The Busybody Needed Killing, page 22
“Oh, Joseph wouldn’t have anything but the best—such a dear man—wouldn’t let me pay for it—said it had served its purpose and it was time for it to move on—even helped adjust the length. He had gotten himself a new cane—said it would see him out. Never cared for that expression, myself.
“He showed the new cane to me and it’s prettier than this—well, I’ve got a weakness for wood—so pretty—love the look of polished grain. Don’t you?”
Connie didn’t wait for an answer. “But heavy? I guess it’s just the difference between solid wood instead of hollow metal. You could really threaten somebody with that cane. A lethal weapon, I told him.”
“Is that Joseph Godwin you’re talking about? The psychiatrist? He was here for the wedding.”
“Well, of course he was. He gave me the cane at the wedding. Not during the wedding, of course—just sometime that weekend. Can’t remember if it was before or after the ceremony. Bought his new one to take to the wedding and brought me this one at the same time. Delightful man. Did you get a chance to meet him?”
“I noticed him but didn’t get a chance to exchange more than a few words with him.”
“Well, he wasn’t at his best, poor thing. He didn’t feel well—not much appetite—almost didn’t take the box of fried chicken I’d made up for him—as much as he loves it.”
“Right! I think I saw you after the wedding handing him a box on this porch.”
Connie nodded. “He said maybe he’d have it for breakfast. He liked cold fried chicken in the morning.”
“I heard he was out of town—at Vanderbilt Hospital.” I let my voice drop off. It wouldn’t hurt—in case Rick had trouble finding anything out.
“Goes there all the time. Helps with crisis situations—addicts, suicides—sometimes spends a day or two.”
“Oh, I thought it might have something to do with Dr. Summers treating him.”
“Dr. Eli?” She looked puzzled—as she considered what I’d said. “Oh, Dr. Eli’s up to date on all the new treatments. Goes to all the conferences—continuing education—whatever—all over the country. No need for anybody in Cranbury to go to Nashville for treatment.”
She cocked her head to one side and looked directly at me. “But you didn’t come out here to ask me about Joseph Godwin or my cane, did you?”
I shrugged my shoulders. Once Sonya had told me that she was expecting Owen, I had decided to hang around the camp until he got there. I wasn’t in a hurry—besides Connie was telling me more than she knew. “What did Joseph say when you said his cane was lethal?”
“He laughed and said that was good because he’d bought it for protection.”
Connie straightened her shoulders.
“I know why you’re out here. Why you came.”
“What are you talking about?” I was slow in transitioning from Connie’s chatter to her being serious.
“Ross called me. Said you’d be coming out to ask me about Eric and I should tell you what I’d have told him—if he’d asked, that is.”
“He never asked you about the hermit—Eric—before?”
“Ross is the kind of deputy—who doesn’t need to know everything that’s going on. If he knew about it he might have had to take some action—file a report—follow up with somebody—do something—so he’d just as soon not know it—unless and until he needed to know. Understand?”
I did. I’d worked for somebody like that while I was at the university. When something came up that he needed to know about I’d tell him—I didn’t want him blindsided—otherwise I just did what needed doing. He trusted me and I made sure he had no cause to regret it. It didn’t last, of course, we got reorganized—but it was nice while it lasted.
“Gotcha.”
“Ross knows Eric had to have been getting help—nobody could make it living out there in the woods by themselves without a little help now and again. Oh, I don’t know for sure who else helps. But we’re simple folk out this way. As long as he’s not hurting anybody we sort of rely on live and let live.”
I kept my mouth shut.
“A little food, now and then, when you cook for groups sometimes you cook too much and don’t want it to go to waste. Maybe some used blankets, towels, stuff that’s not good enough for the guests but too good to just throw away. Clothes the campers and guests leave behind and don’t care enough to come back for. Give it to charity or give it to Eric? What’s the difference, really?”
Not talking was working pretty well for me so far. I just shrugged my shoulders.
“Anyway, I sent him a signal—don’t bother asking me what it was—that I use when I’ve got something for him that won’t wait—so chances are he’ll be here pretty soon. And when he gets here,” she picked up the cane and shook it at me, “don’t you go scaring the poor man!”
Connie had gone back to the kitchen and left me sitting at the picnic table. She couldn’t guarantee that Eric would come at all, much less know when he might show up—it all depended on where he was. I got the impression that—if the weather was good—he roamed far and wide in the woods and there was no way of telling how soon he’d be back in this area. I asked her if that was the same signal she’d have used if it had been fried chicken she had to give him. She said yes. I figured if he thought it might be her fried chicken, he’d be here. I would have and I don’t camp out every day of the week. What she couldn’t tell me was if he’d been in the area last weekend. He would have avoided the camp if he’d known the wedding party crowd was here.
Now I had two reasons to hang around Camp Serenity—two suspects—no three—Owen, Eric, and Sonya. I suppose I should include Connie too—but I really couldn’t see her stabbing somebody. Of course she was a cook—bound to use knives—but it was Owen who was good at sharpening knives. He’d sharpened some that weekend, I remembered. Was dismissing Connie as a suspect a sign of my inexperience as a detective—why dismiss her and not Sonya? Come to think of it, I wasn’t too keen on Sonya as a suspect either. Maybe I should scratch all women as suspects because of the Special Ops training.
I stood up and walked back to the porch. The wooden bench wasn’t the most comfortable of seats and the rocking chairs were still on the porch—maybe they left them there year round. It was midmorning and I still needed to get a list of guests who’d stayed here Friday night. If the cell phone reception wasn’t so lousy I’d call Bex and ask her to get it for me from Bunny or Prissy. I assumed that Zelda was still on her honeymoon—even if she wasn’t, the young couple wouldn't be living in Cranbury.
I checked my phone and it had no bars—no use trying to call anybody. I could take pictures if I had anything to take pictures of. I sat down and started thinking about what I needed to ask Eric—and Owen—and what I should have asked Ross and Connie.
At some point I realized I was being stared at. I had lost myself in thought—trying to figure out how any of the potential suspects had known where to find the deacon so as to kill him. If Eric had been the trespasser, then he would have known that Theodore was at the farm. And Theo might have mentioned he was going to be at the Drake farm to Sonya—in case she needed any help running things. In fact that sounded like the kind of annoying thing he would do—but I didn’t know that he had. She said he hadn’t but . . . I gave it some thought. Maybe Deacon Drake had told some of the guests and they had told others.
I looked up, then down. Friar Cat was sitting in front of my rocker—just staring at me.
“Well, hello, it’s nice of you to show up.” I stuck my hand out but he was just out of my reach—catlike he refused to come any closer to be petted. “You know you’re the one who got me involved in this mess.”
He continued to ignore my hand but stopped looking at me. He yawned and licked his paw.
“Okay you’ve got nothing to do with helping me prove that Bex didn’t do it, but I found the body because of you—didn’t I?”
Friar Cat stood up, stretched his back legs out behind him, first one then the other, and gave several mouth-stretching yawns. It was obvious he’d just woken up from one of the many naps he would take during the day.
I stood up. “Want to walk around a little? Get the blood flowing. Get the cobwebs out? See if it helps you think better?” It sounded like a good idea to me. Whether the cat thought so I couldn’t tell but he did follow me off the porch and into the parking lot.
As we walked, I explained to him the problem I was having re-creating the murder scene. “I just can’t get the pieces to line up. Once whoever it was made up their mind to kill the deacon how did they know where to find him? I mean it wasn’t a bad place to kill him. But how did they know he would be there?”
The cat began to respond to my questions but I still couldn’t understand cat. I made some murmuring noises in reply.
We were in the middle of the parking lot when a small bird—maybe a finch or wren—flew low over Friar Cat. Both the bird and I thought it was high enough in the air to be safe—we were mistaken. In a split second, Friar Cat hurled himself into the air, paws fully extended over his head. Contorting his body—pirouetting—he snagged the bird in midflight with his paws, and somehow landed with it in his mouth. He glanced up at me and then turned around and walked a few paces away—no telling what humans might do.
I was stunned. Damned if the cat hadn’t snatched that bird out of the air. It must have been pure instinct. There had been no time for Friar Cat to think about catching the bird. He had just done it.
Impressed, I left Friar Cat to his meal and headed back to the porch. I was glad my cat was an indoor cat. I’d read an article about how house cats that go in and out have a large impact on the environment—larger than their owners imagine. I’d been inclined to think it was just Darwin at work—any bird that flew that close to a cat was stupid and deserved to get caught—but if what I’d just seen—snatching a bird in midflight—right out of the air—was common behavior then these domesticated house cats are natural-born killers.
I stopped dead in my tracks. What if Theodore had run into a human that was a natural-born killer? Somebody who killed just like Friar Cat? Because the opportunity was there? The bird had come out of nowhere—but nobody was keeping track of missing wild birds. And if a natural-born killer was wandering around Lee County—surely there would be more dead humans—and dead humans get reported. Reluctantly, I gave up on another bright idea.
I was in a rocking chair on the porch when Owen drove up. He parked his car, got out, opened the back door, took a picnic basket out of the back, closed the door, and started toward the office.
I had gotten to my feet as soon as he’d gotten out of the car and now stepped forward so he could see me.
He stopped with one foot just touching the porch, the other on the steps. “Mr. Crawford. I’d heard you were back in Cranbury.”
“I rarely use the courtesy title—most people just call me Crawford. Why don’t you? Do you mind if I call you Owen?”
He finished stepping onto the porch. “It depends. Do you call all your murder suspects by their first name?”
“Absolutely,” I grinned. “Actually—now that you mention it—I’m not sure.” I scratched the back of my head. “How’s this? I start out calling people by their first names—if they let me. When I’m certain they’re the killer, I use their surname. How does that sound?”
He considered it then shrugged his shoulders. When I shrug it’s just a simple up and down of my shoulders. When Owen shrugged muscles rippled. “Owen’s fine, Crawford. I didn’t kill the bastard so you won’t ever be calling me Mr. Cranston.”
“Can I ask you a few questions? Shouldn’t take long.”
He pointed toward the office door with the hand that was holding the picnic basket. “Can we make it quick? I’ve got a lovely young lady waiting for me.”
“Deputy Howard says you were in the military and had Special Ops training. Is that true?”
A small smile formed on his lips. “Do you think I’m fool enough to say that man lied? Sure, I was in Special Ops—long enough to make me want to teach English to high-schoolers.”
He rocked back and forth on his feet a couple of times. “It’s the stabbing isn’t it? Deacon Drake was stabbed to death and Howard recognized the technique. Am I right?”
I nodded once.
“The knife up under the ribcage piercing the diaphragm thereby rendering the sentry incapable of speech—leaves them breathless? I believe that one was very popular when Howard went through training. The only problem was the wound wasn’t instantly fatal—in all cases.”
I swallowed. “I take it there have been advances.”
“You bet,” I found Owen’s grin a little unsettling. “I preferred the garrote—piano wire, fishing line, guitar strings, thin cords—you can use what’s on hand—improvise if you will. It’s also a real quiet way to kill somebody.”
“But you know knives. How to sharpen them. Stuff like that?”
“Damn!” Owen laughed. “Try to do something to help people and it blows up in your face. Good intentions—they get me every time. Yeah, I know knives and I know how to sharpen them.”
“Only this time it wasn’t just good intentions, was it? You were hoping to impress somebody. You had an ulterior motive—didn’t you?”
Owen put the picnic basket down on the porch and crossed his arms across his chest. “Was it that obvious?”
“Well, if you’d been in high school, it would have been pretty subtle.” I smiled at him. I hadn’t really bought the idea of Owen as a suspect—unless he’d been as dumb as a brick. You wouldn’t spit on a man in broad daylight and not expect to be a suspect when he was murdered the next day.
“So what.” Owen smiled. “It worked.”
“Come out to Camp Serenity often?”
“I do now. First time I was out this way was for Zelda and Arnold’s wedding.”
“So you didn’t know the Drake farm was so close to the camp?”
Owen shook his head. “Didn’t know there was a Drake farm much less where it is. I didn’t know much about Deacon Drake before he got me fired, and afterward I didn’t care to learn more. Imagine my surprise when I saw him out there in the parking lot the day before the wedding.” He turned and pointed toward the path entrance. “I was out for a jog, came out over there, and nearly ran into him—the deacon. I took the opportunity to spit at him and go on with my run. Been wanting to do that for a while—spit at him that is.” He turned back around still smiling.
“I know you did. Bobby and I were standing in the parking lot and watched you do it.”
“Oh? Guess it was a good thing I confessed to it then.”
I guessed it was too—made him seem like an honest man—or a very, very clever one.
“Thanks for talking to me.” I nodded at the picnic basket. “I’ve kept you and Sonya from enjoying lunch long enough.”
“You’re welcome.” He reached down and picked up the basket. “Only it’s not lunch—it’s brunch. Once I started working nights at the restaurant, I don’t get up early anymore. Took to that like a duck to water. So this is breakfast for me and lunch for Sonya. Never did like getting up early and ever since I don’t have to, I haven’t.”
He gave me a half wave and went in to the office. I went back to the rocking chair.
I was beginning to enjoy rocking and thinking. I’d inherited my grandfather’s rocking chair—it was sitting in my den unused except for the times The Black jumped into it and set it rocking back and forth. I might have to get the seat recaned so it didn’t sag so much and start using it. It wasn’t that things were falling into place as I rocked—not exactly—but I felt like maybe I was getting closer to making some sense out of the deacon’s murder.
Connie appeared at the doorway into the lodge and waved at me. I got up and followed her back through the building to a door that led to the outside. I recognized the spot—it was the back door I’d come in when she’d offered me something to eat the morning Theodore Drake was murdered, otherwise known as Zelda and Arnold’s wedding day.
Connie stopped and shook her finger at me.
“Listen. I told him you just wanted to ask him some questions and after a while he agreed—after I told him that he was better off talking to you now instead of having to hide from the sheriff’s deputies.”
I raised both eyebrows and Connie shook her head.
“Oh, they’d never find him. He just doesn’t like the idea of them wandering around in what he thinks of as his forest.”
“Okay.” I sniffed the air. “You’ve been frying chicken, haven’t you?”
Connie looked offended. “I had to have something to give him. That’s what the signal means!”
“Got any left over?”
She pushed me out the door. “Maybe—maybe not. Just you behave like you deserve any fried chicken and we’ll see.”
I stepped outside and thought—at first—that Eric had taken the chicken and disappeared. There was a flicker of motion at the edge of the woods and I saw a man standing there dressed in worn camouflage clothing eating a piece of fried chicken—a drumstick I decided on closer inspection.
I raised my voice. “Mind if I come a little closer?” I was sure he could disappear so well that I wouldn’t find him once he’d taken ten steps into the woods.
He nodded, and I started moving forward a slow step at a time. He wasn’t wearing a hat, and his hair was black, thick, and matted—probably just chopped it off with his knife when it got long enough to bother him. Large backpack on his back, machete handle sticking up out of it, and a big combat knife in a sheath tied to his leg.
He’d taken a bite of chicken and was slowly chewing it as he watched me approach. He swallowed.
“That’s close enough.”
I was ten to twelve feet away from him when he spoke and I stopped immediately. We were close enough. I could see his jet-black eyes framed by his hair and beard. A breeze was at my back so I couldn’t smell the chicken—or Eric. I wondered if he missed hot water.
