The Busybody Needed Killing, page 21
“So how’s that murder case going, lad? You got it solved yet? For sure when your victim is a man who needed killing you’ll not be running short of suspects.”
He looked thinner—pale under his old tan—but as dangerous as ever. For some reason that made me feel better.
I grabbed a straight-back chair, spun it around, put it in front of him, and sat down straddling the chair with my crossed arms resting on its back.
“Suspects? Hell yes, I’ve got suspects coming out my ears—hermit, priest, chef, camp director, brother of the deceased, sister of the deceased—half the town at least—even a deputy. But I don’t care about that. All I’m looking to do is to prove Bex Perry wasn’t the murderer.”
“A deputy?” He shifted a little in his chair trying to get comfortable while he considered it. “That would be me.” After a moment he nodded. “Yeah, I’ll give you that. Provided I’d shown up earlier, I could have pulled Theodore out of that old hut, dragged him into the middle of the road, and killed him just like I’d been trained to do. I would have had to bring a combat knife with me, but I certainly could have.” He considered it a little longer, nodding to himself. “Probably tossed the blade into the woods as I was driving away from the scene of the crime so I could turn around and come back to find the body. You’d play hell finding the murder weapon that way.” He pursed his lips as he considered the theory.
“It was him calling in to complain about a trespasser that tipped you off on how to find him.” I added to the story. “The way I figured it you—the murderer—had lurked at the bus stop—what you called the hut—instead of the victim being in there. Oh, it wasn’t a combat knife. The ME says it was a sword—or swordlike weapon—narrow blade, one edge.”
“Eh? Him not in the hut? That’s because you never responded to one of his complaints before. He would wait out there—out of the weather—to meet us instead of letting us drive up to the old house. Don’t think he wanted us on his property either.”
“Did he phone in complaints often?”
“Oh, he was a regular of sorts—a couple, three, four times a year or so.” A small smile appeared on his lips. “Not a bad reconstruction of the crime on your part. I could see taking it to the DA—except for a couple of things, lad.
“One—I didn’t kill him. Two—I don’t own a sword. Three—you should have checked with Nan. She knew where I was from the time I left the office—logged it too—I didn’t have time to kill him much less kill and then circle back—she was keeping me busy that morning.”
I rocked the chair forward on its back two legs. “The sword explains why the police liked Bex Perry for the murder—that and the altercation they’d had at church the weekend before. I don’t know if you’re aware of it but she teaches fencing—swords not barbed wire—that kind of fencing.”
“Doesn’t matter if she does or doesn’t. You wouldn’t use a sword to kill a guy that way—the way he was stabbed—straight up under the ribcage through the diaphragm. If it was a sword it’d have to be a short one—stiletto, maybe. We were taught to kill sentries with a combat knife. Leastways that was one of the techniques they taught us.”
“I had trouble getting people to believe that you’d identified the wound—at first anyway.”
“Hell,” Ross slipped his right hand out from under the blanket and pushed down on the padded arm—levering to shift his position. “I can believe that—most of the people left on the force are a little squeamish about knives—who’d you tell?”
“Deputies Darryl and Roy—didn’t get their last names—they took my statement for the sheriff’s department.”
Ross snorted. “Yeah, I can see those clowns ignoring what you told them. You should have gotten Joseph Godwin or Owen Cranston to back you up—or back me up, I guess.”
“Huh?”
“They were both in Special Ops. They would have known what I was talking about.” He winced. “Couldn’t you tell? Well, maybe it takes one to know one.”
I sat back, surprised. “I thought Godwin was a psychiatrist—working with troubled youth—and the other guy was an English teacher.”
“A little slow today, lad? How you going to impress the little thugs if you’re not tougher than they think they are? Works with gang members and rowdy study hall kids alike.”
He could be right. I’d been told that Godwin had been something of a hell-raiser in high school—maybe it was the same with Owen.
“I finally got Curtis Brown to listen to me. The Cranbury detective? He was with the team searching Bex and Jack’s house. I told him what you’d said, and that afternoon the medical examiner called in an expert on stab wounds.”
“Did he? Good for him. I’d heard he knew the difference between his ass and a hole in the ground.” Ross looked thoughtful. “Bet he checked with Lee what’s-his-name before reporting it though. Lee’s been off the force for a couple of years now, but he knew the drill too.”
“That’s a lot of guys around here that were in Special Ops, isn’t it?” I was puzzling over whether it really did take one to know one—trying to recall if I’d noticed any kind of similarity between Ross, Owen, and Joseph.
“Crap, Crawford, what part of the U S of A has always been disproportionately represented in the armed services? The South. Always had more than its share enlist and serve. Same goes for Special Operations.”
“That go for the hermit too? You figure him for Special Ops?”
“Knows his way around in the woods, for sure. Don’t know about Special Ops training.”
“What about Urban Drake—the brother.”
“Now you’re thinking like a cop.” Ross nodded. “Never forget the family when it comes to murder suspects. I don’t know him. You’d better check them both out for Special Ops.”
Ross yawned and I realized I was tiring him out. “So there are two more that might know this killing technique—ones with Special Ops experience. That gives us a lot of suspects.” And Bex wouldn’t be one of them, I added to myself.
“If I were you, Crawford, I’d be puzzling over the murder weapon, not who knew how to kill a man that way. Who carries a stiletto these days?”
“Maybe he bought it to kill the deacon with.”
Ross shook his head. “Buying it special doesn’t make sense. We all learned with the standard issue combat knife. The one you can buy at any army-navy surplus store. So many of them were manufactured that any single knife would be absolutely untraceable. Why would any of us use something different if we’d planned on killing him?”
“Let me ask you one. How could anybody plan on killing him if no one knew where he’d be? You figure somebody camped out there waiting for him on the off chance he’d be there?”
Ross frowned. “Killer could have been the trespasser—if he’d known the deacon would meet us out at the gate after calling in a complaint.”
“Except that nobody knew he was going to be out at the farm to notice somebody trespassing. Besides, if the killer and the trespasser were one and the same, why didn’t he just kill Drake in the woods instead of waiting until he got to the entrance? Even less chance of being discovered back there.”
We were both silent for several heartbeats. Finally, Ross spoke.
“Maybe somebody’s got a meth lab out there and they were all drugged up and killed him?” The idea was so lame he was shaking his head no even as he spoke.
“Well, damn.” I slapped my forehead. “I forgot about the joint again.”
“Joint? What are you talking about?”
“Marijuana.”
“Like I thought you were talking about a car part. What about marijuana?”
“I found one—a joint—there—that morning—sitting in the middle of the road—just before I found the body—and I keep forgetting to tell anybody about it. Anybody official that is.”
“Sure didn’t mention it to me. What of it? You figure it for evidence? It’s a little late to be coming forward with it now.”
“It was at the crime scene. I picked it up, put it in my shirt pocket, and forgot about it.” I sounded defensive even to myself.
Ross closed his eyes and then opened them. “Yeah, and there was a beer can in the ditch too. Didn’t mention that either did you?”
“But the joint had to have been dropped after the rains had stopped—one end had been lit—maybe a hit or two—but it had gone out on its own.”
“I’m not asking how you’re sure it really is weed. All I’m asking is why you think it’s evidence in a murder case. You figure the deacon was a pothead? If so, he was an even bigger hypocrite than I thought he was. The man would go on and on about how marijuana was the weapon of Satan—gateway drug he called it—gateway to hell.”
“Well, what about the murderer?”
Ross glared at me, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. “You figure he toked up before or after killing the deacon? Or he killed the deacon to get the joint? Makes no sense to me. Even if it was the killer’s, how’s that going to help us find him? You think that’s going to narrow down the suspect list? If I were you, at this late date, I’d forget I found it.”
Maybe my subconscious had already figured out that the joint had nothing to do with the murder and that was why I kept forgetting about it. Although why my subconscious should be sure about that when I wasn’t sure of anything, I didn’t understand. Guess that’s what a subconscious does.
I stood up. “I’m tiring you out—you need your rest.”
“Don’t know if I’ve been any help.” He opened his eyes and sat up a little straighter in the chair.
I gave him a lopsided grin. “I’d say you raised as many questions as you answered—probably more. When are they going to let you out of here?”
“Not until I can walk up and down the hall without feeling like I’m about to fall apart—Friday, maybe. I hear the sheriff isn’t so keen on keeping a spot open for me, so I might not have a job to go back to.”
“Is he that stupid? I bet they could use you down in Shelbyville. Heck, if business picks up I might need your help.”
I put out my hand, Ross shook it then leaned back in his chair, reclining it so that his feet were propped up. “And I might just be willing to help you. By the way,” he closed his eyes.
“Yeah?”
“If I was wanting to know more about Eric of the Woods, I’d start by talking to Connie Green out at Camp Serenity. That’s who I’d talk to—for what it’s worth.”
I stood outside the room and checked the time on my phone. There was plenty of time before the afternoon’s funeral for another errand—or two—if I could just find my way back to my car.
21
Wednesday Morning
I WRESTLED WITH who was a suspect and who wasn’t while I was driving and made it out to the camp without coming to any conclusions. The why part of the murder mystery was easy enough. Theodore Drake appeared to have been universally loathed, except by people who appreciated his stubborn insistence on making people follow the rules—as long as he didn’t try to enforce rules that they themselves found unnecessary or annoying.
On the other hand, lots of people in this world that deserve killing live to a ripe old age—dying in their sleep. In the murders I’d solved, the victim had pushed one person too far—to the breaking point—to the murdering point, that is. The murderers hadn’t broken down. They’d reached the point where any action was preferable to inaction, even if that action was murder.
I figured they’d fantasized about killing their tormentor—imagining how it could be done—poison, a bullet, venomous snakebite, hanging—and the more they imagined it—the closer they got to following through with the fantasy.
I’d retired to get away from somebody I’d thought needed killing and then somebody did kill him. That murder had been carefully planned to seem like an accident; another, like a suicide, yet another, accidental death. Only one murder I’d investigated had looked like murder from the start. And that murderer had hidden behind suspects with excellent motives. Still, in each case, the victim was going to do something—and whatever it was, it had forced the murderer to move from fantasy to murder.
What had Theodore said he was going to do? And to whom had he said it?
There were a couple of cars and a golf cart parked in front of the Camp Serenity office when I pulled into the lot. I had called and talked to Sonya Hardy, who told me Connie was working today—part of the skeleton staff the camp kept on payroll during the winter season. Connie was too good a worker—and cook—to lose her to some year-round job—and she wasn’t the only employee that applied to.
Sonya had started the practice of keeping a few good workers employed during the slow months when they weren’t really needed. She argued that seasonal employees were fine as long as there was a core of professionals to organize and supervise them. It was no surprise that Theo had vehemently opposed Sonya’s extravagant management schemes —as he’d put it—and had continued to express his displeasure.
I got out of the car, sighed, and added Sonya, Connie, and the rest of the full-time staff to my list of suspects—suspects who would have known the deacon was at Camp Serenity the day before he was killed.
It remained to be seen if they had known he was spending the night at the old Drake farm.
I walked up the shallow steps to the porch and remembered that Sonya had gone to be with her dying mother the morning of the murder. She had driven right past the murder scene and seen nothing.
The bell on the door chimed behind me and Sonya looked up from the counter with a wide smile on her face that she tried to keep in place even though we both knew it hadn’t been meant for me.
“Mr. Crawford, it had slipped my mind that you were visiting us today. I told Connie you wanted to see her and then totally forgot.”
I smiled back. “I don’t mind being forgettable, Ms. Hardy, in fact, I’m used to it. Comes in handy sometimes.”
“That’s what’s so embarrassing—you’re not forgettable at all. Let me buzz Connie so she’ll know you’re here.” She picked up a handset, punched some buttons, and whispered into the mouthpiece.
While I was standing there I wondered if I could put a name to who she’d thought had come in the door. Who deserved such a high-wattage smile?
“Connie will meet you on the front porch in just a minute or two. She’s tired of being in the kitchen and wants to sit outside while the weather’s still good.”
“Perfect! Thanks for all your help, Ms. Hardy. There are one or two other things you might be able to help me with.”
“Oh?”
“Did the deacon mention he was going to spend the night out at his family farm to you—or anybody else?”
Her face froze. “Deacon Drake and I weren’t in the habit of exchanging that kind of information. He liked to criticize my management style and I found it best to ignore his comments. He wasn’t a chatty man and I seriously doubt he’d have spoken to any of the other employees. Does that answer your question?”
“Did he leave after I had the pleasure of dealing with him or did he hang around?”
A smile tugged at her lips as she remembered what had happened. “He was furious with you, Ms. Perry, and me. He left just after you went to the chalet.”
I really hadn’t thought the deacon would announce his intention of being alone at a rundown farmhouse while everybody else was getting ready for a party—unless he wanted to play the role of martyr—but whose pity did he want?
“Is that all?”
“Would you have a list of everyone who slept here the night before the wedding?”
She shook her head. “Not a complete one. I was here, of course, except when I left to visit my mother. During the off season I’m the only employee who lives here. I could get you the names of the people who had individual rooms here in the lodge but for the rest we only have the names of the people who reserved the chalets and minilodges. The mother of the bride would have that information.”
“That’s what I figured.” I pulled out my phone and edited my to-do list. “I’ll ask Bunny to get me a list.”
“Is there anything else I can do for you?”
I was looking at my list.
“Yeah. Do you happen to know which restaurant in Cranbury Mr. Cranston works for? He was a member of the wedding party too and I thought I’d grab a meal there while I was in town.”
I looked up to see a splash of red appear on her cheeks.
“As it happens, I do. It’s the premier steakhouse in the area—it’s called Sixteen—but he’s not there right now. I expect to see him here fairly shortly.”
Bingo. I knew now whom that smile had been meant for. “Thanks, Ms. Hardy.”
I stepped back onto the porch and saw Connie Green walking toward me using a cane.
“Ms. Green. Is there something wrong?”
She picked her cane up and shook it at me like Ebenezer Scrooge. “There will be if you’re going to try that Ms. Green nonsense.”
I threw up my hands and took a half step back. “Easy, Connie. I promise I’ll be good.”
She laughed. “If I’d known how handy canes are for threatening people I’d’ve gotten me one years ago. Joseph gave me this one. Said he’d gotten so lame that it didn’t make sense for him to pretend he was ever going to fold it up.”
We walked off the porch to a wooden picnic table—the kind where the benches on either side are attached to the table. She sat on one side, put her cane on top of the table, and stretched her leg out on the bench she was sitting on. She waved me to the other side.
“I’ve been on my feet too long this morning—I know better but sometimes I get busy and forget. Now I just unfold that contraption and I’ve got a cane.”
“It folds up?” I raised one eyebrow questioningly and she pushed the cane toward me.
“See for yourself”
It was a beautiful, lightweight cane of brushed metal with a wooden handle. Holding it close, I could see the hairline joints and feel a little give when I tried to pull the sections apart. Using the cane, I stood up and sat back down. “Nice. Lightweight—but it feels sturdy—solid.”
