by Cassie Miles
He collapsed facedown across the table. His shoulders trembled as he silently wept.
She came around beside him and rested her hand on his back. “You can’t blame yourself.”
“My Dorothy,” he whispered in a barely audible voice. “My darling, my love. My Dorothy committed suicide.”
Chapter Ten
Vanessa had been standing at her bedroom window looking out at the sheen of moonlight on the face of the Hag Stone while she recited this part of the story for Ty. Though Simon had told her about the great tragedy of his life hours ago, his words still echoed in her head. “Suicide,” she said. “My aunt Dorothy killed herself.”
She whirled and faced Ty who sat in her desk chair with his long legs stretched out in front of him. They’d both been biding their time until he returned to the Castle for his late-night guard duty. As soon as he’d checked in with his deputies, he came to her room. She’d expected him to look tired, but he didn’t show the signs of exhaustion. He must have used his time away from the Castle to go home and nap, which was smart. She should have done the same instead of relying on nervous energy to keep herself alert.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I guess so. But suicide?”
“Are you sure?”
“Doc Ingram did the autopsy. He verified suicide by gunshot wound to the head. It’s hard to believe.”
“Did you know Dorothy well?”
“Not really.”
From her dim memories and her father’s recollections, Vanessa had the impression that Dorothy had been a strong, willful woman who knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to go after it. In photographs, she looked confident with her chin lifted and her gaze directly facing the camera.
“I’m guessing there’s more to this story,” he said. “What else did Simon tell you?”
“He didn’t want to see the remains.”
“I understand,” Ty said. “Her body was exposed to the elements for months, and the scavengers would have picked the bones. When I was working for Search and Rescue, we advised the survivors to think long and hard before making the decision to view the body. Sometimes, it’s less painful to remember your loved one in better circumstances.”
She agreed. One of the reasons she was glad her father decided on cremation was because she couldn’t bear to see him lying helpless in a coffin, ravaged by the cancer that had reduced his once vigorous physique to skin and bones. It wasn’t fair that her last image of him would be so sad. “Simon didn’t have her cremated. Her bones were sealed in a small wooden box.”
“Was there a suicide note?” Ty asked.
“I asked about that, and Simon said no.”
“There are lots of reasons why it wouldn’t be found. If she’d taken a note outside, it could have been destroyed in the weather. Or if she left it somewhere in the house, it could have been misplaced.”
“Anyway,” she said with a sigh, “Keith Gable was the person who stepped up and took care of things after they found the remains. He and Doc Ingram came to the Castle and told Simon that DNA testing had been done, and Dorothy’s death was labeled suicide. She shot herself in the head.” She remembered how miserable Simon had looked when he told her. Even now, twelve years later, his eyes were red-rimmed, and his lower lip trembled. “He was heartbroken.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t know about the suicide. After all, you’re Dorothy’s niece.”
“Simon wanted to keep it quiet. He felt guilty on several levels, blamed himself for her unhappiness and thought he should have been more attentive. I was in college and hadn’t seen her or Simon in years. I didn’t attend the memorial service, which was held after Christmas before the body was discovered.”
She should have gone to the memorial as a representative of the Whitman family. Dad had been out of the country; he didn’t make it, either. A few years ago, when he knew his cancer was terminal, they talked about his early years with Dorothy. He respected his older sister and resented her at the same time because she was the eldest and, therefore, claimed control over the family’s wealth after their parents died.
“Her suicide would have been reported on official documents,” Ty said. “George Ingram as coroner had to state the cause of death. It wasn’t a secret.”
“You’re right.” She crossed the room and hopped up on the desk beside him. “As soon as I did some poking around, I would have found the facts. It doesn’t seem like Dorothy’s suicide is connected to Bethany’s murder or to the stalker.”
“But why would the stalker creep into her sewing room.” He stuck his hand into his pocket and pulled out the locket in the evidence bag. “And why was Bethany holding this when she died?”
“We need more research,” she said. “We have to keep looking.”
“Here’s a thought.” He tilted his head to look up at her. “Suicide usually negates the payout on insurance policies. Could someone have faked the suicide to cheat Simon out of his inheritance?”
“That’s the first time I’ve heard of somebody faking a suicide.”
“It’s a stretch,” he said.
“And it doesn’t apply. When they found the remains, Simon and Keith were already on the verge of starting the Simple Simon’s franchise restaurants. He used the Castle and other properties as collateral for loans.”
“Still, it might be worthwhile to check into those old insurance policies and Aunt Dorothy’s will. Simon might be heartbroken, but money is still a motive.” As he rose to his feet, he dropped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her off the desk. “Let’s go search that mysterious sewing room.”
She snuggled against his chest. They fit together nicely with her head nestled in the crook of his neck. “And what will we be looking for?”
“We’ll know when we see it.”
When he gave her a squeeze, she lingered, hoping for more. Like it or not, there was a relationship developing between them.
* * *
TY PAUSED OUTSIDE the locked door to Aunt Dorothy’s room. Yellow crime scene tape crisscrossed on the door frame. He dug into one of the pouches on his utility belt and took out two pairs of blue latex gloves and two sets of disposable booties. “We’ve got to wear these. The CBI forensic team has already processed the room, and I don’t want to contaminate.”
“Did they find anything?”
“The only fingerprints were from Mona. There were smudges, probably left behind by the stalker who was wearing gloves. Other than that, spotless.”
“And how do we get inside?”
He tried the handle and the door opened easily. “I guess the CBI doesn’t consider this to be important evidence. Try not to tear down the tape.”
She ducked between the yellow strips, and he followed. Inside the sewing room, he closed the door and turned on the overhead light. The room was large but not massive with a smooth-topped square table in the center and the actual sewing machine at a long table under a pegboard array of different colored thread in a spectrum from red to violet. The atmosphere was feminine, efficient and somewhat weird with two mannequin dummy torsos standing together near the window as though they were peeking out at the forested hillsides.
If he hadn’t known Vanessa and Dorothy were related, he could have guessed at the connection from the organized arrangement of the sewing room. “Do you remember this place from when you were a kid?”
“I loved playing in here while Aunt Dorothy sewed.”
Vanessa stood before a wall of bins. Each space was filled with see-through plastic containers. Some held equipment, like scissors, bobbins and tape measures. Other boxes—in several different sizes—were for zippers or patterns or smaller containers filled with buttons. Most were for fabric in different colors and textures.
The layout was impressive, and it was obvious that Vanessa approved. She tapped with her fingers in blue latex gloves on one box
after another and mumbled descriptions that he didn’t understand, like chartreuse charmeuse and Pepto-pink chiffon. He heard her humming as she approached the huge closet along another wall. Inside the hanging space were several garment bags—all clear plastic. Vanessa unzipped one and stepped back to admire the slinky sequined midnight blue dress inside.
“Dorothy would have looked gorgeous in this,” she murmured. “The only thing she enjoyed about formal events was the chance to get all dressed up. I’ll bet she was working on this for the Annual Ski Ball at the start of the season in Aspen.”
Preparing an outfit for a fancy event didn’t sound like the action of a woman who was contemplating suicide. He rapped on the table in the center of the room. “What’s this used for?”
“Take a guess.” She grinned. “And here’s a clue. It’s not for autopsies.”
“I know that.” He would have recognized an autopsy table, which was usually stainless steel with gutters on each side to catch the blood. “But this table could be used for dissection.”
“Aunt Dorothy would never allow messy body parts to clutter her room. She didn’t even allow peanut butter snacks in here.” She pulled open a drawer and took out a pair of scissors with a jagged edge. “Guess again.”
“Deformed scissors?”
“Pinking shears.” She returned them to their drawer and embraced the table from end to end. “This is a cutting table for laying out patterns and trimming edges. The last time I saw it, Dorothy was finishing the green-and-blue-patterned quilt in my bedroom.”
For the first time, he had a sense of Vanessa being connected to the legendary Whitman family. She and Aunt Dorothy had been cut from the same cloth, and that unintentional pun made him wonder. From what he knew about Vanessa during the last few years, she’d been through hell. Had she ever thought of killing herself like Aunt Dorothy?
“Are you ever depressed?” he asked.
“Everybody gets blue. Why do you ask?”
Since he didn’t have psychological training on profiling, Ty had to just come out and say what he was thinking. “I’ve heard that some types of behavior have a genetic cause, like alcoholism or addiction. And this room makes me think you’re very similar to your aunt.”
“Okay.”
Her gaze was doubtful and sort of confused. He wasn’t doing a good job of explaining. His tongue felt too thick for his mouth, and his words were clumsy. No point in sugarcoating, he cleared his throat. “Have you ever thought of killing yourself?”
“Of course not.” Her dark eyes flared. She slammed the pinking shears drawer in front of her, pivoted and steamed away from the cutting table to pace around the room. When she stopped in front of the dummy torsos, he thought she might attack them like punching bags.
She glared at him. “You might think that because we lived in a castle, the Whitman family is too rich and entitled to deal with real life, but you’d be wrong. I come from generations of strong women and men who made their way in the west when everything was against them. We don’t quit. And we don’t give up.”
“What really happened to Aunt Dorothy?” he asked.
“I can’t imagine that she took a gun and blew her brains out.” She gasped and her eyes went wide as she stared at him. “Wait! I remember something. This might be important.”
Vanessa dove into the closet and shoved the garment bags aside, revealing a small built-in wall safe with a combination lock. She leaned down and spun the dial. With little hesitation, she flipped from one number to the next.
“How are you remembering this?” he asked.
“It’s my birthday.”
She and her aunt had a deeper bond than first suggested. He supposed that it made sense. Dorothy had been childless and in her forties, married to an ambitious man who sometimes acted like a child himself. Vanessa would have been an adorable little girl to dress in ruffles and bows. “What’s in the safe?”
“I’m hoping to find documents,” she said. “Maybe the insurance policy or her will. She also kept her handgun in here. A Walther PPK like James Bond.”
When the final number clicked and she reached for the handle, he stopped her. “Hold on. I want to document this.” He aimed the camera on his phone. “Open it.”
She tugged on the handle, and the door swung open. Inside were two boxes: one for jewelry and a gun case. Vanessa removed the jewelry box, which held a few classic pieces with glittering diamonds and rubies set in white gold. “The only time I saw her wear these was at a rodeo where the gems were totally inappropriate and very cool.”
“Why would she do that?”
“She told me that one of the new residents intended to race a thoroughbred and trounce all the locals. The diamonds and rubies were her way of reminding people that new people were always welcome but the Whitman family reigned supreme from the Castle.”
She had a strange upbringing. On one hand, she’d been taught that she wasn’t entitled to special privilege. On the other, she should think of herself as local royalty. Then her parents left, and Vanessa was just another kid on a playground.
He nodded toward the gun case. “Open it.”
“I expect it to be empty.” She flipped the latch. “If Dorothy committed suicide, this would be the weapon she used.”
But the Walther PPK was still in the case.
“Don’t touch it,” he cautioned. “There might be prints.”
“This gun is more evidence that Dorothy didn’t commit suicide. If she intended to kill herself, why not use her own weapon? Why leave it here?”
“In twelve years,” he said, “no one found the weapon. Why not?”
“I have an answer. I was the only one who knew about the safe. That’s why the combination was my birthday.”
“We need to dig deeper. Before I present this information to Morris tomorrow morning, I want as much detail as possible. Put the gun and jewelry back the way you found them, and let’s go through the rest of the room.”
Dorothy’s intense organization made it easier to search. They could easily shuffle through the contents of each bin. With no extra clutter to distract, the contents of each drawer were obvious. Vanessa added her own commentary about what the fabrics had been used to create and the best technique for zippers, but he was focused. And his diligence paid off.
He held up a five-by-eight spiral notebook. “I’ve seen something like this before. On the desk in your office.”
“To-do lists,” Vanessa said. “I’d forgotten that Dorothy was the one who got me started on that habit. List the main jobs to accomplish day by day. The back is for ongoing projects.”
He held the book out of her reach. “Do you always cross out every item on your list?”
“Mostly, but I’m not a fanatic about it. These detailed lists were more important when I was teaching school. When Dad was sick, the lists got chaotic. I’d make a detailed plan, then he’d need an immediate procedure.”
“You started making lists again.”
“When I took the job as Simon’s ghost, and I also have a calendar with deadlines.” She snatched the book from him and started thumbing through the pages. “She’s got a lot of info on the Aspen Ski Ball. Apparently, Dorothy was in charge of the silent auction.”
Ty read over her shoulder. These notations described the life of a woman who was socially active and had a full life. He didn’t see a hint of depression or the kind of deep sadness he would associate with suicide.
Vanessa flipped to the back and pointed emphatically to the last few pages. “Do you see what this is? It’s the start of a list for Christmas presents. The plan of a suicidal woman? I don’t think so.”
“Hold up the book so I can take a picture. We’re not removing it from this room.” He’d already swiped the locket. If he tampered with more evidence, Morris might shut him out of the investigation altogether.
Vanessa
replaced the notebook on a stand beside the sewing machine and went to a bulletin board with several photographs pinned haphazardly. “I’m surprised to see so many photos of me.”
She was a cute kid with her golden hair pulled back in braids or ponytails. A constellation of freckles dotted her cheeks. Even in a photograph, she looked like she was in motion—the kind of kid who was always dashing from place to place and back again.
“That’s me in a Halloween costume, dressed like a green Martian.” She pointed to the pictures, one after another. “There’s me in a dress that Dorothy made. And that one is my Little Britches rodeo costume.”
She unpinned one from the board and held it. “This is Dad and Dorothy. They were probably eight and eleven. They’re standing by the gravestone of Mr. Fluffball, a yellow cat.”
“They decorated it with yellow graffiti paint and blue flowers.”
“There’s a whole story about their journey to transport Fluffball to his final resting place and digging the grave and Fluffball’s funeral. Dad wrote a poem about that day.”
When she looked up at him, a tear slipped over her eyelid and down her cheek. “That’s the place, Ty. Fluffball’s grave, that’s where I need to scatter Dad’s ashes.”
“That feels right to me.”
She sighed. “Feels like I’m finally coming home.”
Chapter Eleven
After spending the night on patrol in the Castle and catching an early morning nap in one of the spare bedrooms, Ty brushed his teeth, splashed water on his face and went downstairs. Though it was only a few minutes after six o’clock, one of his deputies was already at a table in the breakfast room, drinking coffee and casting longing glances toward the kitchen.
Ty filled his mug. “What do you think, McNally? Is breakfast today going to be as good as yesterday?”
“I’m hoping.” He was a single guy, skinny as a stick. Women loved to feed him. “Mona said it was empanadas, frittatas and fruit salad.”
