by C. E. Nelson
“But we don’t know who killed Maples.”
“No, but I’m willing to bet it wasn’t one of the nurses. I got to think it was Rahm, or possibly, her boss,” said Carlisle. “Rahm is the key. She is probably the only one who can tell us who she is working for. The nurses just steal the drugs and collect their fee. I doubt their knowledge goes much further.”
“So, we go after Rahm?”
“Yeah.” Carlisle spit some seeds in a paper cup. “And I think we do it at her office. Make sure at least some of the nurses see us. Maybe one of them will talk too.”
“When do you want to do this?”
“I want to talk to Bob first.” Carlisle spit the shells out in her cup again. “I don’t think he gets in until ten this morning. I’ll talk to you after.” She looked at Lerner. He had a sour look on his face. “What?”
“You really should take up something other than chewing sunflower seeds. Spitting in the cup. Shells all over. It’s just…”
“What? Not lady-like?”
“Probably. But I was thinking messy and unsanitary. What does your fiancée think of your seed habit?”
Carlisle thought about that. She chewed some in her car, which was a mess, but Jeff had never been in her car that she could remember, and she didn’t do it away from work. He probably had no idea. “He’s fine with it.”
“Really?” Lerner stood. “Well, OK. I’ve got a few more relatives of Hillside residents to contact and the Brady thing.” The “Brady thing” was the BCA investigation of a shooting of a Duluth drug dealer by a county sheriff deputy. The BCA investigated shootings by all other law enforcement agencies in the state. “What about going to Superior?”
“Yeah, we still need to do that. I’ll talk to Bob about that too.”
Lerner turned, took one step, and stopped. “Hey look,” he said pointing. “The sun is shining. It’s going to be a great day!” He walked away.
Carlisle watched him go and then looked out the window across the room. The sun was shining, something that didn’t happen that often in Duluth this time of year. And then she remembered that the World Series would start tonight. Maybe it would be a good day?
Carlisle went back to her other assignments but was now conscious of each time she went to reach in her seed bag. At first, she threw a few extra seeds in her mouth to spite Lerner, but then, when she spit them out, she looked in the cup. “Gross.” She tossed the cup in her garbage and closed the seed drawer. She was fighting the temptation to open up the drawer again when her phone buzzed.
“Carlisle.”
“Good morning, Miss Carlisle. Berger here.”
Carlisle looked at the time on her computer. Almost ten. “You’re in early.”
“Yeah, well, we got the BCA to handle most of our crook business so I’m not too busy.”
“I live to make your life easier,” said Carlisle. “So, why am I so blessed to hear from you this morning?”
“It was in the cookie.”
“What was in the cookie?”
“The poison that killed Helen Johnson. Highly toxic according to the crime lab. Not something you even want to touch.”
“Wow. Nasty.”
“Yeah. They’re still trying to figure out what exactly it was, but they believe it came from some kind of plant in South America.”
“South America?”
“That’s what they said.”
“Her funeral is today, right?”
“Yeah. I’ll go and hang around. I just won’t eat any cookies.”
“Probably a good idea,” said Carlisle. “You call Trask yet?”
“Next up.”
“No drug connection with Johnson?”
“We went back over her place with the old fine-tooth comb. She had Tylenol, but that was it,” said Berger.
“OK. Thanks for the call.”
“You bet.”
Poison. No drugs. Maples smothered, Dan Bishop shot. What was this all about? Carlisle was unconsciously reaching for the seed drawer handle when her boss stopped by her desk, startling her.
“Morning, Carlisle.” He removed his coat and hung it over his arm as he did every day. “It’s looking like a beautiful day.” He turned to glance out the window and then back to Carlisle. “What’s new with the Hillside thing?”
“I’d like to talk to you about that, sir.”
“Come on in.”
Chapter 34
Trask was nearly asleep at his desk. His third cup of coffee seemed to do nothing. His wife had rolled back and forth in bed all night when she wasn’t up. This baby needed to come soon, or he wouldn’t make it. John Krill stood in his doorway and knocked.
“Sheriff. You got a minute?”
“What’s up?”
Krill walked over and sat in the chair opposite Trask. “There were prints on that bag you found but too smeared to use. Chips are kind of greasy I guess.”
“Yeah.”
“I talked to Lisa Bishop’s co-workers, her brother and sister, and a few of her friends, but no one seems to have any idea why someone would want to kill the Bishops. From what I can put together, these people were like some of the nicest people you could know. Hard workers, volunteered, went to church every week. Just good people.”
“Anything on the car?”
“Nothing. Checked security cameras for the convenience stores in town and asked around, but no sighting.”
Trask sipped his now cold coffee. “This can’t be some random thing. There was no robbery, but someone was staking out their place. Why would you watch a place unless you were planning to rob it?”
“You don’t,” said Krill.
“Unless you wanted to get Dan and Lisa Bishop alone, without their kid at home.”
“To kill them.”
“Still doesn’t rule out robbery as a motive. Guy could have been scared away after he shot them. But why pop them right in the doorway? And why would you pick them to rob?”
“Someone could have hired someone to do it.”
“Maybe. But either way, it all seems to come back to someone they know wanting them dead. Why would someone they know want them dead?”
“No clue. Their finances were OK, but it wasn’t like they were rolling in it,” Krill said.
Trask took another sip, grimaced, and stood. “I’m going to have Marcy check on car registrations and gun ownership for the Dan Bishop’s relatives and employees at the Bishop Agency.”
“What about Lisa Bishop’s relatives?”
“No. Dan Bishop was shot first. And he’s had two siblings die in the last week or so. I think he was the target.”
Krill stood. “How’s your wife doing?”
“I don’t know. We’re both too tired to talk.”
Krill grinned. “OK. Well, unless you’ve got something else for me on this…”
“Not for now. Thanks, John. Good work.”
Trask dumped his cold coffee and refilled his cup. He stopped by Green’s desk and asked her to check on the vehicles and gun registrations.”
“You look tired, Sheriff.”
“I'm so tired I don't think I could even go fishing."
"Wow. You are tired."
"I’m moving to the spare room tonight if she starts rolling again.”
“She’s rolling?”
“Big time.”
“Uh, oh.”
“What?”
“She must be really close. Lots of rolling is a sure sign.”
“Her doctor told her it would still be a while.”
“So did mine, but the rolling started. Couldn’t get comfortable. Couldn’t sleep. Kid came in just a day or two. You better get ready.”
Trask looked at her for just a moment and then walked back to his office. He wasn’t ready. He didn’t even know what ready was. Maybe he should call Linda and ask her? No, best not to. His tired mind drifted back to the Bishop murders, the three siblings, and then to something he had said at lunch the day before. He had been certain the deaths were
not related because of the Roberts’ killing, but what if Sandy Roberts had seen something? And the murderer knew. Had to silence her. But just as quickly, Carlisle’s comment about the methods of murder being unrelated came back. No, it just didn’t fit.
Ken Bishop woke in his bed, fully clothed, on his stomach. He rolled to his side. Something hard and cold poked him in the back. He reached behind him, grabbing the offending object, putting it in front of his face. His pistol.
“Jesus Christ.”
Bishop made it to a sitting position, head bowed, feeling so heavy he didn’t think he could lift it. He looked at the gun in his lap, trying to piece together the night before. Suddenly, he became aware of voices in the living room, voices he didn’t recognize. He looked at the doorway, listened some more. He pushed himself to his feet and walked to the hall, leaning out of the doorway. Music and laughing. Bishop stumbled down the hall, gun in hand, and stood in the doorway to the living room. He’d left the television on.
He stood there, leaning against the door frame, the pain behind his bloodshot eyes peaking with each round of canned laughter from the television. Bishop crossed to the table by his chair, grabbed the remote, and turned off the set. The silence felt better, but not great. He needed coffee and ibuprofen. Lots. And a shower. He started the coffee but couldn’t wait for it, downing a large glass of water with five ibuprofens. Bishop walked to the bathroom, took off his clothes, and stepped in the shower. He turned it on after he got in, letting the cold water wake him before the water warmed.
As Bishop shaved, he noticed it was nearly noon. He’d have to hurry. After dressing, he had toast and coffee, feeling marginally better and nearly awake. He retrieved his phone, a little surprised to see that his brother had not returned his call. He was going to try him again but figured he’d see him in a few minutes anyway. Wearing the same suit as the day before, Bishop stepped out his back door. The bright sun overhead assaulted his eyes, and he squinted as he lifted his hand to shield them. He walked to his car and got in. He sat trying to remember where he was going for a minute, gave up, and walked back into the house. The sticky note with the location of his sister’s funeral was on his chair.
The traffic on Superior was slow. People on their lunch breaks, shopping or looking for something to eat. By the time he pulled into the lot at Holy Cross, it was almost a quarter to one, the lot nearly full. He ran across the lot and into the church to find the priest standing by the door.
“Mr. Bishop?”
The priest was thin and short. His posture was such that he looked like he might fall over at any time. Small wired-rimmed glasses perched on his sharp nose, tufts of white hair were visible above his ears.
“Yes?”
“I’m Father Jim. We were expecting you nearly an hour ago.”
“You were?”
“Yes. You and your sister and brother.”
“They’re not here?”
“I am afraid not. Now, if you can please come with me, we can quickly go over some details before the service.” The priest turned away, not waiting for an answer. He walked down a hall behind him, into a small, cluttered office. The office was cool and dark and smelled of incense. He sat in a chair upholstered in a worn army-green felt in front of a small wooden table holding several Bibles. Bishop took one of the three remaining matching chairs. “Now, if you could just –-"
“Tom isn’t here?”
“I’m sorry, I thought you were Tom Bishop.”
“No. That’s my brother. I’m Ken.”
“I see. Well, Mr. Bishop, we’ve been trying to reach your brother and sister for the last hour but have not been able to do so. Do you know if they will be attending?”
“Um, yeah, I think so.”
“All right. Well, I don’t think we can wait. I had a service for the family planned but I’m afraid we must dispense with that for now and just go over a few details of the funeral if that is all right?”
Bishop was only listening halfway. Where the hell was Tom? He should be here. Something wasn’t right.
“Mr. Bishop?”
“Sorry. Yeah, go ahead.”
Chapter 35
Canton changed her mind. Tuesday morning, she called work, said a friend had passed away, and that she would be going to the funeral. Her supervisor expressed his condolences and said he’d see her Wednesday. She decided she needed to go to Helen Johnson’s funeral, to see Ken Bishop. To see that he was there.
Canton had not slept well. A cascade of feelings was running through her – excitement, fear, anticipation, sadness. Each time she closed her eyes, her brain would move into overdrive. She’d lay things out, sure she’d covered every detail, and then do it again. Today would be the day she would kill the last one. The last Bishop. The last of her tormentors. She hadn’t killed them all, and that was a little disappointing, but now they would all be gone. And that would be good.
And also, a little sad. She had no idea when she started this that it would become so important to her. No idea how much she would like it. The preparation, the anticipation, and the look in their eyes. It was such a thrill to feel so alive after so many years of dragging through each day.
It was mid-morning and Canton was in her kitchen preparing a surprise. A surprise for Ken Bishop. The night before she decided that the police may be getting close. She thought she had been very careful, but she suspected that she may have overlooked some small detail. She didn’t think it was anything that would give her away, but she decided it was best not to take any more chances. Too many criminals were caught on too many of the crime shows she watched because they got cocky. She was not going to do that. She’d miss seeing the look on Ken Bishop’s face when he died, and he’d never really know it was her, but that couldn’t be helped. As long as he tried the cookie, he would die.
Everything she needed for her surprise was in her home. The cellophane, the ribbon for the bow, the small gift bag. All things she had. And that included one other small element. The inspiration for her plan, really. As she cleaned up after dinner the night before, she noticed the business card of a realtor on the counter. The card had come in the mail with a brochure, asking that she consider the realtor if she decided to sell. At the time she got the mailing it had been winter. She had no intention of selling but kept the card in case she changed her mind. Now the card was going to come in handy.
Canton placed a cookie in the clear wrapping paper and tied it with ribbon. She ran the ribbon between her thumb and the blade of the scissors to curl it and then placed the cookie in the small shiny gift bag. On the back of the business card she wrote, “Hope you enjoy this treat. Call if you decide to sell.” She dropped the card in the bag with the cookie and tied the handles together with more ribbons. She admired her work for a moment, holding the bag in front of her, and then set it on the table.
Canton put on her best gray knit skirt, a white blouse, and a jacket to match the skirt. She hadn’t decided yet if she would be going into the church but would be prepared. With directions written on a sheet of paper on the passenger seat, Canton left for Helen Johnson’s funeral. She decided the direct route would be the best but regretted her decision almost immediately. Superior was busy. Cars and big pickups and busses jockeyed for position on the street. Canton was honked at more than once and almost ran a red light when she became flustered. The traffic finally thinned as she reached the north end of town, but she did not release her iron grip on the wheel until she was safely in the lot of Holy Cross. She bowed her head and released a deep breath. Sweat trickled down her sides despite the fact she had neglected to turn on the heat.
It had just reached noon and there were only a few cars in the lot. Canton assumed the family would arrive early, thinking now that would just be Ken Bishop, at least on Helen’s side. Maybe a few of her husband’s family would be here too. She wanted to see Bishop, to be sure he was at the service before she went back to his house to deliver the cookie. But now she realized that it may be possible that he was
already inside. She had no idea what kind of car he drove. Canton got out of her car and went into the church.
The entry of the church was small. A coat room was to the left, a hallway to the right. Benches lined the wall between the doors to the sanctuary that was straight ahead. Canton walked up to the doors to the center aisle and looked into the sanctuary. The honey-oak pews were empty as was the space around the altar. A man in a dark suit was walking down the aisle on the far side of the pews to her right. He appeared to be holding a Bible or hymnal.
Ken Bishop was not there. It didn’t mean he wasn’t in the church. He could be meeting with the priest in a room somewhere. She backed out of the sanctuary and turned to find the man she had seen inside standing in front of her. Canton’s hand went to her chest in surprise.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m Father Michael. Are you here for the Johnson funeral?”
“Yes.”
“You’re quite early,” he said.
“I just didn’t know how much traffic there would be,” she said.
“Always better to be safe than sorry. Are you a relative?”
“No, just a friend.”
“What is your name?” he said.
Canton looked at him in surprise, her mouth open, just catching herself before she revealed her identity. “Mary. Mary Turner.”
“Well, Mary. If you’d like to wait, you can just have a seat on one of the benches,” he said, pointing to his left and then to the right. Her head swiveled as she followed. “If you need to use the bathroom, it’s just down the hall and on your right.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“Well, I had better get ready. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”