Finding a Killer

by Wendy Meadows

  “That’s what Betty and I were discussing,” Mary told Sheriff Whitfield. “If Nurse Greta or Sam didn’t kill poor Dr. Cappes, then who did? We were trying to figure that out and decided the next step would be to question the remaining patients.”

  “I hate to bother a bunch of old ladies,” Sheriff Whitfield said and rubbed the back of his neck. “I was hoping you two ladies would do the questioning for me…if you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Really?” Betty asked.

  “I’m growing old in my years and even when I was no taller than the back of a horse, I never felt comfortable around old ladies,” Sheriff Whitfield confessed. “I grew up on a farm and my mother’s momma lived with us. Boy, that was the meanest woman who walked on green grass. She’d take a stick and beat you senseless before you knew it…meaner than a rattlesnake, yes sir.” Sheriff Whitfield shook his head. “That woman left a bad taste in my mouth.”

  “We understand,” Mary assured Sheriff Whitfield. “If you’ll stand guard over Uncle Albert, we’ll start visiting the women on your list.”

  Sheriff Whitfield nodded. “I’d be mighty grateful,” he said and pointed at Albert’s door. “I’ll stand guard until you ladies finish your visiting.”

  “We might be a while,” Mary warned.

  “Mary, there’s a dead body downstairs,” Sheriff Whitfield pointed out. “I’m in no rush to go anywhere until I find myself a killer.”

  Mary took Betty’s hand. “I hope we do find the real killer,” she said as they walked down the hallway and stopped at a room that had soft music trapped inside. “Ready?” she asked Betty.

  “No,” Betty confessed, “but talking to a harmless old woman is a lot better than fighting with Nurse Greta.”

  “Tell me about it,” Mary agreed and quickly knocked on the door. “Mrs. Church?” she called out. “Mrs. Church, this is Mary Holland. I’m working with Sheriff Whitfield. I need to ask you a few questions if that’s okay?”

  “Maybe she can’t hear you?” Betty asked.

  “Maybe she can’t.” Mary knocked on the door again. “Mrs. Church—”

  Before Mary could finish her sentence, the door swung open and a short lady standing no higher than Mary’s neck appeared wearing a dark gray dress and a very mean face. “I heard you the first time,” Elizabeth Church snapped at Mary. “I may be old but I’m not deaf. Now go away.”

  Elizabeth began to close her room door. Mary quickly went into panic mode and called out: “Please, Mrs. Church, we need to speak with you.”

  Elizabeth looked at Mary with cold eyes. “I didn’t kill Henry Cappes, you mean old crow,” she hissed. “I was very fond of Henry and he was very fond of me. Now go away.”

  Mary watched as Elizabeth slammed her room door shut. “My goodness,” Betty said, “what a cruel old lady…and so rude. Why, Mother would have put that woman in her place.”

  Mary sighed. “Come on, honey,” she said. They walked to Sarah Maybrook’s room door and Mary knocked. “Mrs. Maybrook, this is Mary Holland, ma’am. I’m working with—”

  Sarah Maybrook’s room door crept open before Mary could finish her speech. A tall, thin old woman with the longest gray hair Mary had ever seen in her life appeared. “Please, come in,” Sarah said in a scared whisper.

  Mary and Betty looked at each other and then walked into a room gifted with breathtaking art; works of art covered every inch of the room barely leaving enough wall space for a small spider to crawl on. “Oh my,” Mary gasped as Sarah closed the door behind her.

  “Golly.” Betty’s eyes were wide. “So…beautiful.”

  Sarah quickly walked to a wooden chair, straightened out a dark pink dress, and sat down. “I’ve been an artist all of my life,” she explained. “I’ve traveled the world…painted beautiful landscapes. And now…my life’s paint is drying up,” she said in a tragic voice. “But my problems must not be brought to life,” she continued. “Dr. Cappes has been killed.”

  “I’m afraid so,” Mary said, looking at a painting of an icy winter lake standing before a rugged, snowy mountain. The painting was so detailed, so vivid, it was like Mary was actually standing before the winter lake feeling a cruel, icy wind striking her face.

  “Nurse Greta informed me of the tragedy,” Sarah told Mary and then focused her eyes on Betty. Betty was staring at a seascape depicting a courageous lighthouse fighting a stormy sea. It was clear that neither Mary nor Betty held any malice or hate in their hearts. “Nurse Greta told me Albert killed Dr. Cappes. I called her a liar and that’s when she confined me to my room.”

  Mary pulled her eyes away from the beautiful paintings and focused on Sarah. “Do you know who might have killed Dr. Cappes, Mrs. Maybrook?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Sarah answered in an honest voice. “I do know that Albert Malone isn’t the killer. Albert is a particular kind of man who is a mystery to me, but he isn’t a killer.” Sarah paused, looked at a painting full of beautiful meadows, and then shook her head. “Elizabeth Church is a cruel-hearted woman. Bitter and old. I would leave her alone. However,” Sarah slowly placed her hands together, “Mandy Dalton might be able to help you.”

  “Why do you think Mrs. Dalton might be able to help?” Mary asked.

  Sarah walked her eyes around the room and saw years of her life—years and years of memories—hanging on cold walls, and nearly began crying. “Mrs. Dalton is very close to Albert, closer than me. Albert and I talk on occasion, and I find him to be a very nice man. However, he seems very fond of Mrs. Dalton. I take no offense, of course.”

  Mary heard pain in Sarah’s voice. “We’ll speak with Mrs. Dalton,” she promised and carefully walked over to Sarah. “Your paintings are lovely,” she said. “I can’t help but wonder what a woman like yourself is doing in a—”

  “A mental home?” Sarah asked in her old voice. She looked up at Mary and forced a weak smile to her lips. “Sometimes, dear, when life has taken its toll and the heart can stand no more, one needs a place to…call a retreat away from life.” Sarah reached out and patted Mary’s hand. “The best years of my life are behind me. Such realization dampens the heart in a way that only the trust of miseries can understand.”

  “But—”

  Sarah patted Mary’s hands again. “My dear, take the advice of an old woman,” she begged. “Live each day to its fullest, love all that you can possibly love, laugh as much as you can laugh, and dream as much as you can dream…because someday, you’re going to be old like me.” Sarah looked at Betty, offered her a smile, and then pointed to the room door. “I wish to be alone now. Please.”

  “Of course,” Mary said and walked Betty to the room door. “Mrs. Maybrook, with your permission, before we leave, I would like to visit you again, to say goodbye.”

  Sarah smiled. “You’re more than welcome to come and tell me goodbye,” she promised Mary and then added in a sorrowful voice: “Goodbyes can be forever.”

  The image of a handsome man soared into Mary’s mind. Suddenly she saw her husband’s plane being shot down over a cold European sky. “Goodbyes don’t have to be forever,” she said in a quick voice and hurried back out into the hallway. “Oh, John,” she whispered, “don’t let our goodbyes be forever. Come home to me…please come home to me.”

  As Mary begged her husband to come home, a dark figure crept into Dr. Cappes’s office and stole the poor man’s body.

  5

  Mary knocked on Mandy Dalton’s door and then looked down the hallway. Sheriff Whitfield was leaning against Albert’s door with his arms crossed, staring down at the floor, deep in thought. “Mrs. Dalton, this is Mary Holland. I’m working with Sheriff Whitfield. I need to ask you a few questions if that’s alright.”

  “Please be nice, please be nice,” Betty begged.

  Mary looked at Betty and sighed. “So far, you’ve only fainted once today, honey. You’re doing fine.”

  “I’m very scared,” Betty confessed. “This hospital is very sad…and that poor Mrs. Maybrook. Oh Mary, how
sad. I felt like crying for her.”

  “Me, too,” Mary told Betty in a low whisper. “I don’t know what I would do if I lost John…the best years of my life were behind me…and I was…sitting in a room, waiting to die.” Mary lifted her eyes. “Maybe that’s why Mrs. Maybrook likes Uncle Albert. Maybe Uncle Albert makes her laugh.”

  Betty walked her eyes down to Sheriff Whitfield and then eased her mind through the closed door. She saw Uncle Albert lying on his bed singing a silly song, staring up at a ceiling that was leaking with bad memories. “Who makes Uncle Albert laugh?” she asked Mary.

  Mary had never considered such a question. “Why…I don’t know,” she admitted. Before she could continue, the door to Mrs. Dalton’s room opened and an elderly woman’s face appeared. “Mrs. Dalton?” Mary asked in a polite voice.

  “What do you want?” Mandy Dalton asked. Her voice was cold.

  Mary bit down on her lip and let her eyes carefully soak in a short, plump old lady who resembled the shape of a pumpkin—and was even dressed in orange. “May we talk?” Mary asked.

  Mandy narrowed her eyes and pointed a chubby finger at Mary. “Go away,” she demanded. “I’m doing my hair.”

  Betty looked at Mandy. The old woman had her short gray hair wrapped around what appeared to be a set of modern hair rollers. Betty could deal with the old woman’s hair. What she couldn’t deal with was the old woman’s cold, cruel face—a face designed with a vicious hatred that would make Nurse Greta beg for mercy. “Let’s go, Mary.”

  Mary hesitated. “I was told that you are friends with Albert Malone,” she said.

  Mandy stared at Mary for a very long time, studying the beautiful young woman the way a black widow studies a trapped insect. “Why do you ask?”

  “Albert Malone is being accused of murder,” Mary explained and waited for Mandy to reply. The old woman was certainly very creepy.

  “Perhaps Albert did kill Dr. Cappes,” Mandy told Mary in a cold voice. “I like Albert. He is an amusing man. Our friendship stops at murder.”

  Mary frowned. “Mrs. Dalton, may we come into your room and talk? Please.”

  “No.” Mandy shook her head and glanced down the hallway toward Sheriff Whitfield. “And tell that man to stay away from me, too. I am an old woman who wishes to be left alone.”

  “I understand that,” Mary dared to argue, “but a man is dead, Mrs. Dalton. My Uncle Albert needs help. If you could only speak with me for a few minutes…please.”

  Mandy focused her spidery eyes back on Mary. “I’ll speak to you alone. Your broomstick has to stay out in the hallway.”

  “Broomstick! How dare you…you…fat pumpkin,” Betty exclaimed and then threw her hands over her mouth. “Oh my goodness,” she mumbled, “I’m so sorry…I didn’t mean…oh dear.” Betty rushed down the hallway and hid behind Sheriff Whitfield.

  “That was very rude of you,” Mary scolded Mandy. “Betty is a sweet, caring, loving woman.”

  “She’s a weak, pathetic person who will die alone,” Mandy told Mary in a hateful voice. She turned and walked back into a room that resembled the inside of a treasure chest owned by a spoiled queen—a room filled by money, lots and lots and lots of money.

  Mary carefully entered the room. She spotted a large bed with a thick, lush, burgundy bedspread. The bed spoke of wealth and power—of a woman who was used to abusing innocent people while shaking hands with the wicked. “I’ll close the door,” she said.

  Mandy sat down in a very expensive green reading chair facing the room. She watched Mary close the door. She rubbed her chin and then said, “You are not a simple-minded woman. No, you have brains.”

  “I’m a newspaper woman,” Mary explained. “Critical thinking is part of my job.”

  “Newspaper?” Mandy didn’t look very pleased by that.

  Mary nodded. “My husband owns the newspaper. He’s away fighting in the war and—”

  “Oh, what is war?” Mandy waved Mary’s words away with an uncaring hand. “Wars come and go. I had family who fought in the Civil War. So what? The war never affected my life.” Mandy narrowed her eyes. “But, young lady, sometimes a war can be a very good thing.”

  “How can war ever be a good thing?” Mary demanded.

  “Profits are made in many different ways,” Mandy said and showed Mary a hideous grin. “Sometimes a war produces a very sweet treasure…if one understands how to play.”

  “That’s awful,” Mary scolded Mandy. “My husband could die—”

  “Husbands,” Mandy interrupted. She rolled her eyes and then snatched up a book off an antique reading table. “Husbands die, women remarry. That’s the way of it if a woman wants to survive in the world. Now quit bothering me and get out.”

  “Why, you hateful old woman,” Mary snapped.

  Mandy glanced up at Mary. A dark smile spread across her face. “Yes, I am a very hateful old woman,” she admitted. “I’m hateful because I understand how to be powerful. And power destroys the weak.”

  “If you’re so powerful, why are you sitting in a mental hospital?” Mary demanded.

  “Oh,” Mandy replied in a pleased voice, “an old woman such as myself has her reasons. I’m eighty years old. My body is weak, and my legs cause me great pain. But rest assured, young lady, my mind is still very sharp and can cut you into pieces.”

  Mary stared at Mandy and began wondering what Albert saw in the woman. How could Albert dare be friends with such a lady unless…unless…he had a hidden reason. “Mrs. Dalton?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you become so powerful?” Mary asked. “It’s obvious to me that you’re a very wealthy woman. Forgive me for being nosy…it’s the newspaper woman in me…but I’m curious about you.” Mary motioned around the treasure room and pretended to be in awe. “I’ve never seen such fine belongings before.”

  Mandy slowly lowered the book in her hand and grinned. It was time to teach a naive mind what real power was. “The railroad,” she told Mary.

  “The railroad?” Mary asked, slowly seeing Mandy take her bait.

  “My first husband was a very powerful railroad man,” Mandy explained. “When he was killed, I married a second man who was even more powerful.” Mandy let an evil smile slip across her wrinkled lips. “A woman who understands how to play her cards right can gain much power and wealth.”

  Mary felt a cold chill run down her spine. Never in her life had she ever come across an old woman who was…soulless. The old women in Pineville were nice, caring, and loving—women who baked cakes and pies and knitted quilts for the local church. Mandy Dalton, Mary thought, probably didn’t know the first thing about pie baking. “Looks like you played your hand very well.”

  “Oh yes,” Mandy grinned, “very well. You see,” she continued, “the secrets of the past can empower a woman.”

  “Secrets of the past?” Mary asked.

  Mandy nodded. “Every man has a secret. If a woman can discover that secret, well then, she can become very powerful.” Mandy placed the book back on the reading table. “Both of my husbands had secrets.”

  “Secrets?”

  “Many secrets,” Mandy admitted and then let out a sick cackle clearly revealing that even though in her own mind she considered herself to be queen of the world, she was indeed a very sick woman. But, Mary cautioned herself, even though Mandy was ill, it was possible the woman was connected to Albert’s past…somehow.

  “Will you tell me about the railroad?” Mary asked.

  Mandy folded her hands together. “The railroad is power, young lady. The railroad allows men to transport guns, bullets, cannons…many ugly items that can force their enemies into submission.” Mandy stared at Mary. “It’s all about power and who is daring enough to chase that power.”

  Mary wanted to turn and run away from Mandy as quickly as her legs would take her. Instead, she forced herself to stand still. “I know the railroad is very important to the war effort,” Mary said.

  “More than you rea
lize, young lady,” Mandy replied. “Of course, I don’t have anything to do with the war that is currently taking place. But I was very active in the first war.”

  “That sounds very impressive,” Mary said, hoping that the cruel woman was somehow connected to Albert’s past—and the stolen gold. It seemed to her that the stolen gold was the main incentive for murder—but why Dr. Cappes? And who was the murderer?

  “For a woman…yes,” Mandy told Mary in a conceited voice that stretched back through decades of soulless passion. “For a man…no.” Mandy glanced toward the right wall, as if she were searching for someone. “For a woman who understands secrets…yes,” she whispered.

  Mary watched Mandy search her memories for a certain person. When she located that person, she frowned rather than grinned. “For a woman…yes.”

  “Maybe I should go,” Mary said.

  Mandy looked back at Mary. “Is the truth too much for you, young lady?” she asked, bringing her mind back to the present. “Does it bother you that an old woman like myself was once a very powerful person who controlled her enemies? Does it bother you that I walked over people such as your friend like they were dirt?”

  “It bothers me that you have no heart,” Mary told Mandy.

  “The heart simply interferes with the mind, young lady. You should know that, of course, because you are a newspaper woman.”

  “I am a Christian, a wife, a friend, and a neighbor before I’m a newspaper woman,” Mary told Mandy and slowly glanced toward the room door. She wanted to run but knew she needed to ask more questions. “Mrs. Dalton, my uncle is a very caring man. Forgive me for saying this, but he doesn’t seem like the type of man who would be friends with a woman of…your stature,” Mary said, throwing the train onto a new track and hoping Mandy would follow.

  “Albert is a very amusing man to others,” Mandy told Mary. “But as I told you, when a woman knows a man’s secret, she has power. And perhaps, before I die, I’ll collect one last treasure.”

  “Treasure?” Mary asked. Was Mandy referring to Albert’s stolen gold?