The Sixth Mystery

by Lee Semsen

“I didn’t know that they were arguing until I heard about what Mr. Mack said. But I saw Mr. Evans raise his arm, and it looked like he put his hand on Mr. Crain’s shoulder close to his neck. But his back was toward me and I couldn’t tell.”

  “Whose back was toward you, Mr. Evans’s or Mr. Crain’s?”

  “Mr. Evans’s.”

  “So Mr. Crain was facing you?”

  “Yes,” she said. “But I don’t think he saw me.”

  “Then you didn’t talk to him?”

  “No.”

  “Or to Mr. Evans?”

  “No. As soon as they broke apart – after Mr. Evans took his hand away and started to turn around – I opened the door and went into the counting room. I didn’t want them to think I’d been eavesdropping.”

  “Did you ever mention what you’d seen to Mr. Evans or Mr. Crain?” said Inch.

  “No. I don’t really know Mr. Crain. His wife is a member of my book group. That’s how I know who he is. We meet at her house every few months.”

  “Did you tell Mrs. Crain what you’d seen?”

  “Oh, no! It wasn’t any of my business. I may have said something about having seen him at the casino, but that’s all. It doesn’t matter, does it?”

  Carla Dean had seemed uncomfortable even before the interview had begun; now, Inch could see, she was decidedly anxious. “No,” he said. “I’m sure it doesn’t matter. I ask a lot of questions. Not all of them mean anything, so please don’t worry.”

  “But you’re going to talk to him, aren’t you?”

  “I think I need to, Mrs. Dean.”

  “But I don’t – didn’t – want to get him in trouble.” She glanced at Gregory Luke. “What I saw didn’t mean anything. I’m sure of it.”

  “Mr. Inch needs to be sure about that, too,” said Luke.

  “If it meant nothing,” said Inch, “and it’s entirely possible that it didn’t, that will be the end of it. I won’t bother him again. Or you.”

  “You won’t need to mention my name, will you?” she said. “Oh! She’ll know, because I told her I saw her husband at the casino.” Now the anxiety was mixed with something that verged on despair. “She doesn’t like me, anyway. Once she tried to get me expelled from the book group.”

  “Why did she do that, Carla?” said Luke.

  “Because I disagreed with her about a character in one of the books we were reading. I said she was self-centered and manipulative, and that offended Mrs. Crain, because she admired her and thought she was just like her.”

  “Mrs. Crain thought that she was like the character in the book?” asked Luke.

  Carla nodded. “That’s what one of the other women told me later. She said that Mrs. Crain was really angry and she called me a little snip.”

  “Mrs. Crain didn’t say this to you directly?”

  “No.” Carla Dean was almost in tears. “She said it to the head of the book group.”

  “Then,” Luke said, “it appears to me that you were right about the character, and Mrs. Crain was right about herself. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Inch?”

  Inch’s mind had begun to wander while he listened to this exchange, and the direction it had taken was to wonder whether Carla Dean was a reliable witness. She seemed younger than he’d thought at first, and definitely less secure – but not someone who would make up a story simply to get attention; in fact, just the opposite. So when Luke asked his question, Inch wasn’t sure what he was being asked to confirm. He tried to replay in his mind what Luke had said before that, and failed. But he had to respond in some way. He said, “I think Mrs. Crain should be expelled from the book group.” It must have been the right thing to say because Luke nodded and Carla Dean actually smiled. After a moment, Inch added, “I’ll be sure to say that I got my information from Mr. Mack, and I’ll try to speak with Mr. Crain without his wife present. That should keep your name out of the discussion.”

  Although the smile was gone, she nodded again, and Inch asked if there was anything else she wanted to tell him. She said no, and Inch looked over at Luke, who said he had nothing to add, and then Inch asked Carla Dean if she could give him Mr. and Mrs. Crain’s address. She said she could, and then Inch got his second surprise of the day: they lived on Tieton Street, only a few blocks away from where Emily Reed had been killed.

  Chapter 10

  It was early afternoon when Inch got back to Walla Walla. He stopped at the Crains’ house, but no one was home, so he went to the office and searched for something to do so he wouldn’t think too much about his upcoming interview with Roger Crain, whose first name he had found by looking in the telephone directory. He didn’t want to think about the interview because he already knew what questions to ask and he didn’t want to start making assumptions about the answers he might get in return.

  He resisted the impulse to go back to the Crains’ house at 5:00 when he left the office. Instead he went home, made dinner, and while he ate, worked on the New York Times crossword, which on Thursdays usually involved a trick or a pun that he sometimes figured out easily, and other times only with difficulty. This time he got it right away and solved the entire puzzle in less than half an hour, which felt like a good beginning to the evening. He hoped the rest of it would go as well.

  At 7:30, by which time, he assumed, most people would have eaten their dinners, he made the five-minute drive to the home of Roger Crain. The house had a large picture window set next to the front door, and as he approached the porch, Inch could see a television program playing inside – a game show, he thought. He had to ring the bell twice.

  “Mrs. Crain?” he said to the woman who came to the door.

  She looked him up and down. “If this is some sort of charity drive, we’re not interested.”

  “It isn’t,” said Inch. “Is your husband at home?”

  “What is this about?”

  “I’d like to ask him some questions,” said Inch.

  “So he’s in trouble?” she said.

  “I’m investigating the murder of Charles Evans, and I believe your husband may be able to help me in my inquiries.”

  “We don’t know anyone named Evans,” she said.

  “He was the former sheriff.”

  “The police take care of their own, don’t they?” she said.

  “Murder investigations are always a priority, Mrs. Crain. May I speak to your husband?”

  After staring at him for several seconds, she stepped out onto the porch and shut the door behind her. “He’s in the garage.”

  She brushed past him and went around the corner of the house, not looking back to see if he was following; and then through a gate and across the back yard to an outbuilding the size of an airplane hangar, obviously much more than a garage. Inch could hear a radio playing even before she pushed open the door, and then the music became almost deafening. A man with his back to them was bent over the front fender of a car – a 1954 Ford, Inch thought – reaching into the engine. Mrs. Crain didn’t look toward him but turned left and went over to the workbench where the radio was sitting and yanked the plug out of the wall. As a means of getting her husband’s attention, it may not have been polite, but it certainly was effective. He jerked his head up, almost hitting it on the open hood, and turned around.

  “Roger, there’s a cop here to see you.”

  “Sheriff,” Inch said. He regarded Roger Crain for a moment. He fit Dennis Mack’s description, but so did dozens of other early-middle-aged men. “Thank you, Mrs. Crain,” Inch said. “You don’t have to stay.”

  She didn’t move. “But I don’t have to leave, either, do I?” She settled back against the workbench and folded her arms across her chest.

  Inch turned back to Crain, who was wiping his hands with a rag. “My name is Inch, Mr. Crain, and I’m from the sheriff’s office. I’m investigating the murder of Charles Evans.”

  “I told him we don’t know anyone named Evans,” Mrs. Crain said.

  “But you know who he is, don’t you, Mr.
Crain?” Inch said.

  Crain glanced at his wife and then turned back to Inch. “He used to be the sheriff. I didn’t know him personally.”

  “But you knew him by sight,” said Inch.

  “I suppose so.”

  “Have you seen him recently?” said Inch.

  “How recently?”

  “Say within the last year.”

  Crain looked over at his wife again. “I may have.”

  “Where?” said Inch.

  “At –” Crain’s voice caught and he licked his lips. “In Pendleton. At the casino.”

  “Carla Dean!” Mrs. Crain broke in. “That little tart. This is her doing.”

  “A man named Dennis Mack,” Inch said, “identified you, Mr. Crain, as someone who spoke at length with Mr. Evans at the casino earlier this year.”

  “I don’t know anyone named Dennis Mack,” said Crain.

  “He works at the casino,” Inch said. “Do you go there often?”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it,” said Mrs. Crain.

  Crain turned not just his head, but his whole body, in his wife’s direction. “I haven’t been there in months.”

  “Not since you talked to Mr. Evans?” said Inch.

  Crain stared at Inch. “Not for months,” he repeated.

  “According to Mr. Mack, you and Mr. Evans were having an argument,” Inch said. “Mr. Mack said that Mr. Evans became quite upset. Isn’t that so?”

  Crain’s eyes went to his wife, but he didn’t say anything. Inch looked at her and saw that she had an odd expression on her face, as if she had just remembered something and didn’t like what it was. But she didn’t say anything, either.

  “Mr. Crain?” said Inch.

  Crain licked his lips again and said, “It was about something that happened a long time ago.”

  “I knew it!” said his wife.

  “What did you know, Mrs. Crain?” said Inch.

  “Ten years ago my husband –” she said it heavily, as if the word itself were an irony – “had an affair –”

  “Which I have regretted,” said Crain, “and apologized for, more times than you can count.”

  “With a woman who pretended to be my friend,” she continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. “It went on for months! And they would meet here, in my house, after I’d left for work –”

  “And she’s never forgiven me for it,” Crain said to Inch.

  “That’s what you and Mr. Evans argued about?” said Inch. “It’s hardly police business, so why would Mr. Evans –”

  “I threw a coffee cup at him when I found out,” said Mrs. Crain. “Unfortunately, I missed.”

  “You threw more than that,” said Crain.

  “Until something finally stuck,” she said.

  “I quit seeing her, didn’t I?”

  “Only when she finally left town.”

  Crain opened his mouth to reply, but Inch overrode him. “Why was Sheriff Evans involved in this?”

  “He wasn’t,” said Crain.

  “Then why –” Inch directed the question at Mrs. Crain – “did you say that the argument at the casino was about your husband’s old affair?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe she was having an affair with this dead sheriff, too.”

  “That wasn’t it,” said Crain.

  “I saw her with a man wearing a uniform. Like the one you’re wearing.” She nodded at Inch. “He used to visit her at her house.”

  “You were watching her house?” said Crain.

  “Of course I was.”

  “Then you were checking up on me?”

  “You think I’m stupid? That I’d believe everything – anything – you told me after what you did?” She turned to Inch. “I saw this sheriff there, day after day. What else should I think? A woman who would sleep with her friend’s husband wouldn’t stop at anything. She may have had a dozen lovers.”

  “Did it ever occur to you,” said Crain, “that it may have been about her daughter?”

  She waved it away. “He always went there in the evening. Never during the day.”

  “How did you know all this?” said her husband. “You weren’t watching her house every minute.”

  “For three weeks I was,” she said. “I took sick leave.”

  “You never told me that.”

  “Why should I?” She turned to face Inch again. “Anyway, I know how this works. You’re the sheriff, right? The county sheriff. If there’s an accident inside the city limits, it’s not your responsibility. The city police take care of it. So if that man was the sheriff, what business was it of his that somebody ran over her kid? I don’t mean to sound callous, but –”

  Inch held up a hand. “Just a minute, Mrs. Crain. I think I know what happened.”

  “Do you, sheriff?” said Crain. “I doubt it.”

  “Then you tell me, Mr. Crain. What was the name of the woman you were having an affair with?”

  “I won’t let you say her name in my presence,” said Mrs. Crain.

  “Maybe you’d better leave, then, Mrs. Crain,” Inch said. “This is a murder investigation, and your husband and I need to talk about it.” He turned to Roger Crain. “Was it Stacy Reed?”

  Mrs. Crain made a noise, but she didn’t move. Crain nodded.

  “Mr. Evans was investigating the hit-and-run accident that killed her daughter,” Inch said. “On his own time.” He turned to Mrs. Crain. “That’s why he went to her house in the evenings.”

  “Huh,” was all she said.

  “So, Mr. Crain,” Inch went on, “was that what you and Charles Evans were talking about that night in the casino?”

  Crain nodded again.

  “Why was he so angry? Were you the hit-and-run driver?”

  “No!”

  “Then what did you say that made Mr. Evans grab you by the throat?” said Inch. “He wasn’t normally a violent man.”

  “He almost choked me,” said Crain.

  “Is that why you killed him?” said Inch. “Why did you wait six months?”

  “I didn’t kill him,” Crain said.

  “Even after he threatened your life?”

  “I never saw him again after that,” said Crain. “I never went back to the casino.”

  “So you just let it go,” said Inch.

  “That’s right.”

  “You didn’t go down to Mr. Evans’s house a week ago Sunday and hit him with a fireplace poker?”

  “No! I told you.”

  “Then who killed him?”

  “I –” Crain hesitated. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t have any idea at all?”

  “I don’t know,” Crain repeated, “and I’m not going to guess.”

  “Let me take a guess, then,” said Inch. “For ten years Charles Evans searched for the person who killed Emily Reed, and finally you came forward and told him. Was that it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not excusing him,” said Inch, “but I’m not excusing you, either. Was that what made him so angry, that you waited ten years?”

  Crain swallowed and cleared his throat, but he didn’t speak; he only nodded.

  “Why did you wait so long?”

  He looked at his wife for support. She shrugged and said, “You made your bed a long time ago, Roger.”

  Inch said, “There’s a penalty for obstructing justice, Mr. Crain. I don’t know if I could get a conviction after ten years, but this is a murder case.”

  “It was an accident,” said Crain.

  “Hitting a child with a car is usually an accident,” said Inch. “Driving away from the scene never is.” He paused. “Vehicular homicide is a class A felony. Leaving the scene of an accident is class B. And you’re an accessory after the fact.”

  “I didn’t have to tell him, you know,” said Crain. “Evans. It would have been better if I hadn’t.”

  “Then why did you tell him?” said Inch. “Was your conscience bothering you?”

  “Don’t tel
l me that my husband has developed a conscience.” Mrs. Crain laughed out loud. “When did that happen?”

  Crain ignored her. “Naturally it bothered me, a thing like that. Some bad memories fade away, but that one didn’t. I was at the casino; I saw Evans; I knew he’d tried to find out who’d killed the girl; and I decided to tell him. That was all; I didn’t plan it. Anything that happened afterwards, I had nothing to do with it.”

  “What did you tell him, Mr. Crain?” said Inch. “I think you’d better tell me, too.”

  Four hours later Inch was crossing the state line into Idaho and wondering if a midnight drive to Pocatello was the right thing to do. He was wide awake – that wasn’t the problem; he’d known he wouldn’t be able to sleep – and so far the roads had been good except for a few icy patches outside of La Grande. He knew where he was going – Driscoll had written down the address as well as the phone number – and who he’d be seeing. He just wasn’t sure what to do or say when he got there.

  He arrived in Pocatello at 5:00 a.m., found the address he wanted, and parked the car, hoping to nap for a few hours. Although it seemed as if he spent the entire time trying to get comfortable, he must have fallen asleep eventually because when he heard a car door slam, the sky was light. He looked at the clock on the dashboard; it was 7:26. Raising his eyes a bit higher, he saw a woman emerge from the front door of her house and head toward a van sitting in her driveway. He got out of his car and called to her.

  Apparently she hadn’t noticed him or his car, which he’d parked in front of the house next door, because she gave a start when she heard her name. Then, when she turned and saw Inch, she dropped the bag she was carrying, and for a second, looked as if she might run away. But she didn’t; she just stood there motionless while Inch approached.

  “We spoke on the phone last week, Mrs. Campbell,” Inch said. “I’m Sheriff Abraham Inch.”

  “I –” she began. “I was just leaving.”

  “I see that,” said Inch, nodding in the direction of the bag she had dropped. “Going away for the weekend?”

  “Why … yes,” she said. “To the park. To Yellowstone with a friend.”

  “Maybe we could talk first,” said Inch.

  “I don’t know ….”