Dying For Revenge (The Lady Doc Murders Book 1)

by Barbara Golder

  His voice dropped on the word ice, giving the invitation a lilt, the accent back to the fore. I retrieved the decanter and covered his ice. I left mine alone. He tipped his glass toward me again, thanked me, sipped and began again.

  “Putnam was a fellow who didn't belong in this world, so he made his own. Biggest sportswear designer in anyone's recollection. Made his own rules. Bought the biggest and best of everything. Master of his own domain.”

  “Dime a dozen in Telluride,” I commented.

  How this particular box canyon had come to attract so many of the glitterati, I had no clue. All I knew is that, on any given day, in the right season, I might run into — literally — aging folkies, trendsetting models, film stars — like Houston — or producers, TV personas or news anchors, even the odd five star general or rear admiral, not to mention at least one Anglican prelate of international disrepute. Telluride had some appeal to the rich and powerful; it was nothing I understood, but it was real even if the atmosphere it engendered was anything but.

  “True enough. What makes it interesting, at least to me, is that Putnam had a great company of demons driving him. He’d made his name, but he wanted to be accepted by the very people who'd sent him away — his family. He'd been working on a reconciliation—even to the point of moving his headquarters back to Massachusetts—when he was murdered.”

  “Prodigal son returns home?”

  Connor took on a reflective look. “I’m still not sure. If so, it’s probably less of a story. Regardless of what drove Putnam, what drove his lover was his hatred of Putnam's family.”

  “So why didn’t he kill one of them instead of Putnam?”

  Again the tip of the glass.

  “That is the reason for the story. And the reason I'm here. I need to see your files to be sure of the answer to that question. There’s a gold mine in most morgue files. Never known a coroner that wasn’t obsessive about collecting details — articles, pictures, impressions. Can you help me?”

  I took exception to his characterization of forensic pathologists as glorified voyeurs and pack rats, and had half a mind to give him a quick lecture on the differences between medical examiners and coroners. I resisted, knowing instinctively that this was his way of teasing me into cooperation by tripping that switch in my mind that needed to set the record straight. Instead, I mentally went over the relevant laws and regulations on turning over files.

  “I gather the trial is over?”

  “Over with a verdict as tight as an old maid’s purse,” he replied. “After a terrible long ordeal, Kip Grimes, Putnam's lover, broke down in open court and admitted he’d killed the man. I’m told his defense lawyer was livid; he was sure he could get the man off. He’s serving his life sentence without parole. Colorado Correctional facility in Canyon City. I’ve an appointment to see him later in the month, but I want to be prepared.”

  “No appeal?”

  “None needed and none possible. I’ll show you the transcript; even the King’s own counsel couldn’t get around his admissions. The stuff of TV shows, which I’m hoping this will be when I’m done with it. A morality tale for our time.”

  Another glass drained, he put the glass down with a certain wistful finality. “Good whiskey.”

  “Thank you. My husband’s favorite.”

  I half-expected a question from him about John, but none came. Instead he circled back to his request. He was persistent.

  “So, will you show me the files, then?”

  There was that lilt again, voice dropping on the last word. I drained my own glass, put it down alongside his to signal that the discussion was done for the night.

  “Let me see what we have. Right now I can see no reason you can’t have a look, but I’ll need to do a little research in the morning. Come by my office tomorrow, late morning or afternoon, and I’ll have something for you. One way or another. No promises.”

  “Right enough. None needed. I thank you for your time, and the drinks.”

  He stood and took his leave without offering his hand. Instead, he ducked his head, touching two fingers to it as he said his goodbyes, gave me half a smile, and was gone before I had time to get to my feet or show him to the door. Odd man, to show up here uninvited, cadge a drink and then move on without so much as a by-your-leave.

  Caleb shuffled in from the kitchen, prodding my hand with his head, begging for a pat. I stroked his head absentmindedly as I watched Eoin Connor walk down the steps of the house and into the lamp-lit street, hands stuffed in his pockets and head back.

  I couldn’t see his face, but something about his carriage told me he was very well-satisfied with his visit.

  Caleb scratched my leg and dropped to the floor, begging a belly rub.

  “You too?” I asked. “Seems like every man I meet today wants something from me.”

  Caleb whined and I obliged. Just, I suspected, as I would oblige Eoin Connor in the morning when he came by to poke around in the sorry past of Saul Putnam and Kip Grimes.

  **********

  Tom Patterson enjoyed his evening walk along Pacific. Off duty, in jeans and a tee-shirt, sneakers instead of his boots, he greeted friends and enjoyed the quiet calm of the evening. There wasn’t as much activity on the streets as he expected, no particular surprise with a man gunned down in cold blood and broad daylight in Town Park. He stopped in his favorite pizza joint for a white pie and a cold beer. The bar was almost empty, so he took his favorite spot on the corner and settled onto the bar stool, motioning the waitress. Kate was an old friend. She mouthed “The usual?” and gave him a thumbs up when he nodded.

  “Thanks, Kate,” he said as she slid the draft in front of him.

  She’d filled it generously, the head spilling over the top and leaving a little puddle of foam around the base. He wiped it up with a napkin and took a handful of popcorn from the bowl on the counter. He glanced at the blonde woman who approached the seat next to him and gave him a beguiling smile when he turned her way. She looked a lot like the Kincaid girl, blond and tiny, but harder somehow, and older. She was already three sheets to the wind. Her foot slipped on the base of the stool and she nearly toppled over. He caught her arm and helped her onto the seat, then turned his attention back to his glass and the television.

  The television over the bar was tuned to a news channel, sound muted. He watched the pictures and the text crawl along the bottom with little interest. Baseball wasn’t big here in Telluride and there wasn’t a soccer game just now; otherwise the screen would have been tuned to sports, and he would have missed it. He’d just taken a swig of beer when a photograph appeared on screen, familiar ground, Town Park, the sledding hill, the trees they’d searched in vain for evidence of the shooter who had killed that Frisbee player.

  “Kate!” He barked. “Turn it up!”

  She wasn’t fast enough. He missed the first part of the story, but it was enough.

  “….killed in Town Park. This photo shows where the shooter hid. If you look closely,” here the camera zoomed in, “you can see the shot being fired. Sources in Telluride tell us that the police have no suspects in this daring, daylight shooting and the townspeople are understandably on edge. This is the third death in a week in this exclusive community. Movie star Mitch Houston was shot and killed in his home earlier in the week with a gun of the same caliber. And in related news, world famous mountain climber Jim Webster fell to his death in the nearby town of Ophir. Death seems to be stalking Telluride. Stay tuned for more details….”

  Just what he needed. He supposed it was a pipe dream to hope that this would stay under wraps for long, but he’d hoped for a day or two. National attention would mean even more panic in town. It was an even bet whether there would be a drop in tourism from fear or an increase because of curiosity and thrill seekers. He’d bet on the latter as long as there were not more deaths. Kate returned with a fresh beer he hadn’t ordered.

  “On the house. You can use it.”

  He rolled his eyes, nodded, and
lifted his current glass to her in response. He and Kate went way back, all the way to high school in the days when Telluride was just beginning to take off as a result of the ski area, and ranching was still a part of the local economy.

  “That’s for damn sure. Thanks.”

  Kate lifted the pizza pan and swept a damp rag over the counter as an excuse to stay and chat.

  “Any idea who did it?”

  Tom Patterson smiled.

  “Now Kate, you know I couldn’t tell you if I did. But the plain fact of the matter is, I have not the first clue.” He paused, then corrected himself. “Not true. Clues I got. Ideas, not so much.”

  “It’s pretty tense, Tom. That’s all anybody is talking about. Nothing like this has ever happened here. Remember the killings in Virginia a few years ago? I was visiting my brother about that time. It feels like that. People are scared.”

  He could understand that. Telluride was a particularly placid place, almost devoid of violent crime. Lots of drugs, some theft, DUI and the occasional crazy-disorderly, but nothing personal.

  “Believe me, I know.”

  Kate pursed her lips, and two small furrows appeared between her eyebrows. She looked right into Tom Patterson's eyes, unblinking. “Not sure you do, Tom. People are really, really twitchy. I hear a lot from this side of the bar. And every story I hear is worse than the last and crazier.”

  Patterson sighed. He had no personal experience with a panic-struck populace in the middle of a crime wave, but he’d heard, he’d read. The Virginia case was well-known, discussed in law enforcement programs as a classic. Worried populace, vague clues at who was responsible and almost as many crimes against people—less significant, but more histrionic than the actual murders — from the nervous populace as there were shootings. He hoped it wouldn’t happen here.

  “Oh, I expect we’ve seen the last one,” he said with a confidence he didn’t feel. “Even Paradise has its problems now and again.”

  Kate relaxed her lips, and one brow drifted upwards. She tilted her head a bit as she answered. “Right,” she finally said. She didn’t believe it either.

  On the way home, Tom Patterson passed the deliveryman putting out copies of the paper for the next day. He snagged a copy, curious to see what Pete Wilson had written about the shooting. He stopped underneath a streetlight to take a look. There, on the front page, was a half-page photo of the hill, a flash of flame emanating from the trees and a banner headline reminiscent of the old days: “Cold Blood, Broad Daylight!”

  Count on Wilson to add fuel to the fire, Patterson thought. Scowling, he crumpled the paper and tossed it in the waste bin. Then, thinking better of it, and knowing he needed all the information he could get, he walked back to the rack and pulled out a second copy. Forewarned, forearmed, he thought to himself as he ran through the options for pulling the plug on Wilson. If this kept up, there would be a full-scale panic in town—and Wilson hadn’t had time to exploit the Webster murder yet. First thing in the morning, he and Pete Wilson would have a little talk.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  JUNE 10

  Not long after John and I were married, in an attempt to make sense out of the brutality that was my daily portion and share, I started going to daily Mass. Now that John was gone, I still went mostly out of habit, but these days out of respect for John, whose name was on a shiny little plaque in a far corner of the church, memorializing his life and my grief. This day, with the town in an uproar because of Pete Wilson’s sensational story and because almost everyone knew at least one of the dead men, I went to Mass to escape and to try to find a little respite from the phone, the reporters, the cops, and my restless mind.

  It didn’t work. I slipped out the door as soon as Mass ended, in no mood to chat with Father Matt and about half afraid if I did, he’d have yet another self-improvement project for me. Isa, Pilar and Lupe had decided to tough it out at my place despite my inhospitable treatment of them when they arrived. I had apologized in the morning, and we had reached an uneasy peace, but I had no desire to hear Father Matt’s take on the situation or to endure his admonitions. I was about halfway down the street when I heard a voice behind me: male, deep, and Irish.

  “Jane Wallace. Wait, hold up! I was just on my way to see you.”

  I turned to greet Eoin Connor.

  “What brings you to Mass on a Monday?”

  From my perch in the balcony, I had seen him at the end of the back pew, nearest the confessional with the procession bells on the side. Somehow he hadn’t impressed me as a pious man, with his easy charm and his manipulating manner, but he’d looked as natural as Father Matt, kneeling there in preparation for the Mass, at the same time eyeing his fellow Mass-goers. I suspected that writers and medical examiners shared that particular curse: always keeping an eye out, always making mental notes, always sorting and coming to decisions based on what we see. Thirty years into it, I rarely even noticed myself doing it anymore, it was so second nature.

  He caught up with me, a bit out of breath from the effort.

  “I could ask the same of you. Poor sinner like me needs all the grace I can get. Besides, I like hearing the Mass in the old words. Comforting. Don’t get that much.”

  I heard him turn on his Irish accent for effect, and it annoyed me.

  One of the things I loved about Father Matt was his insistence on celebrating the Latin Mass as often as he could. The bishop had been leery of his plans, but had given him his head, and it had turned out to be a resounding success, turning the Hispanic and the Anglo communities from two into one, no small accomplishment even here in politically correct, inclusive Telluride. I loved the beauty of the words, the fact that I could get lost in sounds and feelings and for a blessed hour, could cease to think. When English words hit my ear, they triggered a cascade of thoughts, a verbal chain reaction that I could never control. The Latin soothed me into thoughtful quiet. That was hard to come by in my world, especially these days.

  “I agree,” I said. “One of my husband’s colleagues—he was Swiss—would have agreed with you, too. I remember him telling me once that one conducted business in English, spoke German to animals, made love in French, but talked to God in Latin.”

  Connor laughed. “We’ve got a similar saying. Labhair Gaeilge le do leannán, Bearla lena madraí agus Laidin le Dia.”

  It was Irish, it had to be, melodic, complicated, with back-of-the throat sounds I’d never heard in the course of mastering bits and pieces of Yiddish, Spanish, French, German and Italian. It was lovely and enchanting, and I had no idea what it meant.

  “Which is…?” I prompted.

  “Speak Irish to your lover, English to the dogs, and Latin to God. You see, we Irish don’t have a hand in business.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “It seems you think very little of English,” I said. I expected him to demure, but he didn’t.

  Instead the green eyes crinkled. “Indeed, and with good reason,” challenging me to rise to the defense of my mother tongue.

  I walked on in silence, hoping he would lose interest and drop away. He didn’t. He moved the conversation into a different court.

  “Odd to see a coroner in church,” he said. “Runs counter to my wide and varied experience with your fellows.”

  I was intrigued in spite of myself. “Oh? Are we all heathens in your experience?” I had to admit privately that we were in mine.

  He settled into a comfortable stride alongside me, hands in his pockets.

  “Not really heathens, but dealing with the underside of humanity brings out the person you really are. Cops, they’re all religious, even if they don’t go to church, at least they are until and unless they go bad. They all believe in truth and justice, you see, and when they can’t find it in their jobs, they look for it in the next world. Every mother’s son of them believes in God and looks for His wrath and for Him to balance the scales.”

  I thought about the police I had worked with. He had a point. I shrugged assent, and he went on. />
  “Coroners like you — they’re scientists. They believe in truth, all right but they filter it through their own minds as the court of last resort. They can’t believe what they can’t understand and don’t realize they have it backwards. Agnostics, most of them, either that or they take whatever bits and pieces they think fit and cobble together some sort of theology of the day that answers whatever problem they’re facing at the time. Unusual to find one in a place that claims to be the one true church with the fullness of truth and a healthy dose of mystery in the bargain. Scientists are always looking for what doesn’t fit. They’re not ones to submit to someone else’s authority, and they’re not ones to live with uncertainty.”

  I was surprised at his insight. He was dead on.

  “True enough as a rule, but not for me,” I said.

  “Clearly not.”

  He looked at me curiously. Had I really shivered when I recalled again why I started going to daily Mass? I thought it was in my mind. I shrugged, as much to cover the emotions I had stirred up as to dismiss his overture. He paused and I glanced at him long enough to see his eyes were twinkling. He was enjoying this.

  “Seems you avoided the trap of your other profession as well.”

  I might as well bite.

  “Which is?”

  “Lawyers. Hard shell atheists, all of them. Live in the world of reasonable rather than right, and in their world, reasonable is whatever you can convince a judge, or twelve men chosen for the fact that they have no opinions, hear no news and form no judgments can be convinced to say it is. Lawyers don’t believe in truth, so they don’t seek it out.”

  I stopped and turned to face him, annoyed at his familiarity as much as his accuracy.

  “Do you suppose you could find something to discuss other than my two obviously inferior professions?”

  We stood beside a lilac hedge, and the scent of the lavender and pink flowers was intoxicating. He looked genuinely chagrined. Either that, or he realized that his ill-mannered joke might cost him access to the information he needed for his book. He looked away, twisted off a spray of flowers, smelled them absently, and then twirled them in his fingers for a moment, collecting his thoughts. I hoped he’d just lapse into permanent silence and go his own way.