by E B Corbin
“I did, didn’t I?” Sam said with a snicker. She tried to hold it in but a snort burst out and she giggled like a teenager.
When she managed to regain control, she sank onto the sofa. “That went well.”
“I don’t think we’ll ever see Tim again,” Henry said with a chuckle. “But we needed that. Things have been too tense lately.”
“You can say that again. I wasn’t taking any chances after the phony pizza delivery last night.”
“They don’t give up, do they?”
“They should find it a little more difficult now that we’ve moved and I ditched my old phone in the Willamette.”
“You threw it away?”
“Figured you might be right. Despite all my precautions, Jules may have found my number and a way to track me. So I pitched it in the river.”
The smile faded from Henry’s face. “I should have mentioned it sooner but there could still be a microscopic tracker on your gun. I did some background checking on Jules and he used to work for company that has a patent on them.”
“God, I hope not. I would hate to toss that in the river too.”
“We’ll need to check it out if they show up again—maybe get a microscope.” Henry hobbled to a chair and sat with a whoosh. “What’s the plan for today?”
“I thought I’d start with Stacy. See if she has any thoughts on why their housekeeper would commit suicide.”
“Even if she does, it probably won’t help with her father’s case.”
“But it might lead to something that can. Maybe Betty had a special place in their house where she kept personal items.”
“It’s a long shot.” Henry shook his head from side to side and lifted his shoulders.
“It’s all we have,” Sam said as she rose and went to the bedroom. “I’m going to get dressed. We have to pick up the car at some point. It’s not doing us much good sitting in a parking garage.”
“I’d have a hard time driving with this boot on.” Henry used his cane to tap his foot.
“I can drive. I was thinking you should stay here today, anyway. You’ve been running around on that ankle more than you should.”
“I can’t just sit around all day. I’ll be fine. While you get dressed, I’ll call White Cloud.”
Sam raised her voice to be heard from the bedroom where she sorted through the bags. “I hate to be dependent on him all the time.”
“He doesn’t mind.” Henry saw no reason to tell her about the Native American’s belief he was following instructions from his “spirit guide.” He hoped White Cloud didn’t mention anything about his visions to Sam when he wasn’t around. The last thing he needed was his boss thinking she’d hired a nut case. “He’s been a big help so far.”
“It certainly was a relief when I ran into him last night but . . . I don’t know . . . I don’t think we should count on him.” Sam found her phone and plugged it in since the small charge from yesterday was gone. “Don’t you find it a little strange that he’s become so involved with us?”
“Maybe he sees it as a great adventure. It has to be pretty boring driving around Portland all day looking for passengers when his ancestors used to run free along the riverbanks.”
“You two seemed to have bonded.” Sam could not get over the feeling that White Cloud and Henry were keeping something from her, though she couldn’t imagine what. She was certain they had never met before Henry jumped in the Native American’s taxi a couple of days ago and Henry didn’t usually warm up to people that easily.
Henry racked his brain for an explanation Sam could accept. “Sometimes when you meet someone, you automatically mesh. You may know nothing about them, but you’d like to know them better. Hasn’t that ever happened to you?”
“I guess so.” Sam thought about how she’d jumped in to help when she’d been staying at a B&B in Pennsylvania a few months ago. She didn’t know those people well but she liked them and wanted to help. It was where she met Henry and trusted him even though he had acted like a creep at first.
She let the subject drop and dug through her suitcase, searching for a clean outfit that wasn’t too wrinkled from being stuffed into a twenty-eight-inch tote overnight. Jeans and a navy sweater would have to do, although she wished for something more businesslike.
When she returned to the sitting area, Henry was seated at the table eating an omelet. A covered plate sat in front of the second chair. “Is that for me?”
Henry nodded as he swallowed a mouthful of eggs and green pepper. “Scrambled eggs, hash browns, and bacon. I thought you might be hungry.”
Smelling the food, Sam felt famished. “Is that your second breakfast?”
Henry forked another bite before he answered. “You have something against second breakfast? Hobbits would take offense if you did.”
She laughed and realized she felt more in tune with her employee every day. If it weren’t for the annoying throbbing at the back of her head, she could almost relax and feel at peace with the world—something she hadn’t felt in years.
She’d been so absorbed in finding the money her father conned from gullible victims, she never took the time to have any kind of life outside of the J. Edgar Hoover building. After she’d located the bulk of the cash, she had turned all her attention to gathering evidence for her father’s trial.
She had no friends, outside of her FBI coworkers and they weren’t really friends but more business acquaintances. She had no hobbies to occupy her free time. But then she didn’t have much free time. Her whole being was wrapped up in righting her father’s wrongs. His greed had consumed her life.
Maybe when she’d returned all the cash, she could become the person she wanted to be. But she wasn’t sure who that was anymore. She never considered Henry more than an employee/bodyguard, but perhaps she should consider him a friend too. It was something to keep in mind.
They finished the meal in silence—Sam lost in thought and Henry too busy shoveling food into his mouth to carry on a conversation.
Sam swallowed the last bit of bacon, drained her coffee cup, and leaned back, careful to keep from jarring her head. She’d have to resume running and working out soon. If she kept eating like Henry, she wouldn’t be able to fit into her clothes.
He had finished his meal at least ten minutes before she did and sat eyeing Sam for any sign of pain or discomfort. Satisfied that she appeared up to par, he said, “White Cloud should be here anytime now.”
“I want to move the money into new accounts before we leave. It should only take about fifteen minutes. In the meantime, could you try to reach Stacy to let her know we’ll be dropping by? My phone’s still charging.”
Sam finished the transfers, clipped her holster to her belt after checking that the .44 was fully loaded, and unplugged her phone. She pulled her sweater over the gun and grabbed her suede jacket before she joined Henry in the sitting area.
He was standing by the door waiting for her. “White Cloud’s downstairs. I told him we’d be down in a few. And Stacy wasn’t answering her phone, so I called Norman. He said his daughter should be at home and he would try to reach her to let her know we’re coming. He seemed a bit down in the dumps.”
“Can’t blame him. His wife is murdered, he’s accused of being the killer, and then his housekeeper commits suicide. People around him are dropping like flies.”
✽ ✽ ✽
A block away from Betty Maguire’s house, the Bledsoe homestead came across as a poor relation to the well-maintained residences on the street. The red brick had moss growing underneath the peeling window panes, weeds crowded out the grass in the front yard and the once white porch had faded to gray.
A cupola topped one side where the porch widened. The extra weight made the whole structure appear lopsided. The once regal house looked sad and tired, as if it had given up hope, much like its owner.
Sam approached the house slowly, staying close to Henry. He navigated the uneven walkway and avoided cracks where the weeds pushed
through. She fought the urge to take his arm because she knew he would resent the need to accept help.
When they reached the front door, she noted it needed a fresh coat of varnish, much like the rest of the place called for a little TLC. The doorbell stuck when she tried to push it, before it surrendered to her repeated pokes and the chimes inside pealed.
Stacy shuffled to the door, opening it a crack. “I don’t know anything,” she mumbled. “I don’t know why my dad thinks I can help. You’re wasting your time here.”
Sam ignored the less-than-hearty welcome. “May we come in? You might know more than you think.”
With a scowl, Stacy opened the door and led them into a darkened living room. The overcast sky threw off little illumination and the heavy drapes blocked even that. Stacy didn’t bother to turn on a lamp. “Daddy said you wanted to talk to me.”
“We were wondering if you noticed anything different about Betty in the last few weeks. Did she seem depressed or upset?” Sam took a seat on the sofa next to where Henry had settled with his boot sticking straight out.
Stacy remained standing close to the hallway. She glanced at Henry’s foot but showed no curiosity or concern. Her voice came out flat and disinterested. “I really didn’t notice. Betty came in, did her chores, and left. If Daddy and I needed her to cook a meal, she’d do that, but most of the time we ate sandwiches or went out since my mom . . . you know.”
“Did Betty keep any personal items here?”
Stacy shrugged, showing all the warmth of an iceberg. “Not that I know. Why would she? She only lived a block away.”
“Did she ever leave you notes, or anything like that if she left when you weren’t home?”
“Anything she needed to tell daddy, she had Nora relay the message. Betty always kept her distance from me. I don’t think she liked me very much.”
Sam wasn’t surprised. She imagined it could be annoying dealing with Stacy’s insecurities, day in and day out. “Do you mind if we look around the house?”
“What for?” Stacy’s indifference became indignation. She straightened her shoulders as if ready to physically block Sam from entering any other rooms. “I told you, there’s nothing here. Why can’t you leave me alone?”
Henry spoke for the first time since they arrived. “We’re not trying to upset you, Stacy. We’re trying to help you and your father. You might know something that could be helpful.”
Stacy’s voice softened. “I wish I could help, but I don’t know anything.”
“Do you mind if Sam and I look around?”
“I guess not . . .” Stacy capitulated a bit to Henry’s charm, but remained on the edge of surly. “I’d start in the kitchen where Betty spent most of her time.”
“What about your mother’s room. I understand Betty took her lunch every day and spent time talking with her.”
“I guess she did. You can look through it if you’d like but there’s not much to see. Just some things left over that my mom never had the chance to use.” Stacy’s voice broke up on the last words.
“Did Betty clean your room too? Maybe she slipped a message to you when you weren’t around and you haven’t found it yet.”
“Not possible. I kept my room locked since there was no need for her to be in there. I cleaned my own room when it needed it. What are you looking for, anyway?”
“Not sure. Maybe a suicide note or a confession that she killed your mother,” Sam said.
Stacy sucked in a breath. “Betty would never do something like that! She and Mom were close friends.”
Sam didn’t want to argue. She smiled and touched Henry’s arm. “Why don’t you and Stacy stay here and chat while I take a look?” She didn’t wait for an answer but jumped up and headed out of the room.
The kitchen appeared almost cheerful to Sam after leaving the dark living room. The harvest gold appliances showed their age, but the Formica countertops were clean and uncluttered. Inside the white cabinets everything was in order. There was no desk in the kitchen, so Sam examined each drawer thoroughly, searching for a note or even a scrap of paper. After a half an hour, she had found nothing of interest.
She listened to the voices in the living room. Somehow, Henry had managed to break through Stacy’s antipathy. To Sam’s surprise, she heard the woman chattering and giggling. Sam took the opportunity to slip upstairs to the bedrooms. She ignored the room with the closed door that she took for Stacy’s and the master bedroom with the king-sized bed. Instead she entered the room that housed a hospital bed and smelled of sickness and chemicals, even though the occupant had been gone for months. It didn’t seem as if anyone, even Betty, had made any attempt to clean the space.
It was another indication that Betty had been so overwhelmed with guilt, she couldn’t face the last vestiges of her friend’s existence. But it still didn’t prove anything. Sam needed hard evidence to get the charges against Norman Bledsoe dropped.
She searched the tabletops still cluttered with pill bottles and religious books, then opened the drawers on the nightstand next to the bed and felt under the mattress for anything that didn’t belong. She found nothing. Discouraged, she decided she’d might as well rescue Henry.
Stacy’s expression turned stony the second Sam entered the room and said, “I don’t think Betty left anything here.”
“I told you,” Stacy said. “Betty minded her own business and so did I. Why can’t you leave us alone?”
“Two people are dead. Don’t you want to know why?”
“No! What’s done is done. You can’t change it and neither can I. I’d like for you to leave now.” Stacy’s voice softened when she glanced at Henry. “It’s been nice talking with you.”
Henry struggled to his feet and gave Stacy a warm smile. “We’ll get out of your way. Sorry to have bothered you.”
“Oh, it was no bother. You can drop by anytime.” Stacy followed them to the door.
Even though the remark was directed solely at Henry, Sam held no animosity toward her. She felt sorry for Stacy. The poor woman was starved for attention.
Instead of finding answers, she left the Bledsoes more confused than ever. She sighed as she slipped into the back seat of White Cloud’s taxi.
“Do you think Stacy could have killed her mother?” she asked Henry as soon as he settled into the front passenger seat.
He twisted to look at her and furrowed his brow. “You seemed pretty certain it was Betty when we went in there. Did you find something to change your mind?”
“No . . . I just . . . I don’t know. This whole situation is baffling.”
As White Cloud pulled away from the curb, he said, “You will find the answer. Trust in yourself.”
Easy for you to say, Sam thought, but she remained silent. No use taking her frustration out on the hapless taxi driver.
“Where to now?” Henry asked.
“Did Norman mention anything about being busy when you talked to him?”
“He said he’d be in the office all day catching up on paperwork if we needed him.”
“Then let’s see what he thinks about the possibility of his housekeeper killing his wife.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The door at the Bledsoe Realty office was locked, but Norman appeared from the back at Sam’s knock. His white dress shirt was rumpled, his face wan. His cheeks appeared to have sunken into themselves and the bags under his eyes looked like twin pouches of molten lead.
He rushed to open the door “Sorry. I wasn’t expecting any visitors. Helen tried to insist on coming in today but I managed to convince her she’d be more hindrance than help. She was quite upset when she heard about Betty.”
“That was quick,” Sam said. “I just found Betty yesterday and I haven’t talked to anyone but Stacy.”
“That detective called her. He wanted to know if Helen knew of any close relatives to contact. I don’t know why he called Helen.” Norman shrugged and shook his head. “He probably preferred not to talk to me since he was
the one who arrested me. But it’s still strange he would call Helen. She was in tears when she telephoned me. I was shocked to hear about it.”
“Did he know Helen and Betty were friends?” Henry asked.
Norman shrugged. “It’s hard to say what he knows. Seems like he knows everything. He was around all the time, talking to everyone after Mary Margaret’s autopsy.”
“I know Sam asked you this before but I have a hard time figuring out why, since your wife was so sick, there was an autopsy? I mean, it would make sense to attribute her death to natural causes, wouldn’t it?” Henry said.
The corners of Norman’s lips turned down in chagrin. “I insisted. Mary Margaret seemed to be recovering from her last chemo treatment and the doctors said there was a 10 percent chance she’d improve. At least for a while. I couldn’t understand how she could . . . how she could just . . . how something so awful could happen to her.”
“Didn’t Munroe find it bizarre that you should insist on an autopsy if you killed her?” Sam asked.
“If he did, he never mentioned it to me. He just swept in here one day and arrested me. Claimed I had the means, motive, and opportunity to kill my wife. I could hardly believe it when he cuffed my hands behind my back. I still have nightmares about that day. I can’t understand how they would even imagine I would do such a thing.” Norman stared out the window at the gloomy parking lot.
“It does seem strange that they’d arrest you on circumstantial evidence.” Henry adjusted his stance to take some of the pressure off his ankle. He glanced around the reception area. “Do you mind if we sit down?”
Norman snapped back to the present. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Please come into my office.”
When they were settled—Norman behind his desk, Sam and Henry in the chairs facing him—Norman sighed. “I thought it couldn’t get any worse, but somehow it has. And now Betty is gone too. Perhaps I should just plead guilty, get this whole thing over with.”
“Did you kill her?” Sam asked.
