The Company She Kept

by Archer Mayor

  “There’s symbolism in all this, or at least attention-getting posturing. It could’ve been so much simpler, and still’ve left us in the dark. But it was flashy—a look-at-me kind of thing.”

  “Small kid on the block getting back at the world?” Lester said.

  “More like someone used to influencing people, and who knows the state,” Joe expanded. “Most crimes are localized to a pretty small area. This one’s all over the place.”

  “You make him sound like a traveling circus performer,” Sam commented incredulously.

  Willy laughed, looking at Joe. “That’s not what he’s saying. He’s thinking of a Raffner type, aren’t you, boss? The kind of person she’d have riding around with her in a car in the first place. You’re saying politics.”

  Joe took them in as a group. “It does have a ring to it. You gotta admit.”

  “A politician?” Sammie asked, only slightly less doubtful.

  “Someone in politics,” Joe emphasized. “Certainly someone trained to suddenly changing situations, redirecting people’s focus, and staging sensationalist events.”

  “That doesn’t help us much,” Lester said. “Raffner was in politics for most of her life, so we’re still looking at roughly the same pool of people.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Joe argued. “Let’s take this from the top without the distractions.”

  “From where Mystery Man sees Raffner get pushed around by Stuey?” Sam asked.

  “How ’bout what put him in her car to begin with?” Lester suggested.

  “Not yet,” Willy replied. “Boss is right. We’ll get to that later. Right now, Mystery Man—MM—gets a situation handed to him—bam. Stuey acts out, Raffner’s on the ropes, and MM’s suddenly got his opportunity. Whatever it was that got him in the car with Raffner in the first place, now it’s time to carpe diem.”

  Sammie picked it up. “But first things first, MM severs all connection to Stuey by leaving.”

  “We don’t know who was driving,” Lester pointed out.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Sam continued. “Either MM grabs the wheel because Susan’s too woozy, or he tells her where to drive in order to get out of danger so that he can take a closer look at her.”

  “’Cept he does a little more than that,” Lester picked up.

  “Right. He smacks her a good one.”

  “The first injury to the head,” Joe suggested, “rendering her unconscious.”

  “They might’ve been simultaneous,” Willy argued. “A blow to the back of the head followed by the fatal follow-up to the temple. Could Hillstrom tell if there was any time-lapse between them?”

  Joe shook his head. “Not with one hundred percent accuracy. But, if the two blows came at once, how do you explain the bruising across her lumbar, presumably from tipping her into the rear of the car? There wouldn’t’ve been bruising if she’d been dead. And don’t forget that David Hawke found her nail back there, which Raffner’s bloody fingertip tells us was ripped off as she was trying to get out.”

  “The point is,” Sammie almost interrupted, wanting to keep the momentum going, “MM gets the upper hand one way or the other, and then without a doubt takes the wheel.”

  “So he can swap vehicles for a pickup,” Lester finished, adding, “But why? It’s not like he went seriously off-road to hang her from the cliff.”

  “You sure about that?” Willy asked. “You know you’re gonna be driving in the snow, and nothing sucks worse in the snow than a Prius. Seems like a smart trade to me.”

  “Plus, it’s not just the truck you need,” Sammie threw in. “You need rope, boots, whatever else…”

  “Maybe do the chest carving then, too, since she’s dead by now,” Willy said.

  “Then off to the cliff for the grand finale?” Lester said tentatively.

  “Not yet,” Joe replied. They looked at him as he explained, “He has to set up his frame—or his misdirection. The fake letter from Nate Fellows, found in Susan’s Montpelier apartment—with the conveniently missing canceled stamp—to go along with the carving. This is his only opportunity to do that.”

  “Which means Montpelier.”

  “Which means that crazy old bat,” Willy said.

  Sam stared at him. “Regina Rockefeller,” he clarified. “Raffner’s landlady. What do the case notes say about what she saw? It would’ve had to’ve been in the middle of the night.”

  Silence.

  “Damn,” Lester half whispered.

  “Good,” Joe said. “Then she needs to be interviewed more in depth. Don’t know how those questions were missed.”

  “I do,” Sammie said. “I remember talking to Parker on the phone about her. He said she wouldn’t shut up—ran her mouth from the moment they walked in to the time they left.”

  “She talked so much they didn’t get what they should’ve,” Joe finished. “We’ve all been there. So, let’s hit her again, and keep our fingers crossed that she was in when MM dropped by—’cause he had to have been on his own, which might’ve made him stand out. What else?”

  “Why Nate Fellows?” Willy asked. “Of all the screwballs in the world? And MM knew exactly where Raffner lived, and that she had an office with a recycle box? Those’re two questions I’d like answered.”

  “Did he know where and how to access the cliff?” Lester asked. “That’s a third.”

  “And a fourth,” Sammie contributed. “The salvage yard where the Prius was left. That didn’t happen without prior knowledge.”

  Lester was shaking his head. “We still have hundreds—maybe a thousand—names to go through.”

  “Not really,” Joe argued. “We’ve had dozens of people combing through Susan’s files from the beginning. They’re the ones we should ask to see if any of these details rings a bell. And let’s dig into each area more thoroughly—like interviewing Rockefeller—to see if a single name doesn’t begin to repeat.”

  Sam suggested, “There’s a fifth item we haven’t mentioned, and that’s Raffner’s Prius. If we’re right, MM and Raffner spent a lot of shared time riding around in it.”

  “It’s still in Waterbury,” Lester said. “They finished processing it. There were several prints they couldn’t match to anyone, mostly from the passenger seat, but nothing that stood out. Might be worth one of us going by to at least take a look at what they pulled out of it.”

  “David Hawke and I are old friends,” Joe commented. “I don’t mind doing that.”

  “I’ll take Rockefeller,” Sam said. “Might be different if it’s woman-to-woman this time.”

  “What about all that riding around together with MM and Raffner that Sam brought up?” Willy asked. “Can we explain what that was all about?”

  Nobody answered.

  Willy smiled. “Right. One piece of fantasy at a time.”

  “Hey,” Joe countered hopefully, “we get lucky with this other stuff, that may just come gift-wrapped at the end.”

  * * *

  Sammie was pleased with the Regina Rockefeller assignment. It wasn’t that she was holding out hope that the old woman had actually witnessed someone creeping into her house to plant evidence—that probably would’ve come up by now. Mostly, Sam was just happy to still be employed.

  She hadn’t told Willy of Joe’s visit until early the next morning, and then only that he’d dropped by to tell her that their pursuit of Manny Ruiz had paid off. Willy, naturally, hadn’t completely missed the point. He’d responded, “I bet he wasn’t thrilled.” She hadn’t said he was wrong.

  But she’d also understood why Joe had made their conversation private. Willy hadn’t let Joe down—from the start of this investigation, Joe had made Willy’s job open-ended and nonspecific. Joe knew his man. He had hoped he’d known her, and that’s where she had dropped the ball.

  What troubled her, however, was less the actual transgression—Joe had dealt with that last night. It was more what had led up to it, which was more deep-seated in Sammie’s personal psychology. All he
r life, she’d had a self-destructive trait—in her willfulness as a child, her careless choice of men later, her volunteering for dangerous tasks in the military, and even in her decision to link her future with Willy Kunkle’s and have a child with him. Joe’s more hopeful view of her notwithstanding, her actions of a decade ago had been a typically rash example, and one she’d hoped had marked a turn toward more rational thinking.

  But what she’d just done—despite its successful conclusion, and Willy’s active role in it—raised doubts in her mind that she could rid herself of her own corrosive impulsiveness. Joe’s response had been thoughtful, supportive, and unequivocal, all at the same time. It had also made clear that she was no longer an irresponsible kid, and that he wasn’t the only person that she needed to impress and respect.

  When Sam drove up, Regina Rockefeller was in front of her battered Victorian, stabbing erratically at the snow on her top step with a rickety shovel. She was dressed in an odd assortment of clothes—clearly grabbed on the way out with no thought as to their originally intended use. She looked like a deranged stage actor impersonating a bag lady.

  “Welcome, welcome,” she called out cheerily as Sam picked her way carefully up the roughly hewn path. “You’ll have to excuse the minefield. I tell all my guests to make sure they’re wearing climbing gear when they visit. Not that they pay attention, of course, although if you think about it, most people around here tend to wear pretty practical foot gear, just out of habit. I notice you’re doing just that yourself, young lady, which I can only applaud.”

  Sam had gotten close enough by now to reach out and take the shovel. “Can I help? I’m pretty handy with one of these.”

  Looking up from her crooked stance, Regina flashed her a broad smile. “Well, I’m not going to say no. Generosity and good manners are a rare thing nowadays, and I won’t turn either one of them down. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. Young people these days seem to have much more on their minds than we did when I was their age. Back then, we were more concerned about society and parties and who was who on the social register. When I think back, I’m staggered by how much energy we wasted on snobbery and prejudice.”

  Through this and much, much more, Sammie merely applied her shoveling skills to the walkway, working her way slowly toward the street, Regina dogging her heels and talking nonstop. Given the inner dialog Sam had been suffering during the ninety-minute drive here, she was in fact relieved to coast along on the hard work and endless patter, finding both refreshingly therapeutic. By the time she’d heaved the last load of snow onto the buried lawn, she was feeling pretty much like her old self: employed, engaged, and forwardly mobile, her nagging self-doubts strung out behind her like cans trailing a newlywed couple’s escape car.

  Thoroughly warmed by her exercise, she leaned on the shovel and smiled down at the old lady, interrupting her in mid-sentence. “Ms. Rockefeller, I’m from the police. I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions.”

  Rockefeller laughed outright and seized the shovel to bring it back to the porch. “Good luck with that, young woman, I’m well known for not letting most people get a word in edgewise. I can’t understand that myself, since my mother used to say I was a good listener. As you can imagine, a compliment like that wouldn’t have been given to a blabbermouth. I personally can’t bear people who won’t shut up. That was one reason I so enjoyed having Susan as a renter. She was as quiet as a mouse.”

  And on it went, Rockefeller in the lead, bent over and shuffling in a pair of basketball sneakers, using the shovel as a cane, and Sammie behind her, taking in the bright blue sky and radiant if ineffectual sunshine, listening with the not-quite total inattention of a long-suffering sitcom spouse.

  Once inside, Sam began to overtalk Regina as she struggled to remove a few of the odds and ends she’d been wearing. Sam’s earlier hope that she might have better luck conducting this interview woman-to-woman had effectively been vaporized. “Ms. Rockefeller, as you know, we’re investigating Susan’s murder, and I wanted to let you know, first and foremost, how grateful we are for your help and cooperation so far.”

  By then, Regina’s patter had faded away as she’d realized Sammie was speaking. She dropped a shawl on the back of a nearby chair in the entrance to the ornate living room, and twisted her head around to fix her guest with an appraising look, revealing the intelligence lurking beneath her caricatured manner.

  “But you’d like to know something more,” she suggested.

  Sam smiled, impressed by the brevity. “Yes, we would. About the night this all happened—before Susan was found the following day.”

  Rockefeller blinked at her twice before saying, “Would you like some tea?”

  “No.”

  The terseness of Sam’s response stilled her for a moment. She then indicated one of the elaborately upholstered but worn armchairs near the darkened fireplace. “I’m sensing that the little-old-lady routine isn’t working with you. Have a seat.”

  Sam hesitated, her mouth half open. “It’s an act? Why, in God’s name?”

  Rockefeller walked to a chair and settled down with a sigh. It was evident only then that the curved back and hunched-over posture took a daily toll in discomfort. “Not an act; not really. I do like to talk, but it’s also a bit of a wall I put up. People see me—at my age, in this huge old house, renting out rooms—and they take liberties with their advice. My talking them half to death keeps them at bay.” She smiled impishly. “And I get to say almost anything I wish and get away with it.” She tapped her temple with a gnarled finger. “Only the polite ones think I’m eccentric. The rest consider me quite nutty.”

  Sammie sat opposite her. “Well, for what it’s worth, it’s working. One of the reasons I’m talking to you now is because nobody else felt up to it.”

  “Ah, yes.” She nodded enthusiastically. “The two young men. I thought I might have scared them off. Not that I have much to say. You do realize that, don’t you? I never would have been playful at the expense of finding Susan’s killer.”

  “Okay,” Sam asked her. “To that point, then: What did you see or hear that night, let’s say from dinnertime on?”

  Rockefeller looked mournful. “Not much. I assumed Susan was out of town, since I didn’t hear her usual back-and-forth. I don’t know if I mentioned it, but she and I share that front entrance you just shoveled out. Anne—the back renter—has her own door. That means I’m generally more aware of Susan’s comings and goings.”

  “But there was nothing that night?”

  The old woman hesitated. “Not nothing, exactly. In the middle of the night, there was some activity. I only heard it because at my age, I’m up every two hours to go pee, and I was sitting on the pot when someone came in, climbed the stairs, and went out again. I assumed it was Susan because only she and I have keys, and she was being very quiet, no doubt thinking I was asleep. At least, that’s what I thought. Do you think it was someone else?”

  Sam avoided answering. “Are you sure that Susan never had the key duplicated?” she asked. “Maybe for a close friend?”

  “Oh, no. We discussed that. I asked her specifically to let me know if she ever wanted another one made, and I also stressed that I didn’t give two hoots who she brought in to share her bed.” She glanced around. “Anything to give a little life to the old place.”

  “Did she have friends over?”

  Regina Rockefeller chuckled knowingly. “Lady friends, you mean? What we used to call bosom buddies?”

  “You knew she was gay?”

  “I wasn’t always the bag of bones you see now,” she countered, if a little obliquely.

  “Any men at all?”

  Rockefeller shook her head. “No—not that I ever saw. And not that many women, either.”

  “Did you know any of them?”

  Surprising Sam, Rockefeller’s face colored slightly. “Oh. Well, I guess it’s all right, considering what’s been in the papers. Still…”

  “The
governor?” Sam prompted her.

  She looked relieved. “Thank you. It was so awkward, seeing her here that one time. She was obviously uncomfortable. I felt for her.”

  “Fair to say that’s all in the past now,” Sam commented. “Who else besides the governor?”

  “There were maybe a couple of others—only one I met, but she was quite awhile ago.”

  “Can you describe her?”

  “Oh, goodness, no. I doubt I could describe you five minutes from now. I’m terrible with faces. I’m always asking people I know quite well what their names are.”

  “How ’bout how she struck you?” Sam asked. “Something about her that stayed in your mind?”

  “Just that they seemed to know each other well. They were laughing and joking like very good friends.”

  “Did they arrive in the woman’s car that you might’ve seen outside the window?”

  “No,” Regina said apologetically. “I’m afraid I took no notice. I’m feeling very useless to you with all this. I wish I could be more helpful.”

  “You’re doing fine, Ms. Rockefeller. It’s hard. Let’s go back to the night you heard someone come and go. Was Susan inclined to do that, ever? In the middle of the night?”

  “Oh, yes. It would happen now and then, especially when the legislature was in session. They work all hours sometimes, and I would hear her come in and out, I suppose to get some paperwork or something. I never asked.”

  “So you thought it was the same thing on the night we’re discussing?”

  But here Regina reflected before answering, “I did think so, but there was something…”

  “What?”

  “It’s hard to explain. As I said, I was in the bathroom when she climbed the stairs, but I’d finished when I heard her coming back down, so I walked over to the hallway door.…” She interrupted herself to point out a door opening onto the central hall. “I called her name just as I saw her back—or someone’s back—disappear into the front lobby, but she didn’t answer, and I heard the door slam instead.”

  “It didn’t look like her?” Sammie asked.

  Regina shook her head. “No, no. That’s not it. I couldn’t tell who it looked like, since it was too dark and too fast. No, what I mean is that Susan would have stopped and answered. You’ve heard my voice. It’s not the most delicate instrument in the whole world. But the other thing is that the door actually slammed. Susan would never do that. Remember what I said about her? Quiet as a mouse. That included how she shut the door.”