Crystal Blue Murder, page 25
“And plenty of cover to keep from being seen or heard,” Parrott said, joining Barton in the partial enclosure.
“Loosening the battery bolts would be quick and quiet. The perp knew how little time it would take to break down the cart,” Barton said.
Parrott wondered who would have known about Claire’s secret meeting. “Whoever it was knew she’d be able to start up the motor and get part-way home, right?”
“Exactly. The saboteur knew how quickly lithium batteries corrode, too.”
The officers drove the cart back to Sweetgrass in silence. Parrott’s mind, however, was full of questions. Who followed Claire’s cart to the hiding spot? Who tampered with her battery? Who wanted to do harm to an eighty-two-year-old lady? Then there was the most important question of all—why?
Chapter Fifty-six
When Parrott and Barton returned Claire’s golf cart to her open garage, Parrott checked the backdoor to make sure it was locked. It was, but that was small comfort. At this point he watched for anything that might be hazardous to Claire.
Barton left for ModCom Way, where he would finish examining the grounds for marijuana. Claire wouldn’t be back for another hour or more, so Parrott drove to the groundskeeper’s house, hoping to find Charlie.
Radar dashed to Parrott with exuberant leaps as he drove up to the house and exited the car. The dog had been sitting outside in the shade of a sycamore tree. Three bowls of water and a rubber chicken kept him company.
“Where’s your daddy, Radar?” Parrott asked, as he petted the dog on his shiny black head. Parrott strode to the cottage, the dog keeping in step with him. Knocking on the door brought no response.
Disappointed, Parrott started back to his car, but the faint roar of a farm machine in the distance drew him to the back of Charlie’s house. A green and yellow farm vehicle was mowing the field. Parrott could make out the driver, a blur of blue with a wide-brimmed hat.
Parrott yelled and waved his arms, trying to get the man’s attention. Radar joined in with a gruff staccato melody. After what seemed like ten minutes, the tractor made a curve and drove in their direction. It was Charlie. The motor filled the air with smoke and a raucous, grinding noise, but Charlie cut off the engine and pulled plugs from his ears, stuffing them in a pocket.
The hat shaded his face as he patted Radar’s head and turned to Parrott. “What can I do for you, detective?”
“Can we talk a few minutes?” Parrott pointed toward the house’s back patio, where two Adirondack chairs sat. He needed more than a stand-up interview.
“Sure.” Charlie trudged up the incline toward the patio, Radar glued to his side. “Wyatt told me you visited him.”
“Yes, I did. Now I need to follow up with you.”
“Is Wyatt a suspect, then?” Lines on Charlie’s forehead deepened, and his head bowed a little.
“At this stage of the investigation, there are many components and many people. Everyone is suspect until we can determine with certainty who did what. For example, Wyatt has admitted to tying you up.”
“You aren’t planning to arrest him for that, are you? If I don’t press charges?” Charlie’s voice had the whine of a man at the end of his rope.
Parrott reached out, stopping short of touching Charlie’s arm. His fingers grazed Radar’s back instead. “This isn’t about arresting Wyatt or anybody else. I’m gathering facts. When did you know that Wyatt was your attacker, Charlie?”
Charlie rubbed his face. “I didn’t know ahead of time, if that’s what you’re getting at. Everything happened just as I told you last time—the blindfold, the chair, all of it—except that when he was roughing me up, Wyatt shouted at me to cooperate, and I wouldn’t get hurt. I recognized his voice and said, ‘Wyatt?’
“He didn’t answer me, but he sobbed, and I knew it was him, though I didn’t want to believe it. Wyatt came to see me a few days ago. He was in bad shape, worse than I’d ever seen him. He told me he wanted to go back to rehab. That’s when he confessed to tying me up.”
“I know Wyatt has a long history of drug use. What can you tell me about any other problems he’s had?”
Charlie sighed. “Wyatt’s had a rough go. His mother and I thought he had so much potential when he was young. He always made honor roll, made friends easily. He was a happy kid.”
“He grew up here at Sweetgrass, correct?”
“Mostly. He moved away with his mom when we divorced, but he continued to spend weekends, holidays, and summers here. He loves the farm, the land, the animals—he’s a nature guy.”
“He never thought of working on a farm like you do?”
“Nah. There was a girl he wanted to impress. He had bigger aspirations. Too big, it turned out. He couldn’t find his place in any high-paying positions. Pretty soon he quit trying.”
“Who was the girl?” Parrott pulled on this unlikely thread, just to keep Charlie talking.
A joyless grin spread across Charlie’s face. “Don’t know why you need to know that, but I’ll tell you anyway. It was Bonnie Abramson, Claire’s granddaughter. I think he still carries the torch for her.”
Parrott thought of Bonnie’s blonde curly hair, her office at the college, her young son, and the adoring look she had for the scruffy-looking man in the photograph on Claire’s desk. She was probably unaware of Wyatt’s passion for her, and if she knew, she probably wouldn’t care.
“Does Wyatt still have contact with Bonnie or her mother, or Claire?”
“He sees all of them from time to time, when he comes to visit me. Less so during Covid. They’re all very nice to him. They remember the little boy he used to be, and they treat him like they treat me—like family.”
“So, can you think of any reason Wyatt might want to hurt any of them?”
“Not at all, detective. Wyatt’s not that kind of person. He may be messed up from the drugs, but he doesn’t have a mean bone in his body.”
Parrott sat back in his chair and gave Charlie a searching look. “Okay, but tell me this. You’ve been around Ms. Whitman and Sweetgrass longer than almost anyone. Who, do you think, might want to cause harm to her property or to her?”
“I can’t think of a soul. The only people who come around here regularly are Jessica and Bonnie, Aiko and Tammie. There’s a group of ladies who are friends, mostly widows, but I can’t see any of them wishing her harm. Ms. Whitman gets along with all her neighbors. Quite a few people out here live on family estates like she does. They grew up together.”
Parrott hadn’t expected Charlie to serve up the name of the person responsible for Tripp’s death and the barn explosion, but he’d hoped for more than a catalogue of people who loved Claire. “And, of course, there’s you.”
Charlie’s mouth formed an “O,” and his eyes squinted. “You don’t think I’d ever do anything to hurt Ms. Whitman, do you? I’m shocked that you’d even suggest that. She and her family have been nothin’ but grand to me. I’d never intentionally harm a hair on her head. Mrs. Whitman is an absolute angel.”
Chapter Fifty-seven
Parrott ended the interview with Charlie and ambled back toward the car, thinking about all the nice things Charlie had said about Claire Whitman. Nobody, in Parrott’s experience, was an absolute angel. Human beings, regardless of whether rich or poor, old or young, had flaws and made mistakes.
Charlie didn’t mention anything about the relationship between Claire and Robert Pennington. Maybe he didn’t know, or maybe he was holding back.
Wyatt’s infatuation with Claire’s granddaughter might be important. Parrott had known instances where unrequited love between people from different social classes, had resulted in tragedy. If it had been Bonnie’s boyfriend, instead of Tammie’s, who’d been killed, Parrott might have had to ratchet up his suspicions of Wyatt Wukitsch. As it was, he couldn’t eliminate either Wyatt or Charlie from his suspect list.
Parrott sat in his car, preparing to head back to Claire’s. Maybe she would be back home from the doctor by now. Before starting the engine, he checked his cellphone for messages. There were two—one from Tonya, and one from Herman.
Tonya’s was first. “Ollie, I’ve been house hunting in West Chester, and I found a real gem. Five bedrooms, three bathrooms, thirty-six hundred square feet. Beautiful kitchen, gym, outdoor pool, fire pit. They even have a volleyball court on the property. Under a million dollars and in move-in condition. Your mom called, and I asked her if she wanted to go with me to look at it again, but she said she couldn’t.”
Tonya paused to slurp something, and Horace chirped, “She couldn’t,” in the background. “Evidently Herman injured himself last night at one of his construction projects. He may have sprained an ankle, so your mom is taking him to the doctor today.” Another slurp. “Sorry, I’m drinking a smoothie for breakfast. I hope you can go with me to see the house, either tonight or tomorrow morning. The agent said this one will go fast, so we might need to forget about Herman’s offer to inspect it before we put in a bid. Anyway, call me when you can. Love you.”
Parrott let the news about Herman’s sprained ankle simmer in his mind. What work would Herman have had at a construction site at night in the dark? Was it coincidence that both he and Claire had ankle injuries? What connection might there be between Herman and Claire, beyond his unsuccessful bid to renovate her bank barn, and his knowledge of Brock Thornton? Might Herman have been the one lurking in the acreage between the two country estates as twilight set in last night?
He’d call Tonya back in a few minutes, but right now he wanted to return Herman’s call. Hopefully, the man wouldn’t pressure him again to invest with BMT. Parrott wanted to find out more about this ankle injury, including exactly where Herman had been last night.
Parrott punched in Herman’s cellphone number and waited. Within two rings, Herman answered. “Hey, Ollie. Thanks for returning my call. I can only talk a minute now, because I’m in the exam room at the ER with your mother.”
Parrott decided not to let on that he knew about Herman’s ankle. “What’s the matter with Ma?”
“Hah. Nothing. Your mother is perfect in every way. I’ve hurt my ankle—can barely walk on it.”
Parrott kept his voice even. “Sorry to hear. How’d you do that?”
“Stepped too hard and fast coming down a staircase. It happened last night. I came home, iced it, elevated it—thought it’d be better this morning, but no.”
“Hope it’s not broken,” Parrott said. “Anyway, I’m returning your call. You weren’t going to lean on me again to invest with Brock Thornton, were you? ’Cause Tonya’s found a house she likes.”
“Oh, you’ll have to tell me about the house. No, I wasn’t calling you about investing. Quite the opposite. I got a phone call from Brock Thornton telling me that the investment opportunity was closed.”
“Closed? What does that mean?” Parrott couldn’t believe Thornton would pass up the chance to get ten million dollars, especially after he’d been pushing them to invest.
“Exactly what I said. We couldn’t invest with BMT now, even if we wanted to.”
Chapter Fifty-eight
Parrott called Tonya before driving to Claire’s. He surprised himself by saying he was also excited about the prospect of finding a new house. Perhaps part of his change of attitude came from having the stress of a multi-million-dollar house off his plate. “I’m sorry I can’t free myself to look at the house with you, but if you love it so much, I probably will, too.”
“That’s okay. Elle’s going to go with me this afternoon. That way you can hear the plusses of the house from two of us.”
Parrott disconnected but held the phone to his chest for several seconds afterward. Tonya’s voice hadn’t sounded so full of vitality in a long time. He hoped this signaled a turned corner in her PTSD treatment, though, more likely, the cheeriness would be temporary.
On the way back to Claire’s Parrott drove to the area where the bank barn had been. He parked his car next to the remains of a stone wall. Before going back to work at Sweetgrass, he needed to change out of his jeans and t-shirt and into the pants, shirt, and sport jacket he kept in the trunk. Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered to Claire—or Tammie—that he was dressed like a farm hand, but Parrott believed clothes made a huge difference in people’s attitudes, including the attitude of the wearer.
First, he walked through the rubble again. The meth smell had subsided, but the odor of burned flesh still hovered, and, as Parrott walked, he kicked up a vile-smelling dust. He returned to the spot where Tripp Anderson’s body had been found.
He put on gloves and squatted there, sifting debris through his fingers. The heart of this case was Tripp Anderson. Someone went to great extremes to poison him, to keep Charlie Wukitsch away, and to blow up this barn. Someone with the means, motive, and opportunity.
The list of people in Brandywine Valley who had the means to commit this crime was extensive. The poison, the meth ingredients, a vehicle to transport the body—these weren’t expensive for someone who lived or worked here. The opportunity might have been trickier, but once Wyatt tied Charlie up, the killer would have free reign. Keys to the barn had apparently been available to Claire, Charlie, Wyatt, Tammie, Bonnie’s boyfriend Ray, and Brock Thornton.
That left motive. Parrott stood and paced around the rubble, poking at pieces of unidentifiable objects with his shoes. Who could have had it in for Tripp Anderson, and why? Coming from out of town, Anderson’s only significant connection appeared to be with Tammie. Did someone want to prevent the two of them from getting married?
Tripp’s father had thought the relationship was over, and he was admittedly happy about that. He didn’t seem to know anything about the “project” that Tammie said was bringing Tripp back to Brandywine.
Parrott chided himself for letting himself be caught up in so many possibilities. This case had way too many pieces to it—like a mosaic crowded with too many tiles. To solve the case, he was going to have to ignore the distractions and prioritize. He needed to know more about Tripp Anderson, and he needed to know it quickly.
Hopefully, Claire and Tammie were back from the doctor now. He changed his clothes and headed to the house to question them both about Tripp Anderson. He wouldn’t leave until he had some answers.
Chapter Fifty-nine
Parrott rang the doorbell at Sweetgrass at a quarter to twelve and was greeted by Aiko. “Is Mrs. Whitman back from the doctor? I’d like to speak with her.” Parrott expected to be told to wait at the doorstep, while Aiko announced him to her employer. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and watched as a bumblebee darted in and out of the flowers on either side of the door.
“You can step in, detective. Ms. Whitman told me you might come by. She wants to see you.” Aiko held the door open and moved aside to admit Parrott. “She and Tammie are in the study. I believe you know the way.”
In all the visits Parrott had made to homes in Brandywine Valley, he’d never been allowed to walk himself to an interior room. Then again, he’d never been in the home of an octogenarian with an ankle injury. He thanked Aiko and headed for the study, where he found Claire, propped up on the sofa with a foot-to-knee cast resting on a pile of pillows. Her complexion was sallow, but her turquoise eyes were sharp as ever.
“Detective, I owe you a debt of gratitude for last night, and again for this morning. I understand you found my golf cart.” Claire held out her hand to clasp Parrott’s. “Aiko’s preparing lunch. I hope you’ll join us.”
Tammie chimed in from where she sat at Claire’s desk, pen in hand. “Ms. Whitman rarely invites people to lunch. You should be complimented.”
“I’m honored,” Parrott said. “And glad to be of service. The cart’s being processed at the lab. I can’t stay for lunch, but I do need to talk with both of you.” He sat in one of the chairs opposite the sofa and motioned for Tammie to sit in the other one. “Before anything else, what did the doctor say about your ankle?”
“It’s going to be fine in no time,” Claire said. “All I need is a little rest and TLC.”
Tammie joined the group, addressing Claire, but looking at Parrott. “That’s not quite the whole story. Your sprained ankle will need at least six weeks of TLC, followed by weeks of physical therapy. The good news is that yoga has kept you in better shape than most people your age who get injured.”
Claire pressed her hands together and whispered. “Namaste.”
“Also, hairline fractures may show up several days after an injury, so Dr. Smith can’t be sure it’s not broken.”
“Let’s not look for trouble,” Claire said. “And don’t think I’m going to be idle during this convalescence. I’m planning to use this time to work on my plans for a nature reserve at Sweetgrass.”
“I’d like to hear about those plans,” Parrott said. “But first—”
“—Yes, first. You probably have questions for me, and I have questions for you. Shall I begin?” Claire waved her hand, as if giving herself permission to go first. “How did you happen to ring the doorbell last night at the most opportune time?”
Parrott explained he was in the neighborhood on police business. “I wanted to ask you the same questions I have for you today. I stopped by on my way to another house in the valley.”
Claire exchanged looks with Tammie. “Hm, I appreciate your discretion in not revealing anything about the other police business. Can I count on you to be equally discreet about what you’ve learned about my relationship with Mr. Pennington?”
