Murder by Design Trilogy

by Mary Jane Forbes

  “Hey, something the matter, honey?”

  “I’ll tell you over dinner.”

  Gilly dropped her bag with school books, notepad, and assignment sheets on the table in the guesthouse and then walked quickly to the main house to help her mom set the table.

  In short order, the family gathered at the table. Tea was poured, baked potatoes and green beans passed along with the platter of burgers, melted cheese on top. The Wilder’s had decided to substitute the burger buns for one of Anne’s desserts. Gramps slathered his burger with ketchup and took a bite. “Mighty fine. Best ever. Okay, Gilly, your Mom tells me you called us together for a summit.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it a summit. I just want to pass along some information and see how we want to handle it … if at all.” Coco, the family’s tabby cat, circled Gilly’s feet and then returned to the patio and the remaining spot of sun.

  “Come on, Gilly, the suspense is killing me,” Anne said, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “Did any of you know the Stanleys’ house was broken into? A couple of nights ago?”

  “No, but we never met them and I haven’t been down to the General Store in … in maybe five days,” Gramps said. “Do the police know who did it?”

  “Not yet, but Skip thinks it’s tied to that dead guy. And … he thinks this house may be next.”

  Will and Anne’s forks stopped in mid-air, eyebrows raised.

  “Why ever would that young man suggest such a thing?” Anne asked.

  “Because,” Gramps answered. “The man who called himself John asked me for directions to the Stanleys’, and, according to Mr. Hunter’s article in the Seattle Times, the Stanleys had never heard of him.”

  “So, Dad, you’re giving credence to what this Skip fellow said?” Will asked stabbing a green bean.

  “Yup. I think I do.”

  “Well, then you’ll just have to come stay with us for awhile,” Anne said taking a bite of potato. “At least until the police or this reporter come up with some answers.”

  “Anne, you don’t have room. I’ll be fine. Pass those spuds, please.”

  “She’s right given all the circumstances,” Will said. “Except we’re going to come here. Anne and Gilly will take the spare bedroom and I’ll sleep on the couch. I dare anyone to break in. And, this little arrangement starts tonight.”

  Gilly brushed by her grandfather’s chair and kissed him on the cheek. “I love you, Gramps.”

  “I love you too, sweetie,” he replied patting her arm. “Now don’t you worry about me. By the way, you left that mannequin out the other day … about scared the life out of me.”

  Everyone chuckled as Gilly brought her mother’s triple-layer chocolate cake to the table and handed her the knife. “If it’s okay with you, Mom, I’m going to ask Skip Hunter to lunch over here on Thursday. I want to hear, exactly, everything he knows about this, this murder as he calls it.”

  The dinner conversation turned to Gilly. She spent the next half hour over cake and tea filling her family in on her exciting, yet exhausting, first day of school. She kept her eye on her dad, as she related what she had learned. Was he happy for her—maybe not. Gramps on the other hand was hanging on her every word.

  The dishwasher loaded, Gilly gave her mom a hug. “You outdid yourself with that cake. I’m going up to the guesthouse—do some sketching on my first project for Monday.”

  “That was quite a first day you had—collections, competition, and a new friend. What was her name again?”

  “Maria Delgado. Italian?”

  “More like Spanish,” Anne replied.

  Gilly passed the room Gramps called his den. He was bent over his table with a gun in his hand and another lying in front of him.

  “Gramps, what are you doing?”

  “Cleaning a couple of guns. Haven’t oiled em up for a long time.”

  “I didn’t know you had a gun, let alone two.” Gilly sidled up to her grandfather, arms across her chest.

  “Your grandmother didn’t like having them around, so you never saw them. This is a nice pistol, classic Smith and Wesson. Here, get the heft of it.” Gramps handed it to Gilly. She lifted it up and down a couple of times.

  “Not too heavy.”

  “Does dad know about these?”

  “Know? He went hunting with me many times. Bagged a big old duck once with that rifle. That was some dinner.”

  “Gramps, was that the time you and dad looked guilty when I asked what we were eating? You said it was a small turkey. Tell me it wasn’t Daffy Duck.” Her green eyes looked deep into his blue ones, hands on her hips.

  “Coulda been,” he said chuckling.

  “So you’re cleaning them up. Then what?”

  “Thought I’d do a little target practice up in the raspberries. I’ll put a can on one of the end posts the berries lean against.”

  “Maybe you could teach me how to shoot.”

  Chapter 15

  ───

  SACCO SLOWLY PADDED DOWN the tile hallway in the Wellington mansion to his suite of rooms. His squeaky crepe shoes the only sound in the dim passage. It had been a long day and he was tired of cajoling the Wellington staff to do his bidding. He was their boss and he wished they would respect that fact. Over the last three hours, a pasted smile on his face, he had managed to delegate the tasks from the list Wellington had given him that morning. All he wanted now was a martini, his soft couch, and to watch Fight Night on ESPN, in that order.

  The first sip of his extra large cocktail was the best—a fat olive lay in the bottom of the glass marinating. It would be his prize before calling it a night and crawling into bed.

  His eyes snapped open.

  “What was that? Must have dozed off.” A referee standing in the center of the ring held up the arm of a bloody fighter. The winner.

  The phone rang again. Struggling to his slipper-clad feet, he shuffled to his little kitchen, fingers touching a cold, wet spot on his T-shirt.

  “Shit, spilled my drink. Hello.”

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  “Lester, I told you, never call me on this phone. What’s the matter with you?” he hissed in a whisper.

  “So, well, I have some news—good and not so good.”

  “What is it and make it fast.”

  “I searched Carlson’s condo and—

  “You break in?” Sacco closed his eyes, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “I have his key, remember? Let’s say I paid a visit on our old pal. Came up empty—no sign of the gold, but I did find something of interest, at least it might prove to be of interest.”

  “Go on and hurry up.”

  “Okay, okay. He had speared a sheet of paper on his desk—you know, the thing with a long nail sticking up from a base.”

  “So?”

  “So, it was a contract with a receipt stapled to it.”

  “So! What’s so interesting about a contract?”

  “Don’t get cranky with me. I’m doing all the work while you lounge around in that palace.”

  “Palace? I have a couple of little rooms. Now, go on.”

  “It was a receipt for a storage locker. In Edmonds. For one month. And, you’ll never guess the date stamp?”

  “You’re right. I’ll never guess. What was it?”

  “8:15 a.m. Two days before our big day. Which means, the double-crossing son-of-a-bitch paid for the locker before the heist. Locker #719 … it was printed right there on his receipt.”

  “But you said you followed him. He didn’t go to any storage place.”

  “I said, if you were listening, I tried to follow him, but I lost him. You really do have to do something about your failing memory. There are drugs now for Alzheimer’s you know,” Lester snapped.

  “There’s nothing wrong with my memory just your stupid stories.”

  “Hold on a minute, I’m not finished. I drove over to the storage company printed on the receipt—you know, to check it out.”

/>   “And?”

  “And, here’s the not so good news. There’s a very high, very very high chain-link fence with a gate.”

  “Come on—did you get in?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. That gate was shut tighter than Fort Knox. Hey, that’s pretty funny—gold, Fort Knox.”

  “I’m not laughing. How do we get through the gate to check if he put the gold in the locker?”

  “That’s just it—there’s a keypad. You have to know the code.”

  “Shit, how’re we going to find that?”

  “You know, partner, I think we have to change the cut from fifty-fifty to sixty-forty. Sixty to me considering all my detective work.”

  “Don’t be greedy, Lester. I did all the upfront stuff. Without Jack, we split fifty-fifty. Now how do we find the code?”

  Lester laughed so hard, Sacco had to pull the phone away from his ear. “You’ll never guess.”

  “Stop playing games!” Sacco leaned his head against the wall.

  “No game. The code is written on the receipt. Right there on the receipt in red ink.”

  “On the receipt? Did you try it?”

  “Yup, and that gate drew back slick as you please.”

  “Did you go in? Lester, are you telling me you have the gold?”

  “Well, now, that’s the bad news. Locker #719 is truly locked tighter than any old fort Knox. We have to have the key to the locker. And, get this, we only have ninety days. Then the contents go up for auction—mid December, the fourteenth to be exact if I’m figuring it right—he paid one month and we know he’s not going to be paying any more rent.”

  “The key. Did you find the key?” Sacco’s voice rose—maybe he had a chance to recover the gold.

  “That’s the really bad news. I looked everywhere. Believe me, if that key was in his condo I would’ve found it. Of course, I already searched that guy’s car who gave him a ride off the ferry that night, and the house that the stupid reporter mentioned in his article. But, I didn’t know what I was looking for then. I was just trying to find anything that would lead to the gold—hell, they could have been accomplices. I didn’t know about the key. Maybe I should revisit those two places. Then there’s that old man the reporter mentioned—where Jack had a cup of tea. What a picture that is. That lush Jack drinking a cup of tea.” Lester chuckled.

  “This isn’t funny, Lester. Don’t do anything else until we think this over. Who knows, maybe the reporter will dig us up a lead … a lead to that key.”

  Lester laughed hard. “Oh, that would be priceless.”

  Chapter 16

  ───

  A SENSE OF UNEASE permeated the Wellington household. Philip Wellington was sure his life would never be normal again. All of his planning and labor building his Montana cattle ranch into a lucrative business were for what? For nothing! At the time people had seen him as a cowboy not a savvy businessman. A cattleman, he believed in physical labor and not the vagaries of the stock market. He had steadfastly invested every extra dollar in gold bullion. Wealth he could see, hold, feel.

  Now he felt violated as detectives roamed every inch of his precious mansion dusting for fingerprints, taking picture ID’s of all his staff—pictures coupled with their fingerprints. The information was added to his wife’s gallery of employee pictures she had maintained over the years. The police and the insurance company had interrogated everyone working in the building on the day of the heist. Then they moved on, questioning all who were in his employ—men and women.

  No cameras were installed inside the premises. Videos from cameras positioned around the estate were scrutinized to no avail. They were out of commission during the robbery—several hours before and after. No alarms were tripped. The insurance company and the police were convinced it was an inside job. But who? How?

  Gerald Sacco, Estate Manager, was questioned extensively.

  The Seattle Times crime reporter, Lance Penn, followed in the footsteps of the police and had personally questioned most of the employees including Sacco. Penn didn’t have much to report but managed to keep the sensational heist on the front page of the newspaper for the first week and updates in the Sunday paper, page three, lower-right thumb column.

  Sacco was cool, calm, cooperative whenever he was questioned. But inside his nerves were raw. His inner voice continually questioning why he had ever agreed to be a partner in the heist. Of course, he knew the answer. His gambling debts had spiraled up at an alarming rate. He had to alleviate the pressure. He was being hounded, blackmailed with threats of exposure. Wellington had scads of money. He’d never notice a few thousand missing here and there.

  But a few thousand would only be a down payment on what Sacco owed. Before his crisis, he had planned to quit his job, fly to Brazil, retire in style. Now, he’d be lucky if he made it to San Diego, skid row. The last round of questioning by the police had stirred up his ulcer burning in his gut. The only way to quell the fire was to find the gold. He could see it—seventeen crates, each a hundred pounds—close to forty-five-million dollars at today’s spot price of $1619 per ounce. His gut tightened. The internal flame roared. He had to do something to put out the fire.

  Pulling his cell out of his pocket, he retrieved a number.

  “Lester. Where are you?”

  “At Jake’s. Waterfront. Drowning my sorrow as to what might have been. Where you?”

  “Sitting in my room. What did you find out about the locker, the storage company?”

  “Well, unless you want the police to open the damn thing, we’re nowhere.” He laughed. “Can’t you just see a cop opening that storage locker to find millions in gold bars.”

  “This isn’t funny, Lester. I asked you about the storage company.”

  “Well, I went back and showed the facility manager the receipt, told her I couldn’t find the key, and otherwise tried to talk her into opening the damn locker,” Lester replied.

  “Did she budge?”

  “Are you kidding? She turned nasty. Said I was wasting her time that there wasn’t anything she could do. I had to have the code and the key or no dice. She did say maybe the owners of the company would go along with a police warrant to get inside. But, I didn’t think we’d want to take the chance that the loot would be laying there so I backed off. We have until December fourteenth, then the locker is opened and whatever is there is sold at auction.”

  Neither man spoke, tension and heavy breathing filling the silence.

  “We have to find the key. I just hope the cops don’t connect us to the robbery,” Lester said.

  “We have to get in that locker. You seem to be good at breaking and entering. Come up with something,” Sacco said wincing. He lifted the highball glass to his lips taking another swallow of scotch and jamming his cell shut. “Connect us to the robbery? Sure, like I’d let that happen.”

  Chapter 17

  ───

  IT WAS 2:10 A.M. when the banging of the trashcan woke Will and Gramps. They raced for the patio turning on lights as they ran. Gramps hit the switch for the floodlights around the back and front of the house. Armed with flashlights, the men walked around the perimeter of the house. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

  The next morning, they went out to take another look in the light of day.

  “Look at this, Dad,” Will said squatting down by the flowerbed. “Footprints by these chrysanthemums. Some have been trampled.”

  “Yes, I see … son, I don’t feel so hot.” Gramps crumpled to the ground holding his chest.

  “Anne,” Will shouted. “Call 9-1-1.”

  “What …” Anne rushed out the patio door. Seeing her husband kneeling beside Gramps, she raced back in the house and called the emergency number. Not missing a beat, she called the neighbor, Dr. Patel, who lived a few houses down the road.

  Dr. Patel arrived first and found Gramps sitting up on the grass, Gilly kneeling beside him, and Anne holding a glass of water.

  “Doc, he must have fainted but only
for a few seconds,” Will said escorting Patel to his dad.

  “Okay, let me talk to him.” Dr. Patel sat on the grass next to his neighbor. “So, Clay, you gave your family a scare. How are you feeling?”

  “Just fine. I don’t know what all the fuss is about. Just couldn’t catch my breath for a minute.”

  A medical van turned into the driveway and parked alongside Dr. Patel’s car.

  “Now look what you’ve done,” Gramps chuckled. “I’ll be the talk of the town at the coffee shop this morning. I’ll—

  “Oh, no you don’t, Dad. No coffee with your buddies today,” Will said.

  The medics did a quick check. Sitting on the grass next to Gramps, they told him his pulse was strong but that he should see his doctor today if possible.

  Dr. Patel left and the medics walked Gramps into the house and saw him safely into his easy chair. Anne and Will escorted them to their van asking for instructions over the next few hours until he saw his doctor in Port Gamble. The driver told them he was probably fine but shortness of breath could be an indication of something more serious. They suggested he have a complete physical including an EKG.

  Gilly, a mug of coffee in her hand, stood outside at the edge of the bank looking over the sound, a tear meandering down her cheek. She was going to be late to her last classes for the week.

  “O’Malley, what would I do if something happened to Gramps? He’s my rock, always supportive, always there for me.”

  “Aye, Lass. Sometimes we don’t know how lucky we are.”

  Chapter 18

  ───

  SQUAWKING, SPLASHING, DIVING seagulls fought for their morning catch. Ignoring the gulls’ wakeup call, Gilly snuggled deeper under the covers. Her foot nudged Coco also burrowed under the warmth of the bedcovers. Only the tip of her tail was visible, giving a slight twitch in recognition her mistress was awake.