New policy, Mac? He’d never given up so easily before. I felt a little irked that he didn’t try harder to get me to go with him.
“So what are you researching?” I asked.
“I merely wish to confirm a certain suspicion of mine which, if true, would almost certainly validate my theory about the killer.” Oh, now I see.
“Give me a hint so that I can work on it, Mac. What’s this all about? What’s the motive?”
“Insurance, old boy.”
For the next two hours, after Mac dropped me off in front of my office in Carey Hall, I tried to puzzle that out with half my brain while the other half fielded media calls and tested the live-streaming that we would be doing of the concert and the Cardinal’s speech on our website. I’m sure you see the puzzle that Mac had handed me: The insurance angle didn’t make sense unless Ashley killed Crutcher. She’s the one who benefitted from the policy on his life. But if Mac thought she was the killer after all, he wouldn’t be so danged cheerful about it.
Insurance, insurance ... Whenever the word ran through my head, the one that immediately got in line behind it was “scam.” I kept shoving it aside, but it kept coming back. Finally I let it stick around while I gave it a good look.
“What’s the matter, Boss?” Popcorn stopped in the middle of asking me which of her favorite dresses I thought Oscar’s mother would like better on her. “Your eyes are kind of popping out.”
“I just had an inspiration. Suppose Tim Crutcher isn’t really dead.”
Popcorn chuckled. “Then they’d better not bury him.”
I ignored her attempt at levity. “You weren’t at the funeral, so you don’t know that Tim and Tom Crutcher look almost exactly alike. So suppose it’s really Tom who died, and Tim took his place!”
“What would be the point of that?”
“To collect on Tim’s life insurance policy, which names Ashley as the beneficiary.”
Popcorn frowned. “That would mean that she and Tim were in it together - murder and insurance fraud. And their breakup was just a façade.”
“Exactly.” And if that’s what Mac had deduced, an insurance scam, no wonder he’d been cheerful. He would be patting himself on the back for figuring out the plot, even though it meant that Ashley was a colder-than-cold-blooded murderer. It would be far from the first time that the detective’s “client” turned out to be guilty, after all.
But Popcorn shook her head vigorously. “No, no, no. You guys are supposed to prove that Ashley’s completely innocent.”
“You wouldn’t want that if she really isn’t, would you?”
I can’t say she rushed to respond in the negative. “No, I guess not,” she admitted eventually. “But she is! Otherwise she would have claimed self-defense, wouldn’t she? Or killed him somewhere else.”
“I admit I haven’t worked it all out yet.”
“So you think this is what Mac is researching somehow?”
“I’d bet on it.” I thought a minute. “But we can do some research of our own.” I leaped up. “Come on, Popcorn! The game is afoot!”
“What?”
I can’t believe I said that.
Joe Robards lived in a mid-century modern house, a split-level. I’d called ahead. He opened the door when I rang. I could hear loud voices inside the house.
“Hi, Joe. Thanks for agreeing to see us. Oh, this is my assistant, Aneliese Pokorny.”
“Assistant? I thought you were Professor McCabe’s assistant.”
Why does everybody think...
“We work together at St. Benignus,” Popcorn explained. “I’ve taken an interest in the Crutcher case.”
“Well, like I said on the phone, I don’t know anything more than what I said at the funeral home, but come on in.”
We walked into World War III. I’m not sure how many boys of various ages were tearing up the house, but it must have been three or four. I could almost smell the pre-pubescent testosterone. Mrs. Robards, an island of placidity in this turbulent sea, was calmly diapering number four or five in the family room when Joe took us in and introduced us. Toys lay everywhere, at least half of them broken. Looking at all this chaos, I thought: I want this - a houseful of noisy kids.
JoAnn Robards, a pleasant-faced brunette in a white sweater over a blue and white polka dot housedress, stood up from a diaper-changing table to welcome us. A slender woman, she topped her husband by about three inches.
“Joe says you’re trying to help Ashley.” Well, that was the original idea, at least. She shook her head. “Well, good luck. I feel sorry for Ashley, whatever happened. Living with Tim Crutcher can’t have been easy. I’ve known him since high school. In fact, I took him to my junior prom.”
“I guess that didn’t work out too well,” Popcorn said.
“Oh, it worked out great! Tim introduced me to Joe that night.”
The way she looked at her husband as she picked up the baby, a girl for a change, made me want to shout, “Rent a room!” It also made me miss Lynda.
“This may seem a strange question,” I said, “but we were wondering whether Tim and Ashley kept in contact when he was living here. I mean, were they friendly? Did they call each other?” Oscar could know that from checking cell phone records, if he’d thought of it. But there was no reason for him to think of it.
JoAnn looked at me shrewdly, as if to say, “If you’re helping Ashley, why don’t you ask her?” That was a very good question, but not one that occurred to Robards.
He just snorted. “Not hardly. I never really got the lowdown on who wanted the split, but I tried to get Tim to swallow his pride if he had to and work things out. That went over like a lead balloon. He said something like, ‘If she thinks I can’t do better than her, she’ll find out different.’”
“Sounds like he was looking for a girlfriend,” Popcorn said. Or he already had one. The hypothetical girlfriend was looking less hypothetical.
“Well, that’s that,” I said. “I had an idea, but it looks like it’s dying a fast death.” But just then, another idea took up residence in the Cody brain. “Do you mind if we look in your basement?”
JoAnn looked at me with something approaching horror. “It’s a mess down there. And kind of sad - we haven’t touched any of Tim’s stuff.” Perfect! “Why do you want to look in our basement?”
“It’s a real long shot, but we have reason to believe that Tim hid something before he died, and he may have hidden it in your basement.” And I don’t want to wait for Oscar to get his search warrant.
Robards shook his head. “That’s weird. What kind of something?”
“Jewelry,” Popcorn said. “Meredith Blake is missing some, and she thinks Tim took it.” Popcorn knew the whole story, and now the Robardses did, too. Well, why not? They might as well know. We were asking to search part of their house.
“He was even wearing one of her rings on his pinky finger when he was shot,” I said. “Do you know the one I mean?”
“No. If he was wearing it around me, I never noticed,” Robards said. “Come on. I’ll take you downstairs.”
“Ignore the mess,” his wife ordered.
The lowest level of the house was outfitted as a kind of man-cave cum guest room, with a bar and a futon. Shirts, slacks, and underwear were hanging here and piled there. Tim Crutcher gave up Ashley for this? What a dolt!
I started my search with the overflowing suitcase that lay open in a corner, looking for jewelry cases or smaller and more easily concealed loose items such as rings and necklaces.
“This is kind of creepy,” Popcorn said as she probed the pockets in a pair of pants.
Robards ran his hands along the futon mattress. “Why would Tim be paying me fifty bucks a week to stay here if he ripped off a bunch of diamonds and stuff?”
“Mayb
e he only did that right before he got killed,” I said. “The timeline on that isn’t real clear, but Meredith Blake didn’t realize the goods were missing until yesterday.”
After a half-hour search that included holding up liquor bottles to the light and rattling a Cincinnati Reds bobble head to make sure it hadn’t been hollowed out, the three of us surrendered.
“What about upstairs?” I asked. “Could he have hiden the stuff in, say, the living room?”
“Naw. He kept to himself. That was part of the deal. He didn’t eat with us or anything, and came and went as he wanted. There’s a separate entrance through the garage and he had his own key. That night he died, we had no idea until Chief Hummel called us. Tim was here earlier that night, but he must have gone out again.”
We trooped dejectedly upstairs.
“Did you find anything?” JoAnn Robards asked.
“Not even a dust bunny,” I said.
In consolation, I took Popcorn to dinner at Bobbie McGee’s.
“Well, this has been exciting,” she said as we sat down.
“Sarcasm will get you no raise.”
“I mean it! I didn’t know when I woke up this morning that by the end of the day I would take part in a treasure hunt and get a free dinner. Aw, don’t look so glum, Boss. Your idea didn’t pan out, but at least you didn’t give Ashley yet another motive.”
During breaks from discussing Oscar’s mother and the vexing dilemma about which dress to wear to the concert on Friday night, Popcorn ordered a frozen margarita, a plate of chicken wing appetizers, a chef salad, and a main course of ribs. Please don’t get dessert.
I had a Hudy DeLite beer (a rare indulgence) and grilled mahi-mahi.
“Why do you not weigh five hundred pounds?” I asked as our enthusiastic server hustled off with our orders. Popcorn is only slightly chubby.
“I have a treadmill at home.”
“That’s bad for your knees. My doctor told me - ”
“Hello, Jeff.”
No, my doctor didn’t tell me “Hello, Jeff.” Erica Slade stood at our table, wearing a short orange dress and matching high heels. That dark beverage on ice in her glass didn’t smell like tea. I introduced her to Popcorn, whose day had suddenly gotten even more exciting.
“How’s it going from your end, Jeff?”
I’m sorry you asked, Erica.
“We’re not ready to say.”
She moved her lush, dark hair out of her eyes. “Well, I hope you’re ready soon. I’m going to try to talk to Mac tomorrow and see what he’s got. Ashley was charged with first-degree murder today. I got her out on bail.”
“But that’s so wrong!” Popcorn burst out. “Nobody in this town thinks Ashley’s a cold-blooded murderer, even if they don’t exactly believe her whole story.” Don’t you believe her whole story, Popcorn? “Why did the prosecutor have to go for Murder One?”
The prosecutor’s ex took a belt of her scotch. Her fingernails were the same shade of orange as her dress and shoes. “He always overreaches when he’s between girlfriends. I think he’s a little tense, you know?”
Ask a silly question...
“The last time I talked to Mac, a few hours ago, he seemed convinced that he was on to something.” I said. “That’s all I can tell you right now because that’s all I know. But all the prosecution has is circumstantial evidence, right?”
“You mean the facts that my client had several reasons to prefer the victim dead, that he was shot in her house, and that she’d been spending a lot of time lately at a shooting range putting little holes into a male silhouette?”
Subtle, but I see what you mean.
“Never mind that,” I said desperately. “Mac has a hell of track record. And so do you.”
“Sure. We’ll make Marvin the Martian eat crow by the end of this.” She finished off her drink. “But right now I have no idea how. Goodnight, Jeff. Nice to meet you, Ms. Pokorny.”
She went back to the bar.
“Let’s look at the dessert menu,” Popcorn said.
Not much more than half an hour later, after dropping Popcorn off at her car in the St. Benignus parking lot, I was back in my empty house. Instead of calling Lynda, which would just make me lonelier, I sent a text message:
Counting the hours until you get home.
She texted back:
Me too. 18!
I started humming Boléro.
XI
In the middle of the night I sat up in bed. Maybe it was the Robardses! They had a lot of kids and probably not very much money. If they found the jewelry hidden in their house, it might have been an irresistible temptation to do away with Crutcher and keep the diamonds and such for themselves. That explained what happened to the jewelry and why Crutcher was killed, totally vindicating Ashley. Brilliant!
But wait a minute. Why would they take him back to his old house to kill him? And how could they get him to go along with it? They might have taken the gems, but killing him didn’t seem plausible. Too bad I’d already lost an hour of sleep by the time I figured that out.
So the next morning, when Popcorn handed me a cup of coffee, I almost wished that it was laced with caffeine.
“I’ve decided to wear the blue dress to the concert,” she informed me. “The green shows too much cleavage.”
Sorry, Oscar. Apparently my vote the day before had been overruled. Popcorn must have asked her beaux what his mother would think.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “As soon as Mac starts playing those dreadful bagpipes, Mrs. Hummel will be gawking at the hairy legs beneath his kilt. She won’t even notice your dress.”
Popcorn’s eyes widened. “Really?”
The phone rang.
“Hi, Jeff, this is Johanna Rawls. I’m working on a second-day story about the charges filed against Ashley Crutcher.” Her first-day story, spread across the top of that morning’s Erin Observer & News-Ledger, lay on my desk. ESTRANGED WIFE CHARGED IN SHOOTING screamed the headline. “I was hoping to get a reaction from you.”
“Good morning to you, too.” Popcorn waved and left my office. “I don’t think I’d better say anything because of my day job. I mean, I’m quoted so often in the paper as the spokesperson for St. Benignus that it would cause confusion for me to talk as the spokesperson for Jeff Cody. But Mac wouldn’t have that problem. Have you tried him?”
“I did, but I couldn’t reach him. He doesn’t answer his home phone, his office phone, or his cell phone. So, off the record, what’s going on?”
“Off the record, Johanna, I wish I knew. Mac has something up his sleeves besides his arms, but I don’t know what it is.”
“What do you know?”
“Except for a couple of harebrained ideas I had that didn’t pan out, nothing that you haven’t reported already.” That included Meredith Blake’s stolen jewelry report, which Oscar had quite rightly shared with Johanna since it was a matter of public record.
We chatted socially for a while (yes, I assured her, I was really looking forward to Lynda coming home) and then hung up. The office phone was barely in its cradle when my smartphone gave that little ping noise to let me know I had an incoming text message. It was from Mac.
Please meet me at Crutcher house 10 AM. I know where the jewelry is.
I wrote back: Tall Rawls looking for you.
I will ask her as well.
By this time I was already out of my office. “Mac just summoned me to meet him at Ashley’s,” I told Popcorn. “Since he’s inviting Johanna to the party, this may be the end game.” Sometimes I mix metaphors when I’m excited. “You should come along. You’ve been part of this.”
She shook her head. “Somebody has to hold down the fort. You can tell me about it later. Good luck.”
The Crutcher residence was a story-
and-a-half brick Cape Cod house, the kind that had been built by the thousands in Erin and around the country after the Second World War. Oscar, wearing his official uniform hat, stood on the small front porch along with Tall Rawls, Meredith Blake, and Charlie Hayworth.
“What’s this all about?” Meredith demanded as Charlie lit her cigarette on the third attempt to make the lighter work.
Am I my brother-in-law’s keeper?
“I’m sure that will become clear as soon as Mac arrives.”
“It better,” Oscar said darkly.
“I’m not standing around here all - ” Meredith resumed.
“There he is,” Johanna said.
Mac had just pulled up in his boat-sized Chevy. Ashley Crutcher, looking pale, got out of the front seat on the passenger side. She saw me and smiled feebly. Erica Slade hopped out of the back.
“Ah, we are all here, I see,” Mac said. “Thank you all for coming.”
I’m not going to try to record Oscar, Johanna, and Meredith all talking at once. The cacophony reminded me of the Robards household.
Mac raised his hand. “Please, please. I will explain everything inside. Ashley, lead the way. Miss Blake, please extinguish your cigarette.”
Giving Mac a foul look, Meredith ground the butt under her boot heel.
Ashley unlocked the door and went in first. The rest of us followed. Within a few seconds the Hound of the Baskervilles appeared out of nowhere and started barking like mad at Meredith Blake. Okay, it was a German shepherd, but it looked like a hellhound to me, and I wasn’t even the one under attack.
“Get that beast off of me,” Meredith said.
“Ranger, quiet!”
The hound obeyed his mistress’s voice. He sat looking expectantly, a low growl in his throat.
“Nice doggy,” Johanna said. She pulled out her notebook and spoke no more as she observed and recorded the drama unfolding in front of her, an objective journalist.
“So, what’s this about the jewelry?” Oscar said. “I assume it’s here somewhere.”
“But I’m sure it isn’t,” Ashley burst out.
Rogues Gallery Page 21