by Mary Maxwell
“Who’s he?”
Trent covered the phone and spoke to someone in his office. When he returned, he asked where we were.
“You just told me that the gun—”
“Okay, right. Archie Morris. Does that name ring any bells?”
“None whatsoever. Should it?”
“Maybe not for you,” said Trent. “But Archie lived in Crescent Creek for, like, five or six years when he was married.”
“And he owned a gun?”
“Several actually. But the one we found with Jacob Lowry was reported stolen six months before Archie got divorced and left town.”
“Okay, so who was he married to?”
I heard more voices join the clatter in the background. Trent’s office was beginning to sound like a flock of geese: noisy honking, chaotic chirping and not one thing that resembled normal human conversation.
“What did you say?” Trent asked.
“Archie Morris. Who was he married to?”
He answered the question and I smiled; the puzzle was beginning to fall into place.
“Katie?” Trent barked. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes! Can you hear—”
A jarring metallic squelch interrupted my question before I heard the people in Trent’s office singing “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” in an off-key warble.
“I’ll have to call you back!” he shouted. “They’re giving me a—”
The call ended with another strident squeal before Trent finished his thought. I checked my phone, wondering why we’d been disconnected. Then I sat and stared at the front of Carter Devane’s luxurious Aspen retreat. And then I realized what had been happening in the background on the other end of the line.
“Oh, dagnabit!” I whispered to myself. “I forgot Trent’s birthday.”
CHAPTER 37
“Katie?” Harper asked through the pass window. “Can you take a call?”
“Is it my mother again?”
“Not unless she changed her name to Herman Bright.”
I’d left a message for the insurance agent the previous afternoon. I wanted to explore a hunch about Ira Pemberton’s body shop. Since Herman was Ira’s insurance guy, I hoped he might be willing to either answer a couple of questions or steer me in the right direction.
“Hi, Herman,” I said after picking up the desk phone in my office. “It’s Kate Reed. Thank you so much for returning my call.”
“Well, Herman’s always happy to brighten your day,” he said, using the familiar tagline from the radio spots for his company. “Is this about your auto policy or the Sky High business account?”
“Actually, neither. I wanted to ask you about Ira Pemberton.”
“What about him?”
“Are you still his agent?”
Herman Bright chortled quietly. “As far as I know,” he said. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, I’ve been doing a little sleuthing around town,” I explained. “Just helping the Crescent Creek PD in an unofficial capacity to solve the murder and arson that—”
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Herman said, “but I already talked to Tyler Armstrong and Dina Kincaid about Mr. Pemberton’s policy.”
“I’m sure, but—”
“And I don’t think it would be prudent for me to discuss the matter with you,” he continued. “Not to be rude or anything, but it seems like a fairly delicate case and I don’t want to cross any lines.”
“Nor would I want you to,” I said when he finished. “I was just wondering if you could answer a couple of questions.”
“Not if they’re about Mr. Pemberton’s insurance policy.”
“Maybe you could answer without exactly answering,” I suggested.
His rolling laugh came over the line again. “And how would I do that, Miss Reed? Stamp my foot on the ground once for ‘yes’ and twice for ‘no’?”
“Um…” I tried not to giggle. “That would be perfect if we were in the same room. But maybe you could…” I paused to quickly devise a strategy. “How about you say ‘buttercream frosting’ if the answer is yes? And if it’s no, maybe—”
“For goodness’ sake,” he cut in, “just ask me. If I’m comfortable, I’ll use the regular words to answer.”
I smiled at the concept. Then I asked if Ira Pemberton had recently increased the insurance coverage on his auto body shop.
“No,” Herman Bright said.
I felt instantly deflated; my gut had told me that the arson was a get-rich-quick scheme cooked up by Ira to recoup the gambling losses that I’d heard about around town.
“Well, darn,” I said after a moment. “I thought that was a—”
“He didn’t,” Herman interrupted. “But there’s a chance that someone else did.”
The remark caused my brain to shudder briefly to a stop. Then it whirred back into action and I asked Herman if he could reveal the name of the individual that had increased the payout on Pemberton’s policy.
“She’s his silent partner,” Herman said. “And his girlfriend.”
As the line hummed with silence, I heard the singsong refrain from the two young women at Bubble Brite the other day: “Marla Soble! Marla Soble! Marla Soble!”
CHAPTER 38
As I pulled into the parking lot at Crescent Creek Lodge an hour later, I saw someone wheeling a suitcase across the concrete expanse. It was Velma Lancaster, moving at a rapid clip toward the last row of cars. The grim expression on her face intensified when I honked to get her attention.
“Velma?”
She stopped and stared blankly before recognizing me. Then she shrugged and continued moving in the opposite direction. I quickly parked the car, grabbed my purse and hurried after her.
“Can we go inside and talk?” I said. “It’ll only take a few minutes.”
Velma put the last piece of luggage into her rental car and closed the trunk. “Talk about what?”
“The murder of Jacob Lowry,” I said. “And the other things that have been going on with Carter Devane as well as Kevin Hertel and his father.”
A few strands of dark, lustrous hair slipped from behind one ear. She instinctively reached up and tucked them back into place. Then she walked around to the driver’s door and slid the key into the lock.
“It won’t take much time at all,” I said. “And I think it might help you as much as it will help the police get Jacob’s killer to confess.”
Although she claimed to be preparing to leave town, I convinced her to spend a few more minutes going over the events of the past few days.
“If for nothing else than the memory of your friend,” I said, clinching the deal with an appeal to her long-standing connection to Jacob Lowry.
Ten minutes later, after a quick consultation with Connie Larson, Velma and I were in one of the hotel’s small offices with the door closed. A lamp on the desk glowed orange and the fluorescent bulbs overhead had been dimmed to a watery blue. After she sat in a chair near the desk, I crossed the room, leaned against the filing cabinet and thanked Velma again for agreeing to talk.
“I don’t mind a few minutes,” she said. “But I’m driving to Denver tonight, so I’d like to get on the road before too long.”
“Any chance you could postpone that until tomorrow?”
The muscles in her jaw tightened. “Why would I do that?”
“To help the police,” I said.
She scoffed. “Me? What can I do? I have no idea who killed Jacob.”
I took a moment to consider the best explanation for the idea that Trent and I had discussed earlier following my call with Herman Bright. It was a fairly common approach to obtaining a confession—invite a small group of interested parties to one location for a seemingly inconsequential purpose, make sure the top suspect is included in the mix and then bait them with a pointed statement or presentation of evidence. If things go according to plan, the guilty party will incriminate themselves by spouting an ill-timed remark, refusing to answer questions or directly
challenging the authorities.
“Well?” Velma said stiffly. “Are we going to talk or not?”
“Yes, of course. I was just…well, here’s the thing: between the CCPD’s investigation and a few things that I’ve uncovered, there’s one individual that Deputy Chief Walsh is most interested in.”
She smiled. “I know how these things go, remember? My husband and I have an investigative agency in Sacramento.”
“I remember,” I said. “And, since you brought it up, how would handle this situation? Do you have any thoughts about who might be responsible for your friend’s death?”
“No idea,” she said. “I’ve been so busy trying to figure out who was attempting to blackmail Carter that Jacob’s death left me…” Her voice splintered and she dropped her chin to her chest. “…it left me completely reeling, to be honest. I’ve known him since we were five.”
I sat quietly, watching her chest heave and her fingers tighten into rigid knots in her lap. A few moments passed; tension and grief filled the room like fog rolling in from the sea. When Velma finally spoke, her voice was a faint murmur.
“I didn’t kill Jacob,” she said, glaring at me through tear-filled eyes. “And I don’t know who did.”
I held her gaze, waiting for the right moment to deliver the news. She cried softly, burying her face in her hands with the resignation of someone left simultaneously bereft and exhausted. The oscillating fan on the bookcase near the door whirred and cycled, sweeping left to right in an endless ballet of motion and muted sound.
“I’m so…sorry,” Velma whispered as she lowered her hands and the last few tears toppled down her cheeks. “I never cry.” Her mouth curved into an anxious grin. “I mean, I’m usually the one comforting someone else when they’re blubbering away and making a scene.”
“You’re fine,” I said gently. “You’ve been dealing with a lot of emotion these past few days.”
Her eyes fluttered. “The past twenty years is more like it,” she began. “Living with the shame and sadness of what I did to my parents back when I was younger. I made so many mistakes when I was a teenager, Kate. I did horrible things…terrible, awful, cruel things to my mother and father. I made up a lie and…” She stopped as the tears resumed. “…and I told the world,” she continued. “I told the whole frickin’ world that my father had cheated on my mother and she did the same thing out of spite.”
Her pain was palpable; the sharp, jagged edges of the shame and disgrace cutting through the words of her faltering confession.
“Velma?”
She flinched at the sound of her name.
“Yeah?”
I offered a smile. “Can you try to put that aside for just a minute or two?”
Her chin lifted slowly. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t focus on the past right now,” I suggested. “Because we need your help to settle something very much in the present.”
She pulled in a long, slow breath. “You do?”
I nodded.
“But who are you…” She exhaled slowly; the creases in her forehead began to relax. “You said ‘we’ need me to do something. Who are you talking about?”
“Deputy Chief Walsh,” I said. “And the two detectives working to solve Jacob Lowry’s murder.”
She pressed her hands together at the mention of her friend’s name, bracing herself for whatever was to follow. I watched as her eyes traced invisible circles on the floor; the apprehensive and restless distillation of the turmoil in her mind.
“Would you be willing to talk to them one more time?” I asked finally.
Her gaze stopped, held briefly and then came up to my face. “But I don’t know how I can help,” she said. “I wasn’t there when Jacob was killed.”
“But I believe you know the person that was.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I do?”
“Yes. And I’m being sincere when I say that you can help. I’m pretty sure there’s a way to get the killer to implicate himself.”
“How?”
“By engaging him in conversation.”
She frowned. “With me?”
“Yes. And with Trent Walsh and the CCPD detectives.”
“But I’ve already talked to them. And I told you, too; I wasn’t at my father’s body shop when Jacob died. I was at the hotel.”
“Your innocence isn’t being challenged,” I said. “There are witnesses from the Lodge along with security camera footage. You have a solid alibi.”
“Then why…” She sighed and got up from the chair. “Why do you think I can help?”
“Because it’s easier for some people to come clean about what they’ve done when a familiar face is in the room.”
She peered at me in disbelief. “You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then who is it?” she asked. “Who do you think killed Jacob?”
When I told her the name of the prime suspect, one hand went to her mouth and the other to her chest. She asked me to explain the rationale for the accusation, but I told her to wait until later that night when everyone had gathered at the Crescent Creek Lodge.
“Can’t you tell me anything?” she pleaded. “Not even one little speck that might explain why he’d do something so needless?”
“Greed,” I told Velma. “Jacob Lowry was murdered because he came between the killer and the promise of ten million dollars.”
CHAPTER 39
I was two blocks from the Crescent Creek Police Department when my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, so I let it go to voicemail. When the same caller tried again less than a minute later, I figured it would be best to let the very determined individual leave a second message. The third time the phone chirped, I nearly tossed the thing out the window until I saw Blanche Speltzer’s name on the screen.
“Hi, Blanche!” I said, pulling into an open spot in the CCPD parking lot. “I hope that wasn’t you calling from a burner.”
“Calling from a what?” the retired teacher squawked.
“A burner,” I said. “Those disposable cell phones that criminals always use on—”
“Darn it, Katie!” she snapped. “It wasn’t me. That was Duane Schulte. He knows more about the night of the fire at Ira’s than he told the police.”
“Why was he calling me? He should be dialing—”
“Can you pipe down and listen for five seconds?” asked the gray-haired whippersnapper.
I didn’t say anything.
“Good! That’s more like it. I promised Duane that I’d play the middleman so you would actually take his call.”
My mouth opened instinctively to ask the obvious question—Why doesn’t he call the police?—but I hadn’t even formed the first syllable when Blanche beat me to the punch.
“It’s very simple, Katie. Duane’s dealing with some rather strong emotions at the moment. Apparently, a few minutes after he saw the smoke and called 911 the other night, he got into his pickup and drove over to see what was going on at Ira’s. But when he pulled—” The line beeped a few times to signal an incoming call; it was Duane Schulte again. “—up in front, there—” I missed a couple of words as the tone repeated in my ear. “—going at it in the parking lot with everything they had. Just like those Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots all the boys had years ago. They were punching and jabbing and hitting one another like Muhammad Ali and Jodie Foster in that big fight.”
I laughed softly. “Do you mean Joe Frazier?”
“How the heck should I know? I don’t watch ESPN.”
“It’s not important, Blanche. And I don’t want to be rude, but Duane’s calling on my other line again, so I should—”
Click.
I smiled at her saucy demeanor as I toggled over to Duane Schulte. After I greeted him and apologized for not answering the first two times, he launched into a hushed narrative that began with the night of the blaze at Ira’s body shop and ended with a firm declaration that he didn’t w
ant to do any jail time because he was claustrophobic, hated the color orange and had an aversion to chipped beef on toast.
“Okay, Duane,” I said when he stopped for a breath. “I’m not a fan myself, but why do you think someone would put you behind bars?”
“On account of not telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth,” he said.
“During the 911 call?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, first of all, you weren’t under oath,” I began. “And that means you can’t be locked up if you didn’t call the police dispatcher again that night after you drove over to Ira’s.”
He mumbled something. I asked him to repeat it. He complied with the request, but didn’t increase the volume.
“Duane? I’m sorry, but can you try once more? And please speak up a bit, okay? I’m in the car and it’s kind of—”
“I saw Ira Pemberton beating the stuffing out of some guy!” he blurted. “I’m afraid it might be the person that they found murdered.”
The announcement arrived from so far out of left field that I was momentarily speechless.
“Did you hear me?” Duane asked a second later.
“Yes, I did, but—”
“And before you tell me to call the police,” he said, “I can’t do that. Blanche told me that you’d take care of it for me.”
“But I don’t understand why you—”
“Because, Miss Reed! I once testified in a trial, a long, drawn-out torture session that almost ruined my marriage. And when I was on the stand, I misspoke about something. The defense attorney caught my error and tried to get me charged with perjury. But…” He stopped, coughed faintly and repeated the last few words. “…with perjury,” he said again. “But it was a simple mistake. And it left me feeling really reluctant about courtrooms and judges and lawyers with bad perms and press-on fingernails.”
I smiled. “Well, those last two things alone could make lots of people leery about the judicial system.”
He groaned. “It’s okay. You don’t have to make me feel better about it. I know it’s a weird phobia. But I also know that it’s very real to me. So when I confided in Blanche about what I saw that night, she told me to call you right away.”
