The Busybody Needed Killing, page 13
Connie blinked her eyes. “No, I guess you don’t know that. You only met him the once, right?”
I nodded not bothering to try to speak. I hadn’t found him tiresome. I’d found him wildly infuriating. Connie went on.
“Somebody up at the diocese probably knows but you’d have to know who there to ask and if he didn’t know the answer he’d know who to ask—Joseph that is.”
Connie paused for a second. “I didn’t think he looked good. Did you think he looked good?” She glanced over at Sonya. “Oh, you probably didn’t get a chance to talk to him what with the wedding and everything. I tried to get him to take a piece of my fried chicken and he said he wasn’t hungry—never bothered him before that I remember—and, oh, he’s using a cane nowadays. You might not have noticed but I did—because of my limp, you know. He had a collapsible one he used to carry with him and use when his knee or hip bothered him but now he uses one full-time—handsome thing—brand new and solid wood. I mean it’s not collapsible like the other one—too big for me—canes need to be sized for the individual. Whoops!” Connie sniffed the air. “I need to be getting back to the kitchen!
“Nice seeing you again, Crawford!” Connie turned and started toward the interior of the lodge. “Sonya, I found that knife I thought we’d lost. The one with the long, narrow blade? Owen helped me find it the last time he was out here. Turns out it was in that drawer all the time.”
Sonya and I watched Connie’s back until it disappeared.
“She really is an excellent cook.”
I snorted. “You’re telling me? I’ve had some of her fried chicken—and did she make the biscuits too?”
Sonya nodded.
“Is that Owen she mentioned Owen Cranston? We were at the same table for the wedding reception.”
“Yes, he was nice enough to sharpen the kitchen knives for us.”
“Connie mentioned that to me—said he’s got ‘a gift’ with knives or some such. Does he come out here often?”
The phone rang just then and I was left to wonder if there had been the faintest of blushes at my question.
The phone call had been Nan saying the deputies were on their way and should be at the entrance shortly. I decided to walk since it wasn’t far. I’d been neglecting my daily exercise, and I thought the 4Runner would be in the way. Friar Cat met me in the parking lot and we retraced our steps while he continued to speak to me about important cat topics of which I remained totally ignorant—despite his repeated attempts to communicate.
We didn’t have long to wait once we got to the entrance. The patrol car looked just like the one Ross had driven, but the deputies who exited it looked like babies. They didn’t really look like babies but I did wonder if they were old enough to drive. It’s one of the things I’ve noticed as the years pass. At the university, the students kept on looking younger every year, and then police officers and firefighters got into the act.
These two were younger, bigger, more muscular, and nowhere near as reassuring as Deputy Howard had been.
“You Mr. James F. Crawford?”
“That’s me. You want some identification?” They didn’t seem as alert to danger as Ross had been, but I still wasn’t reaching for my wallet lest they misinterpret the movement. In all probability, neither one of them saw me as any kind of threat and, while I told myself I was okay with that, it rankled a bit.
“Yeah.” The bigger of the two sounded surprised at the concept of me being able to prove who I was and walked up to me. The other officer went around to the back of the car and started taking things out of the trunk.
I pulled out my wallet, flipped it open to my private investigator’s license, and held it out. He took it, glanced at the license, and handed it back to me. I was impressed. I’d expected him to move his lips as he read but he hadn’t. I tried to revise my initial impression up, if only slightly.
He looked back over his shoulder. “It’s him all right,” and turned back to face me. “You the one who found the body, right?”
“Damn it, Roy. Who the hell did you think it was meeting us out here in the middle of nowhere?” The other officer’s voice was partially muffled from leaning into the trunk. “And why would he agree to be out here if he wasn’t the one who found the damned body?”
It didn’t sound like these deputies had the most simpatico of relationships but maybe they were just having a bad day. It probably didn’t help that a fellow officer had been shot over the weekend.
“I thought checking his identification was the—the—prudent thing to do.”
“Roy, if you haven’t learned anything else today, just remember that the ‘prudent’ thing to do is to always wear your Kevlar vest and never turn your back on any member of the Harrison family. Now, are you going to come get one of these damn metal detectors or not?”
Roy turned and trotted back to the car while his partner walked toward the crime scene tape. “That’s where the body was found, right?”
I stepped forward. “The body was in the ditch—face up. The tape just marks a circle around it—as close to a circle as we could manage.”
“We? That would be you and Ross? The deputy who was out here?”
“Yeah. I heard he got shot.”
“If Ross thought that covered the evidence area, it’s good enough for me.”
He had a headset around his neck and was carefully strapping his elbow into the cradle that formed one end of the detector. Once he had it set, he gripped the control handle that was mounted on the shaft and started sweeping the ground with the detector. On the bottom of the shaft was a metal circle with wide spokes radiating from the shaft. He must have been checking to see how it balanced since he hadn’t turned it on. “Sheriff thinks the murder weapon might have been dropped at the site.”
Detective-like, I deduced that he had said that to explain what they were doing. Since he hadn’t directed the statement to me, I wasn’t absolutely certain.
“He said for us to search for it before taking your statement.”
This time the deputy who wasn’t named Roy looked straight at me. “Got some idea that if we find it, it might solve the case right away—super efficient—save everybody time and money.” He shrugged his shoulders. It was clear that he didn’t agree with his boss, but he wasn’t going to say so.
“Don’t make any sense to me, Darryl.” Roy came around the car with his head down as he tried to adjust the metal detector’s straps. “If the murderer used a sword like the medical examiner thinks, why’d he drop it? Those things are expensive and besides swords are made for holding on to—got handles—and fancy holsters.”
Darryl looked down, rubbed his forehead with his left hand—his right was strapped into the detector—then raised his eyes to the sky. “Roy?” He sounded like he was controlling his temper. Just barely. “Remember what else the sheriff said? About not mentioning the word ‘sword’ to anybody? Not just the people involved with the investigation—but everybody? He wants that kept secret, right?”
“We was just talking about it in the car.” Roy got the strap set, looked up, and saw me standing there. “Oh.” It was clearly a case of out-of-sight-out-of-mind with Roy.
He stood there for a heartbeat or two. You could see him thinking. He lifted his hand up to his cheek and made a small motion like turning a key. “Tick-a-lock?” He looked hopeful.
Darryl snorted.
I made the same gesture. “Tick-a-lock. Sure, Roy.”
I turned to Darryl. “I didn’t hear anything, if anybody asks. Wasn’t paying attention.”
He nodded and I could hear Roy’s sigh of relief.
I had turned so my back was toward Roy and now pitched my voice so only Darryl could hear me. “So why a sword?”
Darryl pursed his lips, then nodded. We had a bargain. I’d keep quiet about the murder weapon, but not without more information.
“Roy. You go across the ditch to the other side. I’ll take this side. We’re going to start here, where the crime scene tape crosses the ditch, walk parallel to the ditch until we get to the other tape, turn around and come back. Sweep the detector two feet to either side and make sure you overlap for every lap. First lap is right down the middle of the ditch. Okay?”
Roy put a headset on and headed back to the first stretch of tape.
Darryl shouted after him. “And we don’t care about aluminum cans!”
He turned back around and looked at me. Darryl didn’t look particularly happy. I didn’t particularly care.
I raised one eyebrow—the left one if it matters.
“The wound.” The deputy started talking. “The ME says it wasn’t made by a regular knife—sorry—‘sharp-edged instrument’—it had to have been made by a thin, long, blade with a very sharp point and one sharp edge. The sheriff says ‘sword,’ so I say sword too.”
I scratched my head remembering word-for-word what Ross had said. “Deputy Howard told me it looked like the work of somebody who’d been trained—trained to kill sentries—Special Forces kind of stuff. He said he recognized the technique. He was pretty sure about it.”
Darryl just stared at me like I was talking gibberish. “Did he now? Deputy Howard?” He snorted. “Let me tell you that Deputy Howard loved to tell us rookies tales of murder and mayhem he’d seen. He’d even wink like he’d been part of them. But I always took the stories with a pinch of salt. You should have too. Doesn’t look like there’s much chance he’ll be telling tall tales anymore.”
I watched as he slipped under the crime scene tape and started his part of the search. I wondered just how far I could throw a sword.
We—Deputy Howard and I—hadn’t used nearly enough tape.
I headed into Cranbury. There was a downtown hotel that Jack had recommended when we’d talked. I’d called and made reservations.
Jack had asked if I didn’t want to stay with them and I’d declined. I didn’t think a houseguest was really what any couple needed when the police had made it good and clear that one of them was suspected of murder. Anyway the hotel had been recently remodeled, served a free breakfast, and was close to police headquarters—while still being fairly near Jack and Bex’s house.
I checked in, unloaded my car onto one of those luggage carts midprice hotels make available in lieu of porters, put my car in a legal parking place, and headed up to my room. The plastic key card worked on the second try—about average for me.
It was the basic layout. The architect had put the bathroom and closet just inside the door so there was a corridor just wide enough for the cart before you got into the room proper. I’d ended up with a kingsize bed—not my preference. I like two beds, one as the catch-all, the other for sleeping.
I’d packed in two stages. The first when I figured on staying one night and packed some extra clothes “just in case.” The second stage was after Jack’s call when it looked like this trip was going to turn into an extended stay. So I had stuff that I wouldn’t normally unpack in one bag and stuff I needed to unpack in the others. I started moving things from suitcase to drawers. Trying to bring some order to my thoughts as I tried to do the same with my clothes.
The search for the murder weapon had taken longer than I’d expected. Don’t know if Darryl and Roy would have been quite so thorough without me standing there. As it was, I didn’t see a spot within the circle that got missed. I think it’s a testament to the character of the church campers that there was so little fresh trash found in the ditch. A stretch of old barbed wire fencing had provided a little excitement—the wooden posts had long ago rotted away—but that was the high point of the search, and I didn’t see any slacking off the longer they worked. If there had been a metal sword there, they would have found it—probably. I don’t really know that much about metal detectors.
I had stood there waiting to be “deposed” long enough to invent any number of weapons that could have caused a wound like the one Darryl had described that the metal detector would never have found. In my mind I constructed them out of wood, plastic, ice, and glass. Chad Harris—the artist who had created the sculpture of “the god Bast in cat form”—had made knives out of glass. The ones he’d made weren’t sword length, but I felt sure he could have made one that long.
I stopped unpacking and wondered if there was an art festival in this general area like the one we have back home in Shelbyville. Well, The Festival was actually in Archibald—across the river from Shelbyville—but it was close enough. Maybe I should get in touch with Chad?
I stopped and ran a sanity check on myself. To be a true sanity check I should run whatever I’d come up with by somebody else—somebody saner, if possible. Should I check with Chad Harris because he might have made a glass sword—instead of a knife—in the last month or so and happened to exhibit at a festival in the area—one that I wasn’t even sure existed—and sold it to somebody who happened to want to kill somebody with a weapon that metal detectors wouldn’t find? That was too farfetched even for me—it just showed how desperate I was to come up with some good ideas. Sanity checks can be very helpful.
I realized that I was pushing myself. I wanted to prove that Rebecca “Bex” Perry wasn’t the murderer instead of trying to figure out who the murderer was—a new wrinkle in the detecting business. In my cases so far, I had had to figure out who’d done it—not prove who hadn’t.
I started putting away my grown-up clothes—dress shirts, slacks, suits, and ties—hoping I wouldn’t need them.
Jack had decided against trying to cook at home and we’d agreed that Bex might have attracted some unwanted attention if we’d gone out to eat. He suggested take-out from Red’s—a BBQ joint just down the hill from my hotel.
“Their double-stuffed potatoes are the best in town and the corn cakes aren’t half bad either. I’ll call in the order since you don’t know how much we want.”
I had a pretty good notion of what double-stuffed potatoes were but the corn cakes puzzled me. Would I be able to eat a baked potato and good bread? BBQ joints in Shelbyville—at least the ones I frequent—have one common denominator—sliced white bread—the kind that never molds. Usually the ribs, pulled meat, or chicken are served on the bread so it can soak up the BBQ sauce. If you order a sandwich, they put the bread on both sides of the meat. Those BBQ joints aren’t real big on side dishes either—a choice of potato salad, baked beans, or slaw is a wide assortment.
“Sounds great.” Now I was doubly glad I hadn’t stopped at Egbert’s. I wasn’t sure I could have too much BBQ and didn’t want to find out. “My treat. Can I pick up some beer too? How about Red Stripe?”
Jack insisted that he’d pay for the food. He could charge it at Red’s. I heard Bex in the background saying something about Jack not letting me pay for anything, so we compromised. Jack paid for the food, I sprang for the beer.
I’d been sure that Jack had ordered way too much food when I picked up the order at Red’s. I tried to pay for it but the guy behind the counter wouldn’t let me. “Jack Harlon warned me about you—said you might try to pull something like trying to pay. No way, mister, but here—” he wiped his hand across his apron and stuck his hand across the counter, “any friend of Jack’s is a friend of mine.”
Thwarted at getting to pay for dinner, I almost bought a case of Red Stripe but then I remembered Jack liked a heavier beer than I did and Bex was partial to the India pale ales. So, I bought a six-pack of each. I could show up with too much beer just as easily as Jack could order too much food. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever grow up.
When I got back to my hotel after supper, I felt like I was waddling across the lobby. The pulled pork BBQ was good, as good as some in Shelbyville, better than most, and the sauce was tangy—but the potatoes and corn cakes! The potatoes had been huge to start with and after the baked potato had been scooped out of the skins, it had been mixed with butter, sour cream, cheese, chives, bacon, and who knows what else, then stuffed back into the skin. Needless to say it didn't all fit, so they simply piled it high, sprinkled more cheese across the top, and broiled it just enough so the cheese helped hold the stuffing to the skin. I'd wondered why Jack had bothered ordering the corn cakes since it didn't seem to me that you needed anything more. That was before I tasted one, of course.
I grunted as I leaned over to stock the minifridge with the leftovers of the six-pack of Red Stripe and some bottled water that I’d purchased when I bought the beer to take to Jack and Bex’s. Then I picked up the ice bucket and room key and headed for the ice machine. I’d noticed the sign for it when I’d checked in. I make a point of noticing where the ice machine is located and where the fire exits are. So far I’ve had no need for the fire escape, but I use the ice machine all the time. I’m hoping I never have to find the fire escape.
The water was to replace the glass of water I carry around with me during the day when I’m at home. When I got back with the ice, I put a cube of it in one of the plastic glasses I found in the bathroom, poured some blended scotch over it, and sat down at the table.
Absently, I started my laptop and checked for mail and messages. Bobby had emailed to say that Pauline would be happy to resume house- and pet-sitting duties. She had even offered to pick up Tan from the vet’s. Bobby had a project that she had to finish before coming back to Tennessee. She should be able to drive up by Thursday. So all was well on the home front.
The dinner at Jack and Bex’s had been a little stilted. I'd asked about Bunny first thing when I got there. She'd postponed starting another round of chemo until after the wedding and had had her first treatment today. Based on how the last series, had gone she wasn't going to be too active until it was over.
That question started things off on a somber note and our conversation hadn't improved much from there. Bobby’s presence would have helped, but there was no telling how much. It was hard to get past the fact that Bex was suspected of having killed somebody. It didn’t help that she’d left the cabin by herself the morning of the murder—the sunrise prayer group would testify that she’d attended the service—pretty reputable witnesses—but Bex had gone to the service and returned by herself—no alibi there—and Theodore had to have been killed about that time.
