea his wife was stepping out on him again.”
“Neither do I. In fact I’d bet money on it.” I wince as soon as the words are out of my mouth. Had I always used so many betting clichés, or were they new to my vocabulary now that I was a regular at the casino?
Hurley’s phone rings and he answers it. I can hear the voice on the other end well enough to know it’s not Kate. But lest I have any doubt, the sagging disappointment in Hurley’s face would clue me in. Not that I think Kate will be calling if what her letter said holds true. But maybe she’ll have second thoughts.
I hear Hurley say, “No, just leave her there for now. But tell her not to leave town. And have the officers who helped you meet me at the Chase house.” He sighs and disconnects the call. “That was Bob Richmond. The search of Jeanette’s apartment didn’t turn up anything more than a two-year-old prescription for some codeine that she had left over from a dental procedure. No drugs, no potential poisons, no nothing.”
“So what are we left with?”
“Not much,” Hurley says. “Let’s hope my initial impression of Vonda was wrong and we can find something significant at her house, like a signed confession letter.” He glances at his watch. “When do you think Emily will be back?”
“I don’t know, but the last time my sister took the kids to The Dells, they didn’t get home until after eleven that night. That wasn’t a school night, though.”
“Neither is tonight,” Hurley says. “When I dropped Em off, Desi told me the kids don’t have school tomorrow because of some teacher workshop day.”
“Well in that case, I wouldn’t expect them anytime soon.”
“Okay then, what do you say we take on the Green Fiend?”
“Let me at her,” I say with a smile.
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Chapter 28
Hurley makes a phone call to arrange for some help with our search. When we arrive at Vonda Lincoln’s house for the second time, it takes her so long to answer the door that we start to think she isn’t home. Then, when she finally does answer, it makes me suspicious. Was she hiding something?
Her demeanor when she greets us is anything but friendly. “What is it now, Detective?” she asks in a tired, put-upon voice.
“I have that search warrant I promised you,” Hurley says, handing her the paperwork. He pushes past her and waves for me and the other officers to follow.
“Hold on, hold on!” Vonda yells, running to put herself in front of Hurley. “You can’t just come barging in here like this. I’m going to call our lawyer.”
“I can come barging in here like this,” Hurley says. “That paper you’re holding says so.”
Vonda’s objections make me think of something, so I walk over and take her by the arm, pulling her off to one side as the officers make their way into the living room. As soon as I hear Hurley start to give them instructions, I turn to Vonda and say in a very concerned and serious voice, “You absolutely should call a lawyer. I hope you know someone good.”
Vonda looks momentarily confused, but she takes to my concerned, helpful tone immediately. “We have a lawyer we use for legal stuff like contracts and business deals, but Malcolm wouldn’t deal with something like this, would he?”
“Oh, I’m sure he would,” I say, though I don’t think it’s true.
I make a mental note of the name and tell her, “I think he probably would handle something like this, but what are the odds you can get ahold of him at this time on a Sunday?”
“I have his home number!” Vonda says excitedly.
I had hoped as much, given that Bernard and Vonda were quite well off financially. The rich tend to get certain privileges the rest of us don’t, like their lawyer’s home phone number.
Board Stiff (Mattie Winston Mysteries) Page 25
