Death by French Roast

by Alex Erickson

  “I know this is kind of abrupt, and I totally understand if you don’t want to talk to me, but Cliff called me last night because he said he knew something about Wade’s murder. I was hoping you might know what it was.”

  There was a long stretch of silence where I feared Madeline had set the phone down and walked away before she said, “I don’t know the specifics.”

  “But you do know something?” Hope bloomed in my chest.

  “I . . . I’m not sure. Cliff and I were close when we were younger. He looked out for me since I was his little sister. You know how it is.”

  I didn’t have a sibling, but I said, “Yeah,” anyway.

  “I knew most of Cliff’s friends, and while I didn’t approve of some, I did like Wade. When he died, Cliff grew distant. I didn’t press him on it then, though I wish I would have. Maybe things would have turned out differently.”

  “Do you think he had something to do with Wade’s death?” I asked. I did my best to keep my voice friendly, concerned, as not to offend her.

  To her credit, Madeline seemed to understand why I asked. “I wish I could tell you for sure, but I simply don’t know. I don’t believe for one second he killed Wade Fink. But he might have known who did. Cliff was loyal to his friends, would have done anything for them.”

  “Even if it meant covering for a murder of another friend?”

  “He might have, if he had reason enough to do so. Cliff was, shall we say, easy to manipulate.”

  My mind flashed to Arthur and his aggressive tone. “Did Cliff ever give you a hint as to what he knew?”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Hancock, but Cliff refused to talk about Wade’s death with me.” She paused. “Well, that’s not entirely true. There was one time, just before I moved away, when he broke down in my kitchen. He kept saying he thought he deserved to be punished, that he’d done something horrible. When I pressed him about it, he swore he didn’t murder Wade, but he’d done something that he felt was just as bad.”

  “But he never said what.”

  “He did not. When I told him to go to the police, he said he couldn’t, that if he did, he’d be a dead man.” Her voice broke. “Do you think that’s what happened? After all these years did someone kill him for knowing too much?”

  I wished I had an answer for her, but I didn’t. Not yet, anyway. “Did he ever say who he was afraid of?” I asked, choking back my own tears. I might not have known Cliff Watson well, but his death was really hitting me hard.

  “He didn’t,” Madeline said. She sniffed and her voice strengthened. “But I always got the impression it was someone close to the police somehow. Perhaps it was a cop.”

  I hung up after passing on my condolences once more, and then sat in my car until I was in control of my emotions. Then, I considered my options.

  I needed to talk to Paul, that was for sure. Maybe I’d been too hasty to let Jay Miller off the hook, because, if I didn’t miss my guess, he was the man Cliff was afraid of. Could Jay have killed Wade and Cliff caught him in the act? If so, why stay silent for so long? Because Jay was a cop?

  As much as I hated to admit it, it was possible. A police officer held power over people. He could have threatened Cliff, told him that if he ever told anyone else about the murder, then he or someone in his family might be next.

  There were still holes with my theory, like how Jay could possibly have known Cliff was willing to talk to me since I doubted Cliff would have called the man he was terrified of to let him know what he was doing. But I wasn’t about to go looking for Jay Miller to ask him about it.

  Still, there was one other avenue I could explore on my own.

  When I’d looked up a phone number earlier, I’d seen the address next to it. Zachary Ross might not have wanted to talk to me over the phone, but perhaps he’d reconsider if I paid him a little visit.

  21

  Zachary Ross lived in a small, two-bedroom house, tucked away in between a dozen similar homes that looked as if they’d been constructed to appear identical, though that was no longer the case. Some had additions built on, while others had fallen into disrepair. A rusted basketball hoop sat in the road at the end of the lane. It leaned near half bent over, forgotten.

  I parked on the street next to a Chevy that had seen better days. Its front bumper was hanging off, one battered end resting on the street. Two of its tires were flat, both on the road side, and someone had spray-painted something that looked to be a cross between a cow and chicken on the driver’s-side door.

  Laughter came from behind one of the houses. It sounded like an entire army of kids, but from where I stood, I couldn’t see them.

  I stepped around the dilapidated car, and over a crushed Pepsi can that looked as if it had been there since the nineties, and made for Zachary’s front door. The curtain in the window next to it swished open briefly, revealing a woman’s face, before closing again.

  Before I could knock on the door, it opened.

  “Yes?” the woman asked. She appeared to be Zachary’s age, if not a little older. Her eyes were rheumy, and her hand trembled where it gripped the door.

  “Hi, I’m sorry to bother you. I’m here to see Zachary. I called earlier.” I offered my hand. “Krissy Hancock.”

  The woman stared at my hand a moment before tentatively taking it in her own. Her grip was weak, her hand oddly warm. “Vera Ross. I’m not sure Zachary wishes to speak to you.”

  “You’re his wife?” I asked.

  Vera nodded. “I am. Married for fifty-five years now.”

  “Congratulations,” I said. “Sticking with someone for so long isn’t easy.”

  “No, it’s not.” She didn’t smile when she said it. “We’ve had our ups and downs. And now with his health, things have been tough.”

  “How bad is it?” I asked, wondering if the hunch in Zachary’s back was a symptom of whatever was wrong with him.

  Vera’s eyes turned grim. “He was fine up until early this year. Since then . . .” She glanced over her shoulder, and then lowered her voice. “I’m scared for him. He claims he’s fine, that the pain isn’t too much for him, but when he thinks I’m not looking, I can see how much he hurts.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, and I meant it. I didn’t like to see anyone in pain, even a man like Zachary Ross. Perhaps his foul mood had less to do with a frosty personality, and more with how he was suffering.

  “You can see why I might be hesitant to let you in,” Vera said. “After your call earlier, Zachary wouldn’t even talk to me. He sulked in his chair and stared out the window until he fell asleep.”

  “I understand,” I said. “But it’s important I talk to him. His friend died recently and I’m worried it might connect back to the death of one of his other friends. Did you know Wade Fink?”

  “No, we never officially met. I’ve heard the name, of course, but never met him myself. Never met many of them, to tell you the truth. I never got on with Zachary’s friends.”

  “Does that mean you didn’t know Cliff Watson?”

  Her gaze dropped. “No, I knew him. He was a good man. When Zachary first fell ill, he came to see him. He was the only one who deigned to do so.”

  “He seemed to care for his friends,” I said, thinking back to what Madeline had said about her brother.

  “I don’t know how Zachary can help you, Ms. Hancock. He’s not been himself, and honestly, I’m beginning to wonder if the pain is starting to eat away at his mind.”

  “Please, call me Krissy.”

  Vera shot me a flash of a smile.

  “I just want to talk to him,” I said. “Two of his friends were murdered. There’s a chance he might know something that could help prevent it from happening again.”

  “I don’t know . . .” She glanced over her shoulder again. I imagined Zachary sitting back there, watching her end of the conversation with a glower.

  “Please,” I said. “I won’t stay long. And I promise I’ll try not to upset him. I only want an
swers.”

  “Let her in.” Zachary’s voice was sharp.

  Vera flinched at the sound of it and then stepped aside so I could enter.

  I found Zachary sitting in a chair next to a window that looked out over the Rosses’ backyard. A cane lay against the wall next to him, and he reached for it as I entered the room.

  “You don’t need to stand,” I said, holding out a hand like I might shove him back down if he tried to rise. “I won’t keep you.”

  Zachary huffed, but he sat back with a wince that caused his entire face to scrunch up. The hunch in his back was more pronounced, and his head tilted to one side as if he couldn’t quite hold it up on his own. Both his eyes were watering from pain. A small, round table sat next to his chair. Five pill bottles were scattered atop it.

  “What do you want with me?” he asked. “I thought I made it clear I wasn’t interested in furthering our conversation.”

  It took me a moment to find my words. At the diner, Zachary had looked mostly fine. Here, he looked near crippled. Just looking at him, I couldn’t imagine him going to Cliff’s house and killing him. If the murder had been committed with a gun, then maybe. A knife? I doubted Zachary would have had the strength to lift it.

  Unless he looks worse because he had stabbed his friend and threw his back out in the process.

  “I’m sorry about what happened to Cliff,” I said. “I know he was your friend.”

  Zachary bowed his head slightly. “He was. And I didn’t kill him if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Do you know who did?”

  He snorted and then looked out the window. “If I did, the police would already know.”

  Vera stood just inside the room, wringing her hands. She was watching our conversation like she wasn’t quite sure what Zachary would say. It made me wonder if she suspected her husband of being involved somehow and was worried he’d say something incriminating.

  “What about Wade?” I asked.

  “What about him?”

  “Do you know who killed him?”

  Zachary’s jaw tightened. He continued to stare out the window.

  “He couldn’t have done it,” Vera said. “Zachary doesn’t have it in him to hurt anyone. And if he knew who killed his friends, he wouldn’t keep it to himself.”

  I glanced back at her and noticed the photograph on the wall next to her head. It was framed, but unlike the television below it, it was clean and dusted.

  “Your daughter?” I asked. The photo was old, black-and-white, and of a thirty-something Zachary and Vera with a young girl who could be no more than ten.

  Vera looked surprised by the question. “Oh, why, yes.”

  I glanced around the room, but didn’t see any more photographs of her. In fact, the one photograph was the only one in the room. “Does she still live in Pine Hills?”

  “What does our daughter have to do with anything?” Zachary snapped, turning in his chair with a hiss of pain so he could face me better. “Are you going to start accusing her of killing people now?”

  “No, I—”

  “I would like you to leave.” This time, when he reached for his cane, I didn’t try to stop him. Zachary wobbled on his feet, but when he strode toward me, his intent was clear; he’d shove me out the door if I didn’t go under my own power, even if it broke him in doing so.

  Vera looked concerned, but she merely backed into the kitchen. I briefly wondered if he’d come at her in the same way during their fifty-five years together.

  I raised both hands in surrender. “Okay,” I said. “I’m going.”

  I scurried back outside and to my car. Zachary didn’t follow me out the door, but he did remain standing just inside it. Anger contorted his features, and for the first time, I saw a man capable of murder.

  But could Zachary Ross have killed Cliff Watson in his condition? I doubted it. I could see him threatening someone, and perhaps his threats were enough to get Cliff killed.

  Who would he threaten? Why? I was the one running around asking questions. Why not go after me?

  Someone had, I reminded myself. Jay Miller had appeared, uninvited, in my house. Could Zachary have sent him after me?

  Wilting under Zachary’s stare, I started up my car and drove down the road a ways. Once his house was out of sight, I pulled to the side of the road again and considered my next move.

  What I needed was a motive for Wade’s murder. It was pretty clear that it likely had something to do with his relationship with Rita. As much as I wanted it to be about money or something else, everything pointed right back to the way Wade held himself and had flaunted their relationship.

  Hue wanted to date Rita, so he had motive to want to be rid of Wade. But she’d turned him down, and it was unlikely she’d go out with him after her boyfriend was murdered. Did he try again, once Wade was out of the picture? I should ask Rita, because it was unlikely Hue would admit to it if he had.

  Then there was Arthur. He had gotten into a fight with Wade over his relationship with Rita. Arthur had a history of violence, and wasn’t too keen on talking about it with me or the cops. Ever since I’d met him, he seemed angry. Did that make him a killer?

  Lester was prejudiced, but seemed to care about his friends. I couldn’t see him killing them, especially Cliff. But did he know more than he was letting on? He’d practically handed me Zachary on a silver platter.

  It was then I realized I hadn’t gotten the chance to ask Zachary about where he’d gone when he’d parted with Lester on the day of Wade’s murder like I’d intended to do. I had a feeling he wouldn’t have told me outright, but his expression, and how he responded to the question, might have told me something.

  So, who did that leave? I had yet to talk to Roger Wills, not that anything pointed to him knowing anything. Cliff was dead, and whatever he knew about Wade’s death very likely died with him.

  I picked up my phone and checked for Roger’s address. As long as I was making a nuisance of myself, I might as well do a thorough job of it.

  Luckily, Roger didn’t live too far away, so I put my car in gear and headed to his apartment.

  Roger Wills answered on the third knock, a bewildered expression on his face. “Yes?”

  “Hi, Roger, it’s Krissy. From J&E’s. We met the other day.”

  “We did?” He frowned. “At the Banyon Tree?”

  “Yep.” I smiled and waited for him to recognize me, but that recognition never came.

  “Oh, was that today? I haven’t been as regular as I once was. I keep forgetting.” He stepped aside. “Come on in. I suppose there’s something you wish to discuss.”

  I hesitated on the threshold, worried. Roger hadn’t been super sharp when I’d met him at the Banyon Tree, but he hadn’t been this bad. Like Zachary, his condition seemed to have worsened after Cliff’s death.

  I entered his apartment and closed the door behind me. Roger wandered over to a recliner resting in front of a small television. A black-and-white movie I didn’t know was playing on the screen. The volume was so low, I wondered if Roger could even hear it.

  “Krissy, right?” he asked, sitting. “We’ve met?”

  “We have.” I found a hard-backed wooden chair and turned it to face him. “We talked about Wade Fink.”

  “Wade.” His eyes grew misty. “I still remember Wade. He made mistakes, but he didn’t deserve to die.”

  So, he remembered that. I hoped that was a good sign for the rest of our conversation. “I’m trying to find his killer,” I said. “I was hoping you might be able to help.”

  “Me?” He shook his head. “Oh, I don’t think I can help you much. I wasn’t there when it happened.”

  “Do you know who might have been with him at the time?”

  “No, no. I’m sure I don’t. It was a long time ago.” His gaze drifted to the television and he seemed to forget about me.

  I sat there, contemplating what to do. I couldn’t imagine Roger killing Cliff, but if he did, would he have
remembered it? I hated to think it, but it was possible this was all an act. If he and Zachary were working together, they could both be exaggerating their symptoms to throw me—and the police—off their trail.

  But looking at Roger’s vacant eyes, the way his mouth hung open ever so slightly, I didn’t think so.

  “Roger,” I said. “Do you know what happened to Cliff Watson?”

  “Cliff?” His gaze swiveled back to me. “He’s a friend of mine. I saw him recently, didn’t I?”

  My chest tightened. Should I break the news to him that Cliff was dead? If he was faking, I might catch a subtle reaction. If he wasn’t, I could make things a whole lot worse.

  “I should go,” I said, instead.

  Roger smiled at me fondly, and I wondered if he suddenly thought I was someone else; a loved one maybe.

  The door opened just as I was about to grab for it myself and a man who looked to be in his late twenties, early thirties jerked back, eyes going briefly wide, before narrowing.

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “I’m sorry to intrude,” I said. “I wanted to talk to Roger. I didn’t realize . . .” I didn’t know how to finish that, so I trailed off lamely.

  “You know my dad?”

  A son? I hadn’t known Roger was married, let alone had a kid, but then again, it wasn’t like I knew much of the Coffee Drinkers outside of what they’d told me. “Kind of.” I stuck out my hand. “I’m Krissy Hancock. I’ve been looking into his friend, Wade Fink’s, death.”

  If I was hoping Roger’s son would open up to me, I was sadly mistaken.

  “Leave him alone,” he said, taking a threatening step toward me. He was carrying a paper grocery bag, which, depending on what was inside, could be used as a weapon. “He knows nothing about it, and even if he once did, it’s unlikely he’d remember now.”

  “What about you?” I asked, refusing to back down. “Did he ever say anything about the murder to you?” Roger’s son appeared too young to have been around for it, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t learned something in the years since.

  “No.” He stepped aside. “I’d like you to go. Dad doesn’t need your harassment. He’s struggling enough as it is.”