Dial Marr for Murder

by Karen Cantwell

“Government cover-ups.”

  That was all Guy needed to hear. He bellowed at the camera operator. “Get that thing rolling now or you’re fired!”

  My skin tingled. This was real life conspiracy stuff going down right before our eyes.

  “Just to be clear,” Guy said, “the pressure cooker is not going to explode?”

  Bernie shook her head. “The proof is inside.”

  I looked at Eric whose hand remained fixed on his gun. I guess he didn’t believe her.

  “Proof,” Guy parroted. “I like proof.” He wagged a finger at the frazzled cameraman. “Are we ready?”

  The man hefted the equipment onto his shoulder. “Good to go, Boss.”

  “Ma’am,” Guy began, “for the record, can you tell me your full name?”

  Shifting from one foot to the other, Bernie looked at Guy and then at the cooker. I could tell she was growing more and more nervous. Whatever “proof” she’d come to reveal, she seemed to be second-guessing herself now. She cleared her throat. “Do I have to give my real name?”

  Guy began to answer, but became distracted by the sound of gravel crunching from the north side of the Nature Center building behind us. Someone was approaching. From Bernie’s surprised reaction, I assumed she knew the person. Howard, Colt, Vikki, and I all turned our heads at the same time. Ed Sigmund had arrived on the scene, a gun in one hand hanging loosely at his side. I searched for an orange tip on the barrel, hoping he had come with another air pistol, only there wasn’t one. This time, the gun was real. He hesitated briefly on the gravel path before continuing his advance. His eyes locked on Bernie’s.

  Bernie, her voice shaky and weak, started talking. “My name is Bernadette Ford. We know we’re being watched.”

  “Bernadette, don’t do this,” Ed said.

  “Stay away, Ed!” she shouted. “I am going to do this. We should’ve done it a long time ago, just like Pickle wanted.”

  When the camera operator panned from Bernie to Ed, he balked at the sight of the gun.

  Guy reassured him. “I’ll make sure you get hazard pay. Just keep that thing rolling!”

  Eric stepped forward, training his own firearm on Ed. “Sir, I’m a police detective. Lay your weapon on the ground, slowly, and put your hands behind your head.”

  Howard dialed 911 on his cell phone.

  Without acknowledging Eric’s order, Ed raised the gun to his temple instead. “Please. Bernadette,” Ed implored the petite woman, his eyes full of anguish. “I’m begging you.”

  Guy’s eyes widened. “Hold your confession just a second, Bernadette.” He turned to his cameraman and pointed. “Make sure all three of us are in the shot.” With lightning speed, Guy positioned himself facing the camera with Bernie on one side and Ed on the other. Microphone poised, he dove into reporter mode. “We are at the Nature Center in Rustic Woods where just last week, one day before Halloween, resident and volunteer, Richard Pickleseimer was found murdered. While making my own investigation, this woman approached me and asked to tell her story to the world. She has identified herself as one Bernadette Ford. She is serious about her need to, as she says, ‘Tell the truth.’

  “I am serious,” said Bernie.

  Guy pressed on. “And as you can see, we have been joined by an armed man she calls Ed. It appears he plans to kill himself if Bernadette talks. The burning question: is this truth Bernadette wishes to reveal related to the murder of Richard Pickleseimer?”

  “You have to know that we’re all good people,” Bernadette said. “Good people.”

  “Please, Bernadette!” The gun still aimed at his own head, Ed raised his voice for the first time since Guy started filming. “Think about what you’re doing!”

  The sound of sirens shrilled in the distance.

  A speeding car screeched into the parking lot, stirring up dust and stopping hard. I knew that car—it was Sharon Forrest. She threw the door open. “I didn’t believe you’d do it, Bernie!” she shouted.

  At that moment, Ed’s shoulders slumped, his head dropped. He looked like a man defeated. Slowly, Ed laid his gun on the ground and moved toward the camera. He raised his hands in the air. “I did it. I killed Richard Pickleseimer.”

  Guy motioned the cameraman to turn the camera on Ed. “Do you want to make a confession on air, sir?”

  “Yes. My name is Edward Sigmund. When I learned Richard Pickleseimer was having an affair with the woman I loved, I snapped. I stabbed him on the morning of October thirtieth and dragged his body to the Nature Center Pond. I’m prepared to pay the consequences of my actions. Bernadette, I love you. Forgive me.”

  With the sirens just seconds away, Eric took police action, forcing Ed to his knees with his hands behind his head.

  Bernie’s eyes shone black with terror and confusion. Her knuckles were white from gripping the cooker so tightly. “No!” she screamed.

  Pandemonium erupted when the police cars arrived. The cacophony of sirens and police barking orders interfered with the broadcast, but Guy persevered. “There we have it, viewers. Edward Sigmund has just confessed to the murder of Rustic Woods resident, Richard Pickleseimer. A sad case, an age-old tale of passion and betrayal. As you can see now, a Fairfax County homicide detective is taking the alleged suspect into custody. Do you have anything you would like to tell us, Detective LaMon?”

  Eric handcuffed Ed and guided him from the scene. “Get out of my face, Mertz.”

  Unfazed by the brush-off, Guy scanned the area in search of someone else to interview. His face went blank and he turned to me. “Where is Bernadette?”

  Bernie had disappeared, yet again. So had Sharon Forrest. I was growing weary of these constantly vanishing volunteers.

  More than an hour had passed since Eric had left with Ed Sigmund handcuffed in the back of his unmarked car. When the last police vehicle pulled away, Howard, Colt, Vikki, and I were left standing in the middle of the Nature Center parking lot.

  “Wow,” I said.

  “Double wow,” said Vikki.

  “Whataya think?” asked Colt.

  “Murder solved,” said Howard.

  “But do we believe his motivation?” I asked.

  Howard shrugged. “Eric will figure it out.”

  Vikki took Colt’s hand. “I sure would like to know what was in Bernie’s pressure cooker.”

  We all fell silent. I wondered the same thing.

  “I have to say,” I added. “Things ended safely for me this time.”

  “You’re right,” said Colt. “No kidnapping.”

  “No explosions,” Howard said putting his arm around my shoulder.

  “No strangulation,” Vikki added.

  “Feels too easy,” I said, oddly discontent with the outcome. “Way too easy.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  On the drive home, I sensed a change in Howard. I slid a glance his way where he sat in the passenger seat, a thin smile of contentment on his face.

  “What’s up, doc?” I asked him, turning onto Rustic Woods Parkway.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re sitting over there looking almost happy. What’s going on?”

  He stared at me for a moment. “Truth?”

  “It always helps. Except when I ask you if I look fat. That’s when you lie.” I smiled like the Cheshire cat. “Otherwise, be honest.”

  He took in a deep breath. “I hate to say it, but what just happened back there—that was fun.”

  “You and I have different definitions of fun, mister.”

  “Okay, not fun. Wrong word.” Howard glanced up at the van’s roof. “Exhilarating. Challenging. It’s not that I don’t enjoy working with Colt, but I’m not sure I’m cut out for the slower world of private investigation. It’s not meaty.” Howard made a fist.

  “It’s not dangerous,” I countered, concerned about where this conversation was going. “That’s why you left the FBI—remember when you almost got killed? Oh my God, you miss the FBI.” I swerved a little on the road
in my panic. “Please, please tell me you don’t want to go back to the bureau.”

  Howard squinted at me. “Are you crazy? I don’t want to go back to the FBI.”

  Amber had been right on the money. Howard wasn’t happy. And even though he just denied any interest in returning to federal agent-hood, I knew he was about to drop some sort of bomb. “What do you want then?”

  “Promise you won’t yell.” Howard turned his attention toward the passenger window.

  Gripping the steering wheel, I replied calmly, “I never yell.”

  Swiveling his gaze back, he locked serious eyes on me. “Then it won’t be a hard promise to keep.”

  “I promise,” I said sincerely.

  “I want to join the police force.”

  The promise was way harder to keep than I thought it would be. “Because that’s less dangerous?”

  “You’re not happy.”

  “I’m not yelling.” I stopped at a red light, and we were silent for a few moments. “How long have you been thinking about this?”

  “A couple of days now.”

  “That’s why you dropped everything to go looking for Ed Sigmund. You like the thrill.” The light changed, and I turned.

  “I like doing something that makes a difference in the world.” Howard’s chest puffed out.

  “And the thrill.”

  His eyes sparked as he grinned. “And maybe the thrill. A little bit.”

  We pulled into our driveway, and I killed the engine. “Can you give me time to digest this?”

  “Sure.”

  “And when we get in the house, can you order a pizza? I need to digest a pizza too. Super large. Pepperoni and mushrooms. And one of those pizza cookies too. To heck with healthy.”

  “I actually had something more fun in mind.”

  “We can’t right now.” I gave him a knowing look. “It’s the middle of the day and the girls are home.”

  He laughed. “Not that. I thought we could drive down to visit Callie. Take her out to dinner.”

  I leaned over and kissed him. “You’re trying to butter me up, you butter-upperer you.”

  “I’ll pack snacks for the drive down.” Howard reached for the door handle. “You text Callie.”

  When I got inside I gave Olga quick call.

  “Has Moyle come back yet?” I asked her.

  “I am sad to say he has not.”

  “Have you had the television on today?”

  “On a Saturday? No. I have much housework to do.”

  “We had a bit of excitement at the Nature Center today. It will be on the news. Ed Sigmund confessed to murdering Pickle on camera. Says he found out Bernie and Pickle were having an affair. Claims he stabbed Pickle out of rage.”

  “No!” Olga squealed. “You are telling the truth?”

  “Not lying. It’s an even longer story than that, but I haven’t seen my girls in a couple of days. Need to spend time with them. Can I come by tomorrow?”

  “Sure. I fix you stroganoff. You will like.”

  “Still, text or call if Moyle shows up, okay?”

  “Okie dokie.”

  As I disconnected, a text came in from Peggy.

  Don’t forget lunch with the Queen tomorrow. I’ll pick you up. Ciao!

  Yikes. I was glad she texted. I had forgotten about that silly lunch. I really didn’t want to go. Sitting in front of the TV with my family on a Sunday was a more enticing idea. But this lunch was important to Peggy and I had committed. I texted back.

  See you then! Can’t wait.

  Our family visit with Callie turned out to be just what the doctor ordered. We had fun. We laughed. We ate. Callie was full of tales about her crazy roommate. We didn’t want to leave, but alas, Rustic Woods needed us back, and Callie needed to read some pages before bed.

  The following morning, Eric called to fill us in on Ed Sigmund’s confession. Yes, all of the volunteers had met at the story time circle. He explained that he pretended to be dead for a month because he had been torn up over learning of the affair between Pickle and Bernie. He had wanted them both to suffer, thinking he was dead, and it was easy to find someone online willing to call the Nature Center from a Seattle area code, claim to be his daughter, and give the terrible news of his demise. He had put his house on the market, intending to relocate to Washington near his real daughter once it sold. He had never planned to kill Pickle, but in a moment of passion that blinded his sensibilities he showed up at the story time circle and confronted both of them.

  The other volunteers, including Bernadette, left when things got uncomfortable. After intense arguing, Pickle tried to leave as well. Unable to control his anger any longer, Ed jumped Pickle, and they wrestled until Pickle managed to pull a knife from his calf holster. Ed wrangled control of the knife, stabbing his once-friend in the chest. Then he dragged the body to the Nature Center Pond.

  Eric agreed that the unanswered questions were many. If the other volunteers didn’t know about the murder, why didn’t they show up for the Halloween Walk set-up after they left the story time circle? Why was Helen Moyer seen leaving the pond when Barb arrived? How much did Bernie Ford know?

  “The fact is,” Eric said, “his DNA and footprints match those at the scene of the crime. We have no reason to suspect the others were involved. He denies that any of them helped.”

  “Will you question them anyway?”

  “Definitely, but I don’t expect a different outcome.”

  “You’ll keep us in the loop?”

  “Roger that.”

  We hung up. The case gnawed and gnawed at me. Something didn’t feel right about Ed’s story. I was on my way upstairs to see if the girls were up when the doorbell rang. I answered, to find Sharon Forrest standing on my stoop. I narrowed my eyes at her. “If it isn’t the mysterious disappearing lady. You’re a sneaky one, Sharon Forrest.”

  She ignored my remark. “Your duck is back.”

  I sighed. “Of course, he is. Let me get the carrier. I’ll be over in a couple of minutes.”

  “I’ll walk over with you. I can wait.”

  I pulled the carrier out of the coat closet. “Boy, you really don’t trust me at all, do you?”

  “It’s not that.” Sharon held out her hand. “Truce. Let’s be friends. Or at least civil acquaintances.”

  Sharon Forrest’s usual testy tone had turned almost pleasant. I grew suspicious, but shook her hand anyway. “Okay, I guess. Truce accepted.” I grabbed the carrier by the handle and slipped into a pair of shoes. We chatted about the unusually warm November weather on the short jaunt across my yard. Inside House of Many Bones, I called out for Vito while noting how far along the remodel had come. The place had walls again. Since it was Sunday, no workers were around. Vito didn’t answer me. “Vito!” I tried again.

  “I lied,” Sharon said. “Vito isn’t here. Follow me. We have something we want to tell you.”

  We? Aha. I had good reason to be suspicious. She had baited me in a trap.

  I followed her around the staircase to the kitchen at the back of the house where Helen Moyer, Del Rowenhorst, and Bernie Ford sat at a shiny new granite-topped island. The three of them looked tired and bedraggled. Moyle stood behind them, beaming.

  Moyle waved. “Hi ya, Barb!”

  I waved back, but let’s face it, I was confused. “What the heck?”

  Sharon slid a piece of paper across the counter top. “Read this for starters.”

  The paper was a New York State birth certificate. “Lyle Moyer. Male. Mother, Helen Moyer.” I looked up at Helen with raised brows.

  Helen’s eyes softened. “Lyle is my son. I was an unwed mother.”

  “Lyle Moyer,” I said aloud again. “Lyle Moyer.” I looked at my time traveling friend. “Moyle?”

  Moyle grinned. “So they tell me.” He squeezed Helen into his side with one arm. “This is my mom. Mom, meet Barb. Barb, meet my mom.”

  “We’ve met,” I said, planting my hands on my hips and staring He
len down with a frown. “Nice performance, by the way. Why all the lies and pretense with your memory and seeing ghosts?”

  “Don’t blame her,” Del said. “It was my idea.”

  “Strange idea,” I said.

  Del gave me a small smile. “We didn’t think you were ready for the truth.”

  “Good point. And I’m not sure I’m ready for it now. If you’re going to divulge secrets about secret time travel programs and proof that aliens abducted Elvis because they wanted better music on their planet, then maybe you should just stop right now.”

  “That’s not why they abducted Elvis,” Moyle said.

  “Lyle!” Helen chastised.

  “Sorry, Mom.” Moyle hugged Helen again. “I just love saying that. Mom. Hi, Mom. How’s it goin’, Mom?” He laid his cheek on top of her head. “I love you, Mom.”

  Sharon leaned against the counter top. “Lyle has developed a bond with you and insisted you know everything before they leave.”

  Moyle raised his hand. “Just one request. Please call me Moyle.” He divided his gaze between Helen, Sharon and Del. “I’ve just kinda, you know, come to like that name. If you don’t mind.”

  “Leave for where?” I asked.

  “Barb, this is what I do as part of my humanitarian mission,” Sharon said. “Locating victims of experimentation, reuniting them with family if I can, and moving them to safe locations where they can try to live more normal lives. In this case, given the circumstances, they’ve all decided to relocate.”

  Interesting. “So, these ‘circumstances’ you mention,” I air-quoted the absurd word Sharon had used to describe someone losing their life. “Would that be Pickle’s murder? Did Ed really kill Pickle?”

  Bernie was about to speak up, but Moyle jumped in ahead of her. “Boy, did he. It was very scary.” He moved into the middle of the kitchen and drew a pretend circle. “We were sitting around the story time circle. Sharon had just told me that Helen was my mother and my name was really Lyle Moyer and I, uh, kind of remembered that name, you know. And I kind of remember my mom, but not really, and I’m freaking out and there’s Bernie over there crying, and Del is shaking her head like she can’t believe this, and Pickle is sitting next to Bernie not looking very happy.”