by Dave Daren
“Detective?” The Count shook his head. “I’m speechless.”
The Count got hauled off to one of several squad cars, and suddenly the parking lot was bathed in blue and red flashing lights and uniformed officers on radios.
I wanted out of here.
“You want to go to the gardening party at my parents?” I asked.
Vicki shrugged, and we silently trudged back to our car.
“I don’t know if we’ll ever get used to this,” she finally said once we were in the car.
“Death?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “I mean, in L.A., it was all about spoiled rock stars and movie stars and their money. They were annoying, but rarely did anyone die.”
“Well,” I protested, “there were a few cases … ”
“Yeah,” she said, “there was the one with the wrestler who killed his wife. But, most of the time, the stuff we did was lighthearted. I don’t know if I can get used to this. Should I even get used to it?”
“That’s a complicated question,” I sighed. “Maybe gardening will do us good.”
“Yeah,” she murmured as she stared out the window, lost in thought.
We drove the rest of the way back to my parents house in silence, and when we pulled up, my dad was in the yard. It was clear from his face he had already heard about Jerry. News in a small town travels at the speed of a text message.
“You guys okay?” he asked when we stepped out of the car.
“Yeah,” I said as I rubbed the back of my neck. “It was pretty upsetting.”
“No kidding.” He frowned. “Were you guys at the studio?”
I nodded. “Yeah. They called a break, and we came back to cops.”
“Geez.” My dad shook his head.
We walked into the house, and my mother was in the kitchen.
“Oh my gosh,” she gushed as she rushed toward us. “How are you holding up? It must be so shocking.”
“It is,” Vicki agreed with a furrowed brow. “This is the third murder this year, I think.”
“Oh, heavens,” my mother murmured before she clapped her hands around her face. “Come, come.”
“Where are we going?” I asked as we followed her. “I thought we were gardening.”
She took us back into what was originally my bedroom. Now, it was decked out as a full yoga studio. The carpet had been replaced with wood flooring, and full mirrors covered the wall. There were also a stack of mats, rollers, balls, and other assorted equipment stashed in a corner.
“When you’ve been through something like that,” my mother said in a soft hypnotic tone, “you need to release the energy. Would you like me to take you through some relaxation exercises?”
I sighed. “I don’t think so, Mom. We’re not into that.”
“Well,” Vicki surprised me, “I don’t know. This one, for some reason, was harder than the others. It couldn’t hurt to try some techniques.”
I smiled at Vicki and my mom, but I wasn’t about to do yoga.
“I’ll see you in the garden,” I said. “Let me know when you’re done.”
My mom turned on some sort of hippie new age music, and I left the room. For the first time, I actually thought about what had happened at the studio. It was pretty alarming to be in the middle of a project with someone, and then come back, and they’re dead.
Given that more than likely The Count killed him, it was even worse. He was a little high strung, and definitely eccentric, but I would never have pegged him as a murderer.
Sedona, however, had a track record of false murder charges, but this one seemed fairly in the bag to me. The Count was the only one in the building, and everyone knew it. They’d been arguing for days straight, maybe even longer. Then, he was the one who found the body, and he’s the one who called the cops. Not to mention, he knew exactly how it had been done.
It sounded like the work of someone who committed a crime of passion, and then had to try and cover their tracks.
I walked through the hallway, and noticed an old painting of Harmony’s on the wall. It was the one I was looking at the moment I met AJ.
All the evidence had pointed toward Harmony, and I went to the art gallery in search of evidence. AJ, whom I’d never met and only read her blog, had broken in and was looking at this painting for clues herself. She found the murder interesting and wondered if she could find some evidence for her blog.
Standing there, looking at the painting, reminded me of how wrong evidence could be. What did it matter, thought? None of it was my business anyway.
I stepped outside to the garden. It was a small area in the backyard, with rising wire and about half a dozen plowed rows. My dad and Harmony were already there filling wicker baskets. Once I approached, it looked like the only thing growing was some sort of purple vegetable.
“Look at these things,” my father told Harmony as he held a luscious royal purple plant.
“What is that?” I asked.
“This is the cherokee purple tomato,” he replied with a smile.
“That’s a tomato?” I raised an eyebrow. “It looks like an eggplant.”
“Nope.” He handed me one, and sure enough, it felt like a tomato.
“Wow,” I mused as I studied the vegetable.
“It’s all organic,” he said, “with heirloom seeds.”
“How did you get it this color?” Harmony asked as she fingered more of the plants.
“This is a rare strain,” he answered, “I got the seeds from a supplier in Denmark.”
“Denmark, huh?” I looked over the plant again, dirty from the ground, but still ripe and full. “How did you get it through customs?”
He smiled. “I have my ways.”
I snickered and shook my head. “Now that I’m grown, I’m starting to understand more and more why no one wanted me to become a lawyer.”
My dad laughed. “Don’t worry, it’s all legal.”
“That’s your story, and you’re sticking to it, huh?” I replied.
He chuckled and pointed to the plant. “But you should try this. In fact, why don’t we all try some? Let’s go inside.”
Harmony rose, and we all went inside to the kitchen.
“Where’s Vicki?” Harmony asked.
“She’s doing yoga with Mom,” I answered with a shrug. “Some sort of relaxation, tension release or something.
“Hmm.” Harmony nodded knowingly as she filled a kitchen strainer with the purple tomatoes and ran them under the faucet. Then she grabbed a washrag and scrubbed visible dirt off the vegetables.
“When we heard about it,” my dad said while he washed and dried his hands, “the first thing we thought about was if you guys were around.”
I shrugged. “Vicki’s pretty shook up about it.”
“I’ll bet,” Harmony said with a frown. “When that art critic died, I had nightmares for weeks. I kept seeing him dead on the gallery floor. I mean, sure, he wrote some pretty mean things about my work, and it was pretty hurtful. But he didn’t deserve to die. It was hard to think his life was just … over.”
“Yeah,” I sighed, “I think that’s how she’s taking it.”
“Gee.” My dad shook his head and stared down at the counter in reverence. “Do they have any suspects?”
“They took Alfred Dumont in for questioning,” I told him.
“Alfred Dumont?” Harmony scoffed. “The Count? That guy apologizes if he steps on a lizard.”
“Well,” I countered, “they’ve got a lot of evidence against him. He was the last one to be seen with Jerry, and the two of them were alone in the building. He called the cops, though.”
“That should work for him,” my dad said.
“Or,” I pointed out, “it could be just a cover up.”
My dad shook his head as he grabbed a clean tomato out of the strainer. Then he held it up and whistled at it, as if it were a prized diamond.
“Would you look at that?” he mused.
“That is perfec
t,” Harmony agreed, and I gave it a once over myself. This one was fat, juicy, perfectly round, with no blemishes, and looked so full it seemed it would burst out if its purple skin.
There was a slicing board built into the nicked up wooden countertop that made the kitchen feel much more organic and earthy. My dad grabbed a large knife, and with quick successive strikes, cut the tomato into perfect equal slices, with purple juice oozing all over the wooden counter.
Then he grabbed a white plate and fanned the fruit out like cheese at a wine tasting. My mom and Vicki emerged from the back just in time, and Vicki looked more relaxed than I’d ever seen her.
“Hey.” I smiled. “Yoga did you good, huh?”
She laughed. “Oh my gosh, it’s amazing how much more relaxed I feel. You are coming with me next time.”
“I don’t know about that,” I chuckled.
“You know,” my mom cut in, “there’s a yoga class at that new athletic store downtown.”
“LotusWorx?” Vicki asked.
“Yeah,” my mom replied.
“I love their clothes,” Vicki gushed. “I didn’t know they did yoga there.”
“What is LotusWorx?” I asked.
“It’s a brand of trendy workout clothes,” Vicki explained with a smile. “Such fun stuff, and they just opened a shop downtown.”
“They’ve got a meeting room on the side,” my mom added, “and every night they teach yoga. You guys should try it. I teach there on Thursdays, but whatever works for you.”
“I’m not doing yoga,” I said with an adamant shake of my head.
“What is this?” Vicki asked as she pointed toward the plate.
“This,” my dad told her, “is my new garden tomato.”
“Tomato?” She looked at him quizzically.
He smiled big and satisfied and slowly nodded. “Tomato. Everyone try one.”
We all grabbed slices of tomato and bit into them. I had to admit … that tomato was really good.
“It’s sweet,” I said. “It’s got a real nice flavor.”
“It does,” Vicki agreed. “I love it. How did you get it that color?”
My dad smiled and started in on his supplier from Denmark story.
But then my phone buzzed, and I didn’t recognize the number.
“Henry Irving,” I answered as I put the phone to my ear.
“Henry, this is Alfred Dumont,” a voice blurted on the other end of the line.
“Alfred,” I echoed in surprise. “How you holding up?”
The kitchen silenced, and everyone hung onto my every word.
“They want to question me about Jerry,” he whispered in a strained tone, “but I don’t want to talk without a lawyer present.”
“I understand,” I said. “You shouldn’t.”
“I don’t know what your retainer is,” he rambled quickly, “but I could use some help right now.”
“Okay,” I sighed. “Are you at the police station?”
“Yes,” he replied. “I’m unsure of how you’re supposed to get to me here. They’ve got me in this room, and I don’t--”
I laughed. “Don’t worry about it, Alfred. I’ve done this more than a few times. I’ll take it from here.”
“Thank you,” he gasped. “Thank you so much.”
“See you in a bit,” I reassured him. Then I hung up the phone, and everyone waited for me to explain.
“Well?” Harmony urged as she waved at me to spill the beans.
“They’ve got Alfred in for questioning,” I told them.
“Alfred Dumont?” my mom said with a shake of her head. “He’s the sweetest old man in the world. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“That’s not what the cops think,” I said. “He wants me to come down there with him.”
“Well,” my dad cut in, “if you guys need to go, I understand.”
“I don’t think we both need to go out there,” I told Vicki, and she looked relieved.
“Yeah,” she said. “If we take him on, I’ll get my fill.”
“That’s for sure,” I laughed.
“Stay,” my mom told Vicki, “help us finish the gardening project. We’ll get you home.”
I looked Vicki over, and she smiled. I was glad she got along well with my family. She got along with them better than I did.
I drove out to the police station to meet The Count. This drive was starting to become a regular occurence. In such a small town, there wasn’t enough work for us to specialize in any one area, so we were probably always going to do criminal along with trust, probate, family law, and whatever else we could find.
I arrived at the Sedona Police Department and walked in through the single glass door. The inside was a dismal open room, with a bullpen of desks that were never fully occupied, day or night. The fluorescent lighting cast a hard yellow glow in the room, and there always seemed to be one or multiple lights flickering, or burned out all together. It seemed to be an adequate metaphor for a small town police force that spent their days tracking down traffic offenders, small time burglaries, and the occasional DUI.
“Hey, Bernice,” I said to the officer sitting at the front desk.
“Hey, Irving,” she replied.
“They got you on dispatch again, huh?” I asked.
“Yep,” she said and bit into an apple. “I like it this way. Less work. You here for Dumont?”
I nodded. “Lucky guess, huh?”
“Officer Thomas owes me ten bucks now,” she chuckled. “We took a bet on who would take this case--you or Toby Lithgoe.”
I laughed. Toby Lithgoe was an old high school acquaintance who similarly grew up to be a lawyer, and then ended up as Harmony’s crappy public defender. When he refused to really do his job, Vicki, AJ, and I went behind his back and did it for him. We proved Harmony’s innocence, solved the murder, and he wound up with egg on his face big time. We had since mended fences, though, and I felt like we were alright now.
At least I thought.
“Well,” I said, “The Count’s actually intelligent. He knew better than to call Toby.”
“Oooh,” Bernice laughed. “That’s a burn right there.”
I winked and laughed, which softened the comment with good humor.
“I’ll get Dumont for you,” she said. “It’ll be a few minutes, if you’ll sign in.”
I signed in the visitor’s log, made a cup of bad coffee, and then took a seat in the plastic orange chairs against the wall. A woman in torn jeans and matted blonde hair sat beside me, rubbing her hands between her knees, and she anxiously looked around with a sleeping child on her lap.
The joys of going to jail.
Bernice showed me back to the small interrogation room, with an orange eight piece table. Three officers congregated in the middle, and the disgraced Count sat anxiously on one side.
A desperately hopeful look crossed over his face when he saw me.
“Henry,” he gasped, “thank you for coming.”
His voice had lost that dramatic flair, and he just seemed stripped down and bare. It was always like that during this stage of the case. It was interesting to watch how litigation could suck a person’s personality right out of them.
“Hello, Alfred,” I said and turned to the officers. I didn’t know any of them, but they knew me.
“Hello Mr. Irving,” one of the officers said. “These are Detectives Walker, Williams, and Whitaker.”
The three W’s, it was fitting as they all seemed to run together, a nameless group of paunchy bellies, glasses, and no nonsense manner.
“Nice to meet you,” I replied as I shook all their hands.
“We just want to ask Mr. Dumont here a few questions about the murder of Jerry Steele.”
“I already told you everything I know,” Alfred insisted.
“If you have a direct question,” I said as I joined Alfred at the table, “go ahead.”
“Mr. Dumont, were you alone with Mr. Steele this morning at approximately 11:30 a.m?”
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“Yes,” Alfred answered, “but, I was--”
“What evidence do you have regarding the particular time?” I cut in.
“We believe the murder was committed at or around 11:30,” Whitaker said. He was the only one of the W’s that stood out from the others, mainly because I guess he was in charge of this investigation.
“What evidence do you have of that?” I asked again. “Mr. Steele dismissed the rehearsal at eleven a.m., and the practice did not resume until two p.m. At two p.m., when the cast returned, the doors were locked, as several witnesses will confirm. So, there is a three hour window in which the murder could have occured. Why did you believe it was at 11:30?”
“The last witness who exited the building reported leaving at 11:17, and they heard Mr. Dumont and Mr. Steele in a heated exchange,” Whitaker said.
“That still does not mean Mr. Dumont committed the murder,” I pointed out. “Anything could have happened between 11:17, and when the cops were called. Which--” I flipped open my padfolio. “When were the police called?”
“The police were called at 1:43 p.m,” Whitaker said as he looked at his notes.
“So,” I went on, “the murder was committed between 11:17 and 1:43 p.m.”
“Yes,” Whitaker reluctantly agreed.
I jotted down notes on everything that was being said. Police interrogations were notorious for twisting words and statements around, and it was best to have accurate records.
“Go ahead with your questions,” I told Whitaker.
“Thank you,” he replied before he turned to address The Count. “What time did you leave Steele Productions?”
“I told you,” Alfred said with a frown, “I left at around noon.”
“Why did you leave?” Whitaker asked.
“Because,” Alfred explained, “Jerry and I were not seeing eye to eye on some things, and I felt he was being irrational. I was frustrated, so I left.”
“You were frustrated?” Whitaker asked with a raised eyebrow. “How frustrated?”
“There is no way to quantify frustration in that context,” I pointed out.
“Okay,” Whitaker sighed. “What did you do when you left?”
“I went home,” Alfred answered.
“You went home?” Whitaker echoed. “And you live at 432 Lake Drive, correct?”
