Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 05 - Just Ducky

by Jeanne Glidewell

  “It happens all the time. And who said the killer, if there is one, mind you, was smart?” Wyatt countered.

  “Well, um….”

  “What if Bo was unable to create a legible suicide note, but felt it was crucial to make the death look like it was self-inflicted, and made someone who was as much of a moron as himself, an offer he couldn’t refuse?”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “We already know Bo is practically illiterate, just by his ‘for sale’ sign,” Wyatt continued. “So it stands to reason he could have drug someone else into the situation to assist him, but yet carried out the murder on his own, or perhaps with his accomplice’s help.”

  “Yes, that’s true.” Why did I suddenly feel as if I was rapidly losing my stake in this debate? Maybe the detective was right. It was obvious from Wyatt’s questions that I hadn’t looked at the possibility of Bo Reliford’s involvement in this crime from every angle. He probably did merit more scrutiny than just basing his innocence on two misspelled words. I usually was not so quick to let a suspect off the hook. Maybe the noxious fumes in Bo’s bathroom, that I was trapped in at the time, had muddled my reasoning in some way.

  “Who said he didn’t have a co-conspirator? Maybe even one who was a writer by trade?” Wyatt asked. It was clear he was fully invested in this dispute now. “Ducky did work at a library, you know. She could have known lots of writers, and tons of readers for that matter. And with her sometimes less than amicable personality, she could have easily pissed somebody off. For that matter, his co-conspirator could have wanted Ducky dead as much as Bo did.”

  “Pissed them both off to the point of murder?” I asked.

  “Who knows? I’ve seen people murdered for more unimaginable reasons than anger. And why would Bo Reliford move back to Rockdale in the first place?”

  “Maybe to be closer to his daughter, Barbara Wells, who lives here in town. I wouldn’t want to live too far away from Wendy, or even Andy now,” I replied. I was desperately trying to regain my footing in the argument of Bo’s guilt or innocence, but knew it was a losing battle.

  “Barbara’s been interviewed this morning, along with several other potential suspects. Ms. Wells said she hasn’t seen him or even spoken to him since he moved back here from Lee’s Summit, so I doubt his daughter had any bearing on Bo’s change of residency,” Wyatt said. He took several additional ladles of soup out of the pot, and refilled his bowl before continuing to speak. I was tempted to slap the spoon out of his hand. Where was just a wee bit of salmonella when you needed it?

  “Could be, I guess,” I said, in resignation.

  “And, why was Bo following his ex-wife? The man has a rap sheet that includes assault and battery, spousal abuse, resisting arrest, and public intoxication. You wouldn’t believe how many times we responded to domestic disturbance calls to his and Ducky’s house in the last few years of their marriage.”

  “Yeah, I remember you telling us that before,” I said. Throughout my conversation with Wyatt, Stone had sat stoically, sipping on spoonfuls of soup, and listening without commenting. I wondered what he was thinking. Probably that it was painful to watch his wife continually being knocked off her high horse, and pitifully attempting to get back on it.

  “And I think I also told you about Bo’s tussle with my partner, Clayton, one night, where he ended up slicing his own leg open with a broken beer bottle. He’s not exactly the pick of the litter, Lexie.”

  “Well, I guess that’s true enough,” I said, just before a light bulb came on. “Hey, back up the bus! Did you just say the police department was interviewing potential suspects? Does this mean Ducky’s death is now being considered a murder—?”

  “—potential murder!”

  “—and the case has been reopened?” I continued. It had just occurred to me I’d accomplished my primary goal of getting the police department involved in investigating Ducky’s death as a homicide, and I was thrilled by the realization.

  “After discussing the situation with the Chief this morning, I got him to consent to putting a couple of us on this case, at least long enough to determine who rigged your car with an explosive device. Hopefully, if we can find the bomber, we’ll also find the killer in the process,” Wyatt said.

  “Does that mean you agree with me the two incidents are related, and most likely, the same perp is responsible for both crimes?” I asked.

  “I agree with you that it’s a high probability. And now, even Chief Smith believes there’s more to Ducky’s death than meets the eye. Enough so that he’s willing to assign Clint Travis and me to the case, temporarily anyway.”

  “Oh, Wyatt, I can’t tell you how much of a relief it is to hear her death is finally being investigated. It’s so important to me that justice is served for her death. She’d worked hard her whole life, and was just getting set to enjoy her retirement when her life was cut short. I know the police department doesn’t appreciate my assistance, but I swear I’m only trying to help you solve a case that I feel shouldn’t go unpunished.”

  “I know, Lexie. Actually, you’ve been a big help in a few past cases and Chief Smith has reluctantly said as much. This murder investigation with Ducky would have never come to light without your interference—”

  “—assistance.” I corrected.

  “Sorry, I meant assistance, as well as perseverance, because your involvement has, on occasion, been invaluable to the entire Rockdale police force,” Wyatt said, apologizing, but not without a gleam in his eye and a smirk on his face.

  I knew Detective Johnston’s apology wasn’t totally sincere, and a tad sarcastic, but I wasn’t going to let him get by with referring to my aid in helping the cops close murder cases as “interference.” The cases had consumed a lot of my time and energy and placed me in risky situations in my efforts to track down the killer in each instance. And, but for the grace of God, I’d be dead now for my efforts. My successful investigative techniques, which I admit included risky pranks and often bordered on being illegal, in at least some instances, deserved more credit than the police department had ever extended me, and Wyatt should know that better than anybody.

  “Well, whatever. At least now I can sit back, relax, and let you guys handle the case, and hopefully you’ll nail the bastard quickly!” I said, emphatically. “Thank you, Wyatt! Stone and I will help you in any way we can.”

  I ignored the groans echoing throughout the kitchen, and Wyatt shaking his head slowly back and forth. I hadn’t won the battle, but I’d definitely won the war! I was thrilled with the outcome, and appreciated Wyatt’s efforts to convince Chief Smith of the potential of murder being the cause of Ducky’s death. I even felt a bit remorseful for having momentarily wished a little food poisoning on my favorite detective.

  Chapter 17

  The rest of the day I lounged around, relaxing, recuperating, and watching The Love Boat reruns I’d taped on our DVR. To celebrate their tenth anniversary, our guests had made reservations at the Golden Ox, one of Kansas City’s premier steakhouses, and would be heading out as soon as they got freshened up. It was quite a drive from Rockdale to downtown Kansas City, and they had early reservations so they could go to an event at the Performing Arts Center afterward.

  On Monday, the visitors would be attending a family reunion in Chillicothe, so I got out of preparing supper for our guests both evenings. I felt like I’d hit the culinary jackpot. I didn’t particularly enjoy cooking under the best of circumstances, but considering the injuries liberally scattered all over my body, I was happy to be going out for supper both nights. We’d been wanting to try a new seafood restaurant in Atchison, so we agreed to pick up Wendy and Andy on our way and treat them to platters of all-you-can-eat snow crab legs.

  Just as we were walking out the door, the phone rang. Wyatt wanted to let me know Bo Reliford had been apprehended and arrested on first-degree murder charges. He was sitting in the county jail as we spoke, the detective assured me.

  “I hope you didn’t arrest
him just to have someone to hold responsible for Ducky’s death so you could close the case quickly,” I said. “Were all of the potential suspects interrogated before pinning the murder on Bo?”

  “We didn’t really ‘interrogate’ anyone, but we did question several people we thought might have a motive to want Ducky dead. All but Bo had a verifiable alibi for their whereabouts the night of her death.”

  “Could Quentin prove he was elk hunting in Wyoming? Where did Bo say he was at the time of her death?” I asked.

  “Quentin wasn’t even questioned, and Bo couldn’t remember his whereabouts. He’d been out on a bender that night and couldn’t honestly recall where he’d been or what he’d done.”

  “So, Bo having blacked out in a drunken stupor the night of Ducky’s death, automatically makes him the killer? Is that all his arrest is based on?” I was a little incensed by the news. I couldn’t prove Bo hadn’t killed his ex-wife, but the police department couldn’t rightfully prove he did, either. I’d seen better investigative work from a couple of ten-year-olds playing the board game called Clue. I wanted the case closed, but I wanted the person punished to be, without a shadow of a doubt, guilty of the crime, not just accused of it because of the lack of a verifiable alibi.

  “No, there’s much more to it than that. Bo has a strong motive and a weak alibi,” Wyatt said, a little too defensively, I thought. “It’s the combination of the two that make him such a solid suspect.”

  “And just what is his strong motive?” I asked.

  “He told us he was cheated out of his half of the first-edition book collection, most of which was obtained during the course of his marriage to Ducky. The books were purchased with a combination of his and his ex-wife’s income. Therefore, he told us that he feels he should have received his fair share of the value of the books in the divorce settlement. It was a bitterly fought and contested divorce, and Bo made the statement that, ‘if not for that freaking broad,’ he’d be comfortably settled in a nice home, not renting an old trailer and living in squalor. Actually, his description of Ducky was a lot more vulgar than ‘freaking broad,’ but I don’t speak that way in front of ladies. He also said she should rot in hell for how she screwed him over in the divorce settlement. Doesn’t that sound a bit vindictive to you?”

  “Well, yes, and Bo’s right about the squalor. But I’d say he drank up his half of their combined wealth and is lucky Ducky never pressed charges on him, or he’d already be serving time in prison for assault and battery at the very least,” I said. “Bo Reliford’s a loser, I’ll admit. And I can assure you, I don’t have any more respect or affection for him than you, or the other detectives do, but that doesn’t necessarily make him a killer.”

  “There’ll be more investigation done on the case, I promise, but Bo was considered a flight risk, so we’ve got him where we can keep him from fleeing, and not so inebriated he doesn’t know right from wrong. He’ll probably wake up in his jail cell wondering how and when he’d gotten there.”

  “Well, I hope you’ll keep digging for more evidence and not just hang your hats on Bo being the killer. If it turns out he is guilty, then hallelujah. But if not, then Ducky’s killer is still out there walking the streets among us, when he should be wasting away in a jail cell,” I told Wyatt. “We’ll talk more about this later. Stone, the kids, and I, have reservations for supper in Atchison. There are a whole lot of crab legs calling my name.”

  “Sounds great! Enjoy your dinner and I’ll stop by the inn tomorrow or Monday.”

  “Good, I’ll have coffee and doughnuts waiting for you.”

  * * *

  I woke up Sunday morning still feeling like I’d run the Boston Marathon in record time the day before. The soreness in my legs and back reminded me of the two times I’d used the elliptical machine and treadmill we’d purchased on the one day of the year we felt passionate about our health and fitness.

  Buying exercise equipment was one of those spur-of-the-moment decisions we should have slept on and given more thought to, kind of like buying a bread machine. In the case of a bread machine, you spend twice as much for the ingredients as it would cost you to buy a loaf of bread at the grocery store. You add too much yeast to the mix and watch the dough pour out of the machine like lava erupting from a volcano. You magically turn the homemade delicacy into a pile of smoldering embers, and then you spend four hours cleaning the machine up afterward. And, finally, the hundred-dollar bread machine gets pushed to the back of the cabinet above the stove, where you store things you can’t reach because you know they’ll sit there and gather dust until your next garage sale. Been there, done that, and it’s never safe to say I won’t do it again someday.

  If nothing else, the soreness I was experiencing reminded me I wanted to stop by the gym and offer them our like-new exercise equipment. If I hurried up and dressed in a loose fitting, but comfortable sweat suit, did a fly-by job of brushing my teeth and combing my hair, and, of course, grabbed a to-go cup of coffee, I could possibly still catch Tina at the gym, assuming she worked out on Sunday mornings.

  Stone had agreed to get up at the crack of dawn and sneak up on some bass at the farm pond with Elroy Traylor, so I knew his wife, Tina, wouldn’t be occupied with him, and might find it an opportune time to work out at the gym. Particularly if she was as dedicated to keeping fit as her husband had told Stone she was.

  I’d promised Stone I wouldn’t leave the house without him until a suspect was in custody. Well, a suspect was in custody, and despite the fact I didn’t believe it was the real killer they’d arrested, I would still, technically, not be breaking my promise to my husband. I felt the mission was worth the risk.

  I arrived at Gino’s Gym at 8:30, hoping Tina had not already come and gone, since the sign on the front door read that the gym opened at 6:00 on weekends. I asked the girl at the front door if I could speak to the owner about donating some equipment because we needed the extra space the exercise equipment was taking up. She took a long swallow of her super-sized soda, finished the text she’d been typing on her cell phone, pulled the right ear bud out that was attached to her iPod, and asked me to repeat myself. I rolled my eyes, and did as she’d requested.

  The owner was out of town, the twenty-some year-old girl told me. I’d have to come back and speak to her boss because she didn’t have the authority to make that kind of decision. As she was talking, I was scanning the gym for a statuesque, raven-haired woman, who needed to put her rock-hard body through an intense daily workout like I needed to dig a hole in the backyard to bury Mason jars full of money. When I failed to spot Tina, I asked the young girl if she knew if a Mrs. Traylor was currently working out at the gym.

  “Oh, Tina’s here every day, but I think she goes to mass on Sunday mornings, because she usually shows up around ten o’clock on weekends,” she said. I glanced at my watch. Tina wasn’t due here for an hour and a half if this young gal was correct. I noticed a sign posted on the wall behind her offering a limited-time, one-week free trial membership at the gym.

  “No big deal,” I said. “But I would like to sign up for a free one-week trial while I’m here. Today would be a great day to work out and see what I think about the facility.”

  After filling out a trial membership application, a consent form, a liability waiver, a medical release document, and enough other forms to feel like I was purchasing a new home, I walked over to a stationary bicycle. I had absolutely no desire to walk, in my current physical condition, much less ride a bike, but I had to appear as if I were trying out the gym equipment. I couldn’t just stand there like a pillar of salt until ten.

  The wheels on the bike turned so slowly an observer would barely be able to tell if they were spinning. At the rate I was pedaling, if I’d been on a real bike it would take me three weeks to get back to the inn. But the young lady at the desk had tuned me out and was focused entirely on the music streaming out of her iPod, so I felt no need to impress her or anyone else with my overwhelming zeal to get i
n shape.

  “New here?” The bare-chested man on the bike next to me, who was proudly baring his six-pack abs, asked me. “There’s more than one speed on these bicycles, and I’d be happy to help you adjust yours to a more practical speed.”

  “Oh, thank you,” I said. “But I’m really working on endurance rather than speed right now.”

  When the young man, who I’d instantly dubbed Mr. Olympus, looked at me as if I were Grandma Moses trying to work up a heart rate, I felt I needed to come up with a viable reason for my sluggishness. As often happened with my compulsive nature, I figured a lie would sound more convincing than the truth. Telling him that I was sore from nearly being killed by a bomb that was planted in my car made me sound like someone who’d escaped from a home for the mentally insane. So, instead, I mumbled, “First day of cardio rehab, you see.”

  “Oh, well, I’m sorry to hear you have heart issues, ma’am, and I wish you a speedy recovery,” he replied politely. It was nice to see young people today who respected their elders. Maybe when I got off this contraption, he’d help this old woman across the street to her car, so I could go home and let this body gradually get flabby and deteriorate like it was designed to do. I’d already been put through the wringer once, through no fault of my own, so it hardly made sense to willingly do it again.

  I held my hand over my heart as I thanked him, wanting to look like I was experiencing a little fibrillation or pressure as I slowly pedaled. Once again I felt like Pinocchio. If I weren’t careful, I’d be banging my protracting nose on the handlebars.

  When my legs began to feel like they might fall off, I switched to the weight-lifting machine. Before long Mr. Olympus came over to inform me that pumping iron was probably not the best type of exercise for a cardio rehab patient. By the look on his face, he was expecting the unexposed long scar down my chest, where’d my ribs had been pried apart for a bypass operation, to spring open and spurt blood at any second. The muscular young man pointed to his left, and said, “That’s probably the recommended piece of apparatus for cardio rehab.”