I didn’t expect an answer, not in the middle of the day, but was surprised when Patricia Dalton’s voice came over the line.
“Ms. Hancock? Do I want to know why you’re calling me on my personal cell?”
I cringed, already regretting making the call. “I’m sorry, Chief. I have a quick question for you and then I’ll let you get back to work.”
She sighed, and in the background, I heard something squeak; likely her chair as she sat back. “Okay. I have a moment, but only a moment.”
“This might seem strange, but do you happen to know where Wade Fink worked at the time of his death?” I knew I could get that information from Ted and Bett Bunford, but there was a chance neither would talk to me. The more I knew going in, the more likely they’d be not to throw me out on my ear the moment they saw me.
Well, that was the idea, anyway.
“Where he worked?” Chief Dalton asked. “Why?”
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “It could be nothing.”
“I don’t know offhand,” she said. “But I could look into it for you.”
I almost told her to do so, but changed my mind. I planned on visiting Ted and Bett as soon as I was done with Larry Ritchie. Even if she came up with it while I was talking to Larry, it wouldn’t give me much time to look into the place before talking to the Bunfords. I wasn’t even sure why I’d bothered to call.
“No,” I said. “That’s okay.”
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line. “Was that really all you called to talk to me about?”
It was then I realized that no, it wasn’t. There was one other name I’d come across in my research she might be able to tell me about. “Do you remember a cop by the name of Jay Miller?”
Silence.
“Chief Dalton?”
“I’m here,” she said. “You just took me by surprise. I haven’t heard the name Jay Miller for a very long time.”
Thirty years ago, perhaps? I wondered. “He was mentioned in an article about Wade Fink’s murder,” I said. “Was he involved with the investigation?”
More silence; so much so, I was beginning to get worried. If Patricia Dalton knew more than she was letting on about Wade’s murder, and it turned out to be some sort of cover-up, it would make my relationship with Paul that much more difficult.
“I think you’d better come see me,” she finally said. “We can talk then.”
“I’ve got a few stops to make, but I can come in afterward,” I said, worry growing. She did know something, but I wasn’t sure it was about Wade directly. Did the police know more about the case than they let the public in on? Or was there something else going on, something that would hamper my investigation?
“I’ll be here all day,” she said. “And Krissy . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Be careful, all right?”
“I will.”
She hung up and I lowered my phone to my lap. What was going on here? Patricia Dalton hadn’t seemed too concerned by me looking into the murder when I’d brought it up at the writers group meeting, yet now, she was warning me to be careful. What had changed?
Jay Miller, that’s what.
But why? Albie Bruce hadn’t mentioned him. No one had, as far I could remember. Just the one article in the paper, and that was merely a casual mention of him, not a scathing report.
Chief Dalton was going to tell me something, I was sure, but would it be the absolute truth? Or would she protect a colleague, one who might have done something they shouldn’t have?
And if that was the case, would the local journalist who’d covered the case at the time know anything about it?
It was a good thing I was about to meet with him.
With that thought in mind, I put my car in gear and headed for my meeting with Larry Ritchie.
9
Larry Ritchie’s log cabin sat in a quiet part of Pine Hills, where the town lights wouldn’t reach. There was a large pond out back that looked entirely natural, not one of those man-made ponds that were too symmetrical, too clean. I could hear the frogs even before I shut off my car’s engine.
I sat in his gravel driveway a long moment, taking in the scenery. Pine Hills was a beautiful place. The trees, the gently sloping hills. Even downtown felt peaceful, a place apart from the rest of the world.
But Larry’s house was truly an isolationist’s paradise. I couldn’t see a hint of a neighbor from his property, not unless you counted the hawk resting in a tree nearby.
His house sat close enough to the pond so that he could sit on the back deck and look out over the water, but not so close that it would become problematic if we were to get a heavy rain and the water overflowed its banks. A ramp rose next to the stairwell, which consisted of a total of three steps. If it wasn’t for the slope of the property, he wouldn’t have needed stairs at all.
I got out of my car and made for the front door to his cabin. Before I was halfway there, the door opened and a man who appeared to be in his early sixties wheeled himself out. His hair was a solid white, face clean-shaven. Even though he was confined to a wheelchair, he held himself with an assurance a lot of people who could walk didn’t have.
“You Krissy Hancock?” he asked.
“I am. Larry Ritchie?”
He grunted in response and then wheeled back into his house. “Close the door after you.” The shout came from over his shoulder.
Okay then.
I hurried to catch up to him, choosing the stairs over the ramp. I stepped across the threshold, and then closed the door behind me as requested.
Larry was seated at his dining room table. A stack of legal pads sat on a stand next to him. As I entered, he tossed a newspaper atop them. I couldn’t tell if he was hiding them from me, or if he was merely setting the paper aside to keep the table clear.
“Thank you for inviting me to your home,” I said, joining him in the dining room. The house had a cozy feel to it, so much so, it was a surprise when I realized the fireplace in the next room hadn’t been lit.
“Wasn’t like I had much of a choice.” He patted the arm of his wheelchair. “People in town look at me with a pity I can’t abide, so I stay here when I can.”
“Do you have a nurse?” I glanced into the living room, half expecting to find someone standing there, but the room was empty.
“I do. She’s not here. Only comes when I need something.”
By the way he said it, I could tell he didn’t like having someone wait on him. I had a feeling Larry Ritchie spent a lot of time alone, doing things for himself. He was smartly dressed, as if he was ready for a night on the town.
“Sit.” He waved a hand at the chair in front of me. “It’ll put a kink in my neck if I have to stare up at you.”
I abruptly sat, feeling like a kid back in school.
“Want anything?” he asked. “Tea? Kettle’s still hot.” He touched a mug in front of him. I could smell the mint coming off the steam.
“Tea would be great, thank you.” I warred with myself before saying, “I can get it if you want.”
Larry’s jaw tightened and he gave me a look that said, “Just try it,” as clearly as if he’d spoken.
I folded my hands on the table and let him get my tea for me. A bowl of sugar cubes sat beside a pitcher of cream in the center of the table. While I didn’t take either in my coffee, I decided I’d try it in my tea.
While Larry poured, I took in his home. From where I sat, I couldn’t see down the short hallway where I imagined his bedroom and the bathroom were located. From the outside, I got the impression the house was only big enough for one bedroom. From the inside, I was almost positive that was the case—the living room took up much of the available space.
Despite it being a log home, there were no animal heads on the wall like there always was on TV. A plaque hung near the television, as did a few other framed items, which I took to be awards, though I’d have to get closer to be sure. I didn’t see any photographs.
“Here you are.” Larry set a mug down in front of me. It depicted a nature scene, which told me a little about the man I was about to talk to.
There was one of those tiny little spoons sitting on the saucer. I used a set of tongs to grab two sugar cubes, added a little cream, and then used the spoon to stir my tea. I took a polite sip.
“Thank you,” I said. “It’s good.”
Larry grunted and resumed his place at the table. “Now, you were here to talk about Wade Fink’s murder, is that correct?”
“It is.” I took another sip, and then set my mug on the saucer to let my tea cool. “I saw your articles online and they piqued my interest.”
“You were doing research on Pine Hills?” he asked.
“Sort of.” I might have told him I was interested in the history of the town before, but sitting face-to-face with him, I found it hard to lie. “Eleanor Winthrow was my neighbor. She died recently and, well . . .”
He took a sip of tea as he studied me. Larry had hard, critical eyes that likely served him well when he was asking tough questions of someone for a story. I endured it as calmly as I could, but my insides were doing jumping jacks. The man made me nervous and he didn’t even have to say anything.
Finally, he set his mug aside. “What happened to Wade Fink put a stain on this town. He put a stain on it, one that took a long time to fade.”
“You’re talking about his relationship with Rita Jablonski.”
He nodded. “Wade flaunted it to the point where it became obscene. He was already doing something most of us didn’t approve of, and having him do everything in his power to make sure we saw it day in and day out, only made it worse.”
“You disapproved of the relationship.”
“Of course I did!” He smacked the table, causing the little spoons to rattle on their saucers. “She was too young. It was a scandal then, as it would be today. There were other, more age-appropriate women for him, and I know for a fact there were a lot of young men interested in the Jablonski kid, boys her own age.”
“Were you one of them?” I asked, before realizing he fit the “age-appropriate” portion just about as well as Wade had.
Larry’s nostrils flared. “I take offense at the mere suggestion that I could have wanted to have anything to do with her. She was a child, barely old enough to understand what was happening to her, let alone the town.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to offend you, but I saw pictures of her. She was pretty. You can’t blame someone for being interested in her.”
“Yes, you can.” He snatched up his tea and took a large gulp that had to have scalded his throat, but he didn’t complain. “Wade knew he was walking a fine line. If her parents had wanted to, I’m sure they could have found a way to press charges against him. She might have been of legal age, but that doesn’t mean Wade hadn’t courted her before then.” He paused. “Turns out, it wasn’t necessary for them to take that step.” Was that a smile I saw behind his mug?
“You can’t truly think Wade’s murder was a good thing?” I asked, appalled. I can see being angry about the relationship, I supposed, but to be happy about a man’s death? That was obscene.
“If you understood what it was like then, you wouldn’t say that,” Larry said. “Imagine if you were standing in a room filled with gunpowder and the guy next to you insists on smoking. What do you think will happen? It might not go up right away, but the more he smokes, the more he tosses ash, the closer you come to having the whole thing blow up on you.”
As vivid as the imagery might be, I still didn’t believe a man’s death could be a good thing. If Wade had been out killing women like one of those serial killers they make documentaries about, then maybe. Even then, I had a hard time justifying someone’s death, even a bad person’s. That’s what prisons were for.
“You look at me like I’m a horrible person,” Larry said, sitting back in his wheelchair. “I can’t say you’re the first. It’s human nature to think the best of people, especially people you know. But trust me, there was little good in Wade Fink. If he could find a way to ruin the entire town, he’d do it.”
“And you think his decision to date Rita was his way to hurt Pine Hills?”
Larry shrugged. “Could be. Or maybe he did care about her. Who knows for sure? I will say that once he was gone, things got better around here. Relationships grew stronger. There was more than one wife around town who’d accused her husband of looking at those younger girls, all because of Wade. Once that relationship ended, so did the accusations.”
I wondered if he was one of those accused, but didn’t ask the question. If Larry Ritchie was once married, he wasn’t now. He wore no ring on his finger, and there was no indication a woman lived with him.
“What can you tell me about the police officers who’d worked the case?” I asked, deciding I wasn’t going to get anywhere talking about Wade and Rita. Larry had his opinion and it was obviously marring his view on the couple.
Larry considered it a moment before answering. “They did what they could, and that’s that.” It wasn’t much of an answer.
“Do you think they tried very hard to solve the murder?”
“As hard as they could. Like everyone else, they were relieved the relationship was over. Tensions were high, even among Wade and his friends. I remember there was a brawl once, and while I can’t swear to what it was about, I’m pretty sure Ms. Jablonski was the reason.”
“Wade fought with his friends?” I asked. “As in, a throwing punches kind of fight?”
Larry nodded. “Not sure who all was involved. Wasn’t much of a story, so I had no real interest in it. They got into it, the cops showed up, and it was over. No one got arrested. I only know about it because I had a friend on the force and he gave me a call whenever something happened in town, just in case I needed a story.”
“Was that officer Jay Miller?”
The name threw him off because he hesitated before he answered. “Yeah, that’s him. Once the paper folded, we lost touch. That was, I don’t know, fifteen years ago now? Can hardly believe it’s been that long. Technology was a problem, even in the early two thousands. Nowadays, what chance does print have? Everyone can go online to find out whatever they want in real time, so what purpose do we serve?”
I had my own opinion on the decline of print media, but once again, I held my tongue. I didn’t want to go down that rabbit hole with someone whose career was affected by the growth of social media. Needless to say, I mostly agreed with him.
“Do you know where Jay Miller is now?” I asked. “Is he still on the force?”
Larry’s laugh was harsh, almost condescending. “He left not long after I was out of a job, if I remember right. Don’t know why, and at that point, I didn’t care.”
“Why?” I asked, not quite sure what I was asking, or if it even mattered.
“People change,” Larry said. “Stuff happens. I’m not going to get into it with you.”
There was something there, and I wanted to press him, but I knew I’d be wasting my time. Larry Ritchie was someone who spoke when he wanted, about what he wanted, and nothing would change that.
“What about Albie Bruce?” I asked. “He was in charge of the investigation at the time, right?”
“He was,” Larry said. “He was a good cop. Could be strict when he needed to be, but kind when necessary. Had a good head on his shoulders, though he didn’t like me lurking around his crime scenes, as few as they might have been.”
I considered going down the list of people I knew were involved with the murder, but realized he’d grow impatient with me if I tried. Still, there was one other question I wanted to ask him, just to see what he’d say.
“Who do you think killed Wade Fink?” I asked, picking up my now cooled tea and taking a sip.
Larry leaned forward and rested both his hands on the table. They were strong hands, the kind I could imagine reaching across the table and choking the life out
of me if he wanted to. Something about him intimidated me, frightened me even. Could he have been involved with the murder somehow? Or was I letting my imagination run a little too wild?
“Whoever killed him was a hero,” Larry said. “If you truly want to know who killed that man, I’d look for someone who cared about Pine Hills, and about the pain Wade caused. I only hope you realize that what that person did was the right thing to do because no one else had the guts to do it.”
Our eyes met. There was a challenge there, a dare to press him. There was so much bitterness and hatred toward Wade in that look, I wondered if anything he’d told me was worth anything.
“Thank you for your time,” I said, rising. “And thank you for the tea. It was very good.”
Larry leaned back in his chair and regarded me. “There’s a lot you don’t know about the world, young lady. I get that you have your own views, your own beliefs, but that doesn’t make them right.”
The same could be said about you, I thought, but didn’t say it. No sense in taking the bait; and I knew that’s exactly what it was. “I’ll contact you if I have any more questions,” I said, knowing I wouldn’t call unless something came up tying Larry to the crime. “Thanks again.”
His smile was about as warm as an ice cream sundae.
“I’ll show myself out.”
I hurried away from the table and left Larry Ritchie’s log cabin, which no longer felt cozy, but the sort of place where an unhinged man might hide away to make bombs. Larry didn’t follow me out, yet I could still feel him watching me, daring me to say something that would give him permission to do . . . what? I’m not sure. Whatever it was, it gave me the willies.
10
What once used to be a leafy lion sagged sideways, as did an elephant, which looked more like a melting block of green ice than an animal. I took each turn slowly as I worked my way up the winding driveway that led to Ted and Bettfast, the bed-and-breakfast where Ted and Bett Bunford lived and worked.
The next bend used to have a hedge trimmed to look like a dog. It was completely gone now. A gaping hole sat in its place.
Death by French Roast Page 8