Shaded Light: The Case of the Tactless Trophy Wife: A Paul Manziuk and Jacquie Ryan Mystery (The Manziuk and Ryan Mysteries Book 1)

by J. A. Menzies

  “Well, how she’s ever going to meet any men except policemen while she’s working these hours is beyond me!” her mother complained.

  Her aunt was not going to be ignored. “Are there any nice men among the suspects in your case?”

  SEVENTEEN

  By eight a.m., Manziuk and Ryan were hard at work, piecing together the evidence. At 8:10, they had their first argument.

  Manziuk was sitting at his desk studying the file, thinking to himself, saying nothing.

  Ryan was pacing the floor. Suddenly she stopped and whirled to face him. “I am here, you know. Awake.”

  “I know,” he said without looking up.

  “So?”

  “So?” he repeated, his mind still focused on the paper he was reading.

  “So, aren’t we going to talk about it?”

  “Talk about what?”

  “The case,” she said. “Duh.”

  He had silver-rimmed reading glasses perched on his nose, and he looked over the top of them at her.

  “You look like a university professor,” she said. “An absent-minded one, at that.”

  “Could you possibly stop chattering and let me study these notes?”

  “Could you possibly think out loud so we can both work on the case and not just you work on it and me stand here watching you? Or is that what you’re used to? Does Sergeant Craig let you do all the thinking?”

  “Sergeant Craig has learned that I like a chance to get my thoughts organized before I talk about them. Less time wasted that way.” Okay, that was true. But it was also true that Woody didn’t say much. Now and then he helped with the thinking, but rarely. Most of the time, he sat and waited while Manziuk looked for inconsistencies, threads of ideas to explore, new directions to check.

  “Well, I’m not Sergeant Craig,” Ryan said.

  “I’ve noticed,” he replied dryly.

  She stood in front of the desk, placed her hands on it, and stared him in the eyes. “Nothing against him, but I don’t want to watch you solve the case. I want to be part of it. All of it.”

  “Fine. Go get us some coffee and you can sit and think while I watch.”

  She glared at him.

  “You want me to get the coffee?” he asked.

  At 8:30, Ford sent in his written report.

  “Okay,” said Manziuk, who was still seated at his desk with Ryan on a chair pulled up beside him. Papers covered every inch of the desk, with two empty coffee cups sitting in the midst of them. “You want to do this together, we’ll do it together. So pay attention. I don’t like repeating things.” He put on his glasses and picked up Ford’s report. “The Forensics people say there’s very little to link anyone with Jillian Martin’s body. No foreign hairs or anything else on her. No prints that could be determined as belonging to the murderer, no skin or blood under her nails, no scratches on any of the possible suspects. The weapon is likely a piece of the cord we found in use on the grounds. However, we haven’t found the cord that was used, and there’s no obvious link to anyone.”

  “What about the flowers in the circle?”

  “There were a couple of tiny scratches on her hands. Also some traces of leaves. Feeling is she made the flower chain herself. By the way, the flowers were Gerbera. Some kind of daisy.”

  “What about Nick Donovan’s clothes?”

  “Hang on.” He read more of the report. “Nothing much here. There were a couple of hairs on Nick’s shirt as well as a trace of powder that belonged to Jillian Martin. So we do know that at some point he was in contact with her. But the fact that her face powder was on the front of his shirt implies that she was facing him. If, as we suspect, she was strangled from behind while seated on a bench, it doesn’t seem likely that her face would touch his shirt. So…” He paused as if checking to see if his mind had all the facts straight. “Now we’ll see about Crystal Winston.” He scanned the second report. “Not much more. A footprint, size ten men’s running shoe. The shoe—rather a pair of shoes—was found in the change room by the pool. Belong to Douglass Fischer. He says he left the shoes in the change room after playing tennis Saturday. Never thought to get them.”

  “That’s just great!” Ryan’s voice was tinged with annoyance. “Did Ford notice if they were there Saturday night?”

  “Yes, they were.”

  Restlessly, Ryan stood and walked around the edge of the room. “Anything else?”

  Manziuk watched her for a moment before answering. “There were no hairs or different-colored fibers on Crystal Winston; however, there might have been a few fibers that were black but of somewhat different content than the clothes she was wearing. The guess is the murderer was also wearing black.”

  She stopped. “That’s what you thought. You asked them to look for black clothes.”

  “A hunch.”

  “Do you have hunches that good all the time?”

  “Now and then.”

  “So what did they find?” She resumed walking slowly back and forth.

  “There were several possibles. Turtleneck shirts owned by Nick Donovan and George Brodie, a T-shirt owned by Bart Brodie, and a sleeveless sweater belonging to Anne Fischer. And there was an old jogging suit belonging to Kendall Brodie in a closet near the back door. Jacket and pants. All were made of similar synthetic fabric and all could have been the item that left the traces. The jogging suit, however, had hairs belonging to Crystal Winston and blood stains. The problem is anybody could have borrowed it. They’re going over it. Both Kendall and George Brodie have used it, and even Ellen sometimes has put on the jacket when it was cool outside and she just wanted to go out for a minute. She thought it possible Crystal or Mrs. Winston had worn it, too. And there are no fingerprints on the knife except Crystal’s. No skin or blood under her nails.

  “You’d think we’d find some trace of the killer!” Ryan protested. “Fibers, hairs, prints, something! It’s almost like he or she knew we’d look for them.”

  “Any one of these people could know a lot more about forensics than the average person. Especially if the murder of Jillian Martin was planned. We’re dealing with top-notch lawyers, Hildy Reimer is a very capable woman, Bart Brodie is no dummy, Shauna Jensen works in a library. The killer might have made sure to read up on forensics just to avoid making a mistake.”

  “Surely not.”

  “Why not? These people are highly intelligent.”

  “But murder isn’t often that cold-blooded, is it?”

  “No. It’s usually done in the heat of the moment. And most murderers leave clues. But every now and then you find one who doesn’t. Or the clues left lead us in circles.”

  “But there’s always something.”

  “Yeah? Have you been following the case of the four women murdered here since last October?”

  “Certainly I’m aware of it.”

  It was Manziuk’s turn to get up and pace the room. “Four women. All young. One university student, one college student, one nurse, and one hairdresser. None of them knew each other. Nothing in common except all of them had red hair: two natural, two from a bottle. All killed by being strangled from behind with some kind of black cord by someone who didn’t touch them. Suspects include a couple of boyfriends, the neighbor of one, and a few guys we’ve had our eye on for a while. Leads? None. Evidence? Nothing. No hairs, no nothing. From the look of it, this guy just walks up to a perfect stranger who has red hair, manages to put a cord around her neck without creating suspicion, and then pulls it tight until she’s dead.” He stopped pacing and stood with his arms crossed. “This guy is either a complete psycho whose randomness in killing makes him very lucky, or he’s a very smart guy. Because the bottom line is we don’t have a clue.”

  “Have you tried decoys?”

  “Where? When? This is a big city. The guy’s chosen four different locations. No method. The first was October seventh. The second January eleventh, the third February eighth, and the last May second. We can’t just put red-haired decoys out in
definitely. And we don’t even know where to put them. It’s like he just cruises the streets till he sees a redhead, trails her until she’s alone, and then, bam! One less redhead in the city.”

  She said nothing.

  He moved over to his chair and leaned on its back. “At least in this case we have some obvious suspects.”

  “So what do we do with our suspects?”

  “Who’s first?

  “Bart Brodie.”

  “Okay.” He began walking again, now and then stopping to straighten a book or adjust the blind. “Lied about being with Shauna. Says it was because she lied first. Could have told her to lie. Says he was in his apartment above the garage. Also there during Crystal’s murder. Had been drinking heavily.”

  “The drinking makes it unlikely for him to have murdered Crystal.”

  “Not necessarily. He could have been acting drunk to give himself an alibi. We need to see if anyone noticed just how many drinks he had and exactly what he was drinking.”

  “But he has no motive.”

  “No motive we’re aware of. No evidence he was being blackmailed, for instance. But what if he was? He could have arrived on the scene because Jillian had told him she would be there for the weekend.”

  “How could we find that out?”

  He stopped. “I want a couple of people to visit restaurants in the vicinity of the Martin apartment. Take pictures of Jillian and Bart and Nick and see if she was seen meeting either of them. Also, check with the doorman of the apartment and find out if either of them have been seen going up.”

  “Okay.” Ryan was taking notes again.

  “Next, Nick Donovan. He’s got a tail. Later today, we’ll check and see what he’s been up to.”

  “Hildy Reimer?”

  “Check to see if she really has been preparing an alias. But I think she’s going to be okay. If she had done it, she probably wouldn’t have given us the alias she was going to use.”

  “Unless she has two just in case.”

  “Good point. Have it checked out.”

  “Peter Martin?”

  “I believe I’ll pay him a little visit today. Meanwhile, we need a check on his finances. Even with a pre-nup, four divorces would be pretty expensive.”

  She nodded. “Is there anyone else we should check out?”

  “Either the Fischers or the Brodies could be covering up for one another. We can check into their finances and particularly see how much was paid out to Jillian Martin. She had a good scam going. Used the Fischers’ fears very nicely. George Brodie sounded less convincing. He said he didn’t pay her a dime. That he threatened her back. Could be she tried another angle, one he didn’t have a backup plan for. Surprising what some people find embarrassing. Especially once they’re successful in the eyes of society. So we’ll check into his past thoroughly. See if there’s something he would pay to keep hidden.”

  “One thing that needs explaining,” Ryan said thoughtfully, “is how Jillian got the information about Douglass Fischer and his weekend.”

  “The woman was his secretary. Peter could have known about it and perhaps let something out.”

  She nodded. “But I’d still like to know more about how she operated.”

  “You wondering if she might not have been doing it alone?”

  “What if she married Peter Martin because of his money, but she was really in love with someone else. Someone like her.”

  “Someone like Bart Brodie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not a bad idea. We’ll do our best to find out.”

  Bart might have been insulted by the suggestion that he was like Jillian Martin. Or he might have been pleased with it. But right now, he was merely impatient. He wanted to get some money from George, and he wanted to leave. George had proved to be difficult.

  “Look, it isn’t as if you don’t have the money,” Bart argued.

  “That isn’t the question. However, since you choose to put it that way, how about looking at this? Whatever money I have, I earned. Note the word I use. ‘Earned.’ I—”

  “Don’t tell me. You started out with nothing and worked twenty-hour days and made yourself what you are today. Wonderful. We applaud you. But is it really necessary for everyone to emulate you? Why can’t you simply realize you enjoyed every minute of it and now you have more than you need and you have a responsibility to your family to see that none of us starves?”

  “What my sister ever saw in your father—!”

  “Yes, you’ve mentioned that before, too. I’m just like him. So sorry, but I have no choice. My mother never once said to me, ‘Child, we’re planning to bring you into an imperfect world where you can’t choose your relatives or circumstances, and we’d like to know if you want to come.’ I had to come, willy-nilly.”

  “You may not have had a choice in being born, but you do have a choice in what you do with your life. So far, you’ve chosen poorly. Well, I have a choice also. And I choose to ignore you. If I’d done that years ago, you might be a lot better off.”

  “And if—”

  “And if you follow through with your threat of a few days ago and try to give a story to one of the trash magazines, it will harm you more than me. You’re not my son, merely a relative. I have no obligation to you, and I’ll make sure the papers are aware of everything I’ve already done for you. I have no doubt I’ll come out smelling like roses and you’ll look exactly like what you are—scum we could well do without.”

  There was a long moment of silence. Finally, Bart said, “You’re bluffing.”

  “I’m giving you five thousand dollars. That’s because Ellen feels you were helpful this weekend and she wants you to have something to start with. But you’d better use it wisely, because there won’t be any more. Absolutely none. I know you think I’m bluffing, but I’m not. It’s the last money you’ll ever see from me. And that includes after my death. Your name isn’t in my will. And if you think Kendall will support you, you’re very mistaken.”

  “I—”

  “I trust you’ll be gone before lunch.” George held out the money in cash, and Bart took it. “Unless you do something to show me that you’ve reformed your lifestyle, you’ll not be allowed on this property or in my office again. As far as I’m concerned, from this moment on I have no nephew.”

  “You’re making a big mistake.”

  “Close the door when you leave.”

  Bart slammed out of the room.

  George leaned back. Should have done that years ago. And who knew—it might even work. He felt good.

  But now he needed to get to the office and do a day’s work. Time to put the events of this nightmare weekend behind and get on with life. Stupid thing to say, when two people were dead. Yet not much he could do about it.

  And, strangely enough, the feelings of impending doom that had been bothering him since Friday had lifted. Coincidence? Probably more like stomach acid. Which reminded him. He needed to take the pills his doctor had given him to coat his stomach.

  Twenty minutes after George was gone, Ellen watched Bart get into a cab in front of the house. He’d given her the gist of George’s message, but she’d offered no sympathy. She liked him too much, she’d said, to see him continue to waste his life the way he’d been doing. Maybe if he knew he didn’t have George to bail him out he’d do something to improve himself. That or get his legs broken by a gambler he couldn’t pay or wind up in jail for forgery or something like that. She didn’t know what all he’d done and she didn’t want to know.

  She waved.

  The cab drove away.

  He was gone. They were all gone.

  Only she and Mrs. Winston were left.

  Of course, Mrs. Winston was unable to do anything. It was Ellen’s turn to take care of her. She smiled. Unhappy though the time might be, it would be nice to get back into a kitchen again without feeling guilty.

  A small car came into sight. It was old and battered. The gardeners. She’d forgotten they would be comin
g in. They had a key to the gate and had apparently come to work, as usual. What was she going to say to them?

  Peter was at the office by nine in the morning. Anything to get away from his in-laws. Shauna would just have to cope. He’d make it up to her later.

  He accepted sympathy from his secretary and the others in the office. “I’ll be fine,” he said as soon as there was a quiet moment. “I just want to get back to work. It helps to have my mind on something.” He smiled in his engaging way, and the secretaries and law clerks fell over themselves agreeing with him.

  He went into his office and shut the door, leaning against it for a moment before sitting at his desk. Now what? He needed something to do. He leaned forward to buzz his secretary.

  “Yes, Mr. Martin?”

  “What have we got to work on today?”

  “You have that litigation for Mr. Devlin.”

  “Ah, good, good. Bring the file in, please. And your notebook. I have a couple of letters to write.”

  “Yes, Mr. Martin.”

  She was there in three minutes, seated across from him, efficient, agreeable, eager to please, easy on the eyes, and, to the best of his knowledge, not in the process of blackmailing anyone. She should take his mind off things nicely.

  Douglass would much rather have been in the office, too. But Anne had been in such a state the night before that he’d finally phoned her doctor, who’d recommended she take two of the sleeping pills he’d prescribed several weeks before and come in the next day if she thought it necessary. A lot of good that was.

  She’d already drunk half a bottle of vodka, and he hadn’t wanted to give her a pill on top of that. But he’d looked for them. And found more than he’d bargained on. Three bottles of sleeping pills. Along with a suicide note telling him he was free to go to Jillian and begging him to look after the kids.

  He slept little during the night. His mind was grappling with too many things. Douglass Fischer, age forty-four. And what did he have? A good job that took most of his time and interest. A wife who was so miserable she was ready to commit suicide. Two children who were so out of hand he had no control over them. And it didn’t take a genius to see they were both heading for trouble. A guilty conscience because of one foolish weekend.