by Sandra Balzo
He gave me a dirty look. “But—”
Sarah jumped up. “You think that David did it!”
Pavlik held up his hands, trying to calm Sarah. “Yes, but—”
“You think he killed her for money? For her part of Uncommon Grounds? That was half his anyway!”
But Pavlik was shaking his head. “I think he killed her because she was planning to divorce him.”
Now I stood up. “That’s pretty flimsy isn’t it? Lots of people file for divorce and their spouses don’t kill them.” They just wanted to kill them.
Pavlik’s face hardened. “About as flimsy as two sugar wrappers, I suppose. But put it together with other things...”
“Like what?” I demanded.
He stuck his face within inches of mine. “Like David Harper. He wasn’t paying income taxes and he wasn’t paying property taxes. And his wife was getting ready to turn him in.” I could feel the damp heat coming off him.
“How do you know that?”
“Your friend Donovan,” he snarled.
“What?” I whispered.
He pulled a sheath of folded papers out of his breast pocket. “Donovan. He finally did something right. He found these in Mrs. Harper’s bedroom this morning. They’re copies of the checks Harper received for his consulting work. There are also records of cash received. All income that Harper didn’t declare. We think that’s why Mrs. Harper was going to Diaz. She was preparing to turn him in.”
He stuck the papers he’d been waving back in his pocket. “Or, she was just threatening to do it, so he wouldn’t contest the divorce.”
“So he killed her.” We both swung around to look at Sarah, who had just spoken. She looked stunned.
“And what about David?” I asked after a moment.
Pavlik answered, speaking to Sarah. “I know you don’t want to believe it, but he committed suicide. There’s no evidence to support anything else.”
Sarah was shaking her head.
I was still thinking about Patricia’s murder. “But if he wanted to kill her, why the espresso machine? You said yourself, that it was just dumb luck on the killer’s part that Patricia was killed instead of hurt.”
“Even if it didn’t kill her, it would have scared the hell out of her. Maybe that’s all he wanted. To make her back down.”
“No.” It was Sarah again.
Pavlik started to answer, but Sarah went on, oblivious to what we had been talking about. “David did not commit suicide. Maybe he committed murder, justified it in some way in his mind, but he would not have killed himself.”
Her thinking was a little convoluted even for me at this point. Pavlik’s scenario seemed logical, and if even Gary bought it...“But, Sarah, if he could murder his own wife, especially in that way, why couldn’t he—”
“Because he just wouldn’t!”
Pavlik took Sarah’s hands. “I know what you believe. And what he believed. But maybe he just snapped. We’ll never really know.”
“I know.” She pulled her hands away and turned to leave the room. We heard her climbing the stairs.
“There’s something else.” Pavlik’s voice stopped Sarah halfway up. She didn’t turn.
The sheriff waved one of the sheets of paper at her back. “In addition to the papers Mrs. Harper copied, there was a legal document that she probably pulled off the Internet and filled out.”
Sarah swiveled her head.
“It names you the guardian of her minor children in the event of her death.”
Sarah continued up the steps.
I don’t know where Pavlik went, but I went home. I’d had enough for the day, for the year, for a lifetime.
I buried my head under the pillow and tried to sleep. My feet wouldn’t cooperate, they kept moving. So did my brain. But neither got me very far. I finally sat up and threw my pillow across the room. Frank staggered over to the pillow on the floor, collapsed on it and went back to sleep. I stayed awake, mulling over what Pavlik had told us:
1.) David had killed Patricia.
It seemed to me that while David had a motive, the sheriff really had no evidence that David was there that morning except for the sugar packets, which might have another explanation. But if the killer wasn’t there, how could he be sure Patricia used the machine first?
2.) David felt remorseful and killed himself.
“No!” Sarah shouted in my head.
“No!” agreed Langdon, although, of course, Langdon would never shout.
But why could they believe that David would kill Patricia, but not that he would kill himself?
“His faith, his faith, his faith...”The words echoed in my sleep-deprived brain.
The phone rang.
I awoke startled, feeling like I’d only fallen asleep minutes earlier. I probably had. It was 5:00 a.m. I rolled over and
grabbed the phone as it started to ring a second time.
“Hello.”
“Hell, how long does it take you to answer a phone?” It was Sarah. Big surprise.
“I got it on the second ring.” I yawned.
“Only because you slept through the first three. I thought your machine was going to pick up.”
“Five rings, it picks up after five rings. I take it you had trouble sleeping, too.”
I could hear Sarah suck in some nicotine. Geez, how could anybody smoke this early? I’d smoked for a few years, but even then the first cigarette had always made me nauseated. Didn’t stop me though, because I was cool. Yes, I was.
She exhaled. “I figured you would be up early. I wanted to catch you before you went in.”
Went in. I checked the clock again: 5:05. Caron was opening, so I didn’t need to be at the store for over an hour. I tried to settle back into the pillow, but it wasn’t there. “What did you tell the kids?”
“Nothing. I told them nothing.”
I sat up and crossed my legs Indian style, trying to phrase this right. “But Sarah, people will be talking. Pavlik’s not going to keep this quiet. He thinks he solved the case, or both cases.”
“He hasn’t,” she said quietly.
“What about the custody papers?” I asked. “Patricia obviously was afraid something was going to happen to her and wanted to make sure the kids were taken care of. And not by David. How do you explain that?”
“I can’t,” she said. “Not yet.”
She was quiet.
That morning somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, I’d realized I still wasn’t satisfied either. I just couldn’t explain why. I didn’t have the conviction of faith that Sarah did, but I didn’t think David had killed himself, and I also had my questions about Patricia’s murder.
“Okay, but how do we prove it?”
Sarah let out her breath in a sigh of relief. “Thank God. I was afraid you believed that goddamn sheriff.”
Not for the first time, I wondered how Sarah reconciled her strong faith in God with her love of taking his name in vain. “I think this is a nice, tidy resolution for two very messy cases for Pavlik, and let’s face it, Sarah. With the will and the papers she copied, it is the most logical explanation. Gary obviously believes it, he found the copies in Patricia’s room. I thought you said he came to see the kids. Did he search the house while he was there?”
I had to wait for an answer while Sarah lighted another cigarette. “Where are you?” I asked. “I thought you don’t smoke in the house.”
“I’m in the screen porch.”
I pictured Sarah huddled under a blanket in the chill air, trying to light the cigarette without setting herself on fire.
She finally got it and exhaled. “Gary did come to see the kids. Actually, he brought doughnuts. But he was honest— said he needed to take one last look around Patricia’s room.”
“Did he tell you anything when he left?”
“Nope. Just that he had to run.” Another puff. “That’s your first stop, Maggy. Talk to Gary. See what he actually found.”
“And then?” I wa
s already out of bed, pulling up the covers. I didn’t make the bed every day. It seemed like a silly waste of time, considering no one ever saw it. More’s the pity.
“Then we’ll talk. Now I have to go.” Sarah hung up.
I looked at the phone. Why did she keep doing that to me?
And what could Sarah possibly have to do at 5:00 in the morning? I’d wanted to ask her how she felt about being named Sam and Courtney’s guardian.
Well, that would have to wait. I hung up the phone and dragged myself off to the bathroom. Might as well take a shower and go help Caron open.
Chapter Eighteen
I put aside Sarah’s demand that I talk to Gary immediately; I had a business to run.
At least for now. The morning was disturbingly slower than yesterday. Either Goddard’s coffee urn was repaired or the seniors had been converted to the Golden Arches on the highway.
During our noon lull—which was pretty much a continuation of the morning lull and a prelude to the afternoon lull— Kate McNamara came in. She surprised me by ordering a tall Monkey Mocha, the coffee of the day, premium chocolate and a touch of banana syrup, topped with whipped cream and cocoa dust. It resembles coffee about as much as a Cosmopolitan resembles a martini. Kate carried her drink over to the counter by the window, pulled out her laptop computer and started typing away.
After about five minutes, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I walked over ostensibly to wipe off the condiment cart and tried to read over her left shoulder.
“Don’t tell me I could be writing anything you don’t already know, Maggy.” She swung around and her green eyes glittered. “You’re the one with all the information. I’m sure you already know the case is essentially closed. Patricia Harper was killed by person or persons unknown, officially. But we all know who the police think that person was. And David Harper’s death is a suicide.”
“I don’t think—” I blurted.
Kate closed out her document and snapped down the lid of her laptop. “Save it, Maggy. A truck driver saw a man matching David’s description walking along Ridge Road toward Poplar Bridge last night. That was just before eleven.”
She stood up. “I don’t know what your issues are, but I’m reporting what the police have told me.” She looked me up and down. “You should be happy. This gets your friend Caron off the hook. And now this place is only split two ways.”
“Patricia’s interest will go to the kids, unless we buy them out,” I said automatically.
Kate zipped her computer into its case. “Good. Then maybe those kids will have something.” She tucked her notes into the outside pocket and was gone.
“Why did she come in at all?” Caron asked, moving over to bus the spot where Kate had been sitting. “Just to be unpleasant?”
“Sounds like Kate,” I said, taking the dirty mug from her and putting it into the dishwasher.
“At least they’re not coming right out and saying David killed Patricia.”
I’d given Caron the bare bones of what Pavlik had told us and Sarah’s reaction to it. “Yeah, but they can make their suppositions pretty clear,” I muttered.
“So is Patricia’s murder investigation closed?” she asked, hopefully.
I shrugged. “For all practical purposes. I mean, if no one is investigating it, how can it be solved?” I closed the front of the dishwasher. “Hey, I’d really like to go see Gary. Do you think you can hold down the fort alone?”
She surveyed the empty store. “I think I can handle it,” she said dryly.
I pulled off my apron and threw it on the desk in the office.
“Great. I should be back in half an hour.” I started out the door.
“Maggy?” Caron’s voice stopped me. “Maybe we should buy out Patricia’s share. It would at least give the kids something.”
It was probably a good idea, assuming I could come up with the money. I just wondered who we would buy it from. Did Patricia’s share go to David—and then on to his family— or to Sam and Courtney?
Thinking about it made my head hurt.
Gary was in his office when I got there, double-and triple-clicking the mouse on his computer.
“Can I interrupt?”
He wheeled around and sighed. “Might as well. I’m not getting anywhere fast. Modem problems. I’m going to have to take this home anyway.”
Gary had a computer system identical to mine at his house. The difference was he—like Sarah—knew how to use his.
“Well, at least the Harper case is solved,” I offered. It was the verbal equivalent of sticking my toe in to test the water.
Gary shrugged. “The photocopies pretty well sewed things up. I’m sorry Maggy. I know it’s not what you or Sarah wanted to hear.”
“What exactly did you find?”
“Folded photocopies stuck in a library book. That’s how we missed them the first time through.”
“Those must have been the copies she made at the library on Saturday.” I said, thoughtfully. “Pavlik said they were copies of checks or—”
“Some checks, but also David’s personal records of cash paid for services rendered.”
“Income he didn’t report?” I asked.
Gary nodded. “According to the IRS, he hadn’t filed taxes for years.”
And I’d felt guilty when I forgot to report eight dollars and twenty-five cents in interest on one of the savings accounts I’d set up when Eric was born. “How could he get away with that?”
“It’s a big country, Maggy. Lots of taxpayers. But if the wheels of the IRS turn slowly, they turn surely. They would have gotten to him eventually.”
“But don’t companies have to file forms when they pay a consultant?” I remembered very clearly getting into trouble with our Vouchers Payable department at First National when I didn’t get a Social Security number from a freelancer I had hired.
“People don’t like to pay taxes. If they can get away with it, they don’t. And these apparently were very small companies. Either that or David used bogus names when he listed them. I doubt we’ll ever find most of them.”
“So David wasn’t declaring his income.” I remembered Mary telling me that David prepared his own tax returns. Or not. “But why would Patricia turn him in? After all, she had to have known about it.”
Gary shrugged. “Maybe. Even probably. But now she wanted a divorce. Those copies gave her leverage over David.”
“Do you know for a fact that Patricia wanted a divorce? I thought Diaz didn’t know what she wanted when she set up the appointment.”
“We finally tracked down her mother in Florida, living there with her fourth husband.” Gary’s expression told me how he felt about a woman having four—count ’em, four— husbands. I knew Gary’s wife had died young and he had never remarried.
“Patricia called her out of the blue,” he continued. “Told her she was filing for divorce and asked if she and the kids could come stay with them in Florida if necessary.”
“What did her mother say?”
Gary picked up a pencil from his desk. “Her mother said that would be an awful inconvenience and Patricia should solve her own problems.”
“Nice woman. No wonder Patricia gave Sarah custody.”
“Sam and Courtney are good kids. They deserve to be with someone who will love them like Sarah.” Gary stood up. “I have a meeting at Town Hall.”
He escorted me to the door, then waved goodbye and headed across the parking lot.
Hmm. Did I detect a warm spot for Sarah? From Gary? Sarah and Gary, together? I tried to picture offspring combining Sarah’s unusually long face with Gary’s uncommonly wide jaw. Came out looking a lot like Mr. Potato Head.
I walked back to Uncommon Grounds, stopping at the traffic signal on Civic. I had my finger on the button you push in order to get a walk sign to cross Civic, when I remembered Pete, my moving man.
He’d told me he had been stopped at the signal on Civic at about 5:15 last Monday morning, the day Patricia was ki
lled. That he had been able to see into the store because the backlights were on.
I looked across the street towards Uncommon Grounds. Sure enough, I could see the side window of the store. Although the reflection off the glass made it difficult to see in at this time of day, in the dark it would have been no problem. That wasn’t what was bothering me.
I started across the street. Pete said he’d been stopped on Civic at the light. That light didn’t change—and traffic on Civic didn’t stop—unless a car was coming out of the parking lot and tripped the sensor. That meant, unless I had misunderstood Pete, that a car had been leaving our parking lot at
5:15 that morning. Knowing who was driving that car seemed very important suddenly.
Trapped in the store for the rest of the day, I kept watch for Pete’s moving van, knowing full well he could be anywhere. I even tried calling the company, Move It!, but only got a recording for my efforts. Maybe I could catch him if I went in early tomorrow morning and turned on the lights. I’d bait him with coffee.
I called Sarah when I got home that night and filled her in on my conversation with Gary. I didn’t mention Pete. I wanted to see what he had to say before I raised her hopes.
“So Patricia’s mother wants nothing to do with the kids,” she said, when I was done. “Doesn’t surprise me. Patricia never even talked about her.”
“So why do you think she called her now?”
I could feel Sarah shrug. “Maybe she was desperate. Maybe she figured no one could find her there. Especially David, if the shit hit the fan.”
Which it had.
“And the old witch said no,” Sarah continued.
“Maybe she had a reason.” And here comes the other side of the story. I couldn’t help myself. “Patricia certainly hadn’t stayed in contact with her. Maybe—”
“Oh, cut the crap, Maggy. You don’t even know the woman, why are you defending her? She’s on her fourth husband and she doesn’t give a damn about her grandchildren, or at least these grandchildren. God knows how many of them she has out there.”
Sarah had a point. “I’ll give you the woman’s a bitch, okay? So what are you going to do?” “What do you mean, what am I going to do?”
