by Susan Slater
Rounding the first turn, Julie could see the Range Rover at the end of the drive and Connie standing beside it, waving frantically. Julie pulled up and braked.
“Let’s take the Rover—you drive.” Connie got into the passenger side of the Rover. Julie pulled the BMW into the drive, parked, and ran back.
“What’s going on?” She backed onto the county road and accelerated.
“Just follow the cops. Some hikers up by the lodge came down to the house to call it in. There’s been a terrible accident.”
Julie deftly nudged the Rover up to sixty.
“Did someone go off the road?” Julie was trying to remember the terrain. There were a couple tight turns with steep embankments but the graveled road couldn’t really be considered dangerous. Of course, speed, drinking—even though it was barely three o’clock—could kill. Maybe kids. If she believed the newspapers, they could roll anything, even a box without wheels.
“I don’t think it was a car accident.”
Julie looked sideways at Connie. She was absolutely white—blanched of all color.
“Do you feel all right?”
“I’ll be fine. This is just a shock.” Connie attempted a smile.
Connie obviously knew more than she was saying. But why be secretive? Julie decided not to pry. She’d know soon enough.
Turning the last corner, Julie slammed on the brakes in front of a police barricade.
“This road is closed. I have to ask you to turn around.” The policeman who approached the Rover was curt.
Ignoring him, Connie slipped out of the car. “I’m Connie CdeBaca. I own this property. I need to know what’s happened.”
“Do you have family, Ms. CdeBaca? Someone you’re expecting at home now?”
“No, why?”
“Ma’am, with all due respect there’s been a loss of life here. We will have the area sealed for the rest of the day. Are there any other houses off this road? Others who might be using the road?”
“No. There’s a lodge and a gamekeeper who has been staying there. Hikers called in the accident from my home. There could conceivably be others hiking in the area.”
“I see. If you’ll excuse me for just a minute.” He turned and walked to a group of uniformed officers and one man in jeans and sweatshirt. The cop seemed to be explaining who they were with nods in their direction.
Julie slipped the Rover into park and got out to join Connie. Whatever seemed to be the problem wasn’t too far from the road. But loss of life? How did it happen? There wasn’t another car in sight. And this wasn’t a place to go off the road for any reason; the road widened and curved at this point to accommodate delivery to the mailbox she’d seen last week. This was the exact point where she’d dropped Connie off to go check the propane tank. Only today there wasn’t any mailbox. Julie was about to comment when the man in sweatshirt and jeans broke away from the group and walked toward them.
“Ms. CdeBaca? I’m Mark Samuels, Lieutenant Samuels, APD. Let me tell you what I know and then I’d like to ask you some questions.” He smiled. The man was good, Julie thought, good at his job and putting people at ease. “Let’s step over here.” He ushered them toward the nearest cruiser—its lights still flashing. “We might be more comfortable inside.” He opened the back car door and turned to Julie, “I don’t think I caught your name?”
“Julie Conlin. I’m an administrative assistant to Ms. CdeBaca and longtime family friend.”
“I see.” He gave Julie a long look and closed the car’s door after she’d slid in beside Connie.
“Well, this is much more cozy.” He turned to look at them from the front seat, a clipboard in his hand. “Was there anyone living at the lodge? Anyone who used this mailbox?”
“I believe the caretaker had returned.”
“But you don’t really know?”
“Um, he was living here. He had been gone for a number of years and I believe just returned recently. I saw him when I was up here last week to check the propane tank.”
“What is this man’s name?”
“Excuse me, but shouldn’t we know what this is all about?” Julie was finding it difficult to sit through a game of twenty questions. What had happened? And what did it have to do with Connie?
Samuels looked at Julie again with that overly long stare. “You seem in a hurry, Miss—”
“Conlin.”
“Conlin, of course. Do you have another appointment?”
“No. Nothing pressing.” And now she was really curious. Just what had happened?
“Have the two of you been together all morning?”
This time Connie took offense. “What are we supposed to surmise by that question? Is this an interrogation? Are we being detained?”
“No, no, nothing like that. But I do need the name of the groundskeeper.”
“Art McNamara—Mac.”
“How long has he been in your service?”
“He was never in my service. He was my husband’s driver, bodyguard, gofer—and he was allowed to live here at the lodge as part of his salary. He left many years ago. I was frankly surprised to see him back.”
“How many years ago did he leave?”
“Probably twenty.”
“That’s a long time.” The man said it more to himself than as a statement meant for them to comment on. “Why do you think he came back?”
“I have no idea.” Said much too quickly. Julie knew in that instant that Connie did know. Hadn’t Julie seen a man vault over the porch railing when she turned down the lane to pick Connie up that day? Did Connie even check the propane tank? Or was it just some kind of ruse to meet with this man alone, yet have the protection of numbers?
“Was he allowed to stay here? I mean now.”
“It had been his home before. I need to raze this building but have left it alone over the years. Time was we would have retreats out here—seminars on team building, heightened consciousness, that sort of thing. We haven’t sponsored anything since my husband died.”
“So, it was okay that this Mr. McNamara,”—a quick check of the name on his pad,—“was living here?”
Tenacious, Julie thought. Wouldn’t work to try to verbally out maneuver him.
“I had not given my consent. I didn’t even know he was here until this week.”
“So the building has been empty the last two to three years?”
“Yes. Possibly vagrants or hikers for an overnight, but no permanent tenants.”
“Did you tell Mr. McNamara to leave?”
“What?”
“When you met with Mr. McNamara this week, did you tell him to leave?”
“No.”
“So, he had your approval to stay?”
“We didn’t talk about his staying or leaving. It was my impression, though, that his being here was very temporary, that he’d be moving soon.”
“But he didn’t say when?”
“No.”
“Were the two of you on good terms?”
“I knew him only as the hired help of my husband. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Do you know if he had any enemies?”
“I’ve told you. I hadn’t seen the man in twenty years.”
“Did he leave your service on good terms?”
“My husband’s service. And as far as I know, yes. I would have heard if there had been a problem.”
“Describe him to me.”
“Art?”
“Yes.”
Where was he going? Had this Art McNamara had an accident? It seemed to Julie that Connie didn’t really want to discuss her husband’s bodyguard, although she continued to answer the lieutenant’s questions.
“Well, last week it struck me that he’d been working out. He seemed well muscled as if he’d put in lots of hours in the gym. He’s tall and the muscle looked good on him. Made him look healthy, actually younger. He’s probably forty-five by now but you’d never know.”
“And you think he’d just live up he
re? The lodge, as you say, is in disrepair.”
“He’s an outdoors person—living in a place without amenities would not be a problem for him.”
“I see.” Lieutenant Samuels spent an elaborate amount of time finishing a block of notes before looking up. “Would you feel comfortable identifying the body?”
“Whose body?” The two women asked almost in unison.
“That’s for us to figure out, isn’t it?” That fleeting, rueful smile again. Probably qualified as a boyish grin some twenty years earlier, Julie thought. Now, it just made him appear insincere.
Lieutenant Samuels slipped out of the front seat and held the back car door open. “I want you to be as comfortable as possible with this. It would greatly help us if we had an ID.”
“What happened?” Julie figured they had a right to know.
“As near as we can figure—and we’ll know more when the explosives expert gets here—there was some kind of letter bomb.”
“Bomb? You can’t be serious.” Connie’s voice held a touch of exasperation. “This is private land. Who would come up here—”
“As I asked before, do you know if this man had enemies?”
“As I told you before, I haven’t seen Art McNamara in twenty years.”
“Until last week. I made a note of that.”
What was the man thinking? It was almost as if he was accusing Connie of something. But what? Julie had no clue.
“If you’re up to it, I’d like you to step over here. You too, Miss Conlin, if you’d like. I must warn you that this may be a little challenging. The guy didn’t have a chance. Our bet is he leaned down to open the mailbox and kaboom—he was outta here.” He lowered his voice. Was there a hint of concern? “You don’t have to do this if you’d rather wait in the car.”
Not on your life, Julie thought. I’m here, even if curiosity may kill me.
“I’m fine. Connie?”
“Yes, I’ll be all right. Let’s just get it over with.”
“Good, then follow me.” Lieutenant Samuels led the way between two other police cars. The area was marked off—about twenty-five square feet. In the center was a tarp-covered mound, presumably the body, Julie thought. The mailbox, one of those rural metal type with a pull-down door, securely anchored on top of a pyramid of cemented rock, was barely recognizable. It was completely mangled and looking as though it had been tossed aside. But the confetti was a puzzle. Bits of paper, newspaper from the look of it, were everywhere.
“What’s this?” Julie asked. She pointed at a handful of the stuff with the toe of her boot.
“Could have been the stuffing around the bomb. Could have been the contents of the package itself—meant to be read by the recipient. Or, if you’ll look over here—” He walked a few steps and leaned into the cordoned off area. “This looks like newspaper cut to a certain shape.”
“Money?” Julie offered.
“That’s my guess. Looks like our friend here was expecting a package and instead of holding what he assumed, it was filled with stacks of paper. See, there and there? Those appear to be remnants of real bills—a couple single one hundred dollar bills. Were they showing on top? Just a little bait for him to reach in and draw out the death weapon?”
“My God, this is—”
“Homicide.” The cop supplied the word Julie couldn’t quite bring herself to say.
Julie looked away and caught a glimpse of Connie. She was staring at the ground and looking as if she would faint.
“Do you need to sit down?” Julie hurried to her side.
“No. It’s just a shock. Someone I know. So close to my home.”
Connie’s hand was ice cold as she put it on Julie’s arm.
“Ladies, if you’ll follow me. Please do not disturb anything and stay on the plastic sheeting.”
A strip of plastic made a bright blue path to the covered mound inside the roped-off area. The lieutenant held down the police ribbon for them to step over.
“He took the brunt of the explosion straight on. Killed instantly is my guess. There’s not that much to see. Pretty much obliterated the poor guy. I would like you to look at this.”
“Please, could I change my mind? I’m just not feeling very well.” Connie now clung to Julie’s arm. She looked like she’d be sick any minute.
“No pressure. Not everyone can do this. We’ll try to find next-of-kin. Maybe you could take a look here though.” Leaning over he pulled a scrap of material from under an edge of the tarp. “Not much left but here’s a remnant of the shirt he was wearing.”
“Black Watch,” Connie offered.
“Pardon?”
“It’s a pattern—dark green, blue and black—represents clan membership. He was wearing the same shirt when we met last week.”
“And this. How about this? We took it off the victim’s ring finger.” He held out a plastic bag containing a man’s ring, heavy gold with an insignia, a date and what looked to be a deer with antlers on each side in bas relief.
“Yes. The ring is Art’s. My husband had them made one hunting season when a group came up to bow-hunt. Art took top honors.”
“Thank you, Ms. CdeBaca, we’ll take over from here and get Mr. McNamara to the Office of the Medical Investigator.”
Connie nodded then slumped against Julie, a hand covering her eyes. “Please drive me back to the house.” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“I’m assuming we’re free to go?” Julie asked.
“Yes. I know where to find you. By the way, did I ask if the two of you have been together all morning?”
“Yes, we have been.” Julie wasn’t going to tell him any differently.
+ + +
The ride to the house took place in almost total silence. Connie drove—she needed something to pull her back from the shock. She knew Julie was suspicious—thought she knew more than she had told the Lieutenant.
But what could she say to Julie? The package was supposed to hold fifty-thousand dollars, the first of three installments, and be delivered by a screw-job of a private eye who lied and couldn’t resist temptation. But wasn’t he bonded? That was a laugh. How could she report it? What would she say? It was a payoff to the man who knew what happened twenty years ago? Something so heinous it was worth one-hundred-fifty-thousand, even at this late date, to try and silence the observer? Well, officers, there was this murder. Maybe not an important murder, just the father of my unborn child. My lover, my soul. And the gun—of course, it wasn’t supposed to be loaded. Isn’t that what they all say?
No, Stan knew she wouldn’t come forward. She’d lie to cover up her part but never name him and certainly never divulge what the money was for. No, it was probably the safest fifty grand he’d ever pilfered. And wasn’t he counting on her death? What would anyone do to a dying woman?
But murder? Even Art McNamara somehow deserved better. More of a fighting chance. And she deserved better. Connie Bigrope CdeBaca didn’t throw away money and didn’t bankroll losers and murderers. Maybe if she talked to Stan Devon. Confronted him in broad daylight. It might only make her feel better, but she had to try. How dare he implicate her? How dare he steal from her! Kill on her own land—nearly at her back door.
Even so, a small part of her felt relieved. There was no one to threaten her now. Or threaten Robby. Perhaps, she should just be thankful and let it go. By the time they reached her driveway, she’d made up her mind.
“I need to run a couple errands. I’ll drop you here at your car and be back in an hour.”
“Are you sure you’re up to it? That was quite a shock. I’ll go with you if you’d like.”
“No, I’m sure. You need to get ready to see Ben. I’ll be fine.” Connie didn’t think Julie looked convinced, but she stopped the Rover next to the BMW.
“Seriously Connie, I’d really be glad to go with you.”
“Thanks, but this shouldn’t take long. I’m looking forward to seeing Ben tonight.”
Connie waved and watched Julie t
urn and get in her car. No one could be with her when she confronted Stan.
Traffic was heavy in the Valley even for a Saturday. She took Montaño across town, toward the river, turning left onto Fourth. The parking lot of the two-story building was empty other than four spaces underneath the second floor dance studio. She pulled the Rover in next to an SUV full of children in tutus and tights. Ballet lessons. A pang of regret that she had never been the one to chauffer a carload of children. And more than a stab of pain when she remembered the conversation earlier with Robby. How could she have been so wrong? How could she have assumed he would understand what she had been forced to do? He was young and male and coming to his heritage second hand.
Rounding the corner of the downstairs suite of offices, she stopped. All the blinds were pulled. Strange. He had kept office hours on weekends in the past. She tried the door and was surprised when it swung open—but not for long.
The room had been stripped. The desk was pushed against the wall. File cabinets, shelving, computer, fax machine, phones—all gone. She’d given him three days to plan this. But the moment he realized the package held fifty thousand dollars, his decision was made. Nice tidy sum for little or no work. Must have waited a lifetime for this kind of one-job payoff. But did he have to kill Art McNamara? Maybe that was his gift to her. Not that she would miss Art. But still, taking a life. Life was all too precious.
A box of wastepaper sat in the middle of the floor. A wall safe was standing open. A quick look inside revealed it was just as empty as the room. Just to be sure she ran her hand around the inside and felt the recessed bottom. She pushed her hand shoulder-deep to the very back. And was rewarded.
A small black book had been overlooked. She quickly placed it in her pocket and, just to be sure, did another once-over of the safe.
“Mind telling me what’s going on here?”
Connie jumped and whirled around to confront a man who must surely be the janitor.
