"Harriet, let me sit there. You take the chair. You've been working this morning, and I haven't," I said. I didn't want to imply I was offering the chair to her because she was old. Despite her age, I was certain that Harriet could work circles around me.
"Nah, rather sit here. Been sitting on this here bucket for years. Iffing I was to git too comfy, I'd git lazy."
I plopped myself down into the chair and sighed. It was like sitting on a cloud. I'd never sat in anything so comfortable in my entire life, and I could visualize myself spending all my free time here in this very spot.
I opened my notebook. Pen in hand, I felt I resembled the freelance writer that I was pretending to be.
"So, tell me, Harriet, what do you know about the Pitt case?"
"Well, ever body around here knows that the Pitt boy weren't no good. That much is fer shore. He'd been running 'round on Eliza fer a long time, iffing ya ask me. Clay's what they call a 'rounder' in these here parts. Likes to drink, fight, and pick up trashy broads. Ain't seen him 'round in a spell, but he used to chase tail down at that strip joint down the road, drunker than a skunk ever night. One night he got tanked up and shot the weathervane off the top of the sheriff's house. Spent the weekend in the slammer too, he did. Yes sir-ee! Shoulda left him there and thrown away the key."
"Wow, he sounds like a real pillar of sobriety, er, society," I said.
Harriet ignored, or didn't understand, my pun, and kept talking. "He's meaner than a snake too. Thumped his missus ever chance he got. Poor girl come awandering into Mabel's hair store one day with a cracked tooth and a split lip. Said a softball smacked her, but even that tongue-wagging, gossip hound, Mabel, knew that were a lie. Softball, hell, covering fer that no 'count husband of hers was what she were doing."
"Did Clay know that Eliza was expecting their child?"
"Shore he did. That's what set him off, iffing ya ask me. Didn't want to be shackled to the wife, much less no kid. That's why he did her in fer good, iffing ya ask me. It weren't no surprise to no one, I can tell ya that fer shore. Don't know why them damn silly cops ain't smart enough to see that. Says they ain't got no evidence. Why, bloody hell, that split lip otter had been evidence enuff."
By this point I knew all I was going to get out of Harriet was her somewhat biased and speculative opinion. It sounded more like rumor and supposition than a factual accounting. Harriet hadn't told me one certifiable detail I could record in my notebook yet, but she was looking at me quizzically, so I jotted down, "abusive, drunk, adulterer, fighter, kid-hater." If nothing else, it seemed apparent that my son-in-law was not very well respected in "these here parts."
I told Harriet that was all I needed to know at that point, but I would no doubt be picking her brain more in the future. She seemed content with that. The hammock chair was so comfortable and I felt I needed to get my bearings before I dove into a full-fledged investigation, so I decided to take it easy the rest of the day and run over to the police department tomorrow. I'd brought along the latest best seller and wanted to sit on the porch, procrastinate, and read. I didn't want to think about what my son-in-law might do to my daughter. It was only about sixty degrees out, but by the time Harriet had finished talking, I had beads of sweat above my eyebrows.
I swiped the sleeve of my KU Jayhawks sweatshirt across my forehead and leaned back to relax in this small slice of heaven I'd just discovered, while Harriet rushed down to the yard to deadhead flagging blossoms off a patch of petunias.
Chapter 7
The alarm clock went off at five-thirty the next morning and nearly scared ten years off my life. I was tempted to roll over and go back to sleep, but I could hear music downstairs and knew Harriet was in the kitchen cooking breakfast for me. I didn't want to disappoint her again, so I groaned and stretched, and grudgingly got up to get dressed. I wasn't accustomed to eating early and really just wanted coffee. I hoped Harriet was preparing a light meal, now that she knew I was watching my weight. Not peaches, or anything else about to turn green and furry, but a toasted bagel or a bowl of oatmeal wouldn't be too bad, even at the ungodly hour of six in the morning.
"Good morning, sweetie," Sinbad and Harriet said in unison as I entered the kitchen at a minute before six.
"Good morning," I said.
"Ya be right on time. Yer breakfast be ready in just a sec."
"Damn nuisance," Sinbad squawked.
I laughed at the parrot and removed a coffee cup from the cup rack. People are indeed creatures of habit, so I instinctively selected the "Lady Luck Casino" cup. I poured myself a cup of thick, chewy coffee and sat down at the table. Bad coffee was better than no coffee at all. After the first few swallows it was a little easier to get down.
I sipped my coffee cautiously while I watched Harriet dip a spatula into the skillet in front of her. It was clear that oatmeal and bagels were not on the breakfast menu today. However, a pancake or waffle sounded appetizing to me too, now that I'd been awake for thirty minutes. I felt guilty having Harriet cooking and waiting on me, but I had to keep reminding myself that this is what I was paying her for—and lodging at the Camelot B&B did not come cheap.
Harriet snubbed out her cigarette, or what little was left of it, and pulled what looked like a turkey platter out of the cabinet. In the wink of an eye she'd placed it before me and instructed me to "chow down."
I sat in mortified silence and stared down at my plate for what must have seemed like a full five minutes to Harriet. Not only had she made me poached eggs on toast again, she had given me twice as much today as she had yesterday.
"Get to eating, girl. Time's a'wasting," she finally said to me. "Since you said ya liked it so much, I gave ya a bit more of it today."
"Horseshit!" Sinbad spat from his cage.
How does that bird read my mind the way he does? If nothing else, it inspired me to get cracking. No more lolling around, reading and procrastinating all day. Time truly was a'wasting.
* * *
"Detective Glick will be right with you, ma'am," the bald-headed man at the front desk told me. "He's one of the homicide detectives who was originally assigned to the Pitt case. Please have a seat. It shouldn't be too long."
He turned to a tall, broad man talking on the phone. When he turned back to me I smiled and nodded. He seemed like a nice and pleasant guy. I was relieved, expecting now that all the detectives here would be friendly and accommodating. Earlier, Harriet had given me directions to the Schenectady County sheriff's office on Lafayette Street. I'd hoped for a copy of the original police report, at the very least, and more if I could talk the detective out of additional information.
I waited on a wooden bench for about five minutes until Detective Glick finished his phone call. I watched him as he listened to the caller on the other end of the line. He seemed to respond very infrequently, but roll his eyes often. His was the squarest face I'd ever seen on a human being, almost a Sponge-Bob Square Pants type of face. It was a face that looked as if it had never attempted a smile. He was about my age, and his eyes were nearly the exact color as my own, a light brown resembling cinnamon mixed liberally with sugar—like you'd put on toast if you hadn't already ruined it with runny eggs.
Detective Glick looked like solid muscle poured into a suit. He was a big, broad-shouldered man, six foot six or taller. His hands looked capable of palming a wrecking ball. He glanced my way but didn't acknowledge me. He looked right past me as if I were a fly on the wall. He must not have noticed that this was one of the four and a half days this season that my hair was cooperating. I disliked the detective already.
"Good morning, ma'am," he said, after hanging up the phone. "May I help you? The name's Glick, Ron Glick."
He reminded me of an old rerun I'd watched a few weeks before. The name's Bond, James Bond. Was this Glick guy for real? I half expected him to take off his watch and detonate a bomb with it.
"Nice to meet you, Detective Glick. I'm Lexie Starr," I said, extending my hand in greeting. He ignored my hand,
looking as if I were offering him a handful of nuclear waste. Embarrassed, I shoved my hand back into my pocket.
"Step into my office," he commanded. "We'll talk there."
"Thank you for seeing me, detective," I said. We stepped back into his cramped cubicle, which made his immense size seem even more intimidating. "I was hoping you could help me out with a little information about a case from 2001, the Eliza Pitt murder case. I understand that you were on the investigating team."
He looked surprised at my request. "Why do you want the information, Ms. Starr?" He finally asked.
The Korean-marathoner ploy had worked well before so I tried it again.
"A freelance article?" Glick asked. It was obvious he wasn't buying that story for a second. It irritated me that he would act so distrustful of a liar he'd just met.
"Yes," I said, defiance creeping into my voice.
"You're going to write an article about a case that hasn't even been solved yet?"
"Well, yes. I'm a wr-wr-writer. That's what writers do. They wr-wr-write."
"They wr-wr-write?" Glick asked, imitating my sudden speech impediment.
"Yes, Detective Glick." I was not amused by his mockery. "And I thought I could possibly be of some assistance to you in your investigation. For the sake of my article, of course. Like you said, it would be advantageous to both of us to solve this case."
For someone who couldn't smile, he could laugh quite loud. He acted as if I'd just offered to help him cure cancer, or create world peace. I didn't see any humor in my comment at all. I disliked this man more intensely with each second that passed.
"What I meant to say was, if you could give me what information you have, I'd be happy to share any I have with you too. It's been more than two years since Eliza Pitt was murdered. Frankly, I think you could use a little help solving this one." I nearly sneered at Detective Glick, following my sarcastic jab at his inability to close the case.
"Uh-huh. And what information would you have to share with me, ma'am?"
"Well—er—nothing yet, but..."
"Are you willing to testify to that?"
"Well—I—uh..."
"Could you sit on the witness stand and explain all that in detail to a panel of jurors?"
Detective Glick was getting as sarcastic as I was, and I didn't like it one little bit. He motioned for me to exit his cubicle, an indication that my five minutes were up. I was being excused. "Listen, ma'am. We're not at liberty to give out confidential information that might jeopardize the investigation—freelance article or not. And actually, this case was recently turned over to the police department in the town where the body was recovered."
"Which was?"
"I'm sorry, ma'am." He stepped away from me and through a door into the men's restroom. Ron Glick wasn't going to be suckered into releasing "classified" information.
Arrogant jerk! His rudeness was inexcusable. I couldn't imagine him treating me with such disparagement because I had no credible information to relay to him. I should have told him that it was "as plain as Harriet's face that it was Eliza's old man that whacked her." They "otter" have known that from the split-lip incident. I was convinced my spunky landlady had more sense than Detective Glick.
* * *
I stepped into the phone booth across the street from the sheriff's office and called the number on the card I'd picked up from a holder on Glick's desk. My call was answered on the first ring. I recognized the voice of the bald man at the front desk who had been polite and cooperative earlier. Disguising my voice as best I could, I asked for the records department. He seemed a little confused by my request, but a minute or so later a lady's voice came on the line.
"This is Sandra White. May I help you?"
"Good morning, Sandra," I said. "This is Lydia over at the c-c-county c-c-coroner's office. We received a file today on the Eliza Pitt case that should have been sent to the office currently handling the investigation..."
"DeKalb?" she interjected.
"Exactly. Would you have that address handy, S-s-andra?"
"Sure, hang on a minute and I'll get it for you."
Chapter 8
"DeKalb, New York—Population 207," the sign read on the outskirts of town. It was a gross exaggeration, I was certain. There couldn't possibly be that many inhabitants in this little backwater town, located about an hour north of Schenectady.
The Jeep backfired and began to stall. I stomped on the gas pedal. It sputtered a bit and then picked up speed again. It'd been running perfectly until that moment. I was deep in the Adirondack Mountains by this time and perhaps the four-thousand-foot peak I'd just traversed was playing havoc on the motor. Did carburetors still need "needle valve" adjustments? Maybe I'd recently gotten some bad gasoline in the tank.
I pulled into a gas station to fill up and see if there was anyone there who could look at the motor for me. The only person in the building was a young gal about nineteen who knew even less about car engines than I did. I paid for the gas, bought a Coke, and left. At least I'd made it to DeKalb.
It was easy to find the police station because the entire business district was only two blocks long, including the DeKalb Funeral Home, which took up an entire city block. Apparently people were dying to come to DeKalb. Or more likely, people coming to DeKalb were dying. With a population of 207, they couldn't afford to lose too many more. We'd had more folks than that at our last block party, I'd bet.
I strolled into the tiny police station as if I had a key to the city. I noticed a solitary, and vacant, jail cell in the rear of the room. It was a room that could have been taken from the movie set of The Andy Griffith Show. A skinny man, about five foot seven, with slicked-back hair, dressed in a policeman's uniform, was tilted back in a chair with his feet crossed on top of the desk. He quickly jumped up to a standing position when I entered. I introduced myself as Lexie Starr, author, and he introduced himself as Sheriff Wilbur T. Crabb. " 'T' like in Ted," he said, and nearly pumped my arm off in greeting. It felt nice to be so warmly welcomed. I noticed I was getting more comfortable with lying. I hadn't stuttered or examined my nails so far in my conversation with the sheriff.
"So you're Sheriff Wilbur Ted Crabb," I said in a flirtatious manner, trying to win him over into my corner. I'd failed miserably with Detective Glick.
"Oh, no, Ms. Starr. It's Wilbur Tom Crabb."
"Do you go by Wilbur, Will, William, Tom...?"
"I go by Ted," he interrupted.
"I see," I said. "Well, Ted, sir, it's a pleasure to meet you. A good friend of mine, Detective Ron Glick from the Schenectady Homicide Division, told me you were the man to talk to here in DeKalb."
"He did, did he?" Sheriff Crabb puffed up like a torn turkey and hitched up his slacks with his thumbs while he rocked back and forth on the heels and toes of his shoes.
"Yes, he advised me not to talk to anyone else if I wanted to get the straight scoop on the Eliza Pitt case."
"I guess your detective would be right. After all, I am the official authority on the double homicide case now. Eliza Pitt was pregnant, you know. Makes it two murders, you understand." It was clear that Sheriff Crabb was trying to impress me with his knowledge. I pretended to be impressed by his astuteness just to keep him talking.
"Oh, yes, that's good to know, Sheriff Crabb. I can see that Detective Glick was right. You truly are the man to talk to. You see, I'm writing a novel on the Pitt murder, kind of an Ann Rule -type thing, and I need some information to fill in some gaps in the story," I told him. Freelance article hadn't worked well the last time. I hoped novel might garner a little more respect.
"Well, I'll be hanged. We got us a gen-u-wine, honest-to-goodness author, right here in DeKalb. Wait until my wife hears about this." I had Sheriff Crabb hooked, and it was time to reel him in.
"Now before you get started telling me all you know about the case, Sheriff Crabb, I need to know one more thing. If my publisher were to turn this novel into a movie, to whom should we offer the part o
f Sheriff Wilbur T. Crabb? Any ideas?"
"Let me think," he said seriously, cupping his chin with his thumb and index finger. "Bruce Willis kind of looks like me, I think. That Rocky feller wouldn't be too bad in the part either, I guess. That Sly guy, you know."
I wrote down in my notebook "Willis, Stallone, Knotts" and wondered to myself, when did Barney Fife get promoted to sheriff?
I spent another hour with Sheriff Crabb. I don't think anyone had trusted the "official authority" with classified information either, and it was easy to understand why. He was anxious to tell me everything he knew about everything—which in the end turned out to be absolutely nothing. When I mentioned Clay's name, Sheriff Crabb asked, "Oh, was he the poor girl's husband? Well, I'll be danged. Say, Ms. Starr, do you reckon they could get heel lifts if they have that Rocky guy play me in the movie? I don't want anyone to think I'm that short. He's a good three or four inches shorter than me, you know." The sheriff squared his bony shoulders and stood up straight to achieve maximum height.
"I'll see to it. I promise." I wondered if the citizens of DeKalb slept well at night, knowing this particular lawman was minding the store.
It was evident I was getting nowhere fast with Sheriff Crabb, so I decided to begin my long drive back to the inn. Hopefully my Jeep would make it all the way to Schenectady. I'd run across to the Union Street Diner for a quick bite, and then call it a day. The only useful piece of information I'd extracted from the sheriff was that Rod Crowfoot, the hiker who'd discovered the body, had soon after moved across the country to Seattle. I doubted he had much to offer in the way of information anyway, so I crossed "speak with hiker" off my list.
I bade farewell to the sheriff of DeKalb. He hadn't been particularly informative, but at least he'd been friendly and treated me with a lot more respect than Detective Glick.
I wanted to ask the sheriff if Goober could look at my Jeep before I left.
"Bye now, Ms. Starr," Sheriff Crabb said, through cupped hands.
Lexie Starr Cozy Mysteries Boxed Set Page 5