by J A Whiting
When the shop closed for the day, Claire and her friends cleaned up and prepared batter for some cakes and some dough for the next day’s breads.
Standing at the counter adding ingredients to a big bowl, Robby brought up the Wilby case. “When you went with Ian to see John Wilby, did you bring up the discrepancies he mentioned to police after his mother disappeared?”
“We didn’t,” Claire said. “Ian wanted to save those questions for the next interview.”
“What discrepancies?” Nicole formed some dough into a log and began to slice it into pieces.
Robby clarified, “John told the police his mother’s car was in the church parking lot and he said his father kicked the cat. The car wasn’t in that lot, and the family didn’t own a cat so what was he talking about?”
Nicole arranged the slices on a baking sheet. “Did the police point those things out to the little boy?”
“They did,” Robby said. “But John kept saying the same things … Daddy kicked the cat … Mommy’s car is at the church.”
“Was there a neighbor’s cat that used to come to their house?” Claire questioned.
Robby shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Claire slipped a cake into the oven. “Cheryl’s car was never found, right?”
“It wasn’t. It never turned up.”
“That’s very odd, isn’t it?” Nicole asked. “Where could it be?
“Someone could have driven it off a cliff or into the ocean,” Claire thought of possibilities. “The killer could have given it to someone to strip it apart and sell or destroy the parts. It probably isn’t that hard to get rid of a car when you want it to disappear.”
Robby looked over at the women. “And especially if you know the right people.”
Claire stopped what she was doing at the sink. “You think the killer had help getting rid of the car?”
“And the body, too, maybe,” Robby said.
Claire blinked. “Then there’s someone out there who knows who the killer is.”
“It might be worth investigating that scenario,” Robby suggested. “You never know whose lips might be looser than they were twenty-five years ago. Maybe you should visit your good friend, Bob Cooney. He knows an awful lot about Boston’s history.”
Bob Cooney was in his mid to late fifties, was thin, fit, and wiry, and had a headful of jet black hair that Claire was sure was dyed. Impeccably stylish, Cooney was a former private investigator who was known for his well-paying, shady dealings. The man had his fingers on the pulse of business in the city, and if he didn’t know something, he knew someone who did. Several times, Cooney had given Claire some helpful information about a crime she was working on … for which she’d had to pay him quite a hefty sum.
Claire sighed. “Cooney isn’t my good friend. We’re occasional business associates. And despite his poor reputation, I can’t forget that he did give me good safety advice a couple of times.”
“So he isn’t all bad.” Thinking about the man caused Nicole to turn up her nose. “Only ninety-nine percent bad.”
“I’ll talk to Ian about this.” Claire poured batter into muffin tins. “It’s an important point to consider. The killer may have had help getting rid of the body and Cheryl’s car. Hiding or destroying the car made it look like Cheryl could have driven off and gone into hiding.”
“I suppose it’s possible that’s what Cheryl did,” Nicole surmised. “She may have driven off and made a new life in a faraway city.”
Leaning back against the counter, Claire sighed. “No. She didn’t.”
“Oh.” Nicole glanced across the room at her friend. “You feel that she’s dead?”
Claire nodded. “John said his father hurt Cheryl, but there wasn’t any blood in the kitchen.”
“Couldn’t the killer have cleaned up the blood?” Nicole questioned.
“I guess so, but wouldn’t a little boy have seen it? Wouldn’t that stand out in a small child’s mind?”
“The killer could have hit Cheryl in the head making her pass out,” Robby said. “There may not have been any blood, but the blow would make Cheryl fall to the ground. It seems plausible since John told police that his daddy hurt his mommy and she fell to the ground. John might have seen Jackson strike Cheryl. Then he saw her passed out on the kitchen floor.”
“That makes sense,” Nicole nodded.
“Then Jackson took John into the living room and told him to stay on the sofa and not get up,” Claire said. “John cried himself to sleep and when he woke up, his aunt was there to take him to her house. Jackson didn’t call the police about his wife. It was the aunt who called the police, two hours after Cheryl supposedly left the house.”
“What was Jackson doing for two hours?” Nicole had her hand on her hip.
“He claims he was waiting for her to come home,” Claire told them. “Then Jackson left his son and infant daughter alone in the house when he decided to go look for Cheryl. When the aunt arrived, Jackson was out looking for his wife. But I have a feeling that Jackson knew exactly where Cheryl was.”
“Yeah,” Robby agreed. “Wherever he dumped her.”
5
Claire and Ian’s ring of the bell brought a middle-aged woman wearing a crisp gray dress, white apron, and black shoes to the massive front door. When they explained who they were, the woman nodded her head and led the couple into the foyer and down a long hallway to a library.
Jackson Wilby’s home was an imposing fifteen-thousand-square-foot brick mansion with two wings on either side of the main house set on four acres of rolling green hills. When Claire and Ian drove up the long driveway, their jaws dropped at the sight of the palace before them.
“Teddy was a wealthy man,” Claire told Ian as they were getting out of the SUV. “But he never spent money on things like this. He was a modest person not inclined to being boastful or extravagant. I’m not faulting Jackson Wilby ... just making a comparison. Everyone spends on the things they need and the things that bring them joy.”
The mansion’s foyer was as big as Claire’s entire townhouse and had a carved wooden staircase curving up to the second floor balcony, a massive sparkling chandelier hanging from the two-story entry, expensive plush area rugs set over the wood floors, paintings on the walls, and carefully-selected furniture that gave the impression of wealth and class.
Jackson Wilby, dressed in a long-sleeved white shirt with an open collar and tailored navy blue slacks, entered the fire-placed library that had huge windows looking out at the gorgeous gardens and lush green lawns, and he shook hands with Ian and Claire.
Six feet tall, Wilby was sixty years old, trim with broad-shoulders, and had a head of light blond hair that was slowly turning gray.
Even though she didn’t think Wilby would remember meeting her several years ago, Claire had pulled her hair back into a tight bun and had on black-rimmed eyeglasses to keep her identity harder to recall.
When Ian introduced Claire, he used her maiden name. “This is our part-time police consultant, Claire Parker.”
The three of them took seats in dark brown leather chairs set near the fireplace.
“Thanks for meeting with us. We appreciate your time,” Ian told the man.
“I’m happy to help, if I can.” Wilby looked comfortable and confidant in his chair, his elbows on the arms of the seat, his hands lightly held together with his index fingers pointing upwards.
“As you know, the case into your former wife’s disappearance has been reopened,” Ian explained.
A cloud seemed to pass over Wilby’s face, but it was gone in less than a second.
“Yes, I heard that it had.” The man tapped his fingers together several times.
“We understand your son recently won a civil case against you for wrongful death.” Ian brought up John’s suit that claimed his father was negligent in his mother’s death.
Wilby slowly shook his head with a disappointed look on his face. “It will be going through the appeal process.�
�� His dismissive manner made it clear that he was in disagreement with the outcome. The man forced a smile. “Just because Cheryl’s body hasn’t been found, it doesn’t mean she’s dead. If she isn’t dead, then how can I be guilty of wrongful death? John is clutching at straws trying to get back at me for something he believes I did, with no proof of anything. It’s foolishness. I don’t want to imply that John is a gold digger, but really? If I wasn’t a man of means would he have brought such a legal action against me? It hurts me to have to go through this.”
Wilby really didn’t look like someone who’d been hurt by what his offspring had done to him. He looked like it was barely a minor annoyance.
“I understand,” Ian said sympathetically. “Do you see John?”
“I don’t. We’re estranged from one another. Believe me, I tried at the beginning, but I believe Cheryl’s family poisoned my son and daughter against me. I had to let go of any hope of a relationship.” Wilby sighed heavily. “I lost my wife, my daughter, and my son.”
“Can you walk us through the day?” Ian asked while Claire took some notes on her laptop.
“You know it’s been twenty-five years ago?” Wilby reminded them.
“I know that, yes.”
“The mind does strange things with long-ago information,” Wilby said. “After many, many conversations and from reading things and hearing things from my attorneys, well, remembrance gets jumbled. Did some things really happen or is my memory influenced by all the other observations and reports I’ve gained from other people?”
“Can you tell us what you think you remember?” Claire asked with a kind tone of voice.
Wilby ran his hand over his face. “It isn’t easy to relive a terrible experience.”
Claire thought Wilby was pulling for sympathy with his comments. His facial expression didn’t register the emotions that should accompany the words he was saying.
“Did you go to work that day?” Ian tried to get the man talking about the incident.
“I did. I went to the office. Cheryl did, too. It was a long, trying day. We had lots of big plans for the business, but we were becoming strapped for cash, cash we needed not only to allow expansion, but to pay our suppliers and our workers. Cheryl and I argued at work that day. I can’t remember what we argued about specifically. We were both feeling the stress and strain of trying to make something out of the business, plus we had the new baby and a three-year-old to care for.”
“Who took care of the kids while you worked?” Claire asked the man.
“We took the kids to a home-based daycare. John had fun playing with the other kids there.”
“What happened after work that day?” Ian questioned.
“Cheryl left first to go pick up the kids. I got home about two hours later. Cheryl was angry with me for not coming home earlier. She was trying to make dinner and handle the kids. I got wrapped up in work and lost track of time. One thing led to another, and we were arguing about everything, work, home life, how Cheryl felt the majority of the work fell on her. Maybe if it had been a different day, I would have handled it better, but I didn’t. Cheryl threw a glass across the room … not at me … at the kitchen sink. I got angry. We tussled and struck each other. Cheryl fell down. John started to cry so I went to get him from his booster seat at the table and carried him into the living room. I put him on the sofa and told him to stay there. When I went back to the kitchen, Cheryl was gone. I went through the house looking for her, but she was gone. I heard her car starting up in the garage, but she’d pulled away before I could catch up to her.”
Claire asked, “Where did she go?”
“If I knew the answer to that, I’d win a prize.” Wilby’s face was expressionless.
“She didn’t come back?”
“She did not.”
Ian asked, “What did you do next?”
“I waited. I was sure she’d come back by bedtime. John had fallen asleep on the sofa so I went into the little room we used as an office and did some work. The baby was in there with me. She was asleep in the crib.”
“Did you have a cat?” Ian asked.
Wilby’s face tensed. “No, we did not have a cat. I know why you’re asking. John told the police that I kicked the cat during the argument with Cheryl. We didn’t have a cat. We never had a cat. John must have dreamt it.”
Something about Wilby’s statements set Claire’s intuition buzzing.
“Did you work for the rest of the evening?”
“When I realized what time it was and that Cheryl still wasn’t home, I made a couple of calls. I spoke to her mother, but she hadn’t seen Cheryl. I called Cheryl’s sister, Cara, and asked her to come over to watch John and Kimberly while I went looking for my wife.”
“You waited for Cara to arrive?” Ian asked.
Wilby shook his head and glanced down. “I was so bewildered about Cheryl taking off. I was worried and a little angry that she was putting me through this. When Cara said she’d come to the house right away, I left. I shouldn’t have left John and Kimberly alone in the house, but I knew Cara would be there in a few minutes so I took off. I drove around town for hours, past Cheryl’s relative’s homes, past her friends’ houses, places she walked, the park, to a couple of hotels. I didn’t see her anywhere. I didn’t see her car anywhere. She must have headed for the highway. Where she went from there is anybody’s guess.” Wilby had tiny beads of perspiration showing on his forehead.
“Did you call the police to report your wife was missing?” Claire asked Wilby.
“No, I didn’t. I assumed she’d come back in a few hours, at least by the next day. How could I say she was missing when she just took off on me?”
“Your sister-in-law called the police?”
Wilby’s shoulders slumped a little. “Cara called them. She was worried.”
Ian looked directly at Wilby. “More worried than you were?”
“Cara never liked me. I think she thought I had done something to Cheryl.”
“What did she think you did?”
“Who knows. Killed Cheryl. Threatened her. I don’t know what she was thinking. You’ll have to ask Cara. She gave me the cold shoulder. She wouldn’t talk much to me.”
“Cara got custody of John and Kimberly?” Ian asked.
“Yes, she did. I won’t forgive her for that, or for turning the children against me.”
“How did you come up with the idea for Journey?” Claire asked.
“Cheryl and I wanted to get an online business going. We’d been selling home goods for a few years and wanted to expand. We thought ecommerce was the wave of the future. We wanted to be in on it. We thought we could make a huge impact selling furniture and home goods online so we threw everything we had at it.”
“Were you and Cheryl equal partners?”
“We were, yes.”
Claire said, “I’ve read that Cheryl had a bachelor’s degree in software engineering and a master’s degree in business and entrepreneurial studies. Two important areas of knowledge for a venture like yours.”
“She was a smart woman,” Wilby said.
“Do you think she’s still alive?”
Wilby moved his steely eyes to Claire. “It’s been twenty-five years, so no, I don’t think she’s still alive.”
6
Claire sat at the small round table at the back of the Adamsburg Square Market and Deli sipping coffee with Augustus Gunther. In his early nineties, slim and energetic, with light blue eyes and silver-gray hair, Augustus was a retired state supreme court judge who arrived early at the deli each day dressed in a tailored suit, perfectly pressed shirt, and a conservatively-colored necktie.
“Jackson Wilby is an interesting character,” Augustus told Claire.
“I met him a few years ago at a charity event,” Claire said. “I didn’t care for him.”
“The man can be off-putting,” Augustus noted. “He’s one of those people I call a strutting peacock. Someone who enjoys showing off, flaunting h
is wealth and importance. He does make generous contributions to charities, but it’s my opinion that Wilby does this for show and to ingratiate himself into certain circles. I’ve never seen or heard of any other motivation other than for his own personal gain. My impression of Wilby, and I’m not alone in this, is a man with a cold and calculating heart.”
“You know the story about his wife?” Claire asked. “Cheryl Wilby disappeared about twenty-five years ago.”
“I remember it well.” Augustus’s expression was serious. “The son recently won a civil suit against Jackson for wrongful death.”
Claire nodded. “Which brought new attention to Cheryl’s unsolved disappearance.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Augustus lifted a piece of his blueberry muffin to his mouth. “Is Ian working on the cold case?”
“He is.”
The click-click of the Corgi’s toes on the wood floor caused Claire to turn to see Tony Martinelli carrying a big cardboard box, and Bear and Lady trotting after him.
Seventy-three-year-old Tony had owned the market and deli for fifty years and he’d become close friends with Claire when she moved to the Adamsburg neighborhood. Whenever Claire was at work in the chocolate shop, the Corgis spent the day with Tony keeping him company and playing in the fenced-in section of the yard off of the market’s backroom.
Tony set the box down and took a seat at the table while the Corgis hurried to greet Claire and Augustus even though they’d already done that several times in thirty minutes.
“You talking about that sad case of the missing mother?” Tony asked.
“We are,” Augustus nodded. “Ian is taking a new look at the case.”
Claire said, “Ian’s friend was one of the investigators at the time of Ms. Wilby’s disappearance. The detective works in the city now and he and Ian are working together on it.”
