by Ritter Ames
“We were here,” Sam said.
“Oh, yeah, that’s right. It got pretty crazy.”
“I need to measure something,” Beau said. “We’ll be in the back room.”
He headed that direction, not giving Alex a chance to protest, and Sam followed.
“Okay, what I’m trying to get into my head is whether it’s feasible Keith Trawl switched off the light and made it all the way to the stage and stabbed his wife in the short time while the lights were out.”
The stage itself had been dismantled and put away yesterday but the floor space sat empty and most of the folding chairs the audience used were sitting a little helter-skelter in the same area they’d been Saturday night. It still gave a fairly good idea of the layout.
They walked through to the back room and Beau headed for the light switch on the far wall. Mimicking the flipping of the switch, he strode quickly through the doorway and into the stage area.
“You’d better time me,” he said.
Sam kept track of her watch’s second hand as he repeated the moves, lingered ‘on stage’ for a few moments, then dashed back.
“Fifty-seven seconds,” she said.
“Most of the partygoers seem to be in agreement the lights were out for about a minute. That can seem like a long time when you’re sitting in the dark.”
“I’d say it’s about right,” Sam said. “It looks possible—for Keith to make it from the back door to the stage and back again—but the timing would have to be absolutely perfect. What if he had stumbled or tripped? What if Darlene had moved in the dark and he didn’t immediately get to her?”
“Yeah, it’s a problem. The audience chairs are actually a lot closer. Puts us back at square one. Anyone in the front row and most anyone else who was ready to move quickly could have gotten there sooner than Keith.”
“Maybe he was in cahoots with someone else? They had it planned where he would switch off the lights and the other person would dash up to the stage. There were some thumping sounds and a crash,” Sam said. “But it would take a lot of coordination between them.”
“Not to mention keeping the secret as each was interrogated separately. Most people can’t pull that off. One will cave. And we still have the problem of the killer’s clothing being covered in blood.” He eyed the distance again and did a couple more practice runs. “It’s not impossible. Be interesting to see the reaction when I talk to Mr. Trawl again, won’t it?”
THIRTEEN
SAM KISSED BEAU goodbye at his vehicle before she went back to work. Becky had made good progress with the sugar peonies, so Sam picked up a different order and started to work on a birthday cake for a woman whose hobby was quilting. The daughter had provided a photo of a complicated quilt design and wanted Sweet’s Sweets to duplicate it on a cake.
As Sam worked to cut bits of fondant into small squares and triangles for the quilt design she thought about the theory she and Beau just tested next door. Something about the scenario didn’t feel quite like the right answer.
Even though Keith Trawl could have managed to switch off the lights, dash through the storage room and onto the stage, she wasn’t a hundred percent convinced he did so. The book was the stumbling block. Why would a man who killed his wife in a jealous rage take the time to remove and hide the book she’d been holding in her hand? He’d gone to some effort to take it completely off the premises and it didn’t quite add up.
When she reached her limit with fondant quilt squares she decided to follow up on the aspect of the case Beau hadn’t found time for: chasing down the witchy leads on the valuable book. She hung up her baker’s jacket and told the girls she would be out for awhile.
Her first conversation with Autumn Feather hadn’t netted much information but she was determined to be ready with better questions this time around. She found the address online, under the woman’s real name, Cleo Patterson, and discovered she lived partway up the road to the ski valley.
Twenty-five minutes later, Sam followed a two-track driveway up to a munchkin-sized log cabin with window boxes of herbs and a large woodpile beside it. Ponderosa pine forest surrounded the little structure on three sides, leaving a clearing with a fairly new blue Prius in it and just enough space to turn a vehicle around. She parked her bakery van beside the Prius and got out at the same moment the front door opened.
The doorway framed a surprisingly large woman. She wore a loose black tunic and pants, and some type of amulet hung on a cord around her neck. Sam found herself momentarily imagining whether someone of this person’s girth would be comfortable in such a small home. Silly, she knew. People often chose places that felt cozy to them.
“Are you Autumn Feather?” she called out.
“I am. Welcome.” When she smiled, the woman’s round face took on a peaceful, gentle attitude. Her long salt-and-pepper hair flowed to her shoulders, creating the impression of a pyramid atop a cube.
She stepped onto the porch and beckoned Sam forward.
“I’m Samantha Sweet. I spoke with you briefly on the phone yesterday.”
“Yes, I know.”
Sam realized the witch was looking at the bakery van, which was covered in an eye-catching graphic design of pastries and had the name Sweet’s Sweets prominently displayed.
Autumn Feather looked skyward, appreciating the deep blue midday light, then turned her attention back to her guest.
“Would you like to come inside? Since our conversation, I heard the news about Darlene Trawl. I assume that’s what you want to talk about?” She stepped aside as Sam mounted the two steps leading to a narrow, covered porch. “Are you here because of an interest in the book you mentioned, or is this visit on behalf of the sheriff’s department?”
“Is your information divinely inspired?” Sam asked. “Or am I somehow broadcasting my connections?”
Autumn Feather smiled again. “I may be a nature lover and I may live a somewhat remote woodland life, but I do keep track of the news. I also know many people in this town. It’s no secret you are Sheriff Cardwell’s wife and you’ve helped him on several cases.”
“You are well-informed,” Sam said, following her hostess’s lead into a roomy central space that belied the cabin’s exterior dimensions. “And, to answer your question, I suppose it’s a little of both. I won’t deny I plan to report anything useful to my husband. But I have to say this book fascinates me more with every new fact I hear about it.”
Ms. Feather led the way to a pair of large, padded recliner chairs facing a stone fireplace where cheery little flames crackled. A pot of tea and two cups sat on the small table between them. Without asking, she poured.
“Is divination one of your skills?” Sam asked with a smile toward the teacups.
“Ah, I would like to think so, but in this case I heard your vehicle at nearly the same moment the kettle whistled. It’s very quiet out here and I thought company would be nice.”
The tea was a delicate Chinese oolong and Sam had to admire Autumn Feather’s facility for brewing it perfectly. Sam sipped it as she blatantly scoped out the woman’s home. The main room held a row of cupboards, narrow refrigerator and two-burner stove along the north wall. A doorway led to another space, presumably a bedroom since there was no evidence of a place to sleep in this one.
“Since we are aiming for full disclosure here,” Autumn Feather said, “I will admit I feigned surprise when you mentioned the book to me yesterday. I had already heard rumors about a copy somewhere nearby. Both Darlene and Pete Winters had, in fact, spoken of it recently. You merely confirmed the story for me.”
“Pete Winters?”
“He and Darlene move in common circles, both members of the same reading group and both with an avid interest in rare books. He’s a collector and was hoping to find out who owned the spell book and whether they would be interested in selling it.”
Sam vaguely remembered Pete, a guy in his thirties who seemed to have spent the entire Halloween party mooning after Riki. Who would
have thought he knew anything about rare books?
“You said any real witch would kill for that book.”
Autumn Feather rested her teacup on the arm of her chair and ran her other hand down the length of her black-clad thigh “I’m sorry—it’s a figure of speech and I blurted it out without thinking. I am Wiccan. We live a life of peace and harmony with nature, a oneness with the Divine and all which exists.”
“But—”
“Wiccans are witches but not all witches are Wiccan. You might compare it to other religions—while all Methodists are Christians, not all Christians are Methodists. There are differences in beliefs and practices everywhere, and I understand some of those others in witchcraft lean toward the dark side.”
“And a spell book? How does that fit in?”
“A Wiccan spell book would contain healing potions—for relief of a headache, for instance. We use natural remedies and believe in love and harmony in all things. Other branches of witchcraft use other things. I cannot begin to tell you what the others believe—I have not practiced those beliefs.”
Sam got the feeling asking more questions would only return the answers full-circle, with nothing new to be gained. She let the elements of the conversation tumble through her mind as she finished her tea.
When Autumn Feather showed her to the door, Sam turned.
“One favor, if I might,” she said. “If anyone else asks about the spell book or if you hear anything about its current whereabouts, would you let me know?”
She pulled a business card from her backpack purse and handed it over, realizing it was probably a silly move. Autumn Feather seemed always to be a step ahead of her. Surely the Wiccan could easily find Sam if she wanted to.
FOURTEEN
INTERESTING WOMAN, SAM thought as she drove back to town. Although the practice of various forms of witchcraft wasn’t uncommon—in fact, the woman who had given Sam her carved wooden jewelry box was rumored to be a bruja—she always learned something new when she encountered one. Mainly, a name had come up and Sam wanted to check it out.
Pete Winters. Fascinating about his interest in the old book of spells, especially since he’d become flustered at the party when Beau questioned him about having a knife as part of his Sherlock Holmes costume. And that huge overcoat—it had fabric enough to conceal a book deep within a pocket, if the man had been so inclined.
Now she knew Pete had known about the book’s value in advance and had gone so far as to talk with Autumn Feather—and maybe other witches—before the party, Sam found herself eager to share the news with Beau. She drove directly to his office.
She made her way to the squad room, where Rico sat at a typewriter, filling out forms from his interview notes.
“He’s questioning Keith Trawl again,” Rico said. “You can watch from the observation room if you like.”
She supposed her news could wait. Rico unlocked the door to the small room which held monitors and recording devices to capture what was going on behind the mirrored wall in the interview room.
“Here you go,” Rico said, flipping a switch so she could hear the conversation in the other room. “Would you like some water or a soda?”
“No, thanks. You’ve got lots to do.”
He smiled gratefully and closed the door. Sam turned her attention to the room where Beau sat with his back to the mirror, giving their suspect little choice but to face the window and the camera.
“How often do I have to say this, Sheriff? I hit the light switch by mistake. I’d told Darlene I would meet her backstage as soon as the performance was over. She kept griping about her rubber mask, saying she didn’t want to wear it very long and didn’t want to carry it around all evening. I’d told her I could take the mask and anything else she wanted to be rid of and put it out in our car. I reached for the wall switches, thinking if I turned off the back room light it would be less distracting from out front. By that time I was dying to take a whizz and I dashed into the restroom.”
Beau let four beats go by. “So you didn’t hear what was going on out front?”
Trawl shook his head.
Beau backtracked. “Why meet your wife in that room?”
“Hell, I don’t know! Women—she just wanted to be back there when she took off the mask. Probably didn’t want to look like a mess in front of certain people.”
“Alan Pritchard?”
“Mainly him. I told you that before, too. I found out about the two of them and learned it’s been going on awhile.”
“Must have made you pretty angry,” Beau said. “Maybe angry enough to kill, I’d guess.”
Keith glared at him. “You know what? I’m done with this. Next time you want to talk it’ll be at my lawyer’s office.” He stood quickly, nearly tipping over the metal chair in which he’d been sitting.
Beau slammed his hand down on the table-top and Sam jumped. “You have the right to an attorney, Mr. Trawl. Call him if you wish. But this is a murder investigation and I’ll say when and where the discussions take place. Got that?”
Trawl flinched at the unexpected vehemence. “Fine. But unless I’m under arrest, I need a break. I have cooperated with you people but now I’d like to go home.”
From the set of his shoulders, Sam knew Beau had to show the guy who was in charge. He made Keith sit down while he flipped through his notes for a minute, then told the suspect he could leave.
“Stay nearby, though,” Beau cautioned. “We’re not done.”
Beau gathered his papers as Sam watched. Discouragement showed on his face when he stood and glanced at the mirror. He always said the first forty-eight hours of a case were all-important and they were nearing that point without any firm breakthrough. Sam felt her heart go out to him. She left the observation room and met him in the hall.
“Hey, darlin’. What’s up?”
“I got here a few minutes ago and Rico said I could wait here.”
“Yeah, well, what did you think? Keith Trawl doesn’t strike me as the type of guy who flips the wrong light switch and then waits a whole minute to turn it back on. There’s something hinky about the whole thing, but I’m damned if I can figure out what’s off. Meantime, he’s going to get an attorney involved and I’ll get nothing new out of him.”
“I just had tea with a witch and there’s some new information I can add to the mix,” she told him. “Can we talk in your office?”
He led the way.
“Pete Winters,” she said when she’d taken a seat in front of his desk. “What do you know about him?”
He paged through his interview notes as she related what she had learned from Autumn Feather.
“Did he say anything about Rupert’s book? Because according to this Wiccan woman he definitely knew how rare and valuable it was. He’d been poking around and asking questions. So had Darlene.”
Beau shook his head. “Nothing in here about the book at all. Most of the questions went toward whether there was a knife as part of his costume. I’d planned to ask him to show it to me but he swore Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t have carried one.”
“Just thinking out loud here,” Sam said, “but what if Pete and Darlene both wanted the book and were in competition for it? Darlene might have thought she could run off with it—especially if she had her husband backstage ready to turn off the lights. Pete sensed that’s what she would do and decided he would stop her.”
Beau drummed a pencil against the desktop, letting her run with her thoughts.
“Or…the two of them could have cooked up a plan to get hold of the book, sell it for the big bucks it was worth and split the money? I’ve been trying to picture the room as it was when the play started, imagine where everyone was sitting or standing. I think Pete Winters was near the stage, sitting in the front row as I recall.
“For that matter, Pete and Keith could have been in on it together. One guy wants to be rid of his cheating wife, the other wants a valuable item. What if Pete had the book in one of those huge coat pockets al
l along?”
“The theory about two people competing over a valuable book could be valid,” he said. “People are weird—they’ll kill for bridal gowns or sneakers, so why not a book? But we still have the problem that Pete didn’t have blood on him afterward. Neither did Keith, but Keith did have access to the back door and could have rushed out.”
“Okay, Pete didn’t have time to change clothes. Keith did. He would have had to wear something over his party costume.”
“A plastic rain suit or moisture repellent coverall would work. He could have gotten out the door, unzipped the garment and slipped it off, tossed it somewhere. Except we searched all the dumpsters in the alley behind the shops.”
“There are trash receptacles all over the area. Including the Plaza shops, there must be nearly a hundred businesses within four blocks of my shop,” Sam mused. “I wonder how long he was away from the party?”
FIFTEEN
“WELL, I SUPPOSE there’s no way around it,” Beau said, groaning as he picked up the phone. “The deputies will hate me. We need to go through the contents of every garbage truck that collected from this part of town this morning.”
He looked up a number on his Rolodex and dialed. “Hey, Rex. Beau Cardwell here. How’s things in the trash business?”
The county landfill manager must have made some wisecrack because Beau chuckled.
“The trucks that picked up down here in the Plaza area this morning—when they dump their loads I need the area cordoned off. I’m sending my men out to search for evidence in a case—” His expression suddenly became sober. “Well, stop them! Don’t bulldoze the area yet. I need a few hours out there.”
Some more conversation from the other end.
“Okay. Good.” He hung up and got out of his chair. “The fun begins,” he said with a wry grin.
Sam didn’t linger long in the squad room. She had a feeling the men would resent being given the nasty duties while the part-time deputy got off with computer searches and interviews, but that’s the way it was. She was still wearing her bakery clothes, had a business of her own to run. She had already taken too much time off, and she’d given Beau the new info she’d gathered. She scooted out of there and returned to the challenge of piecing fondant into a quilt design on a cake.
