by David Bishop
“And during this week, your second week, PQ drove to Phoenix, in part to meet me at the airport?”
“I believe so, Mr. Kile.”
“Thank you. You’ve been a big help.” I looked at Gretchen and smiled. “You asked if you could get me anything. I’d like a glass of water, a tall one, half full with no ice.”
“Certainly.”
She set the glass on the white ceramic tiled counter, next to where I stood.
“Please join the others in the living room. Wait ten minutes, and then tell Robyn I’d like her to come here to the kitchen.”
When Gretchen entered the living room, closing the double doors behind her, I headed upstairs, two at a time. Quentin’s room at the far end of the hall was a mess. Hard rock music leaking from earphones hung over the headboard. Next, Tedy’s room: her bed had been slept in. The clothes she had worn had been folded neatly, as if they would be worn again, and left on top of the hamper just inside her closet.
To the contrary, Robyn’s bed had been rustled, but the pillow had only a small cavity, as if punched. The covers were jerked around, but not expanded adequately to handle her full torso. The clothes she had worn to dinner were tossed over the vanity chair in a jumble. Her high heels were scattered, lying on their sides, each facing away from the other, as if having bickered. All her other shoes were in cedar wood cubbyholes in her closet.
I hurried back to the kitchen, opened the microwave and found a damp paper towel. In the wastebasket, on top, was a wet tea bag, Chamomile.
* * *
Slam.
The kitchen door bounced back from the wall. I turned sharply to see Robyn, her spread legs straining the buttons down the front of her full-length robe. She stared at me hard before looking me up and down. Her eyes, unsteady from anger, moved like tossed dice.
“You sent for me?”
“Tell me about your husband’s health.”
“He’s dead. I’d say his health is not good.” She leaned on the back of a kitchen chair and hardened her glare.
“On the road from Phoenix, PQ grimaced several times, not from sitting, from pain. If you two were as close as …” I let my words trail off.
Her next breath seemed more huff than exhale. Then she sat in the chair on which she had been leaning. “I s’pose it’s no big deal now. My husband had terminal stomach cancer, inoperable.”
“Who else knew?”
“His doctor.”
“What about the family? The execs at his company?”
“No. He didn’t want people fussing over him.”
“And you kept his secret?”
“That’s the way my husband wanted it, Mr. Kile. So that’s how it was.”
Robyn struck me as a woman who could keep a secret, if it were her secret or in her interest to keep it. I narrowed my eyes. “Where were you when your husband was murdered?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“It’s not a hard question. Where were you when your husband was murdered?”
“I don’t know exactly when he was murdered. I went out for a walk. Then I came back and went to sleep.”
“If you’re going to pick something to be bad at, lying isn’t the best choice.”
She stood abruptly. The chair tipped over backward. Her face filled with fury. Spread fingers cupped her hips. Her trim legs again challenged the limits of her robe, the lines of her garter belt obvious, the only undergarment she wore.
“So, to sleep you took off the bra you wore to dinner, but kept your garter belt on. Do you regularly sleep in your garter belt?”
“If I were not a lady, I’d …” she left the rest unfinished.
“If you were a lady, a lot of things would be different, wouldn’t they?”
“I’ll have you know I attend church every Sunday. Accompanied by my husband.”
“Attending church no more makes you a Christian than standing in water makes you a fish.”
“I don’t have to answer your insulting questions.”
“No, you don’t, but if you didn’t kill your husband the person you were with could be your alibi.” I shrugged. “Tell me or tell the sheriff. He’ll be here soon enough.”
“Ah, screw it. It’ll come out anyway. I was with Cord, at his place.”
“My guess is you knew Cord from before his trial for embezzlement. You went to the trial to show loyalty to him, hoping your presence would dissuade him from implicating you. From there you took up with his father, married PQ and eventually convinced him to get your lover out of prison. That evolved into you and PQ having separate bedrooms with Cord less than a hundred yards away.”
“You’re a disgusting man, Matt Kile.”
“Yeah, ain’t I? It’s even fun sometimes. But then, on the other side of that argument is why would you kill PQ? You knew he had cancer, that he would die soon.”
“I didn’t kill my husband. Honest to God. I didn’t.” She took the pressure off the buttons suspended between her legs. Then she crossed her arms, plumping up her breasts enough to confirm what I had guessed; her garter belt lived alone under her robe.
“You believe me,” she pleaded, “don’t you?”
I shook off a brief image of her in a garter belt and platform heels.
“How could I doubt an honest, grieving wife?”
“You know, you’ve got a smart mouth.”
“I’ve been told that before. I try to keep it under control, but not very hard.”
“Cord and I love each other. Okay. But I didn’t kill my husband. Like you said, I didn’t have to.”
“Cord steals from his father, and then rekindles an affair with you after PQ takes you as his wife. I figure you’re a good part of why Cord embezzled from PQ, but he made his own decision on that. Then, after your marriage, you manipulate PQ into getting junior out of prison. You and Cord deserve each other. Go on back to the living room.”
Chapter Five
I rummaged around in the kitchen for a while, finding nothing else that told me anything beyond what I had already reasoned out. Then I went back into PQ’s bedroom. I had about completed a more thorough search of his room and the adjoining bath when a hard voice brought me around.
“You Kile?” The man in the doorway flashed a badge. “I’m Sheriff Tallon. What do you think you’re doin’? This here’s a murder scene.”
“Hello, Sheriff. Yes, I’m Matt Kile. PQ’s security advisor.” We shook hands. “You come alone?”
“My deputy’s outside poking around. It appears you weren’t all that good at this here security business.”
“Would appear so, Sheriff.”
“Along with PQ, maybe this town’s dead, too, now. That man’s doings mostly kept Copper City alive.”
“Sheriff, I believe PQ wanted to be killed.”
“That your opinion, Mr. big-city detective?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, your opinion and two bucks’ll get me a towel at the local YMCA.”
“It’d take a five in the gym near where I live.”
The sheriff jerked his lips toward the side of his face. Then back again. “So, where does this here opinion come from Big City?”
“No need for being formal, Sheriff. You can just call me Big or my real first name, Matt.”
“Okay, Matt, just where’d you get this cockamamie idea you’re feeding me?”
“PQ had terminal cancer. His pain was worsening and he didn’t want pity.”
“PQ tell you this, did he?”
“No. His wife, Robyn. No one else here or at his company knew. Well, Cord probably knew. I’ll tell you about that in a minute. I expect his doctor will confirm his condition. Other than myself and the ranch staff, there have been no visitors for two days, so the shooter’s likely in the living room or out in the bunkhouse.”
“A family job, eh. Hell, Matt, this whole family’s goofy. It could’ve been any of ‘em. Cord’s got hisself a record. We pinch Quentin now and again for shoplifting. PQ always pays up, but t
hat might change from now on. Robyn, before marrying PQ, was a real floozy. Probably still is, only she dresses better now. As for Tedy, the closest to normal one in the litter, there’s an unconfirmed story that she runs over to Vegas once a month to work the high-end call-girl circuit.”
“Tedy goes there to volunteer at a shelter for battered women,” I told the sheriff. “I made the call. It checked out. As for the punk, he doesn’t figure in this.” I told the sheriff about Robyn and Cord’s thing and explained why there’d be no percentage in them knocking off PQ.
“The two of them were quite an item in this town back before Cord went in lockup. Then, with the young stud out of the way, Robyn set her spurs in Cord’s rich daddy.”
“That confirms my guess about the two of them. Her marriage to PQ only drove her relationship with Cord underground.”
“The way you’re sizing up this murder, you’ve eliminated the wife, Cord, Tedy, and the delinquent runt, so just who you figuring to be good for this here killin’?”
“The cook.”
“I see. Sorta like the butler did in the old movies, only PQ didn’t have a butler or a maid for that matter, so all we got ourselves is a cook. One who, as far as I know, has only been employed here for a short while.”
“True. But I figure she came here just to kill PQ, so she didn’t need to stay on the job long.”
“And what makes you suspect Gretchen?”
“Bits and pieces.”
“Such as?”
“Can you tell me PQ’s ex-wife’s first name?”
“Rebecca,” the sheriff said, “Rebecca Jean if I recollect. I’m not all that sure on the first name. The skinniest woman I ever saw. Now what supports this here Gretchen theory? Those bits and pieces you referred to.”
“Stuff like Gretchen giving PQ an icy stare when she thought no one was looking. The way she watched Quentin, I’m betting she’s his momma and doesn’t like the way he turned out.”
“His mother? Rebecca is his mother. I saw Gretchen when I just came in. No way could that woman be PQ’s ex-wife. Rebecca could stand sideways in a cornfield and get lost in the shadows. Gretchen is built more like a nose tackle for the Phoenix, Cardinals. Besides, don’t you think her own children would have recognized her?”
“No, Sheriff, I don’t. Quentin was an infant when Rebecca left for Brazil. Cord was away in the military those years. I don’t think Tedy was even a teenager. The older two’s memories are of their mother as a small, frail woman, not the big wide woman who got hired on as the cook twenty years later. Rebecca likely tossed in a change of hair color and style, along with different makeup. You must have known Rebecca, at least casually, and you’re a trained law enforcement officer, not a self-absorbed youngster, and you didn’t see the resemblance.”
I also told Sheriff Tallon about PQ’s ex-wife going to Brazil, coming back and then spending years in a mental hospital. He knew about Brazil, but not the rubber room.
I picked up the glass Gretchen had given me, with my fingers near the bottom, and walked into PQ’s bathroom where I poured the water into the sink.
“Gretchen gave me this, Sheriff. She held it near the top. I believe you’ll find her prints will match those of PQ’s ex-wife Rebecca.”
“At best, that might prove Rebecca and Gretchen are the same woman. Now I ain’t sayin’ I buy that part of your story, but, even if it turns out true, it don’t leave the paddock when it comes to provin’ she did the shootin’.”
“Gretchen said PQ never wanted more than one cup of tea.”
The sheriff stayed quiet until he had finished checking the locks on the patio door and the windows in PQ’s bedroom. Then he said, “So?”
“Gretchen had only been employed two weeks, and PQ spent a couple days of this week in Phoenix. That’s not enough time for her to be so certain he always wanted only one cup.”
The sheriff scrunched up his nose, like he was sniffling or had picked up a foul odor; it was a silent gesture. Then his eyes narrowed and he looked at me hard. “Why in tarnation would PQ hire his looney ex-wife?”
“She hated him enough to pull the trigger.”
“This is screwy.” The leather squeaked when the sheriff leaned his hand on the butt of his holstered gun. “If he wanted her to plug him, why in the blazes did he hire you?”
“In order to catch Rebecca in the act. He didn’t want her hanging around, identifying herself, and sucking up to the kids to get a chunk of his estate.”
I showed the sheriff the Old Maid playing card bookmark and the underlined passage about Rebecca in the Du Maurier novel. “You don’t think that’s a coincidence do you, Sheriff? PQ underlined a passage about a fictional character with the same name as his ex-wife.” I also told the sheriff about PQ saying Rebecca would likely have become an old maid if he hadn’t married her. “That planted the connection in my mind to his using the Old Maid card to underline the book passage.”
I motioned for Sheriff Tallon to follow me into the kitchen.
“It’d sure be nice,” the sheriff said, “if I had a mite more than this here theory of yours. It’s fascinating, I give you that, and it’s just nutty enough to be true. But it just don’t prove a whole hell of a lot.”
I pulled the sheriff’s pen from his white, plastic pocket protector and flipped back the lid of the teapot. “This pot stood open when I found it.” Then I showed him the tea bag in the trash.
“My wife’s always making tea,” he said. “When she does, she uses two or three of them little tea sacks to make a pot full.”
“Exactly, Sheriff.” I opened the microwave. He felt the damp paper towel. “PQ wanted only one cup and liked it hot. She used the microwave and the cup boiled over.”
The sheriff picked up the teapot, looked inside and shook his head. “Maybe she made a pot for herself?”
“Okay. But then where’s the tea bags she would have had to use? Like you said, you can’t make a pot of tea with a single tea bag.”
“My wife, Penny, leaves ‘em laying on the saucer next to her cup.”
I pointed to the door that connected to Gretchen’s room. “I checked. There’s no second cup in her room or in the dishwasher.” I pulled it open. “This here pot’s been emptied since washing the dinner dishes. Besides, to say it again, there’d be more than one tea bag in the trash. Let’s remember the timeline. She was asleep when PQ called for a cup of tea. Gretchen would have made her pot while making PQ’s cup. Then she would have taken him his cup so she could come back and enjoy her pot of tea. But she never even got out a second cup for her own use. When she went to his room, she found him dead and everything went crazy. The elements in this room confirm she made no pot of tea, and had no cup for her own use.”
The sheriff took off his service hat and twirled it on the ends of his fingers. “So what in hell did she use the pot for?” While he listened, he ran his hand around inside his hat the way one would dry the inside of a washed bowl.
“My guess,” I began, “and it’s merely a guess, she heated a pot of water in the microwave to pour over her hands and forearms with the thought it would wash away any gunshot residue. Even if it did, you’ll likely find some farther up her arms or on her apron.”
“Okay, Big City, what’d she do with the gun?”
“She didn’t have much time. You’ll find it. She’s hated PQ for nearly twenty years, has probably fantasized killing him more times than we can imagine. She’s likely feeling pretty satisfied about now and, with a little friendly persuasion, she might not be able to contain her feelings.”
At that moment, the sheriff’s deputy came in holding a clear evidence bag weighted down with a German Walther PPK. The deputy looked at me and seemed hesitant to talk.
“It’s okay, Deputy, this here’s Matt Kile, a big-city PI hired by PQ for protection.”
“Weren’t all that good at his job, was he?” The deputy had one of those endearing laughs that coexisted with a snorting back rap.
“No, I cert
ainly wasn’t Deputy.”
The sheriff stepped forward to draw his deputy’s attention, putting an end to the man’s sonar sounds. “So, what cha got there in the evidence bag?”
“Sheriff Tallon,” the deputy said, turning all official like, “I found this here fancy gun about thirty yards out back of the kitchen at the bottom of a grungy old trough. Water’s as black as inside the toe of your boot. I drug the thing with a rake from the tool shed. In the open spaces, the wind’s tossing the dust around pretty good. But I did find some protected tracks up near the kitchen porch. I left the light on, figuring you’d wanna take a look.”
We went to the door. The shoe prints, heading both off and onto the porch, had square heels with the sharp clean edges of new shoes or at least new heels. They were fresh and too small for a man’s shoe. More like the laced pair Gretchen had worn while serving the turkey.
“I saw a .32 caliber Walther with a silencer in PQ’s gun cabinet the day I arrived.”
“Show me, Matt.”
I led Sheriff Tallon into the study. The outline where the Walther had hung against the back of the cabinet showed darker than the always-exposed wood around it. I reached up and took down the Old Maid card box from the small stack of games above the gun cabinet.
“I haven’t had time to check, but I expect the Old Maid card is missing from this deck.”
The sheriff fanned through the cards, and then did it a second time without finding the Old Maid card. The receipt from its purchase was sticking out of the box. The pattern on the backside of the cards in the box matched the pattern on the backside of the Old Maid card PQ had used as a bookmark.
“This is the only children’s game on the shelf,” I pointed up to where the games were stacked. “The receipt shows the deck was bought while PQ was in Phoenix to pick me up at Sky Harbor Airport.”
The sheriff’s lower lip climbed over his upper. He raked his teeth down through his rough cut mustache. After a moment, he turned to his deputy. “You’ll find Gretchen in the living room. Send her back and watch to make sure she gets here. Then go on back and babysit them other folks. There’s a polecat somewhere in this bunch, so I don’t want any of ‘em up and disappearing.”
