by Carolyn Hart
I was pleased to see Sam Cobb, Adelaide’s police chief, standing to one side of the crime scene with his second-in-command, Detective-Sergeant Hal Price. A scruffy young man in a tie-dye T-shirt over a damp swimsuit and rubber pool shoes knelt by the body. Jacob Brandt didn’t look the least like a medical examiner, but was a very good one.
I’d been helpful to Sam in past visits to Adelaide. Wiggins regretted that Sam was well aware I was sometimes visible and sometimes not. Tonight Sam wasn’t in his usual rumpled brown suit. Since the call came after hours, he was casual in a Hawaiian shirt and worn khakis. Hal was trim in a blue polo and denim cutoffs.
I joined their circle. Brandt came to his feet and gestured at the body. ‘Death instantaneous. Broken neck. Maybe a karate chop. That takes skill. Likely a weapon. Blackjack or sap. Big stick. Body’s still warm so I estimate dead about half an hour, could be forty-five minutes.’ He looked at his oversize wristwatch which likely could chart constellations or navigate Antarctica. ‘Seven thirty-two. Right around seven. For the record, body of well-nourished adult male, no other signs of overt trauma.’ He gave a wave with his hand. ‘Set your hounds loose. I’m back to the pool.’ He looked aggrieved. ‘I was sharing an inner tube with a good-looking girl. Five guys were circling like sharks. What are the odds one of them took my place.’ He turned and slapped across the floor.
Crime-scene technicians were already at work, starting at the perimeter of the room, drawing ever nearer the victim. A photographer completed a video sweep, switched to a Leica for still shots.
I looked around for the woman who opened the door and asked for a kiss, instead found death. She was no longer here.
Sam jerked a thumb toward the ceiling. ‘Station officers at every exit of the ballroom. Get somebody upstairs who has a guest list. Find out if Lambert was seated by anyone. If there’s anyone with a connection, take them to the main office. That’s on this floor not far from the main entrance. Text me on arrival. After that person or persons leave the ballroom, announce that a homicide has occurred. Emphasize there is no danger to anyone present and a police investigation is ongoing. Anyone who came in contact with Matthew J. Lambert this evening or has information about him is asked to inform an officer. Guests exiting the ballroom will be required to show identification and sign their names to a register.’
Hal nodded and turned away. Sam scanned the room, making sure everything was being done properly. He gazed for a moment at the wallet lying on the floor and the scattered credit cards.
I knew Sam wondered if attempted theft was the reason for murder.
He looked for a long moment, then gave a short nod and moved purposefully to the door. I was right behind him. He crossed the hall, tapped on a door.
Detective Don Smith opened the door, stepped into the hall. ‘… jealous. She killed—’ Smith shut the door, cutting off the shrill voice. Tall, lean, dark-haired Detective Don Smith was a whiz with computers. His demeanor was always a trifle sardonic. Tonight, his face was flushed. ‘We got a wild woman on our hands. Clarisse Bennett. She found the body, called nine-one-one. Apparently she was Lambert’s sweetie in the office. She wants to storm up and yank Lambert’s wife out of the ballroom and throw her over the balustrade. Judy’s playing Soothing Sue but the woman’s hysterical.’
‘The wife’s here?’ Sam tapped his phone. ‘Victim’s wife is in ballroom. Detail Officer Mackey to find her and escort her to the main office.’ He slid the phone into his pocket. ‘Can Judy calm the witness down?’
Judy was Detective Judy Weitz, who was always patient, careful, and smart in her investigations.
‘No progress yet. Bennett alternates between sobs and yells; says she’ll report us if we don’t arrest the wife.’ Don lifted his shoulders, let them fall. ‘She may have a point.’
‘Tell Ms Bennett the police chief has been apprised of her allegations and wants to assure her that the information will be investigated. Get permission to record your interview. I want details. Last time she saw him. Times. Dates.’
A ping. He pulled out his cell phone, glanced at the message. ‘I have to meet the widow.’ His heavy face was somber. ‘Tell her she’s a widow.’
I joined Detective Weitz in the small office. I approved her new tidy haircut, an improvement on her previous flyaway look, and I admired her aquamarine shift. Though very plain, the dress was stylishly cut and the color flattering to her fair complexion. A great improvement from my last visit. I recalled one outfit with a shudder, a loose-fitting dun-colored blouse and slacks reminiscent of a Brownie uniform. Clarisse Bennett, hunched on a stiff chair, was much more dramatic in a skintight flaming pink sheath. She was in her mid-thirties. Brown curls cupped a face with makeup smeared by tears. The sheath was low cut to emphasize what in my day was called a full figure, appealing to men enchanted by a Reubens nude.
Detective Smith opened the door and stepped inside. He wasn’t enchanted, but he tried to look commiserating. ‘Is there anyone we can call to come and help you?’
‘I’m not leaving until you arrest her.’ Clarisse’s voice rose in anger. ‘She thinks she’s so important, sitting at a front table with him. Next year I would have been there as his wife. He was going to dump her and she knew it.’
Detective Weitz murmured, ‘Police investigations require corroboration. You can be assured all allegations—’
Clarisse’s face twisted. ‘Listen to me. Joyce killed him. She resented his success. He was so important and she was just a little shopkeeper. And she’s in debt and wanted him to take care of everything. He was tired of all her problems and that son of hers. He’s artistic.’ The adjective was an epithet. ‘Matt was going to tell her they were through. We had everything planned. All Joyce cares about is money. He was going to give her enough to get the shop out of debt if she agreed to a divorce. We were going to Florida and have a wedding on the beach.’ She pressed her fingers against her cheeks. Her shoulders jerked with sobs.
I reached the main office before Sam. Officer Mackey, trim in the Adelaide police French blue uniform, was sympathetic but firm. ‘Ma’am, I am not authorized to speak. Chief Cobb is on his way.’
Joyce Lambert clutched at her throat. Her pale face sagged in fear. ‘My son?’ The words pushed out, high and stricken. Her large brown eyes glittered with panic.
Officer Mackey pressed her lips together, then blurted. ‘Ma’am, this does not concern your son.’
I suspected she was a mother as well. I was sure Sam would understand.
Joyce Lambert’s body eased from its rigid posture. She brushed back a strand of pale yellow hair that had escaped from coronet braids. Heartfelt relief was obvious, relief that so dominated her mind she made no effort to demand further information. Now she was a shaken middle-aged woman who looked out of place in the businesslike office in her festive rose silk blouse and four-tiered white chiffon skirt and white heels.
The door opened and Sam stepped inside. Sam is a big bear of a man. His dark hair is frosted by silver, his heavy face lined by years of experience. His observant brown eyes had seen much evil, but could still soften in empathy. His deep voice was gentle and he spoke fast, knowing that bad news is best delivered quickly. ‘Ma’am, I’m Sam Cobb, chief of police. I regret to inform you that your husband Matthew Lambert was killed tonight. He suffered a broken neck.’
‘Broken neck?’ Her shock was evident. ‘You can’t be right. It must be someone else. Matt’s talking to people. That’s what he does at social events. He talks to people, makes supporters of the college feel welcome. We have to look for him. Matt can’t be dead.’
‘Ma’am, we have confirmed his identity. The victim is Matthew J. Lambert.’
‘A broken neck?’ She tried to make sense of the words. ‘Did he fall?’
‘Ma’am, I’m sorry to have to tell you that an assailant struck him on the side of his neck. He is a homicide victim.’
‘Homicide?’ Her voice was a whisper. She stared at Sam in disbelief. ‘‘Someone killed M
att? Here at Rose Bower?’
‘Ms Bennett found his body in the Donald S. Malone Room on the first floor. Bruising on his throat indicates he was attacked with a weapon such as a blackjack. We do not have a witness to the attack. Ms Bennett says no one was in that room when she found Mr Lambert. The weapon was not in the room. Officers are presently searching both the mansion and the grounds. At this time, we have no information yet to lead us to a suspect. Do you know of anyone who threatened Mr Lambert?’
Joyce looked bewildered. ‘No one threatened him. No one at all.’
‘Mr Lambert was attending the banquet on the third floor. Can you tell us why he was downstairs?’
‘No.’ Her voice was faint. ‘He left the table about a little before seven. At events he always took every opportunity to speak to important donors. And he loved talking to people.’ She pressed her lips together in an effort to keep them from trembling. Her gaze was wide and staring.
Sam was kind. ‘Can we call someone to come for you?’
‘I don’t know.’ Her tone was numb.
Sam looked at Officer Mackey. ‘Talk to somebody in charge upstairs. Get someone to help.’ He glanced at Joyce Lambert. ‘Check for her purse and bring it to her.’
Officer Mackey hurried from the room.
Sam moved to a wall, picked up a straight chair and brought it to Joyce. ‘Would you like to sit down, ma’am?’
Joyce sank on to the seat, staring blankly ahead.
‘May I ask some questions, ma’am? It could be helpful with our investigation.’
She clasped her hands together. She nodded, but her gaze was distant as she grappled with an unimaginable reality.
‘Did your husband have any enemies?’
‘Enemies?’ A trembling hand brushed back a strand of hair. ‘Matt didn’t have enemies. It must have been a robbery. Something like that.’
‘Are you aware of any disagreements? Quarrels? Estrangements?’
She shook her head at each question. ‘Matt got along with everyone. People like – liked him. He raised money for the college. Lots of money. He was going to get an award tonight. Are you sure it was Matt?’
‘We are sure. His body was discovered at shortly after seven in the Malone Room by a Ms Clarisse Bennet. She called nine-one-one.’
‘Clarisse?’ For an instant Joyce’s face was flat, either with dislike or dismissal. Then she slumped back against the chair. ‘Clarisse would know. So it was Matt. Oh my God.’ Her face twisted in a spasm of sorrow, sorrow and something more – a flash of sheer panic.
Sam’s expression didn’t change, but his brown eyes were intent, calculating. ‘What was your husband’s relationship with Ms Bennett?’
‘She was a member of his staff. But I might as well tell you,’ Joyce’s voice was harsh, ‘he intended to fire her. It’s one of those pathetic things. She’s recently divorced and of course Matt was kind and encouraging, but she took advantage of his kindness. Called him at home. Wanted him to meet with her on the weekends. He tried to be patient, but it was very awkward. She convinced herself that Matt was in love with her. He was appalled. Totally appalled. You say she found him?’ Joyce came to her feet, reached out, gripped Sam’s arm. ‘She must have killed him. Oh poor Matt. He was trying to help her. How dreadful. How absolutely hideous.’
The door opened and Officer Mackey held it wide for a woman with a greyhound face and a lean body. She strode forward, gave Sam a stern look. She carried two purses. ‘I’ll take you home. Joyce.’
THREE
The ballroom was the scene of an orderly evacuation. Guests were funneled through three open doorways staffed by police officers. The process was slow. Each person was requested to show identification and asked to sign a register and provide contact information, including address and cell phone number.
I was alert for any sign of Wiggins’s presence. I was sure he was aware of my Appearance at the crime scene. I was eager to justify my actions. It wasn’t my fault that Iris was one of those rare individuals with the ability to see the unseen. Her insistence that I go back where I came from compelled me to inform her I was there to assist her and Robert and I had every intention of fulfilling my task. Her lack of appreciation was rude.
There was no doubt that our back-and-forth conversation distressed Robert; put him, in fact, in a pitiable state. Absolutely he required reassurance. Perhaps Wiggins understood my dilemma. To my immense relief, there was no scent of coal smoke, no clack of iron wheels. The fact that Wiggins saw no need to scold gave me a boost. I would keep on keepin’ on, as we say in Oklahoma, and discharge my duties. I would, I thought grimly, assist Iris and Robert no matter how uncooperative they might be.
To that end, I hovered near a chandelier, checked out the lines, and found Iris and Robert. Standing with them, a hand on Robert’s arm, was a young woman with a marked resemblance to Iris; just as lovely, but with a sweeter cast to her face. Not that I disliked Iris, but her attitude this evening lacked charm.
I dropped to the floor, strolled to stand beside Iris.
She saw me, of course. Her eyes glinted. She held her program over her hand, shielding it from Robert and her daughter. She made a fist, poked out a thumb, jerked it toward the ceiling.
I gave her a sunny smile, came close, and whispered in her ear. ‘You might as well be pleasant. We will be seeing a lot of each other.’
If looks could kill …
‘Mom, who are you glaring at?’
‘Not glaring. Simply thinking.’ Her voice was brisk.
Her daughter gave a shaky sigh. ‘Don’t do too much of that. I guess the police will want to talk to everyone in Matt’s office.’
Iris managed a smile. ‘It will be fine, Gage. Simply tell them you’ve only interned there for a month and you don’t know anything helpful and you didn’t see much of Matt.’
‘More than I wanted. And he was—’
Iris cut her off. ‘Stay out of it, Gage. Don’t offer any observations. If asked your opinion of Matt, look bland and say you were an intern and your focus was on how to approach wealthy individuals on behalf of a charitable institution and he was highly skilled at raising money.’
Gage nodded, but her face had a haunted quality and her fingers were laced tightly together. Her gaze slid toward Robert.
He blurted, ‘The police will ask if you knew of anyone with a motive.’ They exchanged a long look. ‘I’d advise you to say your only contact with him was at the office and you don’t have any information about his personal life.’
‘Right.’ Her answer came through stiff lips. Her gaze skittered from her mother to Robert and back again.
I wondered what prompted that searching look. It seemed likely the three of them had been seated together at the dinner. At some point Iris left the ballroom and so did Robert. They ended up in a room with a dead man, but obviously arrived separately because Robert was shocked to see the weapon in her hand, possibly feared she had attacked Matt. That suggested Iris and the dead man were at odds. Did Gage follow Iris or Robert downstairs? Or did she leave the table before them?
The three of them moved as the line inched toward a door. Iris gave me one more malevolent glance, then folded her arms, her expression somber. Her eyes held worry and determination. Robert gnawed on one finger, likely considering the penalty for a member of the bar hiding knowledge of a murder victim. Gage hunched thin shoulders, clearly tense and anxious.
Tomorrow I would find out more, much more, about Iris, Gage, and Robert, about Matt Lambert, about his wife, about his possible lover. If need be. But possibly the answer to his murder was already within my grasp.
I arrived in Will’s Room. Perhaps an emissary with nerves of steel would have handled the situation better, but I wasn’t prepared for two immediate shocks: a portly man in baggy red-and-black plaid boxer shorts, one hand scratching his belly, the other reaching for the porcelain vase which contained the scraps of the square of paper I’d taken from Matt Lambert’s billfold.
Hi
s hand and mine grabbed the vase handle at the same instant.
‘So sorry.’ I tried to sound reasonable and reassuring as I gripped the handle.
He stiffened, stared at the vase in disbelief. One hand clasped a roll of fat, the other fell to his side. He peered at the vase. ‘What the hell?’
I picked up the vase. ‘Hell isn’t involved,’ I said firmly. I hurried toward the door.
His stricken gaze followed the pitcher as it moved through the air. He backed to a chair draped with discarded clothing. He grabbed a pair of trousers.
‘So sorry. Everything’s all right. You can have a nice dinner. Relax. Watch the Cardinals. Sure to be a game on tonight.’ I opened the door, placed the vase in the hall, closed the door. The guest was frantically pulling on trousers, his face working, his hands shaking so hard he bunched the trousers at one knee. I felt it essential to reassure him before I flowed through to the hall and that all-important vase. ‘Don’t be upset. I’m leaving now.’
He turned and hopped to the window, still struggling with that bunched pant leg. He shoved at the sash with one hand, yanked at his trousers with the other. Bless his heart, the window appeared to be stuck. Of course, possibly he was pushing at an angle. It really takes both hands to lift a window properly.
Truly I was sorry. ‘I’m done now. I’m leaving.’
I moved through the door into the hall. I picked up the vase, retrieved the paper scraps. I was putting the vase down, honestly it was within a foot of the floor, when the door was flung open. He looked at the elevated vase, yelped. I can only describe the sound as a yelp. He slammed the door shut.
To compound my distress, the smell of coal smoke was overpowering and the clack of iron wheels shattering. The swirling smoke and rumbling wheels combined to pulverize my self-esteem but, like the boy at the dike or a cowboy holding a rattlesnake by the neck, I was solely focused on my goal. I rose to the ceiling. If anyone else entered the hall and saw speeding bits of paper aloft, that was beyond my control. I found a window, placed the precious scraps on the sill, used both hands and pushed up the sash. I grabbed the bits of paper, undid the screen, and fled outside.