He Needed Killing Too, page 10
I was considering what I would do if while I was coming in I met somebody coming out when I noticed the turnouts. So there was a way, but neither one of us was going to do it at any speed. The driveway leveled out and I drove into a clearing where an old battered pickup was parked next to a new Prius. About what I would expect an ecologist to drive. Victoria had told me to park here and walk to the house. Doing what I was told, I pulled up next to the hybrid, got out and was immediately spellbound.
It took a second to bring it into focus but now I could see where the pine trees and dogwoods left off and the house started. Frank Lloyd Wright would have been pleased. Hell, he’d have been proud to have designed it. I started down the path that led to the front door when I realized the path included a footbridge. There was a small stream running between me and the house. I had heard the gentle gurgling but hadn’t really taken notice of what was causing it. I wondered what a naturalist would call it—a rivulet? It looked crystal clear. Acting on a hunch, I squatted down and put my hand in the water—it was almost ice cold—spring fed. I stood up and dried my hand on my handkerchief.
When I reached the middle of the bridge I just stopped and stood there, turning around and absorbing the serenity. I was maybe four, five miles from campus? It was amazing.
I turned back around and there was a woman standing outside the front door smiling broadly at me. She must have come out while I had my back to the door. She was tall, slender, with curly gray hair framing her face. She was wearing khakis and a blue chambray shirt, open at the neck.
“I’m glad you like it.” Her voice was deeper than I expected and a little husky.
“Like it? It’s wonderful! How far are we from the center of town?”
“Oh four and half, five miles from the courthouse.”
“And light years from the strip malls and asphalt.” I walked up to her and held out my hand. “I’m James Crawford, and it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Her grip was firm and dry. “I like people who can appreciate what I’ve got out here. It’s taken a little work.”
“I can see that. It took a lot of work to make it look this natural.”
Chuckling she looked around, “Some work and lots of time. I didn’t plant these trees yesterday. Come with me, Mr. Crawford. Let’s find some chairs and discuss whatever it is that made you want to come out here and talk to an old woman.”
I followed her through the screen door and into the house wondering how Victoria had justified our meeting. I was beginning to wonder if I was here under false pretenses. As I wondered how to proceed, I glanced around. There were screens on the open windows and the house was filled with the smells of pine and fresh air. The house itself appeared to be built around a center courtyard that was a mixture of flagstone and ground cover.
We were in what must be the living room. There were bookcases built into the walls on either side of the empty fireplace and several chairs and small tables scattered around the room. There was no sign of a television, which really wasn’t that much of a surprise. A portrait of a young woman hung above the mantle and the mantle itself was covered in what looked like trophies and awards.
She pointed at an old rocker and said, “That should hold your weight.” She smiled again. “Some of my furniture has been in the family longer than I have so I have to protect my old friends.”
The deep smile lines that marked her face were clear signs of years spent enjoying life. I stood in front of the rocker and waited until she sat before doing the same. The rocker creaked, but not alarmingly so. Her armchair had a high back that framed her head and shoulders so it looked almost like a throne.
“So what have I done to have Rufus George send one of the university’s computer gurus out to visit me?
“That is the Crawford you are isn’t it? You helped some colleagues of mine set up motion-triggered cameras for a field study. They were impressed with you and I was impressed with their findings.”
I frantically searched my memory. I’d worked with a bunch of faculty members and their graduate students but motion-triggered cameras out in the field didn’t immediately ring any bells. “That sounds like something I should have done, but . . .”
“Oh it wasn’t here in Alabama. You couldn’t put expensive equipment like that out in the woods around here and expect to find it when you got back. This was over on the Savannah River Site near Augusta, Georgia. You advised them on what technology to use.”
“I never had any problem spending other people’s money.” I still didn’t remember her colleagues, but it was certainly something I used to do. I decided I’d better clear up any misunderstanding before we went any further.
“But that’s not why I’m here. I suppose you’ve heard about Philip Douglas, the director of the University Press?”
She lifted her chin, looked me dead in the eye, and stopped being friendly. Her pale blue eyes glinted with frost. “I would appreciate it if you’d not mention that name again in my presence.”
There was plenty of steel underneath Joyce Fines’s charming exterior. “You do know that he’s dead, don’t you? Murdered almost a week ago. The funeral is going to be tomorrow afternoon.”
She sniffed and looked down her nose at me. “Don’t expect me to mourn for that one. Burying him is a waste of land.”
I plowed on. “And making comments like that is how you become ‘a person of interest’ in a police investigation.”
“Aren’t you the man who retired from the university so you wouldn’t have to work for a man you hated? And then came out of retirement to prove he’d been murdered?”
The change of subject startled me. So much for feeling guilty about meeting her under false pretenses.
She continued. “After the provost’s assistant called, I wondered why I was being asked to meet with a high-tech computer type, which is how you’d been described to me years ago—by my friends. I decided to do some checking. I’m out of touch with what’s going on at the university now but I still know people who aren’t. What made you suspect poison? And what made you care?”
“The murderer—she didn’t stop with the man I hated. Curiosity? I’m not really sure.” I found myself answering her questions in reverse order. “Trying to come up with a theory supported by facts?”
The corner of her mouth gave a small twitch. “Sounds almost scientific. Academic curiosity?”
I held out my hands, palms up. “Whatever you want to call it, I believe I should have explained the purpose of my visit from the beginning—or had Victoria do so.”
Dr. Fines cocked her head at me. “Maybe—maybe not. I don’t remember telling the fauna and flora I researched about my credentials or the purpose of the study. There can be reasons why subjects are misled about the purpose of experiments—quite sound reasons in the fields of psychology and criminology. Are you a student of criminal behavior? I admit my knowledge is limited to murder mysteries.”
“Until recently that was the extent of my knowledge. Perry Mason, Jim Rockford, Spenser, and the like.”
“Rex Stout? Dorothy Sayers? Dick Francis?”
“Yep, them too.” I agreed.
“Well, then.” She sat back in her chair. “Then I’m in capable hands. I should have trusted Rufus George more.
“I despised the man, but I didn’t kill him and can prove it. One,” she held up her index finger. “The man was shot dead. I am a terrible marksman and would never have depended on my shooting ability had I decided to kill him. And, if I had decided to kill him he would be dead.
Two,” she held up her middle finger. “I was in Birmingham last Wednesday afternoon attending a party for a fellow ecologist who is retiring from the university there. You can ask anyone in the department. They all saw me.”
“So if you had done it you would have done it another way and, besides, you were someplace else?”
“Yes,” she agreed regally. “I have an ironclad alibi.”
#
“Nope, I’d say she doesn’t have a pet—neither a cat or a dog.” Tan was watching me intently. I was in the kitchen slicing cheese, which explained her interest. Tan was certain that I was going to drop some kind of food even though it rarely happened. Hope springs eternal in the heart of a dog.
The Black wasn’t paying any attention. He didn’t like the idea of a cat being a pet—that was for other, inferior animals. He had found his old orange mouse that had been lost for some time. At this point the only reason to call it a mouse was the fact that it had started out as a small, stuffed toy mouse. It was still orange and small but there were no clues as to what it had been. The whiskers hadn’t lasted a week to the best of my memory. The tail had hung around for some time. TB had liked carrying it by the tail as he stalked through the house—the big cat and his prey.
I put the cheese on a plate and added crackers. Ward was going to stop by to talk about my interview with Joyce Fines and have a beer. I got out a can of salted peanuts and poured the last of them into a wooden bowl. I’d been trying to lose a little weight by eating less. It was a novel idea, but held some real promise. It had worked before. Anyway, I was hungry and wanted to make sure I had some protein in my stomach when the beer hit it.
Tan raced to the door and started barking. This was a pretty good sign that she knew who was coming up to the door. Strangers didn’t get barked at until they actually rang the doorbell. Of course with Tan barking her fool head off my friends never needed to ring the doorbell. I tried to remember if she’d started barking at Bobby yet, but couldn’t remember. Probably not, I got excited enough—the dog didn’t need to.
I opened the door and Ward walked into the room, handed me a paper sack, and knelt down to pat Tan. “That’s a good girl. Glad to see me?” Tan was about to fall all over herself with delight.
In the bag was a six-pack of beer. I put it on the counter and pulled out a bottle. “Red Stripe! What’s the occasion?” He didn’t always bring the beer and we generally didn’t pay for the more expensive brands.
Jim stood up and walked over to the sink to wash his hands and face. Tan liked to lick her favorites. “Best reason in the world to buy really good beer—it was on sale.”
“You’re right about that. And the best reason in the world to drink really good beer is that it’s really good.”
There were a couple of lager glasses in the freezer so I got them out. I try to keep some cold since it’s hard to spontaneously pull out chilled glasses if you’re not prepared.
Jim had already scooped a handful of peanuts out of the bowl and was popping them into his mouth one at a time.
I put the glasses down, took another beer out of the bag and set it next to one of the glasses. “The opener is in the drawer next to the sink.” I took the time to put the beer in the refrigerator, taking them out of the cardboard carrier they came in. I know lots of people leave the glass bottles in the carrier but I’m too cheap to chill cardboard.
“Did you break her down and get a written confession? Is she waiting at the police station for me to come and arrest her? Did you think to use a rubber hose when you went to beat the truth out of her?”
“What’s with you?” Ward wasn’t usually so enthusiastic, particularly at the end of the day.
“How often do you find Red Stripe marked down 75 percent?”
“Where?”
“Doesn’t matter. I bought all they had.” He smiled. “Since this six-pack was cold, I thought I’d share.”
I used the opener on the other bottle. I couldn’t remember if the brewer had upgraded to the twist-top or not and didn’t really care. There was something a little more civilized in using an opener.
“You have a kind and generous heart. As to today’s suspect, she certainly didn’t confess to anything—except she loathed Philip Douglas.” I picked up the cheese board and nodded at the bowl of peanuts. “Grab that and let’s go sit on the porch. I’ll tell you what I learned and you can tell me why Hazel Murphy won’t tell anybody but you where she was when Philip Douglas was killed.”
Jim went expressionless, beyond the deadpan look he used in poker games. “Oh, that. Forget her, she’s not a suspect.”
If I’d been Harry, I’d have dropped it—but I’m not, and I didn’t. “How so? She show you her special ‘get-out-of-jail” card? If smoking dope isn’t an alibi, what’s hers?”
If I’d been Harry, I think Jim would have bitten my head off—as it was he had to count to ten and then nodded. “Fair enough. She was meeting with her oncologist. They were discussing treatment options—such as they are. The oncologist confirmed her alibi—and the prognosis.”
“Ouch,” was all I could think to say.
“Nobody at the Press knows—hell, she didn’t really know until that meeting. Anyway, she apologized for being so rude to Harry—said she ‘wasn’t handling things as well as she might have hoped.’”
“Shit.” I was stuck on four-letter words.
“Yeah. Sometimes this investigating can be a lot of fun.” Jim shook himself and then took a long swallow of beer.
“So, Fines admitted she loathed the deceased?” Jim’s hand swallowed up the bowl and he followed me out onto the screen porch. “She didn’t deny her motive? Or did she claim that ‘she didn’t really mean it’ when she wished him dead?”
“She said that burying him was a waste of space, but don’t get excited. She’s got an alibi.”
I pulled some paper napkins out of the holder that was on the table, gave Jim one, and took one for myself. Jim helped himself to the cheese and crackers and put several on his napkin.
“What kind of alibi?” He took a bite of cheese and cracker.
“Ironclad, according to her. She was at a retirement party in Birmingham.”
Jim snorted. “Birmingham’s not that far away—that’s a cocktail party alibi.”
I raised one eyebrow questioningly. My mouth was full of peanuts.
“Anybody ever ask you if you’d seen somebody at a cocktail party? Sometimes you can’t remember if they were there or not, other times you remember them being there, but you’ve got no idea what time it was. Was it before the speech or afterward?
“I wouldn’t write her off as a suspect until I have the Birmingham police check it out.”
“She did say she was a lousy shot and if she’d been planning on killing him she would have used another weapon.”
“That is an interesting way to prove your innocence.” Jim looked off into the distance. “I’m not sure I’ve heard that one before. She wouldn’t have used a gun since she couldn’t be sure of killing him with one? Is that what she said?”
I took another swallow of beer and set the glass back down in the water ring the condensation had formed. I’d had various sets of coasters over the years but I’d given up on them. They never dried out properly and, because of all the humidity, they all got covered in mold sooner or later. “She said that there were two reasons she could prove she hadn’t killed ‘that man’ as she called him. Oh, I forgot, she also told me to never mention his name to her. I don’t think you’ll be seeing her at the funeral.”
“You should go to that, you know.” Jim glanced at his empty glass and back to me.
“What? Why me?” I pointed at his glass. “You got time for another?”
“Because it would be good for you. See if you can spot some suspects we don’t know about.” He pushed his glass toward me. “Sure, I’ve got time for one more.”
I stood up. “How about a light beer? Somebody brought their own and left it here.”
He glared at me. “Funny man.”
“Right—Red Stripe. I don’t know how I’m going to get rid of the light beer.”
“Pour it out.”
I went into the kitchen, got two more beers out of the fridge, opened them, and walked back onto the porch.
I put one bottle down in front of Jim and then took a sip out of mine before pouring it into the glass. “You serious about going to the funeral?”
“Yes. Check out the mourners. You might learn about somebody we’re not aware of who should be a suspect. Anyway, who knows? Maybe murderers are like arsonists?”
“Arsonists really hang around the fires they set?”
“That’s what they tell me. I’m in homicide not arson.”
I thought about the idea of a murderer attending his victim’s funeral. Maybe so, maybe not. “Do you remember when it is?”
“The funeral? Nope. Check the paper.” Jim scooped up the last piece of cheese.
“What about the murder weapon?”
“What about it?”
“Have you found it yet?”
“And where should we be looking?” Ward reached for some peanuts and came up empty. “This all the food you got?”
“You’ll spoil your supper. I figured you’d run ballistic tests on all the rifles that could have fired the bullet.”
“Oh you did, did you? And why would we do that? We normally like the murder weapon to help us find out who the murderer is. How’s it going to help if we find out that one of the rifles on the wall was used to kill him? They’ve all been wiped clean of fingerprints.”
I was floored. “But—the murder weapon . . .”
“It costs time and money to run ballistic tests and you might find this hard to believe, but both of those things are in short supply around here.”
I tried to remember how other detectives approached finding the murder weapon but couldn’t come up with anything. I must have looked stricken.
“Tell you what. You come up with a way to narrow down the field to two or three guns and I’ll have the lab take a look at them.”
“Could you tell me which ones could have fired the bullet? That might make it easier.”
“Sure, I’ll get you a list of the rifles and have Harry mark the ones he thinks are contenders. You can scratch off the muzzle loaders, anyway.”
Ward stood up. “As you mentioned supper, I think I’d best be going. I told you that there weren’t any fingerprints in the safe but Douglas’s, right? Nothing in there out of the ordinary except that journal.”
